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There were meant to be storms. There were meant to be battles and cannon-fire. There was meant to be blood and mutiny and creatures in the sea that would devour your flesh once your corpse has been flung overboard. Anamaria knew that. The plantations had been full of horror, why should the ocean been any different?
But the dead were never meant to walk, let alone sail. Treasure was never meant to be cursed, and the world was never mean to have an edge where ships fell into the land of the dead, never to return.
Anamaria could deal with this world’s horrors. She just wasn’t to sure she wanted to face those that came from the next realm.
Pirates had been superstitious since they first took to the waves. Anamaria was no different (except when it came to the old “it’s bad luck to have a woman aboard the ship” myth. There was superstition and then there was nonsense.) But hers were not the fables of fish-wives or salty sea-dogs who had guzzled too much rum. Who cares whether a cat sneezed on deck, or saw a red-head on the way to the docks?
No. Hers were the beliefs of the old religion.
Back on the plantation when she was young - after her mother had been sold and her father had died from one too many floggings - all Anamaria had left was her grandmother. She had been blacker than black, more lined than a cliff-face and older than the world itself, or a least Anamaria thought. Her arms were as strong as sailors knots, and her iron grey hair was like a lighting storm. But for Anamaria the thing that made her grandmother her grandmother were her eyes. They had been like coals. Dark and sooty, but burning from within.
To little Anamaria she was the most beautiful person in the world.
Anamaria had called her Meemo. No one else did. All the other people who worked on the plantation had called her Madda Ekene, and always in whispers, out of reverence or fear.
Of course by day out among the sugar cane all the slaves would sing hymns. Their masters would never raise an eyebrow. But not a night would go by without someone coming to visit Madda Ekene for a spell. “Madda Ekene, how can I stop my husband’s wandering eye?” “Madda Ekene, can you stop my bones from aching?” “Madda Ekene, can you keep the Master’s hands off of me?” “Madda Ekene, can you stop the rain so we don’t have to work in the mud?”
And Meemo would listen and smile and begin to work. And if the spirits were kind, they would listen.
Anamaria could tell everyone else was scared of Meemo, even from a young age. But Anamaria never was. Meemo would sing her songs, and mend her clothes and smack her when she didn’t respect her elders. But she would forgive Anamaria when the girl apologised and stoke her hair and tickle her until she couldn’t breathe from giggling.
But then the Master’s heart had given out and the bitter, sour-mouthed mistress had pointed her finger at Meemo and said the word “poison”. He had died in the morning. They hanged Madda Ekene in the afternoon. Anamaria fled that night.
Anamaria wished that Meemo had taught her something before she was killed. If Anamaria could talk to the spirits, if she could evoke them like her grandmother had, no dead buccaneers or cursed gold or monsters from the depths could touch her. She would be able to command the winds, bind her crew to her bidding and slip past the British ships unnoticed. She would be unstoppable. She wouldn’t need to fear the next realm like the other slaves back on the plantation had feared Meemo. The spirits would be her allies.
But her Meemo had taught her nothing. Anamaria didn’t have any of her power.
So she would have to turn to someone who did.
…
Anamaria didn’t understand why a shack so filled with candles seemed so dark. The door was open but the pirate knew better than to cross an Obeah-woman’s threshold without permission. It was crazy enough her coming here. Anamaria wasn’t about to incur the wrath of a priestess. She wrapped her knuckles three times against the wooden door-frame. Three was a lucky number, wasn’t it?
‘Hello?’ Anamaria called, trying to peer into the darkness. ‘I am searching for Tia Dalma.’
‘Search all you wish.’ A voice called from the darkness. Or that voice what darkness sounded like? ‘Unless she be wanting to speak with you, she will not be found.’
Anamaria didn’t know whether this meant she should leave or press on. ‘I mean her no harm.’ she licked her dry lips. ‘I come for her help.’
‘And who be it that sent you for help?’ said the formless voice.
‘No one sent me. But I heard about you from Jack Sparrow.’
A candle flickered into life and revealed a face from the corner of the shack.
‘Well now. Jack Sparrow is it? Him always be sending the most interesting of folk my way. You wouldn’t be thinking ‘bout bringing trouble trough that door with you now?’
Anamaria was surprised at how young this woman was. She had assumed that this legendary Tia Dalma would be as old as her grandmother. Older even. Weren’t all mystical soothsayers meant to be ancient and feeble and wise. She had not expected curves and long hair and a playful smile.
But those burning coal eyes were exactly right.
Anamaria stepped into the shack and removed her hat. She knew at a time like this reverence was the key.
‘No. I am not as much trouble as Jack. But then again who could be?’
The Obeah woman threw her head back and laughed. She slow stood up and strode towards Anamaria, her hips rolling like waves.
‘You speak the truth girlie. Jack Sparrow be him own trouble. Wears trouble like a cloak.’
