The Swashbuckler

“Firebrand thrust the spade into the dirt and drew his cutlass. ‘Ye’ll dig, ye scurvy dog, or ye’ll answer to the pointed end of me sword.’

“Alban glared at the shovel, his temper boiling, hot as the Caribbean sun beating down upon him. At some unknown depth beneath his feet lay untold fortune – chests filled with gold, jewels, and artifacts that would fetch unheard of prices. But with it came a hefty cost. He who dug up the treasure would face the wrath of Metacoma’s Curse – a long, miserable life of painful, crippling ailments and the derision of all he encountered. The choice was impossible. Die now at the hands of the fiendish Firebrand, his once beloved friend, or face the hopelessness of Metacoma’s Curse. He frowned, reached out and grabbed the shovel. What he needed was time, but time was something Alban couldn’t have…” Tilda snapped the book closed and grinned.

Elliott jumped at the sound. “Hey, what gives! It was just getting good!”

“Are ye disappointed, ye scurvy dog? If ye want the book so bad, ye’ll have to fight me for it!” She reached up and snapped two sticks off the tree they’d been sitting beneath. She tossed one to Elliott who looked up, wide-eyed and afraid. “En garde, ye mangy mongrel!” Then she swung the stick around in a flurry, listening to the satisfying whoosh as it sliced through the air.

Elliott picked up his stick and scrambled backwards. “I don’t wanna play Swashbuckler, Tilda, I wanna read it!”

“Oh, the little baby wants to read the book, does he?” She laughed and cut through the air. “He knows where to get it!” She stepped forward and swung her stick to hit Elliott’s.

The little boy held up his stick, leaving it upright and rigid, his eyes shut tight. “Tilda!” It was a pitiful sight, one that would’ve elicited sadness if she hadn’t become so jaded to it.

Tilda stayed her next attack. She dropped her stick and frowned. “Aw, come on, Elliott. You know I was gonna let you win. I was playing Firebrand! He always loses!”

Elliott peeked and finally dropped his guard. He let go of the stick and slumped down, hugging his knees. “I don’t wanna get hurt,” he moped.

Tilda sat down next to her little brother, splaying her legs in front of her. She placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed. “You know I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” he replied. “But you know how easy it is for me to get hurt. I shouldn’t even be out here right now, it’s too cold.”

“Then I’ll have to warm ye up!” Before he could protest, Tilda wrapped her arms around Elliott and pulled tight, though not enough to bruise his sensitive skin.

“Hey, come on! Stop!” Elliott wriggled around helplessly while Tilda laughed. “Tilda, I mean it!”

Finally, she let go. “I love you, little brother,” she said. “You’re too nervous. I wouldn’t hurt you. I’m your protector!”

“Some protector,” he said, rubbing his arms. “This is gonna bruise for sure.”

“It’s not gonna bruise. I was just showing you some love. Besides, someday you’ll meet a girl who you’ll get involved with ro-man-tic-ally. Are you gonna tell her she’s holding too tight when you take her to a dance?” It was bridge too far. Elliott turned his little body away from her and buried his head in his knees. “Hey.” Gently, she rested her hand on her brother’s back. “Come on, buddy.” He shrugged it off. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to cheer you up. Just because you’re frail doesn’t mean you can’t live a normal life.”

“Yes, it does!” He cried into his knees.

“Elliott…” She frowned. It wasn’t anything she wasn’t used to. The poor boy’s constitution was nearly as weak as his body, no matter how hard she tried to humor him. “Alban gets by just fine without being big and brawny, doesn’t he?”

“I’m not Alban!”

“No, you’re Elliott. You’re better than Alban. You’re too clever to get into half of the shenanigans he does.”

The little boy chanced a look at his big sister. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she replied. She held the book up for him to see. “I can prove it. Wanna know what happens next?” He nodded and Tilda smirked. “Good…”

“Alban fell to his knees in front of the burnt-out husk of the church. ’Ye did your best and still ye failed,’ Firebrand cackled. ‘How does it feel to lose so completely?’

“’How could you do this?’ He asked.

“’For the sight of ye right now!’ The pirate cried. ‘To see ye in the throes of despair, to rob ye of the dignity ye’ve taken from me so many times before.’ Firebrand grinned. ‘And what a glorious sight it is!’

