Freedom's Song

The winds of war blew in from the sea and touched Charles’s angelic face. The scars of battle remained upon the shore. He rose wiping his hand across his kilt.

From the highest crags, he looked for signs of oppression. One lone ship rocked upon the water. The vessel careened the waves to grab a resting place in the rocks.

The ship was not that of the enemy, but of French origin.

Voices from the hull were hushed and muffled. No crew, nor sailor, had steered it to ruin.

The passengers were prisoners trapped beneath the deck to face the unseen doom of the water’s havoc.

Charles searched for openings that could be accessed from within. The only door must have been lowered from above. He needed hands of flesh to maneuver their escape, for Charles was no longer of this world.

Weapons had been hoisted away, as had any sign of a crew. The remaining evidence of human life was only that of a child’s whimper from below.

The invaders were not hostile. Charles began to hum a melody of hope and reckoning.

“Help us,” a woman’s voice whimpered from the entrapment.

The urgency of her request was frightful. Charles hurried to the hull’s entrance. Unable to force the massive gate with physical force, he went to the bow as the tide washed against the ship. Charles could do nothing for the captives. He played his pipes for patience, waiting for the tide to set them free. Free to their doom at sea, or recognition by an alternate savior.

The crescent moon arrived over the tops of the waves. The slivered moon crept higher into the night. Charles played his bagpipes. The ship remained rocking at its port agents the lichen-covered stones.

A throaty cough arose to dislodge Charles’s musical trance. He ceased his serenade.

“Entrapped in a memory, Charles son of Edwin?” Mercia sat near and smiled her wicked smile. “You can not play forever.” she rubbed her pale palms. “It appears that I may win these souls,” the dark angel sneered.

“Never, Mercia. Not on my watch.” Charles rose from his auditorium. “All the departed have a judgment of their own before their God, you can not deny them."

“Please dear Charles. I grow weak. I have not found nourishment of fresh souls in months, all because of you. A waning spirit is all that I am. I have only one destination remaining,” She turned, distracted by the flickering moon. “I will make a deal with you, Charles.” Mercia leered. “We can split the souls; we can work together.” Mercia whimpered her words in desperation. Her almost warm smile could not persuade.

Charles turned away. The light from the crescent shimmered upon his bald head. He smiled, a smile not for Mercia.

“What do you intend to do, my Lady?” Charles returned his gaze upon her evil face.

“Fire. A fire in the hull is the only way to open the entrapment.” Her lips twinkled in the shadows.

“Tell me first, my Lady.” Charles hesitated. Why are the innocent sent a drift” Who would do such an evil trick?”

Mercia chuckled, but no smile touched her lips. “The wars of man will never cease. Their uncle did this, for with the children gone he is the rightful heir to the thrown.”

“Man’s greed is an evil force more evil than I.” She reached toward his pipes, her bitter touch sending him backward.

We will never work together, Mercia. You will not take a life that remains. And you will never take the soul of a child. Ever.”

***

Sparks sputtered from Mercia’s fingertips. The moon, fell to rest upon the horizon. “Charles, you desire to see the people freed.” She rubbed her pale hands together. “Lend me your hands, your energy.” She grasped hold of Charles, pulling his hand to her own.

Charles did not pull away this time, his bagpipes draped across his back.

Mercia chanted quietly, “Spark of fire come alive … into the coming of the dawn.”

The sea rose and rocked the perched vessel loose from the crags. Light hued the sky as amber flickers lapped the deck beneath his feet. Mercia was gone.

Backed against the wall, Charles watching the flames engulf the entrance. He played his pipes for bravery.

There was a sun, somewhere in the sky beyond the ink like strata. The heavy clouds plummeted and whirled.

One moment the sea was below the small ship, the next it was raging down upon them.

Mercia’s presences had only fueled Charles’s frustrations. Her laughter fueled the storm.

The fire ravaged vessel drifted through the stillness. A torn sail, a broken mast and a chard deck freed of its prisoners.

