I woke up in a veritable pile of riches. There were treasures strewn about from every corner of the globe. Swords, exotic currencies, chests of sparkling jewels. It was a dazzling pile of loot.
And I was part of it, there was no doubt.
Blinking in disbelief, I saw that I was aboard a pirate ship. The Jolly Roger was being lowered as we kicked up speed. What I didn't know was how a 21st century girl like me had fallen into such an elaborate scheme as this!
I got up and peered over the edge. The ocean stretched as far as the eye could see, and behind us, getting smaller and smaller, was a ship, limping away. The loot came from there, surely; but where did they get ME from? I was a twenty-seven year-old neurologist positively drenched from head to toe, still wearing my white doctor's robe, captive aboard a dangerous pirate ship in the middle of a great oceanic expanse. I sneezed.
My prospects were not looking good.
“Rebecca Murray!”
I jumped at the voice, rough and gravelly as it was, and saw a tall, robust older man half-concealed in the shadows above deck. He was a a remarkable sight. The captain no doubt, all in red and brass, with two swords.
“Excuse me sir, but may I please ask what's going on?” I challenged rather brazenly. I gestured at my sorry state, and the pile of riches on deck between us. “I don't remember what happened to me and I bet YOU had everything to do with it!”
More pirates appeared on deck, ready to watch predator and prey battle it out in this dangerous dance.
One of the scallywags laughed aloud. “Aren't ye supposed to be the brain lady? And you be forgetful? Oi, not a good omen Cap'n.”
I was floored. “How did you know I'm a neurologist?” I demanded of him. I turned back to the captain. “Is it ransom you want? I'll pay anything, just release me.”
“What mold-melon has got to yer head?” he exclaimed, emerging from the shadows and making his way toward me, descending the steps. He stopped midway down, and I gasped: Blackbeard himself was my kidnapper!
“No mold-melon!” I managed to say. “I'm not crazy, I just want answers.”
“I snatched ye from the New Yorker because I heard ye wer the best. Do you deny it?”
I raised myself to my full height. Not too impressive at five-foot-four, but I had to stand on something.
“I am,” I said boldly.
“You know the workings of me brain here, and can fix it?” He squinted hard through judging eyes, appraising me from afar.
I figured it best to go with the flow. “What do you think is wrong with your brain?”
“I'll tell ye. You see this swag here? Well, I took it.”
I waited.
“From another ship,” he fumed. “I STOLE it.”
I waited some more, not seeing the problem. He was a pirate, after all...
“And!” He wasn't done, apparently. "I let those merchant miscreants go with a warning. A warning.”
Clearly this was bothering him. I decided to say something. “Surely that was merciful, for a pirate--” I began.
“I AM BLACKBEARD AND I DON'T GIVE WARNINGS! I SLAY! AND I TAKE WHATEVER I WANT, NO REGRETS!”
“Aye!” the men yelled.
Blackbeard bristled. “So. What I mean to say is, when a pirate such as meself begins to grow a—conscience--” he spat the word—“it means there's something wrong with me brain! Remove the conscience immediately, doctor. Then ye may choose a shiny trophy from my holds of plunder and live yer days a wealthy wench.”
“You mean to say,” I began carefully, “that instead of a pirate's normal fare of pillaging and slaying, you're showing mercy and feeling guilty about stealing?”
“I've NOT grown soft!”
“I didn't say that,” I asserted.
He descended the steps and came swiftly to my face.
“Ye know nothing of what it takes to rule these waters!” he hissed.
“Many are loved for their reputation of kindness!” I parried back.
“Name ONE PIRATE, you strumpet--”
“You can be the first, you blackguard!” I continued to spar, faintly enjoying this. “And I am not a strumpet! I am a board-certified, well-respected and highly sought-after neurologist in the state of New York!”
He actually paused at this. The men “oohed.” I swore there was electricity emanating from his beard.
His searing eyes narrowed. “Your holds. Burstin' with swag?”
“Absolutely. $200,000 a year.”
“How many fear you?”
I winked. “I'm their chief. Well. Of my department, anyway.”
He liked the wink, apparently, because after none too long a pause he said, “Then Murray, I shall give this conscience thing a try! And if it fails me I shall snatch you away once more and have ye keelhaul this scurvy brain o' mine altogether!”
The men started to cheer: “Murray! Murray!"
“MURRAY! Wake up!”
The big voice was unmistakable. My eyes flew open. I had fallen asleep at my desk. The hospital's chief of staff, Ben, towered above me. There was bagel in his black beard.
“I've decided,” he intoned. “We're keeping the neurology dept here at New York Grace. You've still got a job. I'll even let you pick out a plaque on Monday.”
I couldn't believe my ears. I collapsed with gratitude. “Chief, that's--!”
“Thank me by not ever accusing me of taking bribes or lecturing me on the importance of a conscience in front of the Board again, okay?” But he winked as he left my office.
I smiled, then remembered my dream.
I sneezed, too.
What a mundane thing, to be catching a cold.
Must be all that salty sea air.
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