Work Text:
Stede had spent a great deal of time working on his Captain’s log that evening, adding as many extraneous details about the day’s work as he could. When he and Lucius had begun this “last task of the day,” the half moon windows in the Captain’s quarters shone with the greenish gray light of a late afternoon sky heavy with a coming storm.
Now, it had been gloomy and dark for ages, and the two of them had worked through dinner. Candles turned to pools of wax around the room and the fire in the fireplace died down to glowing coals as Stede paced the gleaming wood floor and dictated to Lucius whose signature brand of exasperation was apparent in every scratch of his quill.
On several occasions, Stede’s monologuing came dangerously close to an end, before he would find another angle–another anecdote. On one such occasion, when an “all in a day's work” collided rather conspicuously with a “furthermore,” Lucius coughed, loudly and abruptly.
“...yes, Lucius, do you have something to add?” Stede asked brightly, although his voice had gone a bit hoarse.
The young man, who was sitting at the writing desk nearby, set down his quill and glared absolute daggers at him in reply.
Stede could understand why Lucius was feeling particularly irritated that he was, for all intents and purposes, being held hostage at the writing desk. The crew had worked together in an uncharacteristically silent, swift, and conflict-free manner to complete the day’s regular chores, docking at the port of the Republic of Pirates, scrubbing the deck, maintaining the rigging, and venturing into town for supplies.
They had done this all with a keen eye towards their evening plans: to spend the rest of the night throwing together a huge All Hallow’s Eve party. He could hardly blame poor Lucius, really, for a fading work ethic, with his friends running about preparing decorations, costumes, and refreshments. Stede realized that Lucius might benefit from a bit of praise for a job well done.
“Lucius, you’ve done a stand up job today, truly. It has been a frustrating task to write all of this down, but you’ve handled it with aplomb!”
“Great,” the younger man replied, standing up and snapping the logbook closed. “So I’ll just be going then.”
“--But” Stede began, causing Lucius to widen his eyes, mouth “help me,” to no one in particular, and flop resignedly back onto the desk chair. “-- a pirate’s life is one which must balance the joys of fun and frivolity with the responsibilities and duty of sailor-ship. Actually, that’s a line that might work well later in the book. Might you write that down in a footnote, Lucius?”
Afterall, Stede wanted to ensure he was managing his crew in a way that was both people-forward and instructive.
With the hopeless air of someone being asked to engrave their own tombstone, Lucius let out a deep sigh and went back to scratching away in the logbook. Stede, meanwhile, picked up and unsheathed his sword from where it rested by his bedside and began something of a fidget by parrying some invisible enemy.
Lucius emphatically dotted the end of his sentence and, when he thought Stede wasn’t looking, stood up, and threw his quill in the fireplace.
“Oh-no-my-quill-it’s-gone.” Lucius said blandly mid-throw. “Well. I guess no one can ever write anything ever again! I’ll see you at the party Cap–”
A particularly loud bit of thunder cut him off.
That storm is rolling in. Stede thought, slicing the sword through the air. Maybe the crew would lose their spirit and decide to cancel the festivities of their own accord…
Lucius got all the way to the door before he stopped, deflated visibly, then marched himself right up to Stede.
“Hey there..Captain. Stede?”
Stede had gone for a lunging stance at the exact moment, but the knowing nature of Lucius’ tone broke his concentration; he promptly lost his balance and narrowly avoided thwacking a lit candle off his bedside table.
Stede liked to think he knew Lucius well, certainly from the perspective of an employer, but also as a friend; but he could sometimes forget this went both ways, and the younger man had a way of disarming the brave face Stede’d put on with his well-timed inquiries. By way of an answer to a question which Lucius had not even asked yet, Stede straightened himself, dusted his sleeves, leaned jauntily on his sword, and tried to compose his face to look calm, curious, and open.
Lucius raised an eyebrow, but kept his tone gentle. “Captain, are you by any chance…maybe…er trying to avoid going to the Halloween party?”
Stede’s procrastination had, of course, nothing at all to do with being afraid to go out and join the party (it did). And even if it did have a little something to do with that, being afraid would have nothing to do with Ed. Not at all. (it really did). Stede could never possibly, not in 1,000 years and under no circumstances, ever be afraid of Ed (he was). It was, Stede had been telling himself throughout the day, assuredly, unalterably, and unshakably true that he was NOT afraid of Ed (he was assuredly, unalterably, and unshakably afraid of making a fool of himself in front of Ed).
“Oh. Erm. Hmm. Well!” Stede stammered.
Just then, the door to Stede’s chambers opened with a magnificent bang, causing Lucius to shriek and duck under a table and Stede to slip from where he’d been leaning on his sword and fall into a heap on the floor. A gust of wind had blown out all of the candles, plunging the room into darkness, save for the coals of the fireplace casting the room in a diabolic scarlet haze.
A sudden, dramatic flash of lightning bloomed behind a terrible figure that stood in the doorway. It had the body of a human and a leering jack-o-lantern for a head. It wore a stained apron and brandished a curved knife, which was covered in an oozing, dripping substance.
Stede wasn’t sure if he shouted, Lucius shouted, or the horrible pumpkin person shouted first–or perhaps it was all three of them at the same time.
It took Stede a few breaths to realize the masked figure was, in fact, Roach. There was the sound of a striking match, and a faint circle of light bopped over to where Stede was still in something of a knot on the floor. Lucius mumbled curses under his breath, a candle in hand.
“...sorry.” came the cook’s muffled voice from within the pumpkin head. “I probably should’ve knocked. The wind’s really been picking up! Caught the door as I was opening it.”
Stede attempted to reply, but only a squeak came out. “That's…that’s alright, Roach. I see you’ve been working hard at carving those festive gourds for tonight’s celebration. Great work!”
Roach tucked his knife–which, upon further inspection, was covered in pumpkin guts, not blood, as Stede had originally imagined– rather ill-advisedly into the waistband of his pants, reached up and freed himself from the pumpkin mask, spinning the gourd in his hands to assess his work.
“Wee John says to you both–” here, he pointed his pumpkin at Lucius, who only scowled in return, “--to get over and see him for wardrobe in the next 5 minutes, or he’ll make you dress up as sea slugs for your costumes.”
“What are you supposed to be, then?” Lucius said, eyeing Roach scornfully.
“A pumpkin murderer, of course,” came Roach’s gleeful reply. Lucius inhaled, then pressed a fist against his own mouth as if he was going to provide a critique but decided against it.
“Very good, Roach. Thanks for the heads up.” Stede said. “We were just on our way.”
“Were we though?” Lucius said, though everyone else ignored him.
Roach continued. “Anyway, Captain, I also came to remind you that you promised to kick off this extravaganza with a ghost story.” Roach winked. “You’re a great storyteller! I’m sure you have something that’ll scare the pants off us all. See you!” Roach stuck his jack-o-lantern head back on and turned to leave.
“Ah, but of course!” Stede said jovially as the cook left. As soon as the door shut behind Roach, he melted down the cabin wall.