“Alban seethed. Such a noble place, so important to the legacy of his family, burnt to ashes for spite. Yet, despite his woe, there was at least one hope. Firebrand must have been ignorant to the secret hidden within, else he would never have chanced to burn it down. It was the only glimmer of solace in this a terrible situation, but it was all Alban needed to steel his resolve. ‘Your words are empty,’ he said.

“’Me words are true as they come, Swashbuckler. Test me more and learn the limits of your sorrow!’

“Alban rose and turned to face his foe. He could feel the ashes ground into his knuckles. ‘Whatever dignity you had, you have stripped it from yourself with your overzealous greed. Mine is a mission of righteousness and discovery, of selflessness.’ His hands tightened into fists. ‘Failure is not the whole story, fiend. No setback is forever. This church may be gone, but the deeds and people it represents did not burn with it. You wish to tear me down? You have only bolstered my strength! What will you do now?’

“Firebrand scowled, his teeth clenched. He drew his sword and cried out. ‘I’ll kill ye where ye stand!’ And with his sword held high, he ran to Alban with vicious intent.” Tilda closed the book and rested her hand on the gravestone. “’Til next time, little brother.”

“’Firebrand’s bodily mutilation across the series reflects his continual descent into evil – a monstrous body to match his increasingly monstrous soul. Interestingly, these mutilations parallel the nature of his actions, consequences drenched in irony. One of the most notorious examples comes in an earlier tale, The Crystal Seer, in which Alban and Firebrand are racing each other to find the Mystic Crystal Seer, a crystal ball with the ability to find any treasure the holder desires. In the story’s climax, Firebrand secretly follows Alban to the mysterious Crystal Seer, ambushes him, and steals the artifact to dire effect. The following passage recounts Firebrand’s harrowing experience.

“Firebrand held the crystal ball at arm’s length, admiring it. He turned to Alban, struggling against his captors, and grinned. ‘I have to thank ye for getting me and me crew this far. If not for ye, we’d be half the world away right now, instead of here, holding the Seer.’ He sauntered over to his captive and held the ball between them. ‘Does it drive ye mad, Swashbuckler?’

“’Firebrand,’ Alban pleaded. ‘I know the temptation you feel. Please. For the love we once shared, trust me. If you look into the Mystic Crystal Seer, you will live to regret it.’

“The pirate laughed, and pulled the crystal ball away. ‘I won’t be fooled by your tricks. The Crystal is mine!’ He made his way to the cliff’s edge and held the Mystic Crystal Seer high above his head. ‘Mystic Crystal Seer! Show me the way!’

“’Firebrand, don’t!’

“Alban’s words fell on deaf ears. ‘Show me the way to the Golden City! Show me! Show me!’ Suddenly, the wind began whipping around violently. Firebrand cackled. ‘I see! I can see it! Show me where!’ Lightning cracked and thunder boomed while Firebrand laughed maniacally. Alban watched in horror, hoping upon hope his old friend wouldn’t face the terrible consequences promised by the engravings on the walls. It was not to be. Firebrand’s laughter turned. His pitch rose, and became a cry. He dropped the Mystic Crystal Seer and it shattered upon the ground at his feet. He cried out again as lightning struck a nearby tree; his hands shot up to his face. Alban could see a bright red streak coming down beneath the pirate’s left hand. Firebrand fell to his knees. He looked around wildly. ‘I can’t see!’ He cried. ‘My eye! I can’t see!’”

Her professor looked up from the manuscript. “You go on to provide several other examples of this character, Firebrand, getting his just comeuppance. It’s a fine idea, but I wonder if it really lends to your theme. If your goal is to establish Firebrand as a foil to Alban, it seems as though Alban ought to become more angelic in appearance as the series continues, given his righteousness. Tell me about that.”

Tilda stifled a smirk. She’d anticipated the question. “I understand your point,” she replied. “But Firebrand’s actions get darker, more vile, in each subsequent book. Alban remains steadfast. Firebrand’s greed grows to match Alban’s selflessness.”

“Mhm…” Her professor turned the page a few times. “Not unlike the devil racing to commit more heinous acts to equally oppose God’s love.”

