Siren Ch. 07

"Is this a petition I'm hearing?" Roland didn't look back at the Boatswain. He intended to keep Kenna; of that he was certain, but he had no such intentions for the crew of The Charon.

Stephens shrugged. "I suppose I'm saying we like having her about, captain-murdering siren or not."

Roland cast his eyes over the man not much older than he was. There were few men on board he considered worth the trouble of sailing and Luke was one of them but he found the turn of this conversation settling on something he'd rather not contemplate. "You can consider your opinion heard on the topic."

"Don't mean to nose in or nothing," the man continued. Roland had begun to regret his tactics for staying close to the crew. "I know you're likely worried about Abbott using her against you for a vote once we touch sand but I wouldn't pay him so much mind. You know most of the men are on your side, and Dooley isn't doing Abbott any favors being the laziest quartermaster this side of the Atlantic."

"You might be underestimating them," Roland said, eyes back on the grey seas.

The man grunted, neither affirming nor denying Roland's assumptions. "Well, either way, most of the men know you are the only thing holding this boat together till we get back and offload all this cargo. I'm just saying, for what it's worth, that Mrs. Bell might fetch a pretty penny at the whore house, but she'd be worth much more here."

The boat pitched and Roland resisted the urge to grab the man beside him and bloody his face on the deck. He turned, looking down to Luke's open expression and mirrored it. "I've heard your piece. Let's stay ahead of the Navy and Abbott for now. The crew might be more easily swayed than you think."

Thankfully, all Luke did was nod. Roland felt the crackling anger under his skin and yet his lips drew up in a reassuring smile as the Boatswain made his way down below to get the two men he'd assigned to their new posts.

Roland looked over at the ship's wheel. With the repairs on the rudder the thing served as less than decoration, taunting him as it sat there useless. He tried the sea once more, allowing the muted emptiness of the water to smooth over the jagged pieces of him that threatened to break through. She was still sleeping, below deck, her hard shell broken in pieces. He need only go back and take her.

And yet some part of him still wanted more. She would give herself up to him. Completely.

*

The light had dimmed considerably by the time Kenna woke up alone. The boat pitched as it had since they'd begun edging around the storm. She stumbled trying to reach her clothes, hitting her shoulder on the table. She swore, something the men had taught her. She stood, rubbing her arm, wondering if Roland would take offence to this bruise as well.

She paused, realizing only then how oddly unaffected she felt. Her shirt made its familiar path over her head as she examined herself. How could she feel so normal after what had happened? There was no weight pressing behind her shoulder blades, no knotted feeling in her gut. That in itself should have been disturbing. She had done the very thing she had always sworn to herself she wouldn't. He'd asked her what she wanted and instead of telling him she wanted to go free, she had told him she wanted him like some simpering maiden. She cursed again, but with no heat.

It was not until her mind landed on the question he had yet to ask that the familiar sinking feeling of anticipation returned to her chest. She had no time to contemplate it as the door swung in and Roland entered, bearing their evening meal in his hands.

All at once her body was alight in an overwhelming number of reactions. She froze, realizing for the first time that those tiny blooms of pity and understanding she'd experienced over the course of the last few weeks had grown into an emotion she couldn't quite believe. But there was no mistaking it now; she felt affection for him.

"Good evening, Mrs. Bell," he said in mock formality. The sly smile on his face made her flush as if he must know what she'd been thinking. He placed the bowls and mugs in the center of the table to keep them from falling over the side as the ship rolled beneath their feet. "Won't you join me?" he said as he sat.

An uncomfortable feeling grew inside Kenna. The ease in his behavior made her wary, as if he might spring a trap over her at any moment. And what further trap could he spring on you, foolish woman? She sat down opposite him, feeling ill-equipped to face him. What had she done? What feelings had she let in when she'd sworn she would not? How could she let his kind touch supersede the violence with which he tore away her freedom?

He contemplated her over their salted fish and hard tack biscuits. She didn't try to speak, unaware of any topic of conversation she could maintain while these thoughts swirled in her head. Roland seemed content to allow her the silence.

