Pieces of Eight (and a Brief Meditation on Writing)

So, around 6 months ago, I threw something up on this blog.  It was the first chapter of a novel I've been trying to write.  At the heart of it is my cousin, Mike McCarthy, whose death I'm still trying to figure out and deal with a dozen years afterwards.  I call the story (now) Pieces of Eight, because it sounds pretty cool.  And it never really had a title before, so it's definitely better than no title.

A couple of you said nice things about it.  Thanks, guys.  You're sweet.

That was gonna be it.  Just something about Mike, and move on. I'm writing a couple stories featuring my kids, now.  I'm even thinking about getting a self-published, professionally printed copy to give them for Christmas this year.  Pretty cool, right?

But then...

But then my mom read what I wrote.  And she told Mike's mom about it.  And she read it.  And soon after, I got a letter in the mail.

Yeah, that's right.  A letter.  What's a letter?  Think of it like this: if you wrote an email, printed it out, and paid someone to deliver it.  I know, pretty weird.  Needless to say, I don't get a lot of letters, so this was special.  I won't share all it, entire internet, just say the letter got me thinking.

What should I do with the story, now?

I'm still not sure.  Perhaps I could throw the whole thing that I've written so far up for people to read.  (It wouldn't take much.  I'm not more than a few dozen pages in at this point.)  Maybe people will like it, maybe not.

And maybe this could kind of jump start me into working more on the story.  Maybe this will become the reason (self-imposed deadlines work a lot better than my current strategy of "I don't know, whenever I feel like it"), or maybe this blog serves as a chronicle of a very rough first draft, a kind of behind-the-scenes of a writer's process, or at least this writer's process.  That could be interesting.  At least for me.

Anyway, while I try to figure out what to do next, you should at least have a chance to start at the beginning, so here's the prologue.  It's short and has pirates.  Enjoy.

(Fun fact:  April 26, 1717, New England really was hit by a pretty big storm.  Yeah, that's right, historically accurate weather!)


Pieces of Eight

Prologue

April 26, 1717

The waves crashing onto the shore all but drowned the sound of thunder that rumbled across the black landscape of the stony beach.  Lightning briefly illuminated the four men as they heaved another box from the longboat.  The rain and salty spray of the breakers drenched them more with every step, their skin numb with cold as the water soaked through their clothes, their oilskins doing nothing to keep the wetness at bay.  But these men were sailors, and sailors ignored the damp cold like the Devil ignores cries for mercy.

Once out of the surf, three of the men carried the box, straining against the weight of its contents, toward an outcrop of rock, while the fourth man retrieved a lantern from the boat and followed them.  The outcrop sheltered them from the rain, if not the wind and constant din of the surf and thunder, and the three men set the box down, breathing heavily.  Beside it sat five other boxes of similar size.

“It’s the Devil’s own night,” one of the men said as lightning illuminated the driving rain just beyond the outcropping.

“Shut your trap,” spat the fourth man, “or I’ll let you walk back to the ship!”

“Pardon me, Captain Williams,” said another man, “but how do you know these will be safe here?”

The man holding the lantern, Paulsgrave Williams, smiled at the question.  “I grew up in this place.  I climbed these rocks as a boy.  I know them as good or better than any man alive.  Look there!”  He pointed into the darkness with the lantern.  By its light, the deep shadows  began to resolve into massive stones, with a narrow, triangular space between them, perhaps five feet in height.  “This very cave I discovered as a boy.  It will be big enough to hold our loot 'til we meet up with Black Sam and can come by it again.”

He thrust the lantern into the hands of the man who had asked the question, then barked, “Now, start lifting!  God's wounds, get those chests into that cave, fast as you can.”

As the men moved to obey, Williams stood back at the edge of the outcropping, staring back at the thundering surf.  He couldn’t see the Marianne, anchored off the shore, but he longed to be back aboard her.  But her hulls had been full, her treasure load of Spanish silver heavy, and he needed to lighten her load, if they should encounter a British patrol.  The waters of Newport were generally safe for privateers, the enterprising sailors that harassed the Spanish fleets with the tacit approval of the British crown.  But for pirates, like himself, who attacked any ship, regardless of its flag, few waters outside of Nassau would be safe.  And while Marianne was a fast ship, and had performed well under Captain Black Sam Bellamy, she was now his ship, as Bellamy had adopted the stolen slaver Whydah as his new flag ship.  Just days ago, Bellamy had told Williams of his intention to visit his scorned lover in Wellfleet.  Williams had tried to talk Bellamy out of it, but Bellamy had insisted.  Williams had said he’d stay in Rhode Island waters, for he had family on Block Island and in Newport that he wished to visit, but that he would meet Bellamy further north in a week’s time.

Williams had always had a bad feeling about Maria Hallett, Sam’s old lover.  He’d heard stories of her being a witch, and as the rain slashed the air all around him, he wondered if that witch had conjured the storm, knowing the scoundrel who’d broken her heart was coming back to hurt her again.  But he knew Bellamy was genuine in his wish to see Hallett, though Williams thought their reunion doomed, and he prayed that the Whydah would weather this storm.

Waves crashed on the beach and the salt spray struck his face like a cold palm slapping him back to his senses.

If she sent this storm after you, Sam, he thought, you’re good as dead already.

Suddenly, there was a shout and a crash from behind him.  Williams turned to see one chest lying broken on the rocky ground, silvery metal glinting in the lantern light.  The men were backing away from the chest, and Williams was about to shout to them, when he saw a tall figure emerge from the shadows.  It seemed to walk out from the cave, its head and arms covered in a heavy cloak, its movements strange, measured, like a horse over untrustworthy ground.

“Who are you?” shouted Williams.

Instead of answering, the figure raised its arms.  The cloak revealed no hands, but instead, flashes of fire exploded from each arm, thunderous crashes of sound echoed over the rocks, and the smell of gun powder filled the air.  Two of his men fell to the ground, their faces and skulls torn to shreds by the musket balls.

The figure dropped its arms, two pistols falling to the ground, smoke curling from their barrels.  Williams was reacting now, pulling his own pistol from his sash.  But before he could raise it and fire, the figure jerked its head back, the cloak falling away to reveal its face.  Williams hand went limp in shock, the pistol clattering to the rocky ground.

“ 'Tis The Devil!” shouted the third man, the one who still held the lantern.  The figure sprung, now, racing at his target, its right arm moving quickly, jabbing the man in the neck.  Williams thought he glimpsed metal, obscured by the cloak, then the man dropped the lantern and Williams saw only the blood frothing from his neck as he screamed his last wet, desperate breath.  The lantern went out as it struck the ground, the man falling to the ground beside it with a wet thump.

Williams found himself running, the rain pelleting his face, rushing through the black night until his found the long boat.  He shoved at the beached craft, afraid every moment that the demon would be at his back, cutting off his head and holding it high as his final trophy.  He shoved one last time and the boat was free, bobbing in the rough surf.  With a strength of will he’d barely known he possessed, Williams heaved himself into the boat, grabbed at the oars, and managed to turn himself away from shore.

The return to the Marianne was a nightmare of cold, of rain, of crashing waves threatening to capsize him, but yet was nothing to the nightmare he’d left behind, the nightmare he’d visit again and again in his sleep from years to come, of the night when, during the witch’s storm, he’d come face to face with the Devil himself.

It’s the Devil’s treasure, now, he thought, and swore to never return for it for as long as he might live.