Stede supposed that Roach was right that he wasn’t a half-bad storyteller. He’d occasionally even managed to improvise stories on the spot during the nightly storytimes he performed for the crew at bed. Furthermore, Stede was no stranger to the macabre in his own literary explorations. He’d read The Abduction of Persephone and Beowulf, Macbeth and Hamlet, Dante’s Inferno and Paradise Lost… no, the problem was not a lack of resources from which to draw inspiration, per se…
Stede kept thinking of Ed: how good he was at being frightening and bold, and how he was the subject of many a frightening (albeit, sometimes greatly exaggerated or even downright untrue) tales. How would Stede ever be able to come up with a haunting story that would impress Ed? Stede was certain that, as soon as he met that steady, alert gaze, he would fall completely to pieces and…
“Lucius.” Stede said, desperate. “Tell me. Where do you think a gentleman pirate could acquire a solidly terrifying ghost story for his repertoire in, say…oh…under 20 minutes?”
After a brief argument Stede and Lucius (much to the young scribe’s irritation) found themselves sneaking off the boat, picking their way through the rowdy, ale-stenched, body-strewn streets of The Republic of Pirates on Halloween Night (who knew pirates loved Halloween so much?) right up to Spanish Jackie’s. Stede felt a smattering of rain drops on his neck and shoulders.
The exterior of the building was covered in human skeletons that Stede instantly assessed were both festive decorations and actual remains, posed in different ways–one even appeared to climb into Jackie’s second story window. Stede nodded his approval to Lucius.
“Great idea, Lucius. Why, I'm rather jealous I didn’t think of it myself!”
Lucius was busy toeing what appeared to be a canning jar of real human eyes, several dozen of which were lined up to create a walkway leading up to the bar door.
“...Always happy to help,” Lucius said, his voice edged with regret. A flash of lightning followed by an immediate crash of thunder made both he and Stede jump. Lucius caught the jar of human eyes with his leg, and it tipped over and cracked open, spilling not only eyes, but also a formidable green goo over the gravel street next to them.
“Let’s just get in and out and back to the ship as fast as we can, yeah?”
Spanish Jackie, as it turns out, had no haunted tales of her own, nor did she know of any regulars who might possess them. Stede made sure to compliment her skeletal decorations.
“There’s one to represent each of my husbands.” Jackie explained. Lucius made a sound behind Stede.
“You got a fucking problem with that, Shakespeare?” She said, inexplicably managing to crack both her real knuckles and those of her fake hand. Lucius and Stede shared a look. After letting the two revel in their discomfort for a moment, Jackie laughed at them, revealing that her vampire costume included a pair of fake fangs, and punched Lucius affectionately in the arm.
Stede cleared his throat. “Well, Jackie, we’ve come to you with a bit of a request.”
She looked at him, raising one eyebrow. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You’ve got a request for me. Here at my bar. On Halloween night. One of the busiest days we do business during the whole, damn year?
It would only slow things down if Jackie got another rise out of them. It’s one of the things Stede had come to appreciate about her, actually. She didn’t give away much for free, but she was quite a bit more likely to cast her time and energy towards those who were forthright with their intentions. This is probably why she and The Swede, a rather blunt fellow, had got on so well.
“Yes, indeed! We are here, at your bar, on Halloween night, on one of the busiest days during the whole damn year, asking for your help in uh…locating a terrifying tale.”
Stede had barely had time to get out the end of his reply, when Jackie, fast as whip, turned around grabbed the arm of a fellow dressed as a wedge of cheese, who may have been trying to stab someone (it was unclear) and twisted until the man screamed, and his arm cracked like a firework.
“What about me, exactly, makes you two think I know something about terrifying tales?” Jackie said. She grinned widely: “What, you think I’m scary?” Lucius deftly disguised a splutter by placing a finger over his tightly closed mouth and pasting a look of polite curiosity on his face. He directed this expression at Stede.
Stede considered his answer for a breath. “You are terrifying in the best of ways. And you are a proprietor of one of the finest establishments which caters to all manner of folk–”
“--Okay, shut up for a minute Steve and let me think.” Spanish Jackie, fanning her arm in front of Stede’s face. “Ghost story…ghost story…Nope. I’ve got nothing. Don’t know who else could help.”
A balloon deflated in Stede, but he knew persistence in the face of a setback was sometimes key. “Mind if we have a look around, at least? Interview a couple of your customers?”
Jackie gestured grandly around the bar. “It’s all yours, Steve. Good luck finding your ghost story!” She was then whisked away to break up a fight that suddenly broke out between a pirate dressed as a witch and a pirate dressed as a pirate.
They eventually wandered over to the bar, narrowly avoiding a hug (or an attack–it was rather unclear) from a thoroughly sloshed unicorn, who was a full two feet taller than Stede and about 3 times as wide. Behind the counter, The Swede was in full-swing, cheerfully making something he called a “spicy pumpkin drink” at the bar.
“Oh yah.” The Swede said in response to Stede’s query, pouring a pitcher of viscous orange substance over a row of goblets. “You’ll be able to find someone here, sure as anything, Captain Stede.”
“But do you know of someone, Swede?” Stede asked. “Or better yet, do you have a story you could tell us yourself?”
The Swede shook his head sympathetically. “Sorry.” Here he paused, artfully slid a row of “spicy pumpkin drinks” down the bar to a roar of ambient cheers. One particularly fearsome looking fellow with knives tucked into holsters around his waist and each bicep roared: “PUMPKIN FUCKING SPICEEEEE!” and then shattered his glass triumphantly in his fist, orange liquid, blood, and shards of glass decorating his hand.
The Swede gave a congenial nod in the knife-clad man’s direction, then turned back to Stede and Lucius. He handed them each a Spicy Pumpkin Drink.
“So.” He said, throwing a wide, missing-a-couple-of-teeth grin in Stede’s direction. It was only in that moment that Stede realized that The Swede was dressed as a daisy, his face encircled with a ribbon upon which large, floppy petals drooped. “Are you, like, trying to impress Blackbeard, or something, Captain? Is that why you need ‘the scariest story ever uttered by man in the world of the living, or whatever?”
Stede choked on his sip of Spicy Pumpkin Drink. Lucius drew a hand emphatically across his throat, giving The Swede a look.
“Oh.” The Swede said. “Sensitive subject.” He didn’t sound particularly sorry he’d asked. “Well, take your liquid courage in the form of a Spicy Pumpkin Drink, yah? I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for somewhere around here.”
The Swede turned to take care of some customers who were beginning a duel over the last Spice Pumpkin Drink glass which had not yet been shattered.
“Should we split up?” Stede asked Lucius, who was to be scanning the room, perhaps looking to make sure he had the drunken unicorn in his line of sight.
“Meet you out front!” Lucius said, making a beeline for the front door. He wrenched it open, and was sprayed by a blast of wind and rain.
“I’ll just be…yeah.” he called to Stede, gingerly closing the door. He pressed himself against the wall when the brawling cloud of fists and kicks that was the Pirate and Witch passed him by.
Stede sighed, feeling less hopeful by the second that this trip would prove bountiful. Figuring he’d better do one final sweep of the place for someone with an appropriately spooky vibe, he began to make his way across the crowded bar. After dodging the violent aftermath of an argument in which a woman dressed to look like a rabbit threatened her companions at pistol-point for the crime of “totally moving the Ouija board piece,” Stede found himself in an adjoining room, where the atmosphere was far more sober.