Why did she feel so threatened now of all times, when he had finally coaxed from her the truth of her desires? She had submitted and he had triumphed, surely now she was safe from any violence. But he had never threatened violence, and had made it very clear he never would. So what had she saved herself from? What had she gained from giving in?

Nothing, in truth. Perhaps he might think her more easily controlled, a modicum more trust might be afforded to her. But with no escape and their destination not one she where would find any sympathy, it seemed a poor trade for her loss of self.

There it was. The truth at last. She'd lost her war with him and he had her vulnerable. Her emotions, pleasant though they might feel now, were her last weapon against his claiming of her. If she no longer hated him than he had breached that last wall, and she was lost.

Her despair must have shown in her face because Roland broke the silence for the first time since she could remember.

"You owe me an answer, Kenna." She felt a tug in her lower belly when he said her name which was quickly swallowed by the pit that opened up upon realizing his meaning. She lifted her eyes to his, begging silently for him leave her in peace just this once. But he had the advantage, and they both knew he would never give that up. "Come now, Kenna, it's just a question."

"Why must you press your victory when you have already taken what you want?" a slow simmering anger began inside her. He had everything he could possibly want from her, what more could he take? What piece of her would he want now?

"That is why," he said gesturing to her stiff posture, the defiance of her body to his prodding. She opened her mouth to snap at him. "But more than that," he cut her off before she could take a breath, "because it is such sweet relief, is it not?"

She pulled back then, into the chair, curling her shoulders as if she could protect herself from him by sinking into the furniture. He was right, of course, that every time she stopped fighting, some piece of her sadness left her, the weight she'd carried with her for so long. But in its stead was not always happiness, he twisted her up inside till she did not know which was worse.

"Why did he beat you?" Roland asked quietly. She should have known he would have gone there. He could have asked after her family, her upbringing to elucidate why she too occupied a strata far below that which she was born into. But he was astute enough to realize that her family was not as formative to her current disposition as the situation that had made her a murderer.

It was with that thought that she knew she would tell him everything. She would confess her sins as he'd prompted her, back when he'd discovered her scars, all those weeks ago. In doing so she would make herself more vulnerable to him but she no longer had the will to fight it. Part of her, all of her, wanted to make known her sins. From the moment she'd seen her husband's body, she had sworn to tell no one—no one in her world could ever accept a murderess, not even her sister. And here Roland offered her that chance.

And still to speak it was too difficult, the words escaped her and she did not know where to begin.

"Do you know the tale of The King Stork?" she asked, volunteering a story for him for the first time.

"I remember some," his deep voice rumbled. "It is a long tale, is it not?"

She nodded. "Do you remember the fate of the drummer and his bride?"

"Refresh my memory," Roland said, his eyes fixed on hers, allowing her to answer as she could. Kenna took a moment, as she'd often done back at home, moments before throwing herself into the ink-dark seas to swim in the frigid waters. There would be no going back after this, but just as she'd never been able to stop herself from the call of the surf, she could not ignore the call to expose herself to him once more.

Kenna closed her eyes and breathed the story before she began to speak it. "There once was a princess as wicked as they made them. Suitors came from near and far, offering for her hand in marriage. She would set before them three tasks, and if they could not complete all three, they would die by her hands. She had decorated the walls of her father's castle with the heads of every one of them. But her beauty was more famous than her cruelty and by and by a drummer, just back from the wars, heard rumor of her beauty and set off, intent to try his luck.

"On the road to the capital, the drummer came to a large stream, swollen with spring, and was about to begin across it when an old man asked if he wouldn't carry him along. The drummer thought it cruel to leave the old man sitting in the mud and took him onto his shoulders without much trouble. But as they neared the other side, his burden began to weigh him down terribly. When the drummer staggered onto the bank, a young man sprang off his back, tall and healthy as they come.

