Pirate Blood. Eugenio Pochini
next to the door. “Each promise in an obligation. Always remember it, Excellency.”
And with those words, he disappeared.
***
Anne was sitting on the bed, her back leaning against the wall and her eyes staring at the window. She was holding a bowl of soup in her hands. Her hair was waving in the breeze preceding sunset, ruffled around her head. It didn’t look like a putrescent giant octopus anymore. On the contrary, it looked more like a haystack swept by the wind. Her face, even if still pale, was recovering a slight blush. The shadow of disease had vanished, at that moment at least.
“How are you?”, Johnny asked her as soon as he came back. He had been anxious all day long, excepted during Wynne’s execution. Watching that man die had filled him with a horror which had pushed back for a while his worries about his mother’s health.
“Tired”, she answered in a feeble voice. “Bartolomeu has been taking care of me while you were away. He was very kind. He made dinner for me. Look!” As if she wanted to prove something, she took the dipper hardly to her mouth.
“Let me do it”. The boy sat next to her and started to feed her. The smell of soup made his stomach rumble.
“Have you had dinner?”, Anne asked him.
“Of course”, he lied. He hadn’t touched any food since the previous evening. Still worse: the little food he had swallowed, had ended up in the lane after the rum the Portuguese had offered him.
He sometimes wiped the corners of her mouth by a cloth flap. Anne was smiling, trying hard to swallow her soup. When she had finished, he helped her to lie down.
“I don’t feel like sleeping”, the woman protested.
“You must rest.” Johnny addressed her a glance which brooked no argument.
She leant her head softly on the pillow. “That’s strange, isn’t it? I’ve always looked after you.”
“Don’t strain yourself by talking.”
“You know, I haven’t had a coughing fit since this morning.” It seemed as if Anne hadn’t heard him.
“You’ll get better and better, trust me.”
“I hope so.”
They kept silent for a while and Johnny started feeling guilty. As if he was held prisoner in a body which didn’t belong to him, he was forced to witness his mother’s illness helplessly. He watched her through a multicolour kaleidoscope, whose faces reflected pain and resignation. He understood at that moment that he wanted to get away, to run as far as possible, to avoid seeing her in that condition.
“You’d better rest”, he claimed. He took the bowl and the stirrer. “Bartolomeu might need me. Can I trust you and leave you alone?” Deep into his heart, he feared that she was going to ask him again to stay there.
Anne took him by surprise, saying innocently: “Just go and don’t worry. See you when you finish.”
“All right.”
“I love you, John.”
“Me too”, he answered. Then he bent down to kiss her on her forehead.
***
Johnny could see something hovering inside Bartolomeu’s brain all evening. He had said just a few words and Johnny had noticed it, in particular when he understood he was waiting for someone: he kept casting furtive glances at the door and every time someone opened it, he held his breath, almost worn out by that never ending wait. In spite of that, Johnny avoided investigating, being busy in serving the customers.
He was able to listen to some of their conversations, which drew his attention inevitably. And stirred his imagination once more. Some of them were commentating on Wynne’s horrible death, while others were saying that a certain captain Rogers was preparing a mysterious expedition.
After the last customer had left the inn, Bartolomeu ordered the boy to shut himself into the kitchen and do the washing up. He then started wandering about the inn, turning the candles out one by one. The large room plunged into a heavy gloom, made flickering by the few remaining flames.
Johnny spent an hour washing a never ending series of dishes and jugs. His eyes were swollen and his nose was closed, because of the unmistakable smell of spices. He feared he could faint. But after he had got used to it, he went on faster. He was washing an earthenware jug, when the door on the other side of the large room was flung open with a bump.
“You’ve come at last”, he heard Bartolomeu say.
“I’ve been busy.”
Johnny recognized Avery’s voice. He had told him he didn’t feel well after work and he preferred going to bed early. So, why was he there?
“Are we alone, Bart?”, the old man asked.
“Don’t worry”, the other answered. “I’ve sent the brat to the kitchen. He’ll be busy for a while. Now, sit down and tell me why you wanted to talk with me.”
There was a noise of chairs then. Johnny walked carefully to the door separating the kitchen from the main room. He pushed it slowly, letting it just half-open enough to eavesdrop.
“How is Anne?”, Avery began.
“Not well”, the Portuguese acknowledged. “She has felt better for a few days. That’s giving me some hope, but we can’t be sure without a doctor’s opinion.
“We didn’t need it.”
“That’s right.”
Johnny started. Listening to the two men talking so sadly about his mother’s condition comforted him. He pushed the door open and peeped out. From where he was standing, he could catch a glimpse of Avery’s back.
The old man said: “By the way, I didn’t want to talk about that, but about what happened to Wynne. I’ve been to his execution.”
“Did you know him?”, Bartolomeu asked.
“We used to be on the same ship.”
The boy could just avoid screaming in surprise. So, were the rumours going around about Avery true?
Had he really been a pirate? He had to find a way to get to know it.
He slipped out of the kitchen, pushing the door so slowly that he took ages to do it. Crawling like a baby, he got to the long counter and stopped there, to make his heartbeat calm down. He could feel it pulsing in his temples. He was still holding the wine jug in his hands: he had forgotten he was keeping it. He was so excited that he didn’t even realize he was leaning against a rack full of bottles. When he moved, he made them clink. He opened his eyes wide with fear. Nothing happened for a short moment. Then he heard some footsteps coming closer. He lifted his eyes. Bartolomeu’s horny hand appeared just above his head. It was a few inches far from him. He could even smell the stink of his breath. He was going to grasp his hair soon, drag him out and… he leant over the rank instead and caught a bottle of rum, then he walked back.
“That doesn’t explain why you wanted to meet me”, he claimed while uncorking the bottle.
“It’s easily said”, Avery answered.
The noise of some more footsteps echoed there, followed by the one of the jugs which were being placed next to each other. Johnny leant over the edge if the counter. He saw the two men pouring the rum into their glasses.
“Wynne caused a lot of trouble”, the old man went on and gulped down his rum. “But he was just a poor wretch. He didn’t deserve to come to that bad end.”
“Better him than us”, Bartolomeu stated.
Avery’s expression showed a mix of incredulity and resignation.
“Are you afraid of being caught?”, the Portuguese asked him.
Avery didn’t