The ruckus of the bar had faded into a background hum, and Stede could now hear the wind whistling eerily through the not-so-solid walls, and the lashing of the rain against the exterior of the building. He scanned the dimly lit room, and noticed a few lone-wolf types who were dozing in their chairs or closely inspecting their plates or tankards. Those that were awake avoided all eye-contact with Stede: save for one fellow.
Stede met this man’s golden-brown gaze with his own and, for a moment, felt a terribly icy dread run from his cheeks down to his feet. And, just as soon as the feeling occurred, it was gone—even forgotten—as the man’s fantastic outfit proceeded to dazzle him.
The stranger wore a well-constructed cavalier hat, adorned with an ostrich plume whose delicate quality was almost otherworldly. While his puff-sleeved attire appeared about a century out of fashion, one could respect–even at a distance–the fine quality of the fabric, and the authenticity of it as a vintage replica.
“Sir, my compliments on your costume!” Stede said, nodding in the man’s direction.
The man in the hat only stared at Stede, blinking perhaps a little less than one might consider “typical.” But Stede knew the type–the patrons of Spanish Jackie’s (oh, let’s face it, pirate-folk in general) were always on edge, constantly vigilant, perpetually wide-eyed, and forever on the lookout. Despite his seeming to be stuck staring into another dimension, Stede found the quiet fellow rather interesting. He was drawn to him, somehow.
Perhaps it was because they shared a similar appreciation for quality outfits. That was definitely it.
“May I sit?” Stede said, crossing the room. “I’d be curious to know how you came upon that fine silk brocade.”
By way of answering, the man said:
“I heard you were looking for a ghastly tale.” His voice had the low, rough quality of someone just waking up after a night of sleep. Stede noticed his dark hair and beard, where it was not peppered with grey, had a strange iridescent quality, like a raven’s feather held under sunlight.
“Oh!” Stede pulled a chair over for himself, placing it at the opposite end of the man’s table.
“How lucky am I that news travels fast around this fine establishment. I most certainly am looking for a ghastly tale!” Bit of an odd duck, not acknowledging the compliment, Stede thought. But, then again, he’d discovered many times over that the patrons of Spanish Jackie’s did not tend to be the most effusive lot.
Lightning flashed in the small porthole window that sat just above man’s hat, and Stede swore he saw the sky’s electricity dancing in the stranger’s glassy, unblinking eyes. Now this guy’s got charisma! Stede thought, settling eagerly in his seat. This was the kind of man-of-the-world who would have the perfect story for Ed.
The storm called, low and threatening, rattling the walls, and as its gargantuan grumble faded back into the rain, the stranger began to tell Stede his tale, his voice not unlike the deep, rumbling notes of the raging weather outside. Stede leaned closer, utterly fascinated, taking it all in.
“The story I found–it’s perfect!” Stede shouted to Lucius, as they both hurtled through the now empty alleyways that twisted through The Republic of Pirates’s downtown. They were being absolutely pelted with thick sheets of rain, and the wind was whipping their coats, collars, and sleeves all about. Lucius’s reply was swallowed by the storm.
They rounded a corner and came to see the harbor in the distance. They came to the dock and found their rowboat rising and falling precariously in the swells that surged up over the wooden posts and slapped their boots.
There was a sudden sound like a giant sheet of parchment being ripped in two, then a bone-rattling crash, and a tremendous fork of lightning touched down on the horizon. Lucius pulled his coat over his head and screamed over the rain:
“I hope it was worth it!”
Stede hoped so too.
—
Stede and Lucius stumbled back on the ship, the weather challenging the balance of even their well-developed sea-legs. They ran across deck to take cover in the mess hall, where Black Pete greeted Lucius by enthusiastically dragging him in for a kiss, only to pull back with a sour look on his face:
“Babe, I wasn’t expecting you to be so...soggy.” He began fussing with the leather and fake facial hair he wore as part of his Blackbeard costume. “Love you, though.” Pete winked at Stede then grabbed Lucius’ arm to lead him into the center of the hall. Stede followed, taking in a magnificent sight:
Everyone was there...except for Ed. Stede wondered where he was, what he was doing…what costume he might have prepared. The wind groaned outside and sent the ship rolling, and Stede’s heart was fluttering. He felt the hairs on his arms stand on end as he looked at the door to the mess hall, waiting for Ed to arrive. It was nerves to be sure, but now that Stede had the perfect ghost story, he thought the electricity he might be feeling had something to do with excitement and anticipation as well. Certainly, the spooky vibes of Halloween might be adding some flavor as well, Stede thought, taking a full scan of the mess hall for the first time.
They had pushed all of the tables back against the sides of the room, creating a square, upon which Roach’s many jack-o-lanterns glowered and cackled at them. A couple of tables bent under the weight of a feast–roasts, apples, cakes, and other goodies. Olu, Jim, Zheng, and Archie were hanging some black and orange crepe paper from the ship’s ceiling. It was work made especially difficult by the continuous undulating of the boat, and seemed also to be hindered by a disagreement of pronunciation between Archie and Olu:
“I told you. I’m pretty certain it's crApe paper, like, cape. But with an “r,” but I’m absolutely not gonna fight you on it.” Olu, who was dressed only as himself for Halloween, said to Archie, his voice a mixture of firmness and patience. Stede noticed Zheng reach up and brush away a piece of crepe paper that had stuck itself to Olu’s shoulder. Olu replied by lightly sticking a piece of the same paper in Zheng’s collar and then mimed finding it. Before he could pluck it off her, she gently smacked his hand away, pulled it out herself, and announced:
“I don’t think what the goddamn paper streamers are called will matter that much, as long as they're up.” Zheng, Stede realized, had opted for a simple, but elegant witch costume: she had borrowed (without permission, but that was fine) Stede’s theatrical black outfit from the night of the Fuckery, and she wore a hat with silver stars on it.
“Man, I swear to god, I heard it pronounced “creepy” paper. I wouldn’t lie to you guys!” Archie’s face was bright red–both from arguing and laughing–which Stede thought made her devil horns and scarlet cloak look especially cleverly appointed. She stabbed a piece of orange streamer to the ceiling and somehow managed to rip it in half. “Oops!”
This debate had clearly been going on for quite some time before Stede and Lucius’ arrival.
Jim and Olu looked at each other, exchanging a few silent head tilts and eyebrow lifts–Jim shrugged–and Olu nodded.
“Alright, come on.” said Jim, “I’m officially reassigning us to peeling grapes for the eyeball bowl in the Haunted Kitchen.” They looped their arm in Archie’s and steered them away mid-protest. As the pair passed Stede, Lucius, and Black Pete, Jim rolled their eyes at them, but Stede also caught the small half-smile on their face. It was only after Jim disappeared with Archie into the kitchen that Stede registered that Jim had been wearing a blonde wig and was dressed as… him. He wondered who else had broken into his wardrobe to create their costumes.
