Second Guesses and Sunsets

Waves crashed against the rocks hundreds of feet below him. Daring a brief glance, Bishop held the rope tight. White tips formed in the interminable blackness wrought by the coming storm.

Poseidon still hungers for me, he thought. “Not then, nor now. No second chances for you, you old bastard.”

The flicker of light against the window ledge led his way down the stone parapet. Peering inside the circular room lit by oil lamps, at first appearances, it was empty. As Bishop craned his head, first left then right, a ribbon of sky blue material came into view. Stretching even further, the slight piece of material blossomed into a dress.

His beloved Charlotte!

With grim determination, Bishop launched himself away from the wall. The rope groaned under the weight at the sudden move but held. Swinging toward and through the window, he secured the landing. Spinning round, he saw Charlotte secured by wrist and ankle to the wall. 

“Bishop!” 

“My love,” he said and as he moved to her side, the door burst open. 

Two guards, musketeers by the uniforms, flanked the lead man who was dressed all in black.

Bishop drew his sword with such speed, it continued to sing even as he held it as still as the stones around him. “Bouillon.”  

“I-Impossible. You’re supposed to be dead,” Bouillon said as he and his escorts drew their own swords. 

“Not for a lack of trying, I’ll grant you that.”

Nodding, Bouillon said, “I’ll make your death permanent this time.” 

Bishop smiled. “I see your kill and raise you two more.”

Bouillon stepped back as the musketeers engaged Bishop. 

Thwump.

*  *  *  *  *

Waves crashed against the rocks hundreds of feet below. White tips formed in the interminable blackness wrought by the coming storm. Bishop held the rope tight as he slowly lowered himself down the slick wall. 

Poseidon is hungry tonight, he thought. But Zeus rages still. As if on cue, lightning stitched a crazed seam across the night sky

The window ledge was visible below him as he made his way down the stone parapet. He lost his footing twice. Once he reached the window, Bishop peered inside. The circular room was lit by oil lamps, and at first appearances, was empty. As he craned his head, left then right, a ribbon of sky blue material came into view. Stretching even further, the slight piece of material blossomed into a dress.

His beloved Charlotte!

Hooking a leg over the ledge, he quietly slipped into the room, daring not to make a sound. Bishop went to Charlotte. She slept and he noticed her hands and feet were bound by leather straps. As he began to undo the first restraint, Charlotte struck Bishop squarely in the jaw with a closed fist. He landed on his back with a thud. 

“Bishop!”

“Yes, my love,” he said rubbing his sore chin. The door burst open, and three men entered.

The lead man, dressed all in black, checked to see his prisoner still secured to the wall. Then he took a quick glance at the man raising himself from the floor. “Impossible. I killed you.”

Bishop smirked. “Admit it, Bouillon. You’re the worst shot in France,” he quipped. 

“C’est vrai,” said one of Bouillon’s men while the other nodded. 

Thwump.

*  *  *  *  *

Bishop landed with a thud.

“Bishop!”

Bishop smiled. “I’ll have you free in no—” The sound of the metal latch outside was followed by the door swinging open. 

“You’re so predictable.”

“Bouillon,” Bishop said. “You should’ve made sure I was dead when you had the chance.”

Bouillon slowly stepped through the door; heels clicked the wood like seconds on a clock. “He’s mine,” Bouillon said pointing to a still chained Charles. “And I always get what I want.”

Bishop drew her sword, her hefty bosom rising with each breath. “We’ll see about that.” 

Thwump.

*  *  *  *  *

The door crashed open. Three men burst through the doorway.

“YOU.”

“Aye, Bouillon. Me,” Bishop said with a grin. Drawing his muskets, he fired. Thunder and smoke filled the room. Charlotte screamed.

Thwump.

*  *  *  *  *

The door crashed open. Three men burst through the doorway.

Startled, Bishop let out a scream and jumped back. 

Thwump.

*  *  *  *  *

The door crashed open. Three men burst through the doorway.

“You should’ve stayed dead, Bishop.”

“Not my style, Bouillon,” Bishop said. Touching his fingertips together as if in prayer, Bishop completed the incantation. He swung his arm in a wide arc, opening a portal. Picking Charlotte up off the floor he leapt through as it closed behind him. 

