The Devil and the Dark Water

7

Amid the clamour of Arent’s stand-off with Jacobi Drecht, nobody noticed Sander Kers climb aboard, which was impressive given his stature. He was tall, thin and stooped, his tatty purple robes hanging from his limbs like rags blown into the boughs of a tree. His wrinkled face was the same shade of grey as his hair.

Behind him, a second, smaller hand emerged over the side, strong fingers trying to find something to grip on to.

Reaching down, the elderly man ineffectually tried to help, but the hand swatted him away, as a panting mardijker woman with curly brown hair appeared. She was much shorter and many years younger than Sander, with the broad shoulders and thick arms of a farmer. Her cotton shirt was rolled up to her elbows, her skirt and apron stained.

A cumbersome leather satchel was hanging across her back with a brass buckle fastening it shut. Afraid the splashing water might have wormed its way inside, she checked it hurriedly, offering a small prayer of relief to find it sealed.

Whistling to the boat bobbing below, she nimbly caught the wooden cane thrown up by the ferryman and held it out to Sander. He didn’t immediately take it from her for he was transfixed by a fight happening nearby. Craning her neck, she peered through a gap in the crowd, recognising the bear and the sparrow from the stories. They were evocative nicknames, but they concealed more than they revealed. In the flesh, Arent Hayes wasn’t merely large, he was monstrous, like a troll come stamping down from the mountains. He was holding a knife to the throat of a squirming musketeer, while a bearded soldier pressed the tip of a sabre to his chest. Given Arent’s immensity, it was difficult to believe the sabre would even pierce him, let alone kill him.

Samuel Pipps was trying to get up, his efforts reminding her of a bird with a broken wing. In this case, it was the manacles keeping him from rising. The stories described him as handsome, but it was a fragile beauty. His cheeks were sharp, his brown eyes glistening atop them like glass orbs held on altars. He was even smaller than she’d imagined, and as delicately built as a child.

‘It’s already started,’ muttered Sander Kers, disturbed.

He touched her arm and pointed at the quarterdeck where the governor general had boarded earlier. ‘The ritual will work well enough from up there,’ he said, resting his weight on his cane. ‘Come along, Isabel.’

She went reluctantly. She enjoyed a good fight and was eager to see if Arent lived up to his fearsome reputation.

Glancing over her shoulder, she helped Sander slowly up the staircase, every step an agony for him.

The sky was darkening above them. It was monsoon season, and the afternoon frequently delivered violent storms, so Isabel wasn’t surprised to see clouds elbowing their way across the bright blue sky, obscuring the sun before unveiling it again. Shadows drifted across the water, raindrops beginning to patter on the deck as the grand flags of the United East India Company snapped in the wind.

On the quarterdeck, Sander clumsily undid the buckle on the satchel Isabel was carrying, sliding out the huge book contained within.

As drops of rain splatted on the sheepskin wrapping protecting it, he reconsidered.

‘Hold up your apron,’ he commanded. ‘We need to shelter it from the rain.’

Frowning, she did as he asked, prickling at the sharpness in his voice. He was afraid, she realised.

Fear nipped at her like the first embers of fire.

For over a year, he’d taught her his craft, but his stories of their enemy were passionless things – horrifying but distant, the way somebody else’s tragedies always were. Compared to the torments she’d endured before meeting Sander, the labour ahead seemed to have a fairy-tale quality. Foolishly, she’d thought of it as a grand adventure.

But watching Sander’s hands trembling, she now felt the knife to her throat.

Her eyes darted towards Batavia.

It wasn’t too late to flee. By nightfall, she could have the hot dirt beneath her bare feet once again.

‘Your arms, girl!’ scolded Sander, removing the wrapping to reveal the leather-bound cover. ‘Keep the apron above the book. It’s getting wet. There isn’t time to daydream.’

Doing as he bid, she dragged her gaze from the distant rooftops. Whatever danger lurked on this ship, she would not allow cowardice to convince her there was safety in Batavia. She was poor, alone and a woman, which meant every one of its alleys had teeth. God was offering her a better life in Amsterdam. She simply had to hold her nerve.

Resting the heavy book partially on the railing, Sander began turning the vellum pages as quickly as reverence would allow. On the first was a creature with a goat’s body and a haggard human face sitting on a throne of snakes. The next page showed a fanged torment digging its claws into the pile of screaming bodies it was climbing. After that came a three-headed monstrosity with a spider’s body leering at a blushing maid.

On and on, horror after horror.

Isabel turned her face away. She hated this book. The first time Sander had shown her some of its contents, she’d emptied her stomach on the floor of his church. Even now the gleefulness of its evil made her queasy.

Sander finally found the page he wanted: a naked old man with spiny wings riding a monstrous creature that had a bat’s head and a wolf’s body. The old man had claws instead of hands and was using them to stroke the cheek of a young boy being pinned down by the wolf. The creature was snarling, its tongue lolling, as if laughing at the terrified boy’s predicament.

On the opposite page was a symbol that resembled an eye with a tail. Beneath it was a strange incantation.

Pressing his palm against the image, Sander returned his attention to the fight.

Samuel Pipps had started talking and all eyes were upon him. It was like in the stories. Despite being on the ground, despite being manacled and belittled, his authority was absolute. Even the giant seemed cowed.

Rain was falling harder now, running down pulleys and collecting in puddles, seeping through the apron. The sky was soot, cracks of golden sunlight riddling the clouds.

Something made Guard Captain Drecht tense, the sword pressing harder against Arent’s chest.

‘Do it,’ urged Sander Kers under his breath. ‘Do it now.’