Pilgrimage of the Recidivist

Pilgrimage of the Recidivist


Take from it what you will.

[Short story entry, present tense, first person]


The boat quivers above softer water than I can recall in days, it bobs and dives to play games against itself with no change of heart despite the casting storms. She washes her hair and her face, upfront, bathes her breasts and binges in the spray. I lean at the back, watch the ants pull, rig and drink. I imagine being quite land-borne, studying Eka and her dark, horse-wild eyes, the large lips on such a little face. I divide myself, sparingly here, greedily there. Easily, I tease myself with the idea of her, and of freedom, and a dog and son. The boat hits shore abruptly, people begin the harder work, I don't aid. The captain studies his current whore lying nude on the deck, strewn. The boys have had a bashing, she's sore but by the by keen for his approval. He's absolved of her wiles.

Another pebble beach, and we're not meant to be here. The captain strolls on land, spends time arguing, charming, coercing a few local middle-aged men of property and sea knowledge. It's agreed we can have a buoy in the harbour for a few days, it's away from the rest but a solution is a solution. The winds are excited and unsuitable for sailing. The wooden lady smirks at our ill-fortune. I travel up the rockery to the quaint fishing town beyond, traipse through, find a small Tavern, people are bustling outside. A lady buys bread, stops, stares at me, I go inside. There are two cavities within, a quiet room at the back, so it seems, and the livelier point of drink. The boys will be causing havoc, lapping up the services and the life. I head in further for the smaller room. It's adorned in wood and the windows haven't been washed for weeks, months perhaps. Around the edges are bar stalls and dismal tables. It wreaks of pennilessness and poverty. A lady in soft, crushed velvet drinks something amber in the corner, she looks too moneyed to be here though her back is to me. I ponder whether she is an ashamed divorcee or a wealth weary widow. The keep glares at me, with a delicious contempt.
“Port.” It comes out more clay-like than I intend, probably the lack of using my voice for a day or two. The only friend on ship I had was Grackle, built large and drank heavy, he was suffering from an illness which the more intelligent of us, Peath, said we were not to go near him.
I drink the first, thick and friskily, request another and begin a bewitchment with the velvet collar and the auburn hair.

   “You alone?” She stares at me, soft and frozen and unsurprised, for a second, like she knows me, like she sees into my primary wire.
“Can you see anyone?” Her lips curve at the side, I don't entirely understand the sentiment but I sit on the pew opposite her and gaze upon her. Her breasts are adorned in a dark lace, her wrists to her ankles in navy velvet. She is mine in these moments, unable to leave and unable to speak and unable to avoid.
“What is your business here?”
“You. Yours?” She is terribly plain and her eyes are blue, illuminated blue.
“Force.”
“Of course, and what else brought you here?”
“Water.” I chuckle. She doesn't, she sips what smells like rum.
“They'll be coming soon, if they see you with me it will be a free for all.” She isn't wrong, the boys, mostly, are young and sick-minded.
“Shall we leave? Where can we go?” She envelopes my hand with hers, places a spare finger over her mouth as if to ensure hush and we delve, behind the bar and down, down into the cellar. The keep shuts the door behind us.
“Lay here. Be silent.” I feel a fever, fearful even, on the spot. She undoes her dress, becomes pale, curved, boned, godly. There is screaming above. “I need you to tell me your name.”
“I can't, however I will tell you theirs, they are the Fleet and they will find us here, it's not a good spot.”
“I have bought us time, tell me your name.” She's above me, stroking my bearded face, removing my waistcoat, unbuttoning my shirt. She strips me of everything and I am nothing.

   “Boer.” The floor is damp. The walls are bare. She is consuming me, whole, with her eyes.
“Boer, I love you. You have to know, I have gone to great lengths to meet you here. I have dragged myself through cascades of men, I have fallen far, have played on my own strengths to find you. You must see.”
“Who are you?” I fumble, her body is glowing, it is liquid gold. The door above begins to shift. It happens as if a flood of oxygen re-enters the room. They drag her, drag her little body backwards by her hair. She doesn't scream and she doesn't cry, not like others. She writhes a little as I try to remove them. One after the other I pull until I am adrift, in the middle of the rough. They hit me, again and again and again. Blood rushes from the skull, blood rushes from the groin, it rushes and rushes. There is a story I remember, a meeting upon a meeting upon a meeting or something like that. I am born new and whole and clean. It is hot here and there are echoes in the medical corridors, of you.