“For fuck’s sake!” Izzy Hands’ unmistakable rasp came from one corner, where it appears Fang, costumed as a dog with a delightful pink nose and drawn-on black whiskers, had stuck Izzy with a pin while trying to help fix some aspect of the latter’s costume. Stede wasn’t exactly sure what Izzy was, only that the outfit involved more midnight and cobalt sparkly fabric than he knew Wee John had had on board, and that his makeup combined with his outfit reminded Stede of the ocean, if the ocean were also…goth.
“Alright now, don’t have a whole litter of kittens.” Wee John heard the commotion and strode over to help Izzy with his Goth Ocean costume, trailing a stunning, sleeveless dress made of sparkling white shells. He had a full face of cerulean and green makeup, and wore a rather fabulous long, red-headed wig of curls. Stede thought the outfit might be inspired by Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus,” sans the full nudity.
Roach came sauntering up to Stede, back in full pumpkin-head attire. “I think it’s just about show-time Captain. Where’s Blackbeard?” There was a general commotion as the crew finished their last stitches and streamers hanging, and began to form a large circle in the middle of the room. Archie announced that the Haunted Kitchen was full of eyes, but not brains. [She then clarified that they were out of spaghetti, which would have served as the brains].
“Someone blow out some of the candles. Create some atmosphere!” Black Pete demanded.
“Wait.” said Wee John, throwing a halting arm in front of Pete’s chest, his eyes locking onto Lucius in the way a hunter might hone in on a deer. Lucius, still dripping wet from his and Stede’s rainy rendezvous, froze midway through biting an apple. Wee John shook his head disdainfully and said:
“What a fecking disgrace.”
Stede didn’t know, at first, what Wee John was referring to, until the other man pulled the curly red wig off of his own head and thrust it, lopsided onto Lucius’. “You’re Chappell Roan now.”
“Okay.” Lucius looked relieved, and even seemed to brighten a little, at this assignment from Wee John. “I hope Frenchie plays “Hot to Go.”
Frenchie, who was dressed in a black body suit complete with whiskers and cat ears, nodded his approval. He began dutifully tuning his lute, alternately strumming some of the chords to the aforementioned tune, a popular request of late on The Revenge.
Wee John whirled around–perhaps to affix Stede in some last minute piece of costume–when a sound made everyone turn.
“Hey.” Ed said, ducking through the doorway. He shook a little rain water out of his hair, which was tied back. Stede realized that he was dressed in the purple suit he had borrowed from Stede when they went to that horrible French aristocrat's boat party. He even had the little bows in his beard. It didn’t matter how long Stede had known this man; he could still send a thrill through Stede’s heart with just one simple word. And it wasn’t just Stede; everyone who had been talking in that moment faded into whispers and mumbles, and then silence.
“Who’re you supposed to be, Blackbeard?” Black Pete asked.
“Who, me? I’m not Blackbeard–” Ed made an exaggerated bow in Pete’s direction. “You are.” Pete looked like he might faint from excitement. Ed then stuck out his hand to Pete and said:
“Jeff the Accountant-turned-Bar & Grill-owner-turned-Innkeeper-turned Pirate-come-out-of-retirement, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Suddenly, everyone had abandoned the circle they had formed earlier and clumped together, talking over each other and at once, excitedly discussing their costumes and who they thought would win the costume contest to be held at the end of the evening.
“Christ, can we get this over with?” Izzy raised his voice over the din, looking somehow even more menacing than usual in his festive finery. Ed lightly punched Izzy in the arm, but folded his legs to sit on the floor of the mess-hall, his chin resting attentively in his hands as he stared up at Stede. Others followed suit, setting themselves in a circle.
“When you’re ready, then.” Ed’s eyes crinkled as he gave Stede an especially warm smile. The room was suddenly a little too warm–in a pleasant way–and Stede had the strange experience of feeling on fire with confidence but also like he might be temporarily rendered a babbling, blithering fool if he were to open his mouth. The confidence won out–or at least, the desire to entertain the man who smiled that particular smile at him did. So, Stede cleared his throat.
“Wait! I’m turning down the house lights.” Black Pete ran around blowing out candles. He delivered one, single candelabra to Stede, which he placed in a rather theatrical location nearby Stede’s feet. There were a few beats of unusual quiet in the room, where everyone sat listening to the wailing of the wind, the slapping of the waves against the side of the ship, and the rain sluicing over the deck outside.
With the light low, and thunderstorm still raging, Stede began to retell his newly acquired tale.
—
“It was a dark and stormy night, that Drusilla, the younger daughter of a widow who was well-equipped in the ways of both fortune and beauty, was told she was to be married to a man.”
Several of Stede’s audience members booed ferociously at this. Knowing how much many of his crew valued their personal freedoms to be with–or not be with– whomever they chose, Stede paused respectively and gave them this moment to express themselves.
“Yes, very unfortunate,” Stede continued. “And if you hated that, then this detail will really send a shiver down your spine: not only was Drusilla being forced to marry a man she had never met, but it was a man of great power, fortune, and property–”
A few booed again, but others shushed them.
Stede continued on “--and this man of great power, fortune, and property was known for two things: having an unusual, blue-tinted beard, and having previously been married to 6 others who had met and ends both mysterious and highly suspicious.”
This, Stede noticed, seemed to catch his audience member’s attention. Ed in particular seemed to perk up when Stede shared this detail. In fact, Stede would have sworn he saw Ed frown and open his mouth to interrupt, but the light in the room was so atmospherically dimmed, it was hard to tell. So Stede went on:
“Drusilla’s mother took her two daughters to elite parties hosted by this blue-bearded gentleman. For weeks, everyone in high society seemed to be having a grand old time, attending balls he hosted, enjoying the extravagant hunts, picnics, and dinners he threw. He seemed to all the Society folk to be the most gracious, generous, fashionable, and upstanding gentleman. He had exotic flowers for the ladies, expensive cigars for the men, and toys for the children. His parties were the best of the season, and all anyone could speak of. He soon became quite the eligible bachelor, and women would exclaim to Drusilla how lucky she was, indeed, to be betrothed to such a fine fellow. After weeks of summering with him out in one of his many country manors, all of Society had forgotten, it seemed, the lurid rumors that once had surrounded this mysterious, blue-bearded man.”
“…All, it seemed, but Drusilla.”
Someone on Stede’s far left side stirred, and Stede was surprised to see the figure raising their hand, as though in a classroom setting.
“Yes?” he asked, his curiosity piqued at this respectful interjection.
“Captain.” came Jim’s voice “This is great and all, but I just have to ask–how did an entire group of rich people collectively forget this shitlord’s murderous past? Like, are we talking hypnotism here, did he spike the booze, or what? Because if they were all that stupid…” Jim trailed off, shaking their head in dismay.
“Dunno that they were all stupid– clearly Bluebeard is an evil wizard, isn't he? Probably’s got them all under a spell.” Frenchie countered.
Jim puffed out a little air and said: “Okay, yes, maybe but–”
“--why’d Drusilla be the only one who remembers he’s a shitlord?” Archie asked, anticipating Jim's question.
“Thank you!” Jim trilled, grabbing Archie’s hand and holding it up next to their’s triumphantly.
Fang chimed in: “--I’m with Frenchie, I think he's a shit wizard, not a ‘shit lord.’ To suggest this man has the wits to win these people over without magic…”
“Could be both,” said Ed conspiratorially. “No one says you can’t be rich, powerful, and magical, right?”
