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Luc Levesque

     I scan the horizon, not happy. The day is bright, and past the reefs and the cays and the islands I can see the sky meet the ocean, straight as a line on a chart. It is clear to my eyes, my friend; there is no ship. Everyone knows it. The Leviathan is not here, not today. Among the hundreds of reefs and cays and islands, she is somewhere… simply not here.

     I have been with Captain Patch since Jurgenholm?, seeking the terrible Leviathan. We hunt the greatest challenge of them all, the greatest prize in the world of pirates. I trust the captain to deliver her. When we round the next island, perhaps. Or the following one. Or the following. Or the following.

     Meanwhile the minds of my men go soft, out of focus like a spyglass with bad lenses. They begin to doubt Captain Patch’s judgment; an unspoken hint of suspicion haunts them like that ghost of a cat she calls a friend. Spirit of a cat. Whichever it is, the nasty-minded little creature.

     I walk over to the starboard rail and look the other way once more. A small stretch of sand and jungle is drifting serenely past. No Leviathan hides behind it. Pah.

     But there… on the sand… sweet Trinity?, someone staggering from the tree line as if from the door of a dockside tavern. Staring closer to be certain, I can now make out a small area of charred wood and sand, a campfire on the beach. The person approaches it with branches in her hand, no native but a New Worlder like us.


     I cannot see any boat or ship that would have brought her to this place and an island like this has no fresh water. A conundrum, for certain.

     The captain calls for a long boat to be launched, a dozen sailors to row ashore. The woman has seen us now, and waves one hand lazily at us, swaying in the breeze like the palm fronds behind her. I set to work, picking crew and organizing weapons. I will lead them, but of course.

     Lowered onto the water, oars extend and the men pull. A little swell and surf needs care where the water shallows suddenly, but it is a calm day and the crew is skilled. All the time, the woman stands on the beach, rocking unsteadily back and forth, watching us approach. We land and men take arms, threatening the edge of the jungle like it may be some dangerous beast. They are correct of course. The trees might hide many surprises.

     Meanwhile, I walk up to the woman, her skin dry, lips cracked. The sun has burned her face to a line where it meets her red headscarf. Her eyes see me approach and I start to say something. But her eyes have lost focus, and she hears nothing; her legs give way and I have to lunge to catch her as she falls. Lowering her to the ground, I call for assistance. As my hand comes away from her back, it has blood over it. I look behind and see the unmistakable wound of a musket shot.

     Finally we have contact with the Leviathan, in a manner of speaking.

     11 of 15 in the Leviathan Biographies. Click here for the next in the series.

Realms > Mortal Realms > Elements > Untamed Empires > Setward Isles
Art > Short Story
Features Of Realms > People

Created by: Last Modification: Wednesday 27 of May, 2009 21:51:02 UTC by MMK.

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