Page 42 of Blow Me Down
A shrill whistle pierced the happy chatter of the women at the well. Everyone in the square came to a stop to stare at the lunatic as he stood with his hands on his hips. As I frowned at him, he lifted up the eye patch to glare at me, then beckoned me with an imperious gesture.
The ladies at the well all looked at me. I gave them a tight smile. “Excuse me a moment, please. I’ll be right back to talk some more about… er… your earliest childhood memories.”
Seven faces went utterly expressionless. Seven pairs of eyes blinked stupidly. I sighed to myself, crossed them all off my list, and went over to where the deranged man was waiting none too patiently.
“It’s about time,” he hissed at me in vaguely familiar tones, then said in a loud voice that was probably audible up the hill at Bart’s house, “Be ye friend or be ye foe? I’m Mad Jack, I am, and I come from the country of the potato people!”
“Mad Jack?” I asked, squinting at the man.
“Good disguise, eh?” The man lifted the eye patch again, and two blue eyes twinkled their enjoyment at me. “I come bearing messages from… well, Corbin’s Irish, actually, not Greek, but we won’t hold that against him, will we?”
“Holder, what are you doing in those awful clothes? Why are you in disguise?
What are you doing here? And what was with the dog and pony show? I thought you were a mentally deficient pirate street person.”
“Bart’s men are back from their foraging trip. If they caught me, they’d hang me. Hence the necessity of bringing out old Mad Jack, island idiot.” He grinned, clearly not too upset at the thought of being within reach of Bart. “As for what I’m doing here, his majesty commanded I bring you a message. Just think of me as the virtual pirate version of instant messaging. I’m duly authorized to hang around and wait for you to write up a reply, even.”
“Oooh, a note from Corbin?” I asked, watching avidly as he dug in the pockets of his jacket. “Did you guys find Paul?”
“Nay, not yet. But we’re looking. Ah, here it is.” He paused for a moment, giving me a smile filled with all sorts of speculation. “I’ve known Corbin all my life, you know.”
“Have you?” I asked, trying to snatch the piece of folded parchment from his fingers. He held tight.
“Aye. Known him since we were two. We lived next door to each other growing up. He’s a nice guy. Solid, dependable, no major bad vices, although he has been known to put ketchup on his scrambled eggs, which we all know is a sin against nature, but other than that, he’s primo, grade A marriage material.”
“Marriage,” I said, startled by the blunt matchmaking. Holder released the parchment, which I noticed had been sealed with a big blob of red wax.
“Did Corb tell you about the in-game marriage feature? We anticipate it will be a big success. It allows players to have access to the items in the spouse’s inventory—ship deeds, money, jewels, etcetera. Very handy thing, all things considered, and in no way binding in the real world”—he paused for a quick grin—“unless you want it to be binding, of course.”
I smiled, touched by Holder’s devotion to his friend and despite the ludicrous nature of the conversation. I wasn’t against marriage, but I certainly wasn’t going to commit myself to a man I’d known for just a few days… or hours, as it was in real time. “Thank you for the sales pitch, but it’s not really necessary.
For one thing, I already like Corbin, and for another, I don’t need his money or his ships or whatever else he may have in his inventory.”
“You may change your mind about that once the blockade strikes and there are no supplies coming in or out of Turtle’s Back,” he answered.
“Blockade? What blockade? What exactlyisa blockade?”
Holder’s grin slid a couple of notches as he glanced over my shoulder. I turned to see what had disturbed his cocky attitude. A group of four men I recognized as Bart’s crewmen swaggered into the square, making rude comments about the women gathered at the well, snatching wares off the fruit vendor’s cart, and generally behaving in the age-old manner of men.
“Thank you for… oh.” I turned back to tell Holder how much I appreciated his bringing the note from Corbin, but he had disappeared into the crowd. I couldn’t blame him—I knew enough from the limited association I’d had with my new crewmates to know they were a rowdy bunch, and not at all the sort of men I’d like to cross.
I was in the process of carefully breaking the wax seal on the letter from Corbin when a shout had me stuffing the note in a pocket in my striped knickers.
“Ahoy, lass,” one of Bart’s men shouted as he caught sight of me, waving an ill-gotten, half-eaten apple at me. “The captain sent us to fetch ye back. He’s wantin‘ to have a talk with ye.”
“Hoy, guys. Oh. Bart wants to see me right now? Er… Ben, isn’t it?”
“Bent Ben, aye,” the pirate said with a lascivious leer that left me wanting a bath and a strong scrub brush.
“Ask him what’s bent,” his mate hinted.
“Er… thanks; perhaps another time,” I said with what I hoped was a smile that was crewmate like and yet didn’t encourage confidences of an intimate nature.
“Um… I can’t help but notice the pockmarks on your face, Ben. Did you have chicken pox as a child?”
Ben just looked at me. I heaved a mental sigh and turned to his two companions. “How about the two of you? Did you have chicken pox when you were little boys? Say, when you were about five or six?”
Two pairs of expressionless eyes gazed at me.