“Um, I think you guys might be a bit confused…Jim called Bluebeard a ‘shitlord,’ one word, not a ‘lord-who-is-shit.’ It’s a little different, I think.” Black Pete added.
A wall of trumpety arguing erupted as Stede’s audience began to debate either the plot surrounding Bluebeard and Drusilla, or the semantics of “a lord who’s shit” versus a “shitlord.”
Stede thought he’d better reign it in before he lost them entirely.
“Wow.” He said clapping his hands loudly to be heard of the noise. “Such engagement with the text at hand, and isn’t that something to be celebrated? All that said…”
The arguments faded, and Stede started with the story again:
“so, others danced with Bluebeard at balls, hunted with him and played billiards, Drusilla simply watched. His smile gleamed like all the gold, silver, and precious jewels that glittered in the halls of home. But when he turned to lock eyes with Drusilla, something cold and heavy, like liquid marble, covered her from head to toe. An air of evil hung about the man, but it was as though the whole world around her was enchanted—“
“—No surprises there, really—“ Frenchie whispered loud enough so they all could hear him, but Stede pressed on with the story:
“—no one would listen to poor Drusilla, and everyone she tried to express her concerns to, even her dear old mum and sister, would giggle and dismiss Drusilla’s cold feet, enchanted as they were by Bluebeard’s spell.”
“Entirely alone in her foreboding, Drusilla was forced to marry Bluebeard. And, at first, besides the cold, evil feeling the man inspired in her, Drusilla couldn’t name any specific cruelties her husband enacted. Although, at times, she would wake in the night in her chambers and swear she heard what sounded like human screaming–”
At the exact moment Stede uttered those words, a shrill screech cut across the room. Some of the crew ducked, others clung to one another. There were shouts of “what the fuck was that?” And “oh Jesus a murderer!” Stede had stumbled forward in surprise, which was timed horribly with a magnificent roll of the ship. He nearly fell into Olu, tripped in his effort to avoid doing so, and instead fell into Ed, who did something halfway between catching Stede and breaking his fall.
The room was still, everyone holding their breaths, as they listened for the source of that horrific sound.
There was a cacophony of curses as everyone realized it was just Buttons, who Frenchie recounted, had dressed up as a seagull for the Halloween party, but ultimately decided he would spend the evening outside, communing with the thunderstorm.
There was a collective sigh of relief, as well as more shrieking from Buttons. Stede and Ed were tangled in such a way that Stede ended up needing to roll himself across the floor to avoid stepping on or kneeing his co-captain in any sort of unpleasant way. Stede straightened himself back to standing, breathing hard.
“Anyhow–” Stede choked out, attempting to raise his voice to be heard over Buttons’ seagull sounds and the rain that was still pounding on the roof. “--Drusilla would hear the sounds of humans screaming in the night. One day, her husband sought to give her the keys to all his apartments, stored valuables, rooms, and houses so that she might act as head of house in his stead while he took business in the city. He told her she could access anything she pleased, so long as she didn’t use the small, silver key to open the little closet at the end of the great hall on the ground floor–”
“--Chekov’s gun.” interrupted Wee John.
Several voices at once interrupted, asking who the hell Chekov was and what his gun had to do with the story.
“It means–” growled Izzy “if there’s a pistol laid conveniently by my bedside in the morning, then I’m probably going to shoot you with it that night.”
“Wrong!” said Frenchie. “It means the key is cursed. Everyone knows that.” A small argument broke out on how to interpret the phrase “Chekov’s gun.” Stede was beginning to realize the challenge before him–the crew was particularly edgy this evening.
“Please!” Stede said, waving his arms in a frantic attempt to restore order. “We all know and can agree that Drusilla will use the forbidden key–”
Fang, sounding genuinely defeated and mumbled something about “spoilers,” but Stede soldiered on:
“Bluebeard said to his wife, Drusilla, that if she should use the small, silver key to open the little closet at the end of the great hall on the ground floor, he would be very, very angry with her indeed. That night, Bluebeard left on his trip into the city. Drusilla was unable to sleep that night, for the screams she had been hearing seemed to grow louder, more agonized, and they went on, and on, rising to an unbearable pitch–”
Here, Stede assessed that his audience had become once again both chilled and captivated. All except Ed, who Stede thought, from looking at the man’s outline in the dim candlelight, seemed a little distracted.
“--and…ah…”
“--And?!” said Jim, hands clutching at their head.
Stede stretched and gave his head a little shake. “Yes, um–so…of course, Drusilla felt as though the voices were screaming for her. She began to feel a bit mad, and so she tore about the manor looking for the source of the horrible noises. And no matter where she looked, she couldn’t–”
Stede’s mind seemed to freeze for a moment. He had the feeling as though he’d walked into a room with a strong intention in mind, only to realize he’d forgotten his purpose for entering in the first place.
“She couldn't what?” Olu urged. “Couldn’t find the voices?”
A whole minute seemed to go by between a flash of lightning and the proceeding strong, but further away, thunder rumbled outside of the ship. Focusing on this helped unstick Stede’s mind, which had gone rather muddy again. He continued on:
“Yes. The voices were nowhere to be found. And so finally, she had no choice. There was only one place left to look…”
“No!” said Roach.
“--yes.” Stede said. “Drusilla took the small, silver key. She walked down to the great hall on the ground floor, and found the tiny closet at the end. When she opened the door…the screams finally stopped.”
Stede paused for a beat, then continued: “Though every fiber of her being protested, Drusilla crawled through the tiny closet door, and was surprised to find a stone antechamber of sorts, which was large enough for her to stand in. Another, larger door led to a set of winding, cobweb strewn stairs. Drusilla followed them all the way down. And at the bottom of the stairs she found...blood. It dripped from the walls and the ceilings. It spilled down a long, winding hallway–”
“--that’s a lot of blood, isn’t it?” Frenchie said. Many voiced their agreement.
“I don’t think it’s literal blood, guys.” Zheng said
“What other kind of blood is there?” Frenchie asked
“Supernatural. Mystical. Magic. ” Feng said in hushed, almost reverent tones. Stede cleared his throat and continued:
“Despite the excess supernatural, mystical, and magical blood dripping from the walls, Drusilla found herself compelled–nay, forced–to follow, as if a pair of hands were pressing against her back, forcing her to keep walking, though she wished terribly not to go any further…and then, when she rounded the corner, she found them. Bluebeard’s 6 wives, dead, hanging from the ceiling.
Here Stede paused again, looking determinedly just over the head of everyone in the crowd, so he wouldn’t lose his focus for the big ending:
“Drusilla nearly collapsed, for her legs had turned to pudding, but she was able to lay herself down on the floor. And as she lay there trembling, the spirits of the 6 wives spoke to her, giving her words of both encouragement and caution. They told Drusilla that Bluebeard had murdered them and trapped their spirits here, but that she had a chance to save them, and herself, from his ongoing oppression and wrath. ‘He will return early, and he will return tonight!’ they warned. The spirits told her that Bluebeard was keeping their spirits in a small wooden box, which lay on his bedside table, and that she should destroy the box by throwing it into the fire. ‘Then, we will finally be free, and we will help you be rid of Bluebeard forever.’”
