Heroine Addiction
Part One
2. The Atlantia
Awakenings
I was sleeping, and you woke me
To walk on the chilled shore
Of a night with no memory,
Till your voice forsook my ear
Till your two hands withdrew
And I was empty of tears,
On the edge of a bricked and streeted sea
And a cold hill of stars.
- Philip Larkin, “I dreamed of an out-thrust arm of land.”
Margo awoke in a daze, pressure forcing itself upon her brain like a vice to a plank of wood. The pressure was not the only thing caustic about her awakening, she felt woozy as if she had been drunk the night before, and the alcohol had yet to make it out of her system. Her limbs, and on second thought not just her limbs, were tired, as if she had not slept. The pain in her head made it nearly impossible to think straight – her ability for cognition momentarily fissure, but she managed to marshal through the pain, and found it again. Did I get drunk and whack my head? – she mused almost as an afterthought.
She was frightened about what her prospects might be, so she did not open her eyes for fear of some horrid realization of deeds done. She figured, just by touch, that she was in a bed and dressed, at least; she could just imagine the scene if she had been naked, and her attempt to explain that the recent past was far too fuzzy and jumbled to explain.
There was something about a dog, though – a golden retriever, like Cheyenne, her grandmother’s dog. The image of it flirted around the edge of her memory like a moth around a lamp.
Now that she was awake, and could not fall back into dreams so easily, Margo finally steeled the courage to open her eyes.
She blinked, and fought the urge to laugh.
Am I high? I must be high.
She shut her eyes. Maybe it would all go away. After convincing her body to breathe in deep breaths, and repressing her compulsion to giggle, Margo opened her eyes again.
Fuck!
It had not changed, nothing had moved or disappeared.
Oh, gods, I am high. Or drunk, probably both.
She looked down. Fuck me. What am I wearing?
Margo did not know whether to be frightened, alarmed, or furious. She was wearing the most ridiculous looking nightgown, and it was not something she owned. It was sheer, and she self-consciously tugged at the blanket she had been bundled in. The bed was more like a trundle, some kind of cot, and she dearly wanted to know who placed her in it.
It was getting better, the pain, but Margo still could not remember how she had arrived at this unusual spot. She was in some kind of cabin, a ship’s cabin. In contained one desk and one chair; under the sturdy, blocky desk was a large trunk. A hanging lantern, which had been doused, swung above it; another – doused, as well – hung parallel to the door. Both seemed comically old-fashioned, made of wrought metal and glass. There was a crack in the caulking near the desk, and ever moment or so water sputtered up like a geyser. The room itself smelled of melted candle wax and dried salt. The dark make of the wood made it difficult to see, but Margo could make out a dark garnet dressing gown, that had been thrown haphazardly over the chair. There was a thick book open on the desk, and papers stacked up next to that. Then, she noticed the ink well and more papers, made of something thick.
Slowly, she leveled herself upright, and adjusted her legs so her bare feet rested on the smooth wood below. Her body was still drowsy as she braced her arms on either side of herself, and did her best to stand up. She was wobbly at first, and her head felt addled, as if she had righted herself too fast; her arms shook, and they twitched under the pressure.
Laggardly, putting one foot in front of the other, she made her way across the deck, keeping her eyes on her destination, the chair.
A noise startled her, and she twisted towards it. As she did, she slipped but just in time to see someone opening the door.
A figure was rushing towards her, but it was too late. When she fell, she let out a soft —ow— as a shock went through her tailbone. It hurt; not a sharp pain, more of a dull ache that she wanted to rub.
Hands extended into her perimeter of vision.
A thick accent broke through the haze of pain, “Mam, are you alright?”
I probably look a sight sprawled out on this floor in this silly thing.
Margo tucked her legs underneath her, and leaned back to look at the man. He stared back quizzically, a scant frown evident on his tanned face. He was a thin man, with highly pronounced cheek bones, his bangs brushed back from his face. His hair was long in the back, and tied with a piece of leather. His coat fit snug around him clinging to his long thin body, the collar turned up. One of his hands, that was stretched out towards her, was adorned with three ring, two were simple bands with writing on them, the other was thick set with a flat black stone as its setting.
Remembering that he had actually asked her a question she mumbled, “I’m fine.”, and then took his hand.
In seconds she was hauled upwards by the man, and back on her feet.
Margo frowned at him, frowned at his dress, at his manner. “Who are you?”
With a flourish, the man bowed, “Captain Jonathan Ryan, mum, at your service.”
Margo had the urge to tell him off, after all she wasn’t his mother, but she had the inkling it would just confuse him more. Standing there, staring at this Captain, totally out of her element, Margo felt a shiver go up her spine. She imagined that he was the one to get her into this nightgown, though that thought made her squirm inside, she imaged the other possibility, hypothermia, it gave her little comfort.
“Where are my clothes?” She felt very small in the dark, and wrapped her own arms around herself.
He was still looking at her strangely, and Margo shied from it. He spoke softly though, “I had them put out to dry earlier, when we caught some sun, ma‘am.”
“Oh. … Thank you,” she said belatedly.
He smiled then, as if to put her at ease.
He did not reply, just titled his head to the left a little. His dark brown eyes peered at her, as if they could discover all the things he wanted to know about his mysterious guest.
The silence and him starting at her curiously was almost to much, and though she feared the question, she asked it.
“Where am I?”
Although, truth be told, the one question she really wanted to ask was - When am I? But considering that she possibly was in hostile territory, she did not want to stand out even more than she was now.
The Captain dipped his head in a sort of salute. “You are in my cabin, ma’am, aboard the Atlantia, the fastest ship in the Spanish Main.”
Spanish Main — pirates? An image of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow came to mind. A certain scene came to mind as well. Oh, the Dauntless is the power in these waters, true enough. But there's no ship as can match the Interceptor for speed. Where was she? When was she? The Spanish Main that had to be the Caribbean. When had they referred to the Caribbean as the Spanish Main? Margo wished that she had paid more attention to dates in history.
“Oh.”
She was really going to have to find a better fall back word soon.
She nodded her head, more for herself than him, and attempted to get back to the bed.
After mumbling a thank you, she steadied herself. Thoughts and the feelings crowded her mind, and her body was just so tired, so tired.
The next minute she was faltering, her legs shaking from the effort of staying upright, and then mute though knowledgeable of her own fall.
Then all was black.
