YOUR NARRATOR:

Hello, friends. 

I've missed you. Very much. 

Have you missed me?

I haven't gone out in a week. Or more. Or less. I'm afraid I've become confused about it. 

My strange companion has been slipping. 

He knows my distaste for taking human life. No matter how blissful it seems. And he has found it difficult to appease me with this. And he has failed. A few times. 

"Oh. Beloved. If only you could bring yourself to recall how wonderful it feels. How pure the joy, how serene the experience. How much stronger you'll be." That is what he told me, in defense. 

How do I not know one of these creatures, one of those poor, beautiful humans you destroyed for that pure joy, that serene experience, was not one of my friends? What if one of those victims had listened to me, every night? Trusted me? 

He sighed and he smiled. 

But next time he failed, and next time I brought this up, he was...hostile. 

Not overtly. For he never becomes angry, my strange companion. 

But he smiles with his teeth, his two rows of jagged fangs all across his smile, and he smiles with his black eyes, his eyes filled with the voracity of a shark. And I cannot help but wonder if I look so ghastly as this, with my teeth and eyes. 

And he wrapped his arms around me and held me tighter than anyone ever has. And he wrapped those large black wings around me - those wings I have only seen once before...

And everything went black 

And everything went cold

And my strength seemed to leave me 

And I gasped for air and none came to my rescue. 

I saw a world that was empty. Completely empty, but for birds flying freely in the sky, and animals roaming wildly in the streets, and flowers and weeds and grasses growing tall over empty cars in empty roads. 

I saw a world with two ivory thrones: one small and one very large.

I saw a world that was a kingdom with no subjects. 

And all was quiet and all was still and all was a terrible, empty peace. 

It was just a vision. Just an illusion. It is not based on anything. It could even be ny own madness. 

But...I don't know if I can bear to have him embrace me and make me see that again. 

Not because it frightened me. 

But because his vision was so beautiful that I wanted it. 

An empty world with only ghosts.

And us. 

I heard once of a man who knew such a place. 

[Mysterious pirate-y music plays under the following]

He was a pirate and a captain. Ruthless and cruel, and very good at what he did. His ship was almost a plague on the sea; whosoever he came across was doomed to die. They took no prisoners and they had no mercy. This Captain led his crew with an iron fist and a selfish heart; as was typical, his share of every treasure that they plundered, every ship that they ransacked, was much higher than everyone else's. This was, as I said, to be expected. Though this Captain was fierce to his men and the rewards were few, they served him faithfully, so that they could sail the world on this beautiful, powerful, fearsome ship. Life was hard but it was good. 

If they ever used the following words, which they did not, then one might say that this Captain had one friend in the world; one person he trusted and showed any generosity towards. This was the First Mate. And it was no wonder; the First Mate, though equally stern and fierce, respected the men just a little more. Treated them a little more as equals. Defended them to the Captain, once in awhile. Saw to a young lad who was ill. Once in awhile. He was a good man. A good man who roamed the ocean in search of treasure that he was willing and able to murder for. But a good man to those that were loyal to him. And the men were loyal to him. Even if they did not love him, they were loyal. 

Whereas the Cruel Captain couldn't care less. He was glad the men feared him and he supposed their loyalty to the First Mate was useful, but he was a greedy misanthrope who had no real love for his crew. There was, perhaps, a sentimentality that he associated with the First Mate, with whom he had sailed since they were boys. But, more and more, he was only interested in exerting control over his waters and collecting treasure. Of course seeking out money, gold, and jewels, wherever he could, but also goods to trade and sell where he could. As I said, his share was of course the highest; the First Mate's was comparable, though much lower. And the crew split the rest among each other. 

Also, it should be noted that the Captain and the First Mate were indomitable together. They slept in shifts, and one of them was always on deck at all times. They were both skeptical and suspicious men, never taking any chances and never trusting anyone but each other. Both were expert marksman and swordsmen. There was no defeating them, as long as they were working together to keep the ship running smoothly.  But, while the Captain would not hesitate to shoot down an insubordinate sailor or to hang someone who had even muttered about deserting the ship, the First Mate was careful. Calculated. Calm. For the most part. 

[The Music stops]

Until one day, however, when things went sour.