“So, Drusilla ran up the stairs and crawled back out of the passage. She went up to her room to crawl back under the covers. But by that time Bluebeard had already stormed into the house. He raged and thrashed downstairs, and she then realized that she must have forgotten to lock the little closet door downstairs. Heart racing, Drusilla raced down the hallway, turned a corner, and found Bluebeard, his eyes glowing red, standing in front of the door and brandishing a knife, having grown suddenly twice his normal height. He demanded to know why she had disobeyed him.
Drusilla, desperate to buy herself some time, confessed to Bluebeard her crime of disobedience. She explained that she knew that she would need to be punished along with the other wives, but that her only request was that she be allowed to pray for her soul before he took her life. Bluebeard agreed, giving her 7 minutes. He dragged her violently by the arm, pulled her up a nearby set of stairs, and threw her in a cold, stone tower cell, and shut the door, which was entirely smooth and unable to be opened from the inside.
Thankfully, Bluebeard forgot to retrieve from Drusilla his ring of keys, which she had stowed in the pocket of her dress. Drusilla felt a warmth emanating from the keys in her pocket, and found that the little silver key that unlocked the tiny little closet was glowing gold. Soon, the key lept from Drusilla’s hand and transformed, before her eyes, into an overlarge swan–”
“The key turned into a what now?” Zheng asked, her voice laden with skepticism.
“That’s the first part of the story you have questions about?” Lucius asked, the outline of his red wig the only thing about him visible to Stede in the candlelight. This sparked yet another small argument amongst the crew about the suspension of disbelief. Stede found himself unfazed by this philosophical detour–at least, he was distracted from it as he squinted into the darkness to make out what Ed was doing.
Ed finally broke his long-held silence, which in turn made everyone else’s squabbling fade:
“I’d like to hear the end of this. Keep going, mate.”
Stede thought there was an odd note to Ed’s voice–something that could have been…awe? He suddenly felt like he might join the pool of wax dripping off the candelabra near his feet and melt into the floor, overcome with a dizzying mixture of pride, self-consciousness, and a nagging sense that Ed, having had that odd expression at the beginning, had something more say about the story that he was holding back on. Still, the crew began echoing Ed’s sentiments.
“I wanna know what happens!”
“Yeah, we want to hear the end!”
“Keep going Captain!”
Even Izzy chimed in: “Finish this fucking thing Bonnet, before we all die and turn into Halloween decorations.”
Just get through the end. Stede told himself. Even if it all fell apart on him, somehow, in this last stretch, he could always claim a headache and flee to his chambers. So he began again:
“The swan entreated Drusilla to ride upon its back, and it delivered her out the tower window, and into the bedroom of Bluebeard. At the exact moment Drusilla slid from the back of the swan, Bluebeard burst through the door, howling and foaming at the mouth with rage. Knife out, he dove at Drusilla, as she dove towards his bedside. Bluebeard grabbed the woman’s throat and pinned her to the bed–she nearly choked her–but at the last moment, she managed to free an arm and yank out a tuft of his horrible, blue facial hair. While he screamed, Drusilla grabbed the wooden box containing the spirits of the wives and threw it into the bedroom’s crackling fire, as she had been advised to do. The floor beneath Bluebeard crumbled away, revealing a black swirling abyss, which shrieked with the sounds of the damned. Bluebeard fell into the hole, his screams were swallowed up by the hell, which had taken him as its prize.”
“Each of Bluebeard's 6 previous wives appeared in spirit form. One by one, they kissed Drusilla’s cheek and then rose, as a blanket being lifted and straightened over a bed, and disappeared into thin air, finally moving on to the afterlife.”
“And so, Drusilla was left with all of Bluebeard’s wealth, which she used only for what she needed for herself. The rest she gave to various charitable organizations and to her mother and her sister so that they might live lives of similarly impenetrable financial independence, never feeling the pressure Drusilla had felt to marry a shady gentleman because of his power, fortune, and property. The end.”
The crew gave an enthusiastic round of applause–Roach and Black Pete drummed on the floor. All evidence before him suggested the story was a smash hit. He let out a huge breath and smiled, giving his audience a little wave. Relief, combined with a sweaty sort of nausea, caused his hand to shake a little as he did so.
The partygoers began to clump together into pairs and small groups. Frenchie grabbed his lute once again and began playing an impressively technical rendition of the Ghosbusters theme. Stede planted himself towards the back of a group that included Fang, Roach, Frenchie, and Pete. He nodded and wrinkled his eyebrows and said “mhmm!” and “indeed!” at appropriate intervals while only half-listening to their deep-dive into the role magic likely played in Bluebeard’s deception.
“Stede!” Ed came weaving through clumps of partygoers, carrying two steaming mugs of mulled cider in hand. “That was awesome–really great! But listen, you’re not going to believe this.”
“Mmm?” Stede said.
“I think I know that guy!” Ed handed him one of the ciders, and took a huge swig of his own.
“Who’s this now?” Stede asked, although part of him already knew the answer.
In his haste to answer, Ed choked a bit on his cider. Stede put a bracing hand on his back. When his coughing fit passed, Ed choked out: “I know him. Bluebeard!”
Several things had happened in the room Ed said that he knew Bluebeard. Olu and Jim, who had been in a deep discussion nearby, stopped talking and stared. Wee John, who had been walking around re-lighting candles dropped a match and lit one of Stede’s white linen tablecloths on fire, which Izzy angrily put out with the vat of mulled cider. Everyone in the room, it seemed, stopped to listen.
Fuck. Stede thought. Of course, Bluebeard was a bloody pirate! Of course, Ed would know him! Stede immediately began to imagine what Ed might say to the crowd next:
“Yeah, Bluebeard? He was actually a pretty nice guy! Well, he does murder, won’t deny that, but not innocent wives, just shitheads and navy guys. Yeah, no, he’s actually a really great juggler. He once put on a hell of a show for us cool pirates. Wouldn’t you know it, his juggling was so moving–so profound–that we all ended up weeping at the end, our hearts forever touched, and I’ve never been the same, emotionally, since. He’s also funny as hell, bakes an incredible raisin scone, and has really great, normal-colored facial hair. His beard isn’t even blue, if you can imagine.”
There was a long, heavy silence in the room during Stede’s thought spiral that Black Pete finally broke, addressing Ed:
“Um…you know Bluebeard?”
At that, everyone in the room tried to speak over one another at once, at full volume. The crew demanded an explanation, some disbelieving that Bluebeard was really real, some asking if he was really a wife-murderer. Jim accused Ed of fucking with them.
“Okay, okay. Actually, I didn’t ‘know him’ know him.” Ed retracted. “I knew a guy…who knew him.” At this, the chattering began again. Ed turned to look at Stede, clearly waiting for him to interject.
“Er.” Sted said. He paused to cough into his arm. “Well, go on then. Let’s hear the real story. Who’s the man behind that scary facade?”