"'Good fellow, you have broken the curse the one-eyed witch set upon me. I am the King Stork and forever in your debt.' Well the young drummer was quite surprised but he inquired with the man if he had heard of the princess. 'You will wade yourself into a much murkier puddle if you attempt to tame that woman,' the King stork warned. But nevertheless the man gave the drummer a dark cap, which would make him appear as nothing more than the air around him, a feather to help him fly like a bird, and a net as fine and delicate as cobwebs. Lastly, he advised the boy to stand below the princess's window as the clocks struck midnight."

Roland was intent on her face as she spoke, the content more interesting than her performance for once. She seemed to relax as the words spilled from her lips, the fear she'd betrayed when he asked his question was gone as she sank into her storytelling.

"Now when the drummer arrived and stated his purpose the king wept for him, for his daughter was vicious and ruthless. But the drummer persisted and soon sat down to eat with the king and his daughter. She was as fair as they had said, ebony hair and pale skin, ruby lips and wide green eyes that glittered with malice. She told the drummer that she would ask him one question he must answer, and he must ask her one that she could not. And if he managed to survive, she would give him a final task. The princess bid them good night and told the drummer she would ask him her question on the morrow.

"That night he did as the King Stork bade him and waited below her window at midnight to see her fly on a magnificent set of wings from her chamber's window. Clutching his dark cap to his head, and sitting upon the feather, he followed her to her mother's home. The one-eyed witch welcomed her daughter into her castle at the peak of a glass mountain. She listened to the tale of the newest suitor and advised her daughter to ask the drummer if he could tell her what was troubling her mind at that moment. If he could guess that it was the witch's aching tooth, then he had answered truly. The drummer smiled and followed the princess back to the castle.

"The next day he stood before the court and the princess asked him if he could tell her what she was thinking of. The Drummer smiled and asked if she thought of the moon and its ever changing faces. But that was not it. Was it the color of silks hanging in the market? Not that either. Was it the aching tooth of a one-eyed witch? The princess said nothing but her face betrayed her fury at being bested. The king cheered for the drummer had passed the first test.

"Now the drummer needed to ask the princess something she couldn't answer. But she was the cleverest woman in the world, so he had to ask her something she wouldn't. 'I dreamed of a one-eyed witch who lives on a glass mountain, She opened her window to her daughter who flew to her on silver wings. I could not see her face, so I was wondering if you knew who the woman was.' Now the princess could not answer, for to do so would be to give herself away. So she sat mute until the king proclaimed the drummer had passed two tests, much to the relief of the court.

"'Bring me the one-eyed raven by tomorrow, or I shall remove your head and place it with the others,' the princess said and she stormed out of the throne room."

Roland tried not to grow impatient with the story though its connection to Kenna's situation seemed remote at best. But he'd seen her concede defeat, he knew she would not hide from him. So he calmed himself and listened still.

"The drummer agreed and set off the next night, back to the castle on the glass mountain. He came upon the one-eyed witch and threw the net the King Stork had given him. Immediately the witch turned into a horrible one-eyed raven who screeched and pecked at the drummer with its massive beak. But being a brave soldier, the drummer grasped its neck until it was dead. The next day when he presented the bird to the princess, she fainted dead away, knowing full well it was her mother who lay before her.

"The day of the wedding the King Stork returned, his face grave. 'You have succeeded at winning her hand, but the princess is still a witch at heart. Go to the forest and cut a hazel switch as thick as your thumb. Tonight when you get your wife alone, pour a bowl of fresh milk over her head and lay the switch upon her."

Roland's edginess vanished. He had not remembered this part of the tale. As a boy he had always had short patience for stories and had wandered away before the end more often than not.

Her voice lost the sing-song lilt and her breath became ragged as she neared the final scene. Her eyes were open now, her faraway gaze not focused on the tale, but lost in her own past.

"That night, the drummer shut the doors to their chambers and turned on his wife. He poured the milk over her head and took the switch in his hand. He grasped her in his fist and laid the switch upon her furiously. He found not a woman under the hazel, but a snarling black cat who came at him with silver claws. The drummer would not stop and he made the switch fly, though this time it was a grey wolf, snapping at him with her powerful jaws. So he kept at it, laying down the switch with all his might. Finally he found a giant snake that lashed out towards him and spat fire. But the brave man held his ground, moving the hazel as fast and as hard as he could."