No one knew exactly what the subject of the argument was. No one knew what the two men - these two old friends - were yelling at each other about. In fact, it didn't really matter much. They fought constantly, more and more lately, it seemed. The sound of bottles breaking and chairs smashing was not new. The sound of raised voices and filthy cursewords echoed up to the deck of the ship, but it was not new. 

However, the sound of a gunshot and a loud thud to the ground. That was new. 

Roaring, wordlessly and animalistic, the Captain mounted the stairs to the deck, carrying over his head - as though his body weighed as much as a feather - the First Mate. Dead. 

The Captain stumbled. He was drunk. He was mad with rage and perhaps grief, though it seemed that hadn't even processed in his mind yet. Furious and insane, he went to the edge of the ship and carelessly dumped the body into the sea. 

He didn't look a single crew member in the eye. He said nothing. He turned and he went down the stairs again, and he slammed the doors to his quarters, where he did not surface again that evening. 

The crew was dumbfounded. They spent the night discussing among themselves what ought to be done, what could possibly be done. They couldn't quit, lest they be labelled a deserter and be hunted down for the rest of their days, unable to sail again. And the idea of mutiny, well....that was ungodly. And what would the First Mate have thought of that? There were mutterings of it, without using the actual, terrible word. But these mutterings were quickly hushed. 

The next morning, the Captain surfaced, much worse for wear. The rum had hit him like a hammer, repeatedly, in the head. His rage and perhaps something a little closer to guilt kept sleep from him all night. But he rose, wearing his fine red hat and his fine red coat, looking much like the Captain they had first agreed to sail with. 

"Last night, we had an unfortunate disagreement." He spoke of the First Mate. He cleared his throat, "But, let that be further proof to you that my will will not be trifled with. I am master of this ship. Is that understood?"

And the men replied with a communal, dirge-like "Aye, Captain." 

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. The men looked at their captain, their eyes dark and accusing. And the Captain didn't like it. He felt a growing dissension among them. 

He cleared his throat. "He was a good man. I know this more than anyone. But, fear not. As you know, his share of our plunder to this date was substantial. And I thought it best that his share be split among you all."

Silence again. 

He had no more words, no more will to try to appease these cretins. "Back to work," he growled, and went back to his quarters.

That was what did it, you see. 

Men such as this fought all the time. They dueled. Often only one would leave. It was a terrible thing, but they could have forgiven that. But the fact that he had thought to buy their grief from them...well, that was something else. 

He hadn't had a proper burial at sea. 

He had no gentle words at his passing. 

He had been dumped, like unnecessary cargo, on a sinking ship.

And the Captain had thought to simply pay away the crew's disdain. 

This was no Captain. 

This was no Man. 

It was a simple enough plan. Bring him his nightly meal to his quarters, and lace both the meal and his rum with a powerful opium-based sedative they often had on hand to help treat injuries at sea. Drug him. Bind him. Render the large, furious, cruel man completely toothless. And then...

Well, he'd see. 

The Captain woke up on deck, with a mighty headache. The bright sun beat down on him and seemed to almost pierce his skull like an arrow of light. He squinted, he tried to reach for his pistol, for his sword, anything. But his hands wouldn't move. They were tied behind him. 

"What is this?!" He roared. 

His crew stood over him, surrounding him. One man spoke up. "We've arrived, Captain." 

They hoisted him to his feet, thrust him in a dingy, and sailed towards the shore of a small island they were in front of. 

The island was about the size of a small port town. If there wasn't a small forest of palm trees at its centre, with bare patches of sun-scorched grass, he could probably see the ends of the island. Not much else than trees, sand, and grass. 

He was being marooned. 

The Captain railed and cursed and screamed of mutiny! Treachery! Damnation! 

But they solemnly ignored him. 

The men took no glee in his misfortune. 

But they would not stand for the glee he took in others' misfortune any longer. 

They arrived ashore, and cut his bonds, but before he could swing at them with his huge, gnarled fists, they each had a pistol trained on him. 

He was not going anywhere. 

One boy - the youngest of the crew, who even still bore scars from a whipping the Captain had bestowed on him on his first day at sea - came forward. 

He silently, shaking, handed the Captain a slip of paper. 

He retreated back into the crew. 

The Captain unfolded the letter.

There was nothing but a large blot of ink on it. 

A Black Spot. 

The Captain saw it and he laughed. Hysterically and cruelly. "You idiots," he said. "What are you playing at? You will maroon me here, with nothing but a Black Spot?" 