Though Stede’s tone was flat, Ed seemed not to notice:
“--Stede’s tale isn’t too far off the mark. Bluebeard was fully a psychopath, even amongst pirates. How else would someone like that get so rich, you know? He plundered, maimed, and conquered his way. ”
At this point, the storytime circle had reformed, and now Ed stood next to Stede in the center, addressing the whole party of curious listeners, regaling the crowd with additional examples of Bluebeard’s horrific crimes, creepiness, and chicanery.
“--he was basically a huge dick.” Ed pressed a finger to his chin contemplatively. “So yeah, that was ole’ Bluebeard! Good thing he’s dead now.” Ed turned to Stede and placed his hand on his shoulder. Their eyes met, and Ed continued. “Fascinating retelling mate, what with the magic and the swans and the dead wives’ ghosts, and all that. Where’d you pick it up?”
Stede opened his mouth, but no sound came out at first. The second attempt he made, he was able to mumble something about Spanish Jackie’s.
“Well…” he began, “It’s something of a long story. Kind of silly, really.”
So, Stede told everyone about him and Lucius running around through the thunderstorm, about going to interview Spanish Jackie and her patrons, about her real jars of human eyes and actual human skeletons. Frenchie and Black Pete speculated about how long Jackie would keep her Halloween decorations up because they needed to evaluate whether they were as creepy as Stede had described “for science.” Stede tried to play up the mystery and adventure aspects of the story, seamlessly glossing over the bits of the story where he spent most of his day in a panic. Lucius coughed loudly throughout the retelling but otherwise didn’t give his Captain away.
Stede began wrapping up his second tale of the evening, saying: “...and then a well-dressed fellow in the back of the bar ended up having the Bluebeard story for me, and then we ran back here just in time for the start of the party. Well, actually, we were quite late.”
Wee John snorted in disgust and crossed his arms in response to Stede’s admission of tardiness.
“Wait, wait.” Jim said through a grin. “You said the guy in the barn was a ‘well-dressed’ fellow?” There was a provocative “ooooooh” from everyone in the crew except Izzy, who, bored to tears, had begun whittling another one of his tiny wooden sharks.
“Certainly.” Stede said, his face burning. “His vintage replica costume…” he caught Ed’s expression. “Oh, you’ve no need to worry about him. He wasn’t…I mean, I would describe him as ‘ethereal,’ perhaps, and he had a certain grizzled charisma, let’s say–” Ed raised his eyebrows so high they were liable to disappear into his hair.
“--sounds to me like this bar freak with the Bluebeard story was a bit of a looker.” Jim said not without a hint of mischief.
“Fuck off.” Stede said, forgetting, momentarily, to be polite. “I mean–apologies, Jim. It’s just that he had a truly lovely outfit. And, he had nice hair that sort of glowed in the lamplight–” Everyone, including Ed, began to chuckle, and Stede quickly forgot that he was annoyed. Watching Ed laugh, he leaned in, keeping the joke going:
“He had a certain gravitas about him… clearly a talented leader. Handsome, too, I’ll admit. Something of a haunted and mysterious quality about him, upon our initial meeting…”
Stede trailed off, enjoying the sight of Ed, who was now fully doubled over, clutching at his side. It was suddenly as if it were just the two of them in the room, Stede barely hearing the suggestive comments and teasing of the others. Stede waited patiently for Ed to collect himself, then delivered a line he knew would send them both over the edge:
“...I guess you could say I have something of a type.” They looked straight at each other with strained expressions of neutrality, each daring the other to lose it first. Stede began to snort, and then Ed, and before long they were laughing until their sides hurt and tears streamed down both their cheeks. Time slowed down as they shared their moment.
The rest of the crew had had their fill of teasing Stede and Ed and began to disperse. Stede gave Ed’s shoulder a squeeze and went to get them both more cider.
Frenchie started playing Monster Mash on his lute, and party goers whooped and cheered. Jim and Archie were the first on the dance floor and others quickly streamed out to join them. Stede lingered on the outskirts of the celebration, making a point to smile at anyone he made eye contact with. Perhaps it was just a trick of the jack-o-lantern light, but the colorful blurs that were his swirling crew members and the lilting notes of the lute and the roaring laughter and clanking mugs began to distort. A lingering thought was caught at the surface of his mind like a drop of molasses trying to fall off a spoon.
Stede returned to Ed, who was gesturing animatedly in a conversation he was having with Fang, the latter of whom had a small, proud smile. Ed had become something of a disciple of Fang’s who, as it turns out, had a peaceable personality and a strong call to mentorship that had not gone unnoticed by Stede. Stede tapped Ed on the shoulder and handed him his cider.
“Thanks, Mate–and that’s why, given my personal growth journey as a small-business owner–” Ed said grandly, grabbing Stede’s bicep and giving him a little shake for emphasis. “I think Stede and I should move away from innkeeping and open a playhouse-tea-shop-smithy-dance-club.”
The corners of Fang’s smile twitched just a bit, and his eyes widened ever so slightly. “Whatever you say, man.” He flashed a smile at Stede and let himself be pulled by a passing conga line into a throng of dancers.
“I’m glad we did this.” Ed took a long sip of his cider looking fondly at the conga line snake its way around the room. “They do well with a party every once and a while you know?”
Stede looked at the expression on the other man’s face, and forgot, for a while, about the half thought that had been plaguing his mind. For at least a while, something heavy lightened within him, and Stede found himself smiling more genuinely and generously, limboing rather terribly when his time came, literally waltzing with Ed, but also enjoying the metaphorical dance of co-captaining their way through the party, splitting apart to referee a good-natured, drunken argument, or prod Izzy to participate more, then twirling back together again in small moments of grins and silent conversations across the room. Stede declared Jim, aka “Captain Stede Bonnet” the winner of the costume contest after a unanimous vote and laughed good-naturedly when Jim performed a comical reenactment of Stede’s first day as their captain. Ed fluttered around challenging people to games of “Rock, Parchment, Stab, and Shoot,” losing winsomely on more occasions than he won.
It might have been three in the morning when the last remaining crew members shuffled off to bed, leaving Ed and Stede sitting cross-legged on the middle of the dance floor, close enough that their knees almost touched, their funny paper hats (commissioned, created, and assigned to each party guest by Wee John) askew, their cider mugs mostly empty.
“I don’t think I’d like to be a ghost–if they were real, that is.” Stede blurted out. The thought arose out of the warm glow of the copious amounts of hard cider he’d drunk, which caused him to feel like he was floating above, watching himself and Ed from a distance. “Everyone you know, alive and thriving, unable to be reached, except through throwing books and blowing out candles. It sounds horribly tragic.”
“Nah, nah, man. You’re looking at it all wrong.” Ed said, setting down his mug a little too enthusiastically, the cider sloshing over the sides a bit. He jabbed Stede in the chest with his finger:
“...None of us, not a single fucking one of us, would be thriving if you were a ghost.”
Stede swallowed, his throat burning. He had been expecting Ed to argue something about how someone could pull the best fuckeries ever imagined as a ghost.
“Also–” Ed began. Oh. There it is. Stede thought, smiling to himself. “You would be able to prank your enemies, which would be, quite honestly, fucking legendary.”
Ed stretched his arms behind him and laid down on the floor. His eyes widened, and he said timidly:
“Please don’t…become a ghost.”