Roland heard the change in Kenna's voice as the tale came undone, her sweet melody gone and only the dull words left without her song. She was not telling the story anymore, but living it.

"And suddenly his beautiful wife reappeared, tears glistening on her cheeks. 'Please my husband, no more. I will be as good as you wish all the days of my life.' The drummer set down the switch and smiled. 'That is more the wife I intend to have.' And from that day forward she was as good a wife as ever churned butter, though her husband never left the switch far from his hand."

The pain in her voice made the intended happy ending seem grotesque in its blithe indifference. Roland's hands itched to lay themselves once more on her scars, to feel the living flesh breathe beneath his touch. His girl quieted, no tears or sighs followed the end of the tale.

For a long moment Roland turned over his thoughts. It made sense that a girl, born of outsiders, would be viewed with suspicion in her small village. But enough to make her a witch? He thought of that day he had first uncovered her scars, there had been shame in her eyes. But knowing her as he did that would not have been for her husband, brute that he had been.

"Why would anyone confuse the two of you?" he said, a smile he did not truly feel on his lips. "She with ebony hair and yours the color of sunsets in summer?"

For a moment she did not move, her eyes still fixed on the wall of the chamber. But there was another shift in her face, one he recognized as the moment she chose to give in to him, as she had so many times before, and she would continue to until he was satisfied. Her green eyes met his hazel ones and she considered him for a moment.

"How old do you think I am?" she asked him. She saw the flicker of surprise and curiosity in his eyes. It pleased her that even as she opened herself to him, he was not as all-knowing as he liked to appear.

"Twenty if you forced me to answer," he said.

"Why forced?" she asked again.

"Well when I first saw you I would have said five and twenty given the dress. Then the second time," he glanced at the berth and back at her, "I would have said a maiden."

"My father fell ill a few weeks before my seventeenth birthday," Kenna said softly, her eyes drifting away from Roland's face. "My mother had passed a few years before. My sister and her husband were already gone to the colonies and my father was concerned I would be left alone in a hostile village, all on my own. So he found me a husband and arranged the whole thing within a month and a half." She twined her fingers in her hair as she spoke, unconscious of the tightness that appeared in her face, making her seem much older. "That was nearly seven years ago."

She looked back at Roland and saw some bit of understanding in his face. But the act of confession soothed her, and she would speak it all aloud so no piece of her story was available for him to fill with assumptions of his own. If she was to give herself up, she would do it completely.

"For the first few years the lack of children didn't seem to be more than bad timing. My husband worked for a shipping company and was often away. Once he returned for good, having changed positions to avoid the sea, it became apparent that I was not producing children as I should." She took a breath. "He had always been a bit heavy-handed. Not like most husbands, mind you, who come home with too much drink in them and lash out. My husband was controlled in his discipline, though some might say a mite quick to mete it out."

Roland watched her eyes darken, the downward tilt of her mouth that he'd seen soften over her time on his ship reappeared. But she did not look broken or frail as she had before. She took a deep breath. "He brought me before the priest a year ago, after his beatings had failed to encourage conception. The priest told him that I was a witch who ate her offspring before they could be born to be good Christians. He told my husband to bring me to the church for punishment, the combination of God and my husband's discipline would surely convince me to return to the bosom of my Lord and Savior.

"It didn't work, as you might imagine. The punishments grew worse. Each month I was brought before the priest and punished in the church. Then people began to hear of it, and some would attend the beatings. Finally, the priest said there was only one way to save my soul, and the wickedness must be bled out of me." Kenna was looking into the cabin but seeing nothing of the ship around her. She saw the faces of her neighbors as she was lead to the public stocks, dressed only in her shift. Some hungry for her pain, some fearful, some pitying, but it all blurred into one mass of people who stood by to watch as her husband brought the cane down on her back over and over.