Bouillon laughed. “They won’t get far.”

Thwump.

*  *  *  *  *

“Eat this,” Bishop growled.

Thwump.

*  *  *  *  *

“I’m going to bust you up, Bishop,” Bouillon cried excitedly.

“Go for it,” Bishop replied smugly.

THWUMP.

*  *  *  *  *

“One more move and the dame gets it,” Bouillon yelled.

Bishop drew his musket. “Go ahead. Make my day.”

THWUMP.

*  *  *  *  *

“It’s clear. Come on in fellas,” Bishop said. The Thwump marked the end of forward momentum. They’d been through this scene several times, although with different, and sometimes odd, variations. The only certainties were their names, their roles and the Thwump. Bishop briefly wondered if it sounded the same and was as loud on the outside as it was within the pages, but doubted it. One thing was certain; they could do without the slamming of the top panel. It’s like a bloody earthquake in here, he thought.  

Bouillon and his two cronies came in. As they always did, he and Bishop helped Charlotte out of her chains.

“Chains make more sense,” she said, getting to her feet while rubbing her wrists. “But they are infinitely more uncomfortable.”

“But then I can’t cut you free. I’d need a key and Boo here would have to have it,” Bishop said, laying out obvious issues to the flow of the action.

“And Bish would have to somehow get said key from me whilst fighting the three of us and killing these two,” Bouillon said, thumbing toward the musketeers they named Left and Right on account they had no names and of their relative position to Bouillon. “No offense guys.”

“Tout va biens,” Left said. 

“Ca grains, tabarnak,” Right said, making them both laugh. 

Bishop arched his back then twisted at the waist until there was an audible crack. Sighing, he leaned against the window. “How many times must we endure this?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t counting,” Charlotte said casting a glance at Boo. She winked at him. 

“Naughty girl,” Bouillon mouthed. Charlotte tilted her head and ran her tongue along her top lip. Bouillon’s eyes popped and his mouth dropped open. Charlotte laughed. “You tease too much, my dear. It’s why we’re here in the first place,” he said turning away so she couldn’t see his embarrassment.

 “Twenty-two and counting,” Bishop said. His attention squarely on the night sky. “Twenty-two damned starts and stops.”

“At this rate, there’ll be many more to come,” Bouillon said, moving to the opposite side of the window as Bishop. He looked out over the sea and joined in the silence. Charlotte gave them a minute before making her way between them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

“I’m looking forward to more sex swapping. Why Bish, you had a marvellous set of tits.” Bouillon sputtered then broke out in screaming laughter. 

“It’s so true,” Bouillon said, pointing at his friend and slapping a hand against a thigh. Bishop nodded and joined in.

Left and Right had confused looks on their faces until Charlotte grabbed her breasts, gave them a jiggle and nodded at Bishop. It took a second for the joke to sink in and when it did, Left and Right looked at each other and had to lean on one another, howling. 

After a bit, Bishop let out a long sigh. “We went from swords, to muskets, to uzi’s and what was that thing he gave me around Fifteen?”

“That, my dear nemesis, was a phased plasma rifle in the 40 watt range.”

“Genre bending is fine,” Charlotte said. “And let’s be honest. There has been a fair amount of frustration on his part, as you can plainly tell. Remember what he did with Nine?”

“Right you are, Char,” Bishop said, while giving her a playful nudge with an elbow. “Boo here was absolutely terrifying as a spider. What nightmare inspired him to do that, I wonder?

“Oof,” Bouillon said, the memory shook him. “I’ll take a pass on another go at an eight legged monster, thank you very much.”

“I, for one, hope he finishes. At least he’s trying his hand at something. Besides, it’s been a wild ride,” Charlotte said.

“But what if he doesn’t? I don’t mind the company but to be stuck in this room with nowhere else to go isn’t exactly thrilling,” Bouillon said. “Let’s not forget what he’s put us through so far. Imagine what horrors he’ll come up with next.”