Stede laid down on the floor next to him. “Well, Ed, I must tell you. It’s not in my 5-year plan.” Stede joked, but he reached over and gave Ed’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
“Good.” Ed breathed in deeply. “You know who was rumored to be a ghost though?”
Stede listened as another candle hissed itself out on melted wax, enjoying the cozyness of the lights turning low.
“Fucking Bluebeard.” Ed finished, blowing a disdainful raspberry through his lips.
“Really, now?” Stede said politely, feeling secretly rather “over” all of the talk about the insipid man, which had gone on well into the rest of the party. Even Stede had to admit, despite the way his insecurity from earlier had gnawed at him, and despite his own readiness to be rid of the whole thing, the story really had left something of an impression on everyone.
“Yeah.” Ed said, moving his arms dreamily across the word floor, as if he were laying in sand making an angel. Stede recalled that, at some point, Zheng had challenged Ed to a drinking game that involved Ed taking a shot everytime he lost “Rock, Parchment, Stab, and Shoot…” he hadn’t realized quite how prolific the game must have gotten. To his credit, Ed didn’t drink excessively too often these days, so his tolerance had likely changed some.
Ed continued on: “I’ve heard a couple of guys tell a version of the Bluebeard story that includes an epilogue, where Bluebeard gets stuck in the Gravy Basket, cursed by Calypso to wander the earth and tell the truth about his story–confess his crimes–for the rest of eternity as a punishment for being …such a shithead.”
The room seemed to spin a bit. Stede couldn’t quite hear Ed’s voice. What was it? Stede thought, feeling a familiar, bone-deep sense of dread rise from somewhere deep within and bloom into his chest. Although the storm outside had stopped an hour or so before, Stede thought he could hear thunder…
“Stede? You alright in there?” Ed said, poking him in the side. Stede realized he had stopped listening to Ed completely.
“Oh, um. Apologies.” Stede said. “It’s just…” and then Stede remembered. The handsome man with the fine silk brocade from Spanish Jackie’s. His strange, otherworldly look. The wild electricity in his eyes and the thunder in his voice, like he was made of the elements themselves.
Stede told Ed more about the man he met at the bar, describing his clothes, his voice. As Stede talked, more details came to him, like the strange, pearly (almost colorful) quality to his beard.
“...well.” Ed said. “I’m not gonna lie to you man, if this were a ghost story, then I would say you’d definitely met Bluebeard’s ghost at Spanish Jackie’s. Sounds just like what people said the guy looked like, honestly.”
Hearing himself talk it out, Stede could easily dismiss what had certainly just been an uncanny coincidence. Stede and Ed laughed and laughed until they ran out of breath.
“You’re right.” Stede said.
“Would’ve been kind of the perfect end to the night.” Ed said. “If you actually saw Blackbeard’s ghost. On Halloween.”
“It’s already perfect.” Stede said before he could stop himself. He decided to stick with it: “This night. You and me. Uh… our story.”
“Not a ghost story.” Ed said, turning to face Stede.
“Definitely not a ghost story.” Stede agreed. They stared at each other for one of those small eternities, Ed looking at Stede with a serious, but earnest look, his brows knitted in concentration as if he were somehow tethering Stede there with the intensity of his gaze–and perhaps he was. Stede was a bit tipsy to be quite sure what his own face was doing, but he felt like his whole being was grinning back at Ed.
Ed was the first to break the silence that had fallen between them, and he did so rather abruptly:
“I need air.”
“Alright, then” Stede said, blinking and slightly taken aback. “Go get yourself air.”
“I need air with you.” Ed replied, hauling Stede to his feet, causing the room to spin nauseatingly for the latter. Stede, like Ed, didn’t drink as much as he once had. The two of them were getting old–in a good way.
They stumbled out of the mess hall and wandered around the deck for sometime, the rain now fully gone, the ocean back to its gentle rocking rhythm. Eventually, they came to a stop, standing side by side, their chests pressed into the rail, looking outside to sea.
After awhile of just standing together and enjoying the sound of night, Stede found himself wanting to speak without knowing quite what he wanted to say: “You’re something of a legend, you know.”
It had fully stopped raining now, and the blue and purple of a night sky at sea began to press through the endless black of rain clouds. Ed, meanwhile, made a rather unsavory retching noise:
“--Yeah, I’ve heard.” But he laughed. These days, Ed had developed something of a flexibility with his old identity. The old leathers were not this heavy thing that they once were, just one part in his longer, complicated, unfolding existence. It was something Stede was rather proud of Ed for.
“I know you prefer to be just Ed these days.” Stede said. “But I–” he searched for the words, then stopped searching and just let them flow: “--you’ve seen so much, and done so much. You’ve been so much. And it ended up being, well, I had you what was supposed to be a horrifying supernatural tale. And it ends up being about a real, dickhead fellow you’d already heard about, and almost met in real life.” Stede was babbling now. They’d figured all that out already. What was he trying to say? He continued on, trying to rein in his thoughts:
“-- Oh, I don’t know! I suppose…I suppose I just wanted to find a truly terrifying tale, you know. One that was worthy of…you. Who you are, who you’ve been…all you will be.”
Stede felt his own face flush against the cold evening breeze. He couldn’t really see Ed’s face in detail with the small amount of candlelight they had emanating from the mess hall, but he watched as the other man seemed to ball up his hands into fists and press them into his mouth. Ed’s left foot–the one nearest Stede–began tapping wildly.
“That’s a lot of fucking pressure, Stede.” Ed said, finally.
“Sorry.” Stede said at once.
“No, no!” Ed said. “I don’t mean you put a lot of pressure on me! I mean..that’s a lot of fucking pressure for you to put on…you.” Stede wasn’t sure that it was necessarily a conscious decision on either of their parts, but suddenly they were standing much closer, so much so that Stede felt his entire right side having almost a shaky, pins-and-needles type of sensation, but…far more pleasant.
Neither of them moved for what felt like yet another, lovely, miniature eternity.
“Stede.” Ed said.
“Hmm?”
“I liked the ending to your story. Never heard that version before, in all the retellings. Where Drusilla and the wives kill Bluebeard and he gets sucked into a hell hole. And the magic. And the swan bit. Real weird, real inventive. 10 out of 10 would hear again…and it was more than enough. It was–you are–”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea.” Stede said, feigning sheepishness. “It was the handsome ghost at Spanish Jackie’s.”
“Fuck off.” Ed said, though he was grinning.
“Only if you would be so kind as to ‘fuck off’ with me.” Stede held out his hand, and led them onward to wander more.
They talked about nothing and everything, letting the breeze from the water bring them clarity and wakefulness. They were warding off sleep, holding onto the night as it tried to slip through their fingers and below the purpling horizon surrounding them, holding tight to all of the laughter, stupidity, and stories. Even though it was technically November 1st already, it didn’t matter. With each other, they could pretend, quite easily, that they had the night forever–that the veil between the world of the living and the dead was not as thin as it was often said to be this time of year.
They reached the door to the Captains’ quarters. Called by sleep but still resisting its pull, longing rooted them to where they stood.
As they kissed, a sliver of moon became visible as lingering clouds cleared away.