Howel Davis (Post 12)

I looked at Davis to find he was still watching me, something beyond simple mischief dancing in his eyes. He was challenging me. Was that how I would prove myself to him? By bedding a prostitute? I gazed back at him pleadingly, when suddenly a young woman, no older than seventeen, was practically sitting in my lap, pulling the hat from my head.

“Will, this is Bess,” Meg said by way of introduction. The girl had a pert nose and a splash of freckles on her cheeks, and she smiled at me, her arm around my neck. My food was definitely not going to stay down. I looked at Davis in desperation to find that Meg had made herself comfortable on his lap, nuzzling his ear. Davis himself, however, still looked at me, as if waiting for something.

Bess slipped her hand into the collar of my shirt, and that did it. “Stop!” I hissed, pushing her from me abruptly. Both Meg and Bess looked at me in surprise, but Davis merely smiled wickedly.

“What ho, lad? Do you not find Bess acceptable?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

He knows.

I glared at Davis. “You… What…” I sputtered, enraged.

Davis turned calmly to the startled women. “If you please, ladies, I’d like a word with Will here.”

The women moved away, looking over their shoulders at me in puzzlement. I straightened my shirt and returned Davis’ gaze, flustered. “How did you know?”

Davis took a drink from his mug casually. “An Igbo woman in the hold was raving about Sabrina, the Charmed Woman, who knew our fates. I thought… I suspected you were a woman, and when I heard this… I thought it may be you she meant.”

My God, there were voodoo sorceresses running rampant around 1718. The Igbo woman must have been how Blaine knew as well, then. I asked, “Your fates? Jack Blaine’s fate as well?”

“Yes. He was in the hold flaying the ever-loving Christ out of us with his whips when she blurted it.” He looked at me curiously. “Who are you?”

I closed my eyes. “You won’t believe me.”

“Mayhaps I’ll surprise you.”

I took a deep breath and stared at a mildew stain on the wall straight ahead. “Edward England found me in the sea near New Providence. I had been on a boat that hit a bad storm, and I fell overboard. The year was… 2009.” I slowly turned toward Davis, finding that he leaned forward, watching me intently.

“How now?” he said, his brow furrowed.

I shook my head. “You don’t believe me.”

“No, no,” he said. “Tell me again.” He grinned disarmingly. “Go slowly, now, me brains ain’t working proper yet.”

So I told him the whole story. We must have sat there for over an hour as I tried to explain to him what had happened. He interrupted often with questions and I could see that, like England, he was humoring me even if he didn’t completely believe what I was saying.

“So this book of your friend’s,” he said. “It reveals me fate?”

I knew it would come down to this. I nodded.

“And the fates of England and Taylor and Blaine? Can you tell me what kind of book this be?”

To hell with it, I thought. If I could keep Davis from dying, it would be worth it. Consequences be damned. “It was a book about pirates.” He digested this piece of information, turning the mug between his fingers. I knew I had to convince him that I was from the future, and how better to do it than predict something before it happened? I had prepared myself for this. I leaned forward, whispering. “You’ve heard of Stede Bonnet, the pirate?” Davis nodded. I continued, “It’s the month of October, right? Bonnet will be ambushed on November 8th. He will be found guilty of piracy on November 12. He will beg the governor of Charleston for his life, and his execution will be delayed seven times. Then on December 10th, he will hang at White Point.” Before Davis could speak, I added hurriedly, “And the infamous Blackbeard? He will be killed on November 22, in hand-to-hand combat. His head will be cut off and hung from the bow of his ship.”

Davis stopped playing with the mug and looked at me, a line of concentration between his eyebrows. He was filthy, beaten, and starved, and yet, as I looked at his face, I swear he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

“How of it, Davies?” Meg stood at the table, her arms crossed, eyes on me.

Davis smiled at her, pulling himself from his reverie. “Meg, if it’d be no trouble to you, we’ll take the bath, the shave, and the bed.” He winked. “We’ll hold off on the company for another time.”

It was clear that she was disappointed. And judging by the way she looked at me, she held me fully responsible for Davis’ change of heart. I couldn’t help it: I smiled victoriously at her. She said through her teeth, “Nay, no trouble at all.” In a final attempt to sway him, she ran a hand along the back of his neck as she walked away, but he had already forgotten about her, focusing once more on what I’d told him.

Quietly, he said, “I become a pirate, eh?” He mulled this over for a moment, then looked at me. “And what happens if, knowing this, I choose not to go on the account? I still have free will, don’t I?”

I shook my head. “You’re asking me if we can change the future? I have no idea. But I plan to try.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. “Aye? And what do you plan to change?”

I swallowed. “Your fate.” I couldn’t look him in the eyes. “You will become a pirate and… less than a year later… you will be ambushed on Prince Island, off the West African coast. You will be shot and killed.”

When I finally looked at Davis, he was waving Meg over. She rushed to his side, her pretty face hopeful, and he said, “Meg, me love, can we bother you for some strong liquors? I’ll need quite a bit, if you please.” He then looked at me and grinned. “A man cain’t hear ‘bout his death without being three sheets in the wind.” His tone was light-hearted, but I saw the sweat glisten on his neck, at the base of his throat.

We both drank — and drank, and drank. Until neither one of us could really stand without swaying, without leaning against something. Our conversation turned to lighter subjects: His childhood in Milford Haven, my childhood in Haiti; the sister he’d adored and lost to smallpox, the grandfather I’d considered a father; the girl he’d thought he’d marry when he was a boy, the husband and daughter I had left behind in 2009.

The last bit seemed to rouse a keen interest in him. “So you’re married, then? With a child?”

I fished the picture of Sophie from my breeches, pulling it free of the thread. I showed it to him. “This is my little girl.”

Davis shook his head, trying to clear it, as he examined the picture. “Damn me eyes,” he muttered. After a long while, he handed it back to me and said, “Begging your pardon, Sabrina, but I think I’ve had all I can handle this night.” He smiled, but it was clear that he’d shut down. I had thrown a bit too much at him at once. I couldn’t help it — I wanted him to know. I wanted him to prevent it — all of it.

Thrilled at hearing the sound of my name on his lips, I nodded mutely. We rose and stumbled up the stairs of the inn to our respective rooms. Before bidding him good-night, I said, “Howel, I have one last question.”

Davis turned and looked at me, his eyes unable to focus. “Aye, if I can answer it,” he slurred.

“You said you knew I was a woman before… before the Igbo woman told you.” I made a fist, my fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms as I asked, “How… When did you realize…?”

Davis whistled playfully, leaning against the doorframe. “In the shrouds. When you nearly fell.” He grinned widely. “I thought either you were a lass, or I was a buggerer.”

All I remember after that exchange was that I floated into the room and blissfully sank into the most wonderful sleep I’d had in a long, long time.

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