“Hey, hey, don’t be so negative,” Bishop said putting and arm around Bouillon, then Charlotte, bringing them in. “Be patient. Think positive. We have, moi, the handsome and fearless hero. A beautiful and charming damsel in distress and you my friend, an exceptionally clever villain with his trusted henchmen. Come on. We got this. He’s probably done his worst so it’s going to be as easy as a stroll through the fields of Marseille from here on out.”  

*  *  *  *  *

Waves swirled in a dark mass thirty feet below the two men. The long chains holding their gibbet cages were old and Bishop feared they would snap. The darkness had only been a minor reprieve from the punishing sun on this, the second day. The men, Bishop and Bouillon, friends since they could run, had no doubt they wouldn’t survive a third. If they didn’t fall into the sea, which was a very real possibility since the other two, poor, nameless souls hung here beside them, had fallen on the first day. The metal brackets had broken free of the rock, and they screamed until they hit the water where they sank and disappeared forever.

They had been on a week furlough after putting in to port in Marseilles. Bishop had been promoted to first mate on the 64-gun ship, Le Saint Nicholas, and Bouillon was a member of her crew. On the fourth evening, they had become separated from the rest of the shore party, but they hadn’t noticed. The women and the liquor were plentiful and the raucous crowd in the bars seemed friendly enough. That was until they decided to leave. Bishop half stumbled out of the inn, half supporting, half carrying a very drunk Bouillon. He hadn’t made it a horse length from the door when he was set upon and knocked unconscious by a blow to the head. 

When Bishop woke, it was still full dark. In a locked cage, he was rolled and then felt himself falling only to come to quick and jarring stop. Bishop saw there were two other similarly held prisoners, one on either side of Bouillon, who finally woke several hours later. Once he realized where he was, he panicked and tried to set himself free. The one to Bouillon’s right cried nonstop, begging for his mother while the one on his left sounded much like a wounded dog. In his initial dismay, Bouillon had yelled at the men to shut up. The one on his left could take no more and shook his cage trying to get at him. Moments later, while they screamed all manner of threats of harm and death at each other, the metal bracket came free of the rock face, and the poor fellow plummeted to his watery death. 

The other one screamed in shock but soon began cackling. His laughter so unnerved Bouillon that he went silent. Having gone mad, the right hand man began to roll his cage from side to side, until his and Bouillon’s cages collided. Feeding his fingers between rusted straps, he gripped Bouillon’s prison and didn’t let go.

Bishop hoped the ocean would drown out the laughter, but it was not to be. Spittle flew from the man’s mouth and covered poor Bouillon. Metal rattled, while Bishop watched as the second bracket slowly but surely inched its way out. One second, he was there, both giggling and crowing then he was gone. He sank quickly and mercifully.

  Bishop tried to console his friend but found that hope had become a stranger. Abandoned to their fate, they wept together. 

The second days sun had begun its final, downward plunge. “At least it’s a beautiful sunset, my friend,” Bishop said. The response was a grunt. He turned his head to see Bouillon staring at him.

“The worst was yet to come, Bish,” he said, struggling to smile.  

Bishop turned his head westward. “Aye, Boo. Aye,” he said, as a chill stole the warmth the second the sun sank. He closed his eyes and waited. Twice he heard the familiar sound of metal on metal. Then he felt as if he was going upward.

Falling feels different now, he thought. Jarred to his senses, he lay on his back. Still caged but his weight no longer pulled him down. The cage opened and a light blinded him.

“Nope,” said a voice, hot and thick with whiskey followed by a shuffle to his left. Rusted metal hinges cried out in protest as another cage opened.

“Him neither,” said same the growling voice. 

Bishop tried to raise his head but was too weak. “Bou-Bou-,” was all he could say before coughing. 

Someone kicked his cage. “Spit it out, you stuttering freak.”

The light reappeared. “It seems my men decided not to live. What say you?” A woman’s voice. 

“Live,” Bishop said, raising his hand to block out the light. “And him.” He nodded in the direction of Bouillon.

“Death seems more than ready to take him. Tell me your name.”

“Bishop.”

“A man of the cloth, lads. We’re saved,” she said loudly followed by more laughter. 

“Who are you?” Bishop said as he was hauled out the cage by rough hands.

“You will call me Captain. Captain Charlotte, to be precise. Now. Let’s finish this,” she said with a wink.