Charles played his music into the day. Voices rose from beneath the cypress planks.

“Mummy, wake up.” One tiny and weak demanded. Another fragile voice responded, “She is gone my lad. Let us climb out while we can. Your sister, is she awake?”

The brittle deck snapped, and the moan of the fired wood rocking atop the sea found a mournful rhythm.

Their strength diminished, yet their spirits rose with the newfound freedom. They laughed at the glimpse of death.

“We will find food, children. But first we must find fresh water.” The old woman, huddling over the two small survivors, hummed to the rhythm of Charles’s pipes heard upon the winds.

The threesome held fast to life, and to one another. The grandmother stitched fabrics into a sail, Charles played in tune to her hum.

Alone the small ship sailed without crew, captain, provisions; free.

The rocking of the vessel blew life into the humble crew. The elder woman and the oldest boy pushed the corpses of their fellow travelers overboard. The heavy dead fell to their graves below sending waves upon them. “We’ll not bring ourselves to eat our kin,” Grandmother spoke as she stood. “Now, we’d best devise us a fishing net.” Though in a whisper, she added, “Before the bait is sunk.”

A starved moan escaped the lips of one remaining, presumed corpse. “She’s alive!” the kids declared with as much glee as they had.

“Auntie is alive,” the boy smiled.

“Yes, she lives.” Her mother knelt beside her, wiped the hair back from her brow and smiled mournfully. Her own muscles consuming her. Her lips split at the corners and her fingers bled. No fluid remained for tears of sorrow. Though, the elder women shook with grief for her daughter’s fading life. Lifting her ashen hand, she laid a dry kiss upon her cracked knuckles.

Her beauty remained, though her spirit departed just as Mercia’s presence reclaimed the calm.

She had won her prize of the old woman’s daughter’s soul. Philip had been preoccupied with coaxing fish to the children’s nets to be aware of her soul departing. Mercia had done nothing besides wait in the shadows; quietly she had stalked her pray.

As with the rage of the storm, Mercia had laughed her retched laugh that marinated one’s ears in venom.

“Why must you haunt so, you Witch?” Charles’s anger and hatred was not a sufficient weapon to ward against her evil.

And as before, he returned his bone pipes to his lips and pumped his bellows. His music was his only recourse. A weapon he could wage upon Mercia, for his music chased her off before his song found closure.

With her throaty laughter gone, the wrath of the storm subsided. Sleep came as the ship ceased its tossing Charles played to three remaining souls aboard their drifting tomb. And the one soul, stolen, her body lay among them.

The fabric that the grandmother had used for fishing nets was gone. Their bait sunk to the depths of the sea. Grandmother shuffled about the floating vessel, haunted by her grandchildren’s inevitable demise.

Charles continued to fuel her spirit with his music as she busied about. The children’s weeping was weak and frail as they slept. There would be no more dancing upon these decks at sea. Their grandmother had held them close in the morning sun, rocking and singing her comforting songs. The melody of Charles’s tune had changed for he could not witness their suffering into the night.

She knelt, clasped her hands before her and bound her head, “My Lord, My God. Forgive me for my sins.” She stopped praying as if to listen to Charles’s pipes on the wind before concluding with an, “Amen.”

Grandmother bustled around the ship’s deck. She located a piece of flint and placed it near her bosom to dry, removed the blankets and clothes from the corpse of her daughter and covered the freshly filled barrels of rainwater with planks.

From the worn linen of her daughter’s petticoat and pantaloons, Grandmother manipulated a crafty fishing net.

And from the skirts she sewed a sail. Though, much smaller than usual, it was adequate.

The grandmother, inspired by the urgency of Charles’s song, awakened her nerve and went about to build a fire.

She had located knives and a pot. Returned to the children once more before she went about her task for salvation, the children slept again beneath the sun-dried blankets. Grandmother worked her dried flint into its magic and set her pot to boil. Then, half dazed with starvation herself, she chopped away fresh meat.

Charles shut his eyes and played on.