“A little onward lend thee guiding hand to these dark steps…”
-Samson Agonistes, Milton
“Eights Parts a Man, Up from the Sea,” chanted the sailors, in a chorus of crude relief, then threw their hats into the air and caught them. Peter turned in the shadow of the giant on the way to Cod Gee’s Trading Post, where powder and shot was to be got, and noted that the sailors had all been looking at his new tutor, a cipher of a man to be sure, carrying that curious coffin again on his shoulder. Looking up he asked, “Pope’s Knight, do they regard you with that approbation?”
“Surely, Young Master, this slave is so addressed by those souls of the sea.”
“Knight, you are a Knight, a Papal one, at that?”
“Indeed, Young Sir.”
“Why than, do you name your self slave?”
They stopped now outside the post, Father motioning for the query of his son to continue outside, for Young Peter had a nagging tongue, able to plumb any subject deep.
The man, took to one knee before Peter, leaning the coffin on his shoulder like a spear, nearly as tall then as he on his feet, “Young Master, This One is now thrice and trite [1] a slave, owned by Christ above, Peter Grim and Young Peter Grim, Lords of Far Dastardy.”
“Knight, I have not bought you, nor would I. A knight of Christ should be free.”
“Young Master, as your appointed tutor, this one corrects you. A Knight of Christ is never free. This one has been made a gift to thee. To the high-minded son of the most daring man of hand in this misty land, this one was gifted by he who fettered these hands with love and freed his soul from Mahound’s damned.”
“How so, Knight?”
“The Pope knows of thee, has seen your mind through rarest alchemy.”
“Alchemy?”
“Within this body tomb, upon yon pallet covered in canvas, the two branches of alchemy do rest, ready for use. May I command the wagoneers, Sir?”
“Yes, of course. Please stand to command.”
He stood towering and the man’s voice boomed like a drum, “Overseer, the wagon, to the pier, yon oak pallet under canvas to careful load.”
The men had hauled the furs to the quay. The overseer drove the team up to the pier, behind them, turned, and directed the men, “Easy now, something precious for the Lady Grim to be sure, then to whiskey’s door!”
The six men swaggered to the pallet, hefted it on a count of three, and walked it back to the wagon, pushed it aboard, hitched the gate, and took their leave to the bar as the Overseer drove the team to the trading post door for the powder and shot.
“Ho, no further, mate,” called the mate of a pinnace pulled up along side the quay between the great pier and the south pier. That was the pinnace of Erlik, where two swivel guns were being hauled up by four sailors each.
The north pier was where Lord Gustavus’s brig of war, Constantina, was docked, one of two that guarded the mouth of the sound and escorted foreign ships to port here before Fort Ivanstar, at the southwest corner of which, Cod Gee’s tavern and trading post funneled the sailors and merchants into their respective berths.
Peter was frustrated with this man who spoke so directly in his name, but not so to him.
“A name, sir, a name, you must have a name?”
“This one is no sir, for he is a slave.”
“But a knight must be an officer, a sir.”
“The Knights Boniface are slaves one and all, Young Master, slaves to Christ, to the Pope, and to His Holy Father’s assigns.”
“You vex me, tutor—your name!”
Silence came over the gathered Indians, who were in a curious terror over this man, and among the sailors who watched worriedly, of the obvious wanting sorely to attend the tavern, but not willing to walk past the giant, now standing next to the casket of Roland.
Those big-as-apples, a-hand-apart eyes of opal, regarded Peter with some assessing gaze.
“As you wish, Young Master, the name of this one is Thirteen.”
“What?”
His father was standing in the doorway, he knew.
“Young Master, as your assigned tutor, it is my task to inform you that the number 13, otherwise known as three-and-ten, is one more than twelve, also called a dozen, and one less than fourteen, which owns no ready convention.”
Peter squinted and curled his lip, “You have some humor then. Why thirteen?”
“The Knights of Boniface number thirteen, twelve at the table, the thirteenth destined for the Purgatory Stair.”
“I do not understand this—you go to Purgatory to be reformed to a righteous state for entrance into Heaven?”
The man grew grave and spoke low, “The duty of the Thirteenth Knight is to attest that Hell’s Gate to the purgative realm remains closed, to slay such devils that transgress, also to venture into the world to any such portal contrived by Hell’s Errant Prince, so close it, bar it, or plumb it, as the case may be.”
The savages were in a serious fright, eyes bugged out, looking at the man as if he were a devil himself.
“So, Thirteen, what means eight parts a man as I keep you here barring the gates to Whiskey River for those who I asses have maligned you with their song.”
The man pulled over his hood, clasped his hands in prayer, and intoned like an organ of stone,
“One-part-two: A sweet Jеwess was sold to a cruel Chaldean, who bred her with a warrior slave of the Congo, to get a boy for to guard the Sultan of Tripoli.
“Three-part-four: The boy grew to a man, earned freedom in war, took to the Middle Sea as Redbeard the Most Feared. He gathered a merchant daughter of Venice, would not ransom her, to sire upon her a son.
“Five-part-six: That son grew great under The House of Islam, calling upon Mahound. That man reaved long as Barbary Harrow Heal, First Sword of Islam, thirty-six sons to name him sire.
“Seven-part-eight: One son, he bred of a shepherd lass raided of Ireland, bested all, standing alone before the Tomb of Harrow Heal, this one. Came Pope Boniface to Tripoli to crack its wall. Holy Father bested the sword of This One, before his Tripoli throne, put not chains on these wrists, but draped his rosary, bringing the grandson of a Christian daughter of Venice back to Christ.”
“That, young Master Peter Grim, is the eight part river, mixed with eight-parts sin unknown, that flows through the veins, of this your slave.”
‘What an amazing man—mine to learn from, and command?’
The voice of Peter Grim ground out with an easy authority, “Thirteen, learn my son battle-craft, wit-wise foremost. He is already too smart and curious for his own good. First, back up to Ravensport, and do you engineer the building of Grim’s Fort. May it hold better than the walls of Tripoli did before your Pope.”
“As you will it, Master,” intoned the giant.
The Indians had advanced their various medicine men and watchers to crowd around, holding out feathers, beads, dream hoops and medicine bundles, as if in silent blessing.
Thirteen crossed himself, drew out a silver cross, kissed it, and raised it in his great fingers to the dawning sun and the Indian mob chanted their shrill benediction that ends their sacred songs.
The cross put away, Thirteen offered, “Master, may it please Young Master to ride? Prophecy places him in the saddle in many a strange land. He should be practiced aforetime.”
Peter Grim looked piercingly up into that big face, nodded his assent and said softly, “Thirteen, you have charge of my son in service to his mum, and in mind of the mighty and weird things that assail us—for you have come knowing what is about. Do not suffer him to perish under your wing, lest we have an outing.”
“As you say, Master, such will be.”
‘Just like that, I am gifted the greatest slave a man can own, and in one turn, he is now the boss of me?’
Thirteen nodded, and whispered, “Yes, Young Master, so Providence does turn.”
…
Notes
-1. A term denoting a person shared by three masters, a dual being shared by two.
