Chapter Text
On the moon-drenched sands of a shore just beyond the horizon, far beyond the reach of any but the undying—those who have stopped and those who have never—the Drowned Man sings.
Had I a penny to spare, I’d ask for a story
And a match to light me the way
Among dark dusty memories, littered with glory
Of my youthful, rueful days
A gargle interrupts his crooning and he wrestles with it, coughing once, wrangling it down, coughing again and spitting up a mass of black seaweed and fish eggs onto the beach.
“Piss,” he curses, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks around, hoping it was unseen—but there is always someone watching, always a pair of green eyes somewhere on this land, and these float in a dark figure ambling towards him out of the monochromatic scene. The Drowned Man grins, a gossamer-thin stand of spittle connecting his hand to the corner of his mouth.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he drawls. “What brings you out here?”
Caleb’s smile is immediately recognizable in the light; it shimmers and glints, moist.
“Thought I might check in on an old friend and see whether he’s around. And look at that, here you are.”
Ryder snorts and coughs again, catching it behind his teeth and swallowing. “I’m touched,” he rasps.
“You should be. Not everyone gets that kind of personal attention from me.”
Both of them look over the waves pummeling the grey, sandy shore.
“Any news?”
“Wine and dine me first,” Ryder says.
“You used to be a cheap date,” Caleb says.
“What can I say, you’ve spoiled me.” He holds out a hand, flashing teeth that are covered in algae.
Caleb thrusts his hand into his satchel, pulling out handfuls of dried Spanish moss. Ryder grabs it and stuffs it into his mouth, chewing with a loud groan that is obscene even to is own ears. Caleb watches him with a look of sick fascination.
“You won’t even keep it down,” he points out.
Ryder swallows, painfully, with a mixture of relief and discomfort. “If you had a belly full of water, you’d soak it up any which way, too.”
Caleb shifts his satchel up his shoulder. “Now, the news.”
Ryder gives him a swollen, baleful look. “What, no more?”
“I know how much you can handle, old friend.”
“How thoughtful,” Ryder drawls. “Well then, if that’s all you’re here for, attend to the Drowned Man…”
They settle in the sand. Ryder reclines on a washed-up log and looks over to the horizon.
“There’s a merchant ship that didn’t reach its destination today,” he says. “Thirty-one souls adrift out there. I heard their voices.”
“What ship?”
“The Margaretta.”
“Who owns it?”
“How would I know?”
“Jim, old pal,” Caleb says, eyes sharp. “You’re not gonna tell me you don’t know. If not you, then one of the others.”
“Maybe we missed it,” Ryder says, eyes glinting but smile humourless.
“Saving it for some other courier, more like.” The patience in Caleb’s voice is thinning. “Go on. Whose ship?”
Ryder sizes him up. “She sails from Brooklyn Harbour. More often than not, the captain’s one of the Hallum cousins. She has a regular route of dry goods.”
“Where does she sail to?”
“She runs the route to New Haven and back. Few times a week.”
“Too bad for New Haven,” Caleb says, cheerfully. “What will you do to those souls?”
“Nothing,” Ryder spits. “Nothing that won’t happen anyway.”
There’s no sympathy in Caleb’s thin smile. “And so the Drowned Men grow a little greater in number.”
A bright beam of light passes over Ryder’s face. Caleb whips his head around.
On top of the rock promontory, high above them, a lighthouse claws upward. In the moonlight it is a dark fist reaching into the night, with light spilling from its closed fingers in a far-reaching circle.
Ryder inhales sharply as the light washes over him again. A sweet agony.
“Ah,” he sighs. “She’s feeling something tonight. God, but that feels good. A man could feel alive, with that kind of glow.”
Caleb’s silence draws a queer look from Ryder.
“I’ve never asked you what that is to you,” he says. “Can you even—”
“I can feel it,” Caleb says, quietly. “I feel enough.”
Ryder hmphs and shrugs off the temporary warmth, casting about and landing on Caleb’s satchel.
“You’ve got more, I know you do.”
“It won’t help you.” Caleb’s inclined to be cruel after Ryder’s questioning.
“I know it won’t, you bastard.”
Caleb considers him and pulls out another fistful of the Spanish moss. Ryder grabs it, hunching over to stuff it in his mouth. He swallows painfully. A thin trickle of water starts out of his eyes and nose.
“It’ll come out your gills if you keep going like that.”
Ryder gasps around the lump in his throat. “You mind your own troubles.”
Caleb shrugs and gets to his feet. He takes his leave and wades off through the soft sand. Ryder watches him as Caleb flinches at the light beam passing overhead.
An unpleasant rumbling in Ryder’s stomach presses upward. He grimaces, chokes violently and spews a soggy, misshapen mass onto the beach.