They said nothing. 

"Who will kill me here? Who have I to fear on this island? You don't even know your own traditions, you insipid fools. Am I meant to be afeard of this?"

He crumpled the paper up and threw it viciously at the boy, and spat at him. "You won't survive a day without me. You'll come sailing back by dawn tomorrow, mark me." 

And they turned from him and began to leave.

"You'll never find my treasure now! You'll never even find your share! You won't find a single coin!" 

The men kept walking. 

But one crew member stopped. He was an old man, blind in one eye, perhaps the most superstitious of the bunch who had suggested - despite protests from the crew - that they give the Captain the Black Spot. He turned to the Captain and he tossed him a pistol. It was, after all, customary to provide the victim of a marooning with a pistol with one bullet in it, should they fear starvation more than a quick death. He smiled. And they all went back to the ship. 

The Captain shouted himself hoarse as the ship sailed over the horizon and out of his view. 

He passed the day cursing and shouting. 

No one heard him. 

He couldn't even cut down a palm tree to make shelter, he had no tools to do so. 

He had no tools with which he could make a fire at night.

He had nothing.

He just stared out at sea. 

He explored the forest a little. 

Nothing. No animals, no birds. Nothing. 

Which is why, when night fell, a deep, dark fear came over him as he heard, distinctly, the sound of footfalls. 

He was convinced it was the heat. It was the effects of the opium from the night before. He was delirious. 

But he heard them coming closer and closer. 

He gave in, and turned around.

[The musical theme from the beginning, much slower now, plays again under the following] 

The pale, drowned figure of the only man he had ever called "friend" was there before him. The hole in his head that the Captain's bullet had made was still there. His clothes and his hair were wet, both with sea water and blood. 

"You..." was all that the Captain could mutter. 

But the First Mate said nothing. 

And then, there were more footfalls.

Many, many more.

It was what looked like an army of corpses. Some of which the Cruel Captain recognized, many of which he didn't remember at all. There were mostly men, old, young, and in their prime, standing there with various fatal wounds or injuries they had experienced at the hands of this one man. And there were, in this vast crowd of hundreds - yes, hundreds - had it really been so many? - women. Children. Perhaps only a few. They appeared burned, mostly, or drowned - likely, he had not even known at the time that they were on board a ship that he took down. But this did not make him any less guilty. This was not lost on him. 

They all stared at him. 

And they began to advance. 

He quickly picked up the pistol and aimed it at them. "Stay back!" He cried.

But the First Mate only smiled as they moved forward. 

The Captain realized three things at this point. One: He only had one bullet, and there were hundreds of them. Two: that the bullet would not harm any of these lost souls. They were already dead. And, Three: this bullet only had one logical purpose to it. 

He raised the gun to his head, and he pulled the trigger. 

[The Music stops]

But nothing happened. 

It was empty. 

And he let out one last roar, as the mob of the dead descended upon him.

The crew did indeed return the next morning. Not to save him and beg forgiveness. But to see if the old man with the blind, white eye was right about the Black Spot.

(And, perhaps, to find on the Captain's person a map or a key that could lead them to his riches. But that's beside the point in this story.)

The cause of death was indeterminable. He lay there, frozen stiff, with a look of complete terror on his weathered, vicious face. His mouth open, teeth bared; his eyes wide and repentant; and Clutched within his gnarled, twisted hand was the little slip of paper. 

And the Black Spot was gone. 

It was the boy, the boy with the scars on his back, who told me this story. 

He eventually went to shore. Found his family. Fell in love. Had a life. A good life. 

Met me in a dark tavern one evening. 

"If there is no other reason to avoid doing harm to our fellow travelers in this world..." he began, with haunted eyes and shaking hands... "....that look that I saw on the Captain's face that morning was enough."

[One last strain of the Pirate Melody is heard]

...and before he took a sip of ale, he muttered quietly into his glass, "More than enough." 

I remember that story well. 

And when I saw, in my Dark Stranger's vision, a world empty but for the ghosts of the defeated...

I remembered it. I remembered it then. 

Oh, God. 

 

Hi everybody, thanks so much for listening to Episode 21 of On a Dark, Cold Night. This is Kristen Zaza talking to you, and I hope you've been having a good week since we last chatted.