‘Not girle.’ The pirate straightened. ‘Anamaria. Captain of The Dirty Wolf.’
Tia Dalma tsked. ‘Terrible name for a ship.’
‘I didn’t choose it. Her last Captain did.’
‘Thinking of changing it?’
Anamaria shook her head. ‘Terrible luck to change the name of a ship, no matter the terrible name.’
‘And you would be the one to talk to about terrible luck wouldn’t you, Captain Anamaria?’ The Obeah-woman was an inch taller than Anamaria. Normally, Anamaria wouldn’t have cared, but now it was just another way in which Tia Dalma had the edge. They were face to face now; a foot apart, and those coal eyes were searing their way into Anamaria’s. ‘Is that why you have come to see me? To see if you can break this bad fortune?’
‘What makes so sure my luck is bad?’ Anamaria asked, not sure if she wanted to know the answer. Tia Dalma smiled and slowly sank to her knees. Anamaria’s eyes widened as the priestess pulled off her boot, almost making the pirate lose her balance. Tia Dalma leapt up to her feet and shoved Anamaria’s boot under Anamaria’s nose.
‘What do you see?’
Anamaria’s brow furrowed. She looked down at the boot, wrinkling her nose. ‘Er… a boot?’
‘What’ on the boot.’
She narrowed her eyes at Tia Dalma ‘Dirt?’
‘That’s right. A whole lot a dirt.’
‘It’s a boot. They are meant to have dirt on them.’
‘This much dirt? No. This much dirt only comes from a whole lot a running in a whole lot of different places. Running to. Running from. Is nowhere safe for you?’
Anamaria stayed silent. The Obeah-woman lifted her chin.
‘Everyone wears their own cloak. Jack’s be trouble. Yours be calamity. Tragedy. You risk dying unfulfilled and it eats away at you, like a belly full of maggots.’
Anamaria suddenly felt very tired. Her eyes felt weary and her feet felt sore. ‘Can you change it?’
Tia Dalma tilted her head. ‘Perhaps.’ She walked back to her chair and sat down, her legs on either side of her chair. She rested her hand on her knees. ‘But only if you be willing to answer me this question.’
Anamaria swallowed. ‘What question?’
‘Land or sea?
‘What?’
‘Which is better? Land or sea?’
‘Sea.’
‘Why?’
‘You can’t be a pirate on land.’
‘Wrong answer.’ Tia Dalma snapped. In a spit second her face became thunder. The priestess started snuffing out candles. ‘If you do not answer me true, I cannot help you. You are beyond help.’
‘No, no wait.’ Anamaria put her hand in front of one of the candles, preventing Tia Dalma from pinching out the flame. ‘Ask me again.’
Tia Dalma scrutinised Anamaria.
‘I won’t lie.’ Anamaria begged. ‘I swear it.’
Tia Dalma sat back in her chair. ‘Land or sea.’
‘Sea.’
‘Why?’
Anamaria’s words were hesitant. ‘Because land is a liar. It pretends to be stable, to be unmoving. And then it crumbles beneath you. The sea is cruel and changeable and is always willing to drag you under. But the sea is honest about it. That’s why.’
A smile spread over Tia Dalma’s face. She seemed to like this answer.
‘Captain Anamaria. You know the sea well and you respect the old gods.’ she nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I can help you.’
Anamaria threw a leather pouch on the knotted wooden table. ‘For your trouble.’
Tia Dalma opened the pouch and looked at the contents with disgust. ‘What be all this?’
‘Gold. Jewels. From our last haul.’
‘No. No no.’ Tia Dalma threw the pouch across the table. ‘All rocks. Nothing but rocks pretending to be worthy. These are no use to me.’
‘Then what do you want. I’ll get it for you.’
Those coal eyes flickered and Tia Dalma stood. She began to circle Anamaria like a shark.
‘And you would be willing to give? Hmm… Anamaria? Captain of a dead man’s ship and always running? What would you be willing to give to the gods for your protection?’
Anamaria turned to follow the Obeah-woman as she closed in on her. ‘What would the gods require?’
Anamaria gasped as Tia Dalma pushed her into the chair. The priestess lifted the hem of her skirt and straddled the pirate, the warmth of her thighs bleeding through the thin fabric of Anamaria’s breeches.
‘Gods have no need of rocks. They be in need of... real sacrifice.’
Anamaria thought of throwing Tia Dalma off her lap and running. Like the priestess said, she was good at running. But Tia Dalma’s breath was salty, and her skin seemed covered in grains of sand and her hair was like seaweed and coral and when she breathed it sounded like waves breaking in the hollow of her chest. This woman was overwhelming and powerful and beautiful.
Tia Dalma said the gods required sacrifice. But Anamaria didn’t think that it was a terrible price to pay.