Chapter 2

A Mysterious Visitor

Locke & Bellamy made their way down to the docks. It wasn’t a particularly long jog from old Randal’s bar but it was just long enough for the alcohol to settle in Locke’s system. The boys, ever anxious to reach their destination, moved at a fairly quickened pace.

Bellamy looked at his friend and couldn't help but laugh “You’re jittering like a little school girl."

“Hey, I’m not the one that came bursting into Randal’s half out of breath” Locke retorted. His hands ceased to twitch as he spoke.

Bellamy laughed "I'm just saying that I've never seen you this excited for work."

Locke hadn't even thought about it. As an apprentice shipwright he was probably going to be forced to fix that thing before it was able to sail out of here. "Aw you gotta be fucking kidding me!" He exclaimed, stopping dead in his tracks.

Bellamy began to laugh even harder, clutching his gut like it was the funniest thing in the world. He stopped laughing for a moment,"you hadn't thought about that?" Before continuing to laugh hysterically.

Locke shook his head and kept walking. Something drove him forward. Curiosity, excitement, fear, he wasn't sure. Whatever it was, it was driving.

“Hey man, wait up!” Bellamy exclaimed as he realised he was alone in his hysteria. “Come on that was hilarious!” He justified, catching up to Locke.

“Oh, fuck off dude” Locke replied. "It's probably too broke to salvage anyway."

"You better hope so or you're gonna be working on that thing for days"

"Yeah and what is the crew going to do while they're stuck here? Go fishing with you?" Locke said with some snark.

"They should be so lucky. Go fishing with the great Bellamy Langston, probably teach ‘em a thing or two" Bellamy smiled as he mimed reeling in a fish.

The boys marched past the market where the fishermen were selling the day’s catch, their stands plenty with fish; mackerel, snapper, trout, and salmon lined the stalls, their eyes ever glaring at the passersby. The seamstresses wove cloth on their looms while their storefronts boasted full racks of clothes they’d sewn imitating designs of a bygone era. The old brick buildings were covered with colorful paints and eccentric tapestries, masquerading as fine establishments. Yet the deluge of cracks and rot betrayed the town folks attempts to keep them presentable. There was a murmur in the air, an energy that had been sparked by the mysterious ship in the harbor.

As they passed the stores on the strip, the artisans bustled around. Locke glanced around at the familiar faces, wondering to himself how you could be satisfied coming back every day to the same spot, do the same things, until, just like everyone else, you were met by death’s cold embrace. Forgotten to time like the people that built these crumbling shacks. That wasn’t the life Locke envisioned for himself.

Locke and Bellamy continued down the dry dirt road, their feet kicking up dust as they marched. They rounded the corner at the end of the street, barely a stone's throw past the palm trees, and arrived at the docks. The boys could never have imagined the sight they were met with.

A thin veil of crimson flowed from the deck and began to drizzle along the side. Delicate veins were formed on the ship, streaming with blood. Like rivers they ran, coursing their way back to the ocean. The boys were tentative. They could see the ship’s crew beginning to disembark. The walkway slammed down connecting the dock to the grand vessel. The path had been laid but no one advanced. The bloodied men and women stood in silence, waiting. Locke and Bellamy, ever intrigued, took a few steps forward. The crew parted and a figure emerged.

A man, as pale as the moon's glow and rugged as its surface, hung from a woman's shoulder. He limped along as she carried his weight across the ramp and off the boat. He had long thick black hair, matted and curled, it clawed at his sharp cheekbones. His eyes pierced the very air they gazed; sockets as hollow as the night sky, and pupils just as dark. He was wrapped in a thick black cloak that was perched upon his shoulders. It draped down to his knees and covered his entire body save the arm being used to prop him up. His flesh was a pale sickly green, as though it had been left in the sun to rot, and his brow was drenched in a river of sweat. The rest of the crew fell in line behind him, keeping pace with his jagged steps. No one so much as coughed as they all pressed forward. As he approached, the dockworkers shrank before him, their faces twisting to an unhealthy mix of terror and disgust. They parted from his path and sank in his wake.

“He looks awful.” Murmured a longshoreman.

“He might be contagious!” Whispered another.

“Think he has the mark?” A third asked under her breath.

He paced forward until Locke and Bellamy stood alone in front of him. Under the knot of black shag and through barred teeth the man cracked what seemed like a smirk. The woman spoke.

“He’s sick. He needs a doctor.” She said in proxy.

Locke stared blankly.

