Typhoon Treason

The waves whirled like a blazing fire, circled by the heavens of black smoke. The salty air became a signal of sickness: a disease of potent greed. That was the life Morris chose, right? 

I mean, he knew there would be debt to pay, but not like this. As it turned out, he could never have been more wrong. 

“Batten down the hatches,” Captain Morstan cried, hanging by a tear in the sail. “Keep her floating, boys!”

Morris, holding the chest in his arms as tightly as possible, wrapped his feet around a finite rope, gripping the corroded wood planks, for he was not ready to fall off amid a typhoon.

“I apologize,” he cried, ashamed of his foolishness: how could he have been so naïve?

“Just business, love, “ Nigel proclaimed, maliciously cackling like a witch above a cauldron. “Nothing personal.”

Morris faced the crew, drowned in a ferocious feeling of fear, hopelessness, and doubt. They could not be the heroes this time. It was up to Morris, little, fearful Morris: negotiation was never his style, but he had to learn, and quickly, for their lives were hanging in the balance.

“Right this way, boy,” a sailor motioned towards Morris, a young apprentice with nothing but the open ocean ahead of him, snapping him out of his thoughts. It had always been his dream to be a merchant for the king, despite what his father always said about such loyalty and pride for an unworthy cause.

As he clutched his hand to the cedar railing, a voice awoke from his heart, a longing fulfilled: a purpose discovered. This was his calling, and nothing was going to take it away, at least, not easily. 

As he entered his cabin, he found a rather alarming figure, bunking away in his bed, 

“Excuse me,” Morris questioned, curious as to who his visitor might be, “How may I help you, sir?”

The man glared up, surprised at his host: who was nothing more than a mere child, “Oh please boy, I have no home, no family to flee to.”

Morris felt a tinge of pity for his guest, obviously poor and rather starved.

“I beg you, have sympathy for a poor beggar like myself: just a night longer, just a pillow for my weary head, I implore you, please,” the man hollered, losing patience at Morris’s indecisiveness. 

Well, thinking that he seemed like a rather harmless fellow, Morris gave in. “Fine, you can stay. But only for a night, don’t try overstaying your welcome, you thug.”

The man nodded, falling back into his cot, dirty, hungry, and shriveled, like a weed in the dying with the October leaves. However, Morris could only help but envy the man: free boarding for labor next to none. Morris’s dream was to be a great privateer, but he learned everything came at a price: the price of allowing an illegal man to stay in his quarters was a price he had to pay: it was a decision all his own. 

After settling his bags at the foot of the cot, he ran on deck to the barrels of rum, “Greetings, Captain Morstan. It’s a pleasure to be in your presence. Have you any words of wisdom from your journeys across your seas a’ seven?”

The captain scoffed, rubbing his beard between his coarse fingers, “Well, we seek none but those pesky pirates, those who plunder our protected loot, me boy. So, take no bullets to the back of your head, lassie,”  he laughed, resembling a drunk from a cell. 

Morris sighed: he was more than a cabin boy's servant, he had so much more than scrubbing decks and firing cannons. He could have been a mighty mate, a monster to those monsters from fathoms below, but each day, he knew he was a step closer to making his captain cower into his own words. 

That night, when Morris crept into his cabin, he was stunned to see it vacant: not even a bootstrap or bottle remained in his boards. “What an ungrateful maggot, yet a man of his word. He left with not a shilling nor shiner on the ship’s mere quip side,” he whispered. 

“You blundering bilge rat,” the captain shouted from above, sending a quiver through the spine of the youngster himself. It was a feeling of punishment, consequences of delirium. What a fool! He knew what was happening above, and was ashamed of his ignorance. 

“Pirate! Pirate! Peace be upon our pleading bones,” the crewmen shouted as the salt seaweed crept through the bowels of the boat, flooding with bullet holes. They were going down, with a pirate at the helm. 

Rushing to the main chamber, Morris kicked the door in. He knew what his gin-intoxicated guest wanted: treasure. No pirate came for a ship with one sail, a ship of no status, no standards attained without reason. He ran to the silver-encrusted chest, hugging it to his breast. This was the moment he was born for: pirates were scurrying cheaters, stealing what their gluttonous greed did not deserve.

“Aye, you read me mind, you wee mouse,” the pirate gleamed, wearing the cloak of the cot-clogging beggar Morris boarded, boundlessly. He turned around just to feel the cold kiss of an iron blade, a prisoner’s plunder, strapped to a shining stone. His attempted kindness backfired, putting the pain in peace and prosperity. 

“What is it you want, parley? I could kill you in a fleeting breath, you bastard,” Morris threatened,  knowing that his empty words would only humor the crook.

“You know, I could kill you in a heartbeat, lad, so give me what we both know I want.”

“What do you call yourself?”

“Silvers, Nigel Silvers: the most fearsome pirate in all of the colonies, who are you?”

“Well, I have no reason to answer you, Nigel. And if you want what I have, you will have to pry it from my cold, dead hands,” Morris added, proud that he was strong in the face of almost certain death. 

“Well, that can be arranged, of course, but I can’t kill you, because thanks to you I’m here. It’s a little rule we pirates have nowadays, it makes us seem more like ‘gentlemen’, at least according to the Brethren.”

Morris could not help but sigh with relief, he was safe, well, at least for now. 

Morris ran to the deck, singing with the pain of piracy. Even Captain Morstan hung from the wheel with his fear, cowering from the person he was hunting: maybe he wasn’t who he said he was. 

“Thank you, Laurence,” Nigel shouted from the sub-level of the helm, ringing through the ears of the crew. 

“Well, you’re welcome, Silvers. And thank you, Morris,” Morstan laughed, proving himself the real devil of the oceans, rising from hell itself. 

“Batten down the hatches,” Captain Morstan cried, hanging by a tear in the sail. “Keep her floating, boys!”

Morris, holding the chest in his arms as tightly as possible, wrapped his feet around a finite rope, gripping the corroded wood planks, for he was not ready to fall off amid a typhoon.

“I apologize,” he cried, ashamed of his foolishness: how could he have been so naïve?

“Just business, love, “ Nigel proclaimed, maliciously cackling like a witch above a cauldron. “Nothing personal.”

Morris faced the crew, drowned in a ferocious feeling of fear, hopelessness, and doubt. They could not be the heroes this time. It was up to Morris, little, fearful Morris: negotiation was never his style, but he had to learn, and quickly, for their lives were hanging in the balance.

Morris hid underneath the staircase, among the buckets and rats, stained with the stench of disease. He slid a rusted nail into the keyhole, buckling under the crashing, thunderous waves from the budding storm brewing. As he opened the box, he found a key the size of a finger shimmering with a ruby glitter glow. 

“The gem of the dragon’s nest,” Silvers whispered from behind his back, startling Morris’s very breath, stopping his heart for a heaping moment. 

“This key, no one knows what it does. Not even I,” he followed, frustrated with the stubbornness of his host. 

“Then why do you want it,” Morris asked. 

“Leverage,” Morstan continued, holding the anchor in his hooked hand. 

“Something you would never understand.”

“What are you going to do with me,” Morris stuttered, scared out of his boots, despite his failed attempt to disguise it. 

“Well, only Poseidon knows.”