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“Tell on, sir.”

***

That one time in Porte Macoute, Tante Ankolee—there, on the high seas, at the Pearl-Bright Ocean’s very gate, where channel from one world ope into the next. Where the very Sea Herself let gape Her great mouth an’ swallow down them lost, wanderin’, contentious souls who finally find ‘emselves willin’ t’accept them own fate an’ sink down forever, into sweet darkness. That one time, she.

Impossible ta tell if ‘twas always her plan how Wilmot Collyer, so good an’ true a man as ta feel sympathy fah monsters of all kind, should volunteer ta take him place at the Bitch of Hell’s prow an’ let that same ship’s other two captain go where they list. Though we all know ‘twas she who stood beside him as a distraction while them two gentlemen made their final farewell, echoing it with kisses of her own, far sweeter an’ less wounding . . . just as ‘twas she who raise a wind ta blow them both home wit’ the Malaga Victory followin’ behind in their wake wit’ the Bitch’s old crew cram in an’ doin’ double-duty, once all four ghost had guttered away like snuffed candleflame. An’ never was they heard from again, these hundred year an’ more—neither in them part, all the islands from Port Royal to Tortuga-that-was an’ all the many routes whah serve ‘em, nor elsewhere.

Indeed, once her fee been paid in full, ‘tis impossible to deny how the favor Tante Ankolee done thah old, cold England-King last longer still than the empire he rule, in th’end. Fah which we o’ her blood are grateful yet, seein’ its collapse freed even those of us yet slave in them same days, an’ take much merriment, ever after.

As fah the Bitch an’ her last commander, meanwhile . . . unlike Jerusalem Parry or Solomon Rusk, Cap’n Collyer was nah constrain t’ spend out his life roamin’ those warm salt waters, or doom t’ prey on the same Navy he so-well serve fah prizes t’ swell the Bitch’s hold an’ hull. Indeed, as they drew close to Porte Macoute’s great dock, that same sad lady begun to sink outright, driftin’ low an’ lower ‘til at last she come so waterline-close Collyer an’ his witch-love have jus’ time enough step onto one of the Victory’s long-boats, ‘fore splittin’ apart altogether. An’ ‘tis said the varyin’ wrecks thah make her up still lie there t’this day, wit’ Rusk and Parry’s hoard o’ stolen gold an’ jewels strewn out under sand an’ stone fah any who care t’ dive after ‘em—always rememberin’ how bad them waters are fah sharks, even so terrible near ta shore.

Fah him part in the Bitch’s layin’, Cap’n Collyer gain him a higher rank an’ a better ship still, along wit’ some land on Porte Macoute itself where him build a house large enough ta entertain guests in—one, at least, from time ta time. While nine month later, Tante Ankolee bring a son into this world ta carry on both her witch-blood an’ the Rusk name—same as her slaver-father, aye, but same too as Alizoun Rusk, that gay, burnt girl who once danced on air an’ laid waste to half o’ Scotland, ‘fore her own foolishness bring her down.

That boy name Collyer Rusk, child, who live ta one hundred year exactly: me great-grandaddy, buried still out back o’ our house on Porte Macoute. A witch’s son like Jerusalem Parry, but born t’a sorceress-mother so puissant-powerful thah iron never wrap ‘round him throat—not fah witch-finding, not fah slavery. Which is nah ta say him have no grief, in all him long, long life . . . but then, grief come at last t’everyone, cunning-folk or no. It cannot be avoided.

Yet we may still make merry, live on ‘til we die, an’ then die well. Thah, we may do.

An’ nah, the story done—Tante Ankolee long dead as me great-grandaddy, an’ meself grown old, likewise. Go make a tale o’ ya own to tell, while ya still can.