“The Medicus,” Bellamy answered, patting Locke on the chest.

Locke snapped into the moment. “Right. This way.” He stated, motioning for the crew to follow him.

They made their way back up the winding dirt road. Locke and Bellamy exchanged awkward glances trying to communicate their uncertainty of what was going on. The stir that had started in the market came to an end as the townsfolk noticed the condition of their visitors. Disparate murmurs filled the air as the boys guided the crew past the townsfolk. Things like “What a wretched sight,” “they definitely don’t look imperial,” and “Do you think they’ll still have Denarii?” could be overheard from the different stalls. With a sigh and a shrug they went on to their regular day to day routines while the crew moved past them unaware of the change in spirits that had occurred.

They arrived at the Medicus’ hut. The Medicus was over by his water basin cleansing some medical equipment. He was a slightly older gentleman with quaffed grey hair and round spectacles. His weary face was not unused to seeing Locke and Bellamy knocking at his door. Over the years the two of them often needed patching up in some form or another. He was midway through his usual line of medical questioning when he noticed the elephant in the room.

“Ahh... not you two then. What’s wrong with your friend here?”

The boys shrugged and the woman removed the man’s trench coat revealing his necrotic left arm. She unwrapped layer after layer of bandage from the man’s forearm till the gash was fully visible. A blackened wound of decaying flesh, not unlike a rotten clam, stared up at them.

“How long?” The Medicus asked.

The woman looked puzzled.

“Since it happened. How long?”

“2 days.” She replied. “Can you help him?”

“Need to control the bleeding... stabilize vitals... can assess prognosis later.” The Medicus mumbled to himself.

“Well!?” She persisted.

“Yes yes, put him on the table and I’ll see what I can do.”

They hoisted his weakened form onto the table.

“Now, everyone out, I’ve got work to do.” He shooed.

Locke and Bellamy turned to leave but nobody else moved. There was an awkward silence. The medicus looked at them.

"Out! I'll deal with you all after." He repeated.

"Or you could deal with us now" The woman said putting one hand on the exposed hilt of her blade.

The Medicus didn't budge. "Shall I let him die then?"

The room was dead silent. There was a thick tension in the air as the lady sized up the Medicus. A hand reached out and grabbed her arm. Her eyes darted downwards at the sick man. He gave her a fierce stare. Disgruntled, she removed her hand from her weapon.

"That's what I figured. Now take your band of vagrants and get the fuck out of my tent."

She snarled and stormed out of the hut. The rest of the crew followed quickly behind her.

The crew gathered awkwardly outside of the hut many gripping to wounds, some minor, others more egregious, some chattered between themselves. Locke tried to listen but couldn't make out anything concrete. It was the first time Locke had gotten a good look at any of them since they’d arrived in town. The ones not keeled over with fresh wounds were scarred and weathered. They had weapons fastened to their hips and some of them wore face coverings and jewellery they probably hadn’t paid for. Young and old, they all had the same familiar mark on the inside of their right forearms.

Locke recognized it as the Empire’s brand, a giant skull burned into those who committed acts of piracy. It was identification of dishonesty and treason, and denoted men and women meant for the noose. Locke was slightly impressed to see so many living who had been marked for he had only seen the mark once before, many years ago on a woman that had been swaying from her neck in a square in the capital.

The Medicus emerged from the hut. The crew turned, yearning for an answer.

“He’s stable.” The Medicus stated.

The crew sighed with relief. The woman stepped up and the Medicus signaled her closer. He whispered something in her ear. She looked surprised but ultimately satisfied with what he had told her. She responded in kind and the Medicus' finger pointed out the wounded as he counted to himself. She pulled a coin purse from her waistcoat and dropped it in his hand. The Medicus quickly nodded and went back inside to tend to his patient. He poked his arm out momentarily and motioned the wounded into his tent.

The woman in charge beckoned the hapless gang to her. Haphazardly, the men and women of the crew, sauntered over, forming up around her. This was the first time Locke was putting together the hierarchy of these mysterious visitors. Attempting to stand nonchalantly nearby, he overheard the women devising shifts for the crew to start fixing their ship. Locke realised this as his opportunity. Offering the island's services to fix their ship would land him, hopefully, in their good graces as well as a much closer look at the vessel. The women sanctioned those not chosen for the first shift leave, instructing them to indulge themselves while the Captain rested, for their shift would be soon, and that they’d be leaving as soon as the Captain was able. The moment she was finished the crowd began to disperse and Locke approached the woman, but Bellamy was way ahead of him.