Tilda nodded. “I wrote that,” she said.

Her professor smiled. “You did,” he replied. He closed the manuscript. “This series is an unusual choice for a thesis, but it clearly means a lot to you.”

“It does, Professor Henrich.”

“In your introduction, you even state that you’ve named your son Alban.”

“Elliott Alban, sir. It’s his middle name.”

“Indeed.” He tapped the manuscript with a tentative finger. “You took a risk choosing something so garishly obvious in its messaging. Not to mention, the quality of the writing is often questionable. Are you choosing like Alban to find meaning beyond the obvious, or are you Firebrand, acting boldly for your own ends?” Professor Henrich’s gaze narrowed, and Tilda’s heart fluttered. He slid the manuscript forward. “Congratulations, Mrs. Hart. Your brother would be proud.”

“Thank you,” she said, failing to fight back the impending tears. “Thank you…”

“’I find myself at my journey’s end,’ Alban said. ‘And what have I to show for it?’

“’You doubt your legacy?’

“’Not my legacy, but the point of it all. Was it worth it? I have no family, no place to call my home. I am a nomad with no tribe.’ Alban turned his head to face Maria, a sad smile spread across his face. ‘I ask again, was it worth it?’

“Maria placed her hand over the old man’s forehead and stroked his hair. ‘A man is measured by his deeds,’ she said. ‘You’ve saved countless lives and put your own at peril time and again. Do not hold yourself to the same standards as an average man. You are no average man, Alban. You are what every man should strive to be.’

“’My dear, you humble me,’ he said. ‘I suppose, if nothing else, I can be satisfied knowing at least one person holds me in affection. What more could a man ask for?’

“’In the end, dear Swashbuckler,’ she replied, ‘a man can ask for nothing more and nothing less. Rest now,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’ve earned that much.’

“Alban breathed deep and closed his eyes. ‘Yes, I think I will,’ he said. He pulled his blanket up higher. ‘I think I will.’” Elliott closed the book and placed his hand atop his mother’s forehead and stroked her hair. The rhythmic hum of the oxygen machine covered up the sound of her breathing. He glanced at her diploma on the wall, Tilda Sara Darscha Hart, Ph.D, then down at his book, Swashbuckler’s End, by Tilda S.D. Hart. She’d dedicated it to Uncle Elliott. “He’ll tell you what he thought soon, mommy,” he said. The digital clock on the wall read 19:53; he smirked at the irony. “If you wanted to go, the clock says it’s your birthday. Sort of.” The oxygen machine carried on; her chest rose and fell. “You wanna stick around for a bit, huh? Good,” he said. “We’re not quite ready. Your grandkids will be home tomorrow. Maybe you can hold out just a little longer.” The oxygen machine carried on. “Thank you, mommy. Here,” he pulled out her original copy of The Swashbuckler, “We’ll pass the time with your favorite.”

“The high seas are nary a place to trifle, yet Ulius sailed them with reckless abandon. Confidently, he sailed into storms, rocky coves, even into battle on the rare occasion where violence was warranted. For such behaviors, he was widely regarded as Firebrand, the boldest seaman alive.

“His first mate Alban, on the other hand, was conservative. He seldom ventured into the unknown without a clever plan. He was intelligent to a degree that most sailors, nay, even scholars, would be right to envy. It was for this breadth of knowledge and thoughtfulness that most believed Firebrand was still sailing, was even still alive! Others, meanwhile, argued that Firebrand’s intrepid spirit emboldened the meek Alban and saved him from a life of reclusive study. Whatever the case, the pair were natural complements. Their bond was strong, forged in years of adventure and near-death experiences. There was nothing they wouldn’t do to keep the other safe. Indeed, they were as brothers, brought together by fate and kept together for love.

“Apart, the two could accomplish many great deeds. Together, they could conquer nations, if they were so inclined. They found such thoughts tedious. It was fortune they desired, hidden treasures and grand adventures. They’d found many, and it had made them positively rich. Yet one treasure continued to elude them, the greatest of all – the grand Golden City, and it was this prize that brought them to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. While last ashore, Alban had found a clue, no more than a rumor, a whisper, but it was the only real evidence they’d gotten in a long, long time…”