blushing.
Easton is silent until the girl withdraws to the side table. Then he continues. “Doorways have the most profound significance in their belief,” he explains in a low voice, his lips tightening. “Especially the doorway that leads to the dead one’s most recent habitation. This portal, or opening, becomes crucial for the departing spirit.”
Pym makes a scoffing noise. Easton smiles sadly, but doesn’t continue for the moment.
George looks over to the slave who stands side on to him, rearranging dishes. Her hand touches her black skirt in a delicate, embarrassed gesture. He tries to imagine such a creature carrying out the gruesome ritual with the head and finds it incredible. The only explanation that makes sense is the one that Easton is providing, that the apparently savage act hides extraordinary sensitivity of purpose. The slave doesn’t know she is being watched, it’s clear. Her eyes are still cast down, and her long lashes quiver.
Easton has allowed the silence to do its work. Each hushed moment adds both drama and credibility to his explanations. “Another belief,” he continues at last in a soft voice, “is the potency of the head as a means of directing the spirit in its journey to the life beyond.”
“Even if these are the reasons, sir,” Pym challenges, “what have such savage rituals to do with this good Christian boy?”
“My dear sir,” says Easton leaning back in his chair, some hint of his old arrogance returning, “our own glorious religion has undergone many centuries of change. I’ll ask you to remember it was not so long ago when our bishops would burn a man for not believing that wine could be turned into the Blood of Christ.”
A deathly silence now overcomes the table. A slow smile comes across Easton’s face. “Religion has become diluted and compromised, its vitality has drained away. We can barely even talk on the subject without fear of the accusation of heresy. The African rituals are rich and vibrant and have lost none of their violent beauty. We can all learn from them.”
“Is there no end to your horrors?” Pym gasps.
Easton merely bows sadly. The admiral interposes.
“Captain Easton, I must insist we give Lieutenant Baxter a Christian burial at sea using the text of King James’ Prayer Book.”
“Of course, sir. You have misunderstood me.” Easton’s brow is knotted, a picture of troubled hospitality once more. “I am a simple man of faith. I look to my glorious Church for instruction in these matters. The rituals to which I refer were carried out by simple, good-hearted women. I was explaining but not justifying their actions.”
Easton nods again. A sense of relief comes over the room.
The burial takes place just before dusk as the clouds burn crimson around the edges. The waves glitter like leaves of gold, waiting to carry their parcel to the underworld. Easton presides. The lieutenant’s body is wrapped tightly in the St. George’s Cross, and Easton’s crew—perhaps fifty of them on the deck—stand silent and respectful. Somehow the head has been bound or tied to the body so that the whole falls into the glistening waters with no sign that dismemberment has ever taken place. Tiny bubbles fizzle up to the surface and the night draws on with a single gasp of the breeze.
Pym takes his leave from Easton with polite solemnity. The
Loyal Pandora
, now drawn alongside, receives its captain. Its sails ripple then swell in unison to welcome the breeze. As the great masts creak and the ship begins to pull away, spewing foam from the bow, George feels a tug of envy. The presence of Pym on the ship and that of the
Loyal Pandora
nearby had up to now given George some sense of normality. The navy, though dwarfed by Easton’s ships, was present. Now, as the
Loyal Pandora
slices through the waters as fast as the wind will carry it, George feels the boards of the
Happy Adventure
wobble beneath his feet. Certain irrefutable realities begin creeping
Easton is silent until the girl withdraws to the side table. Then he continues. “Doorways have the most profound significance in their belief,” he explains in a low voice, his lips tightening. “Especially the doorway that leads to the dead one’s most recent habitation. This portal, or opening, becomes crucial for the departing spirit.”
Pym makes a scoffing noise. Easton smiles sadly, but doesn’t continue for the moment.
George looks over to the slave who stands side on to him, rearranging dishes. Her hand touches her black skirt in a delicate, embarrassed gesture. He tries to imagine such a creature carrying out the gruesome ritual with the head and finds it incredible. The only explanation that makes sense is the one that Easton is providing, that the apparently savage act hides extraordinary sensitivity of purpose. The slave doesn’t know she is being watched, it’s clear. Her eyes are still cast down, and her long lashes quiver.
Easton has allowed the silence to do its work. Each hushed moment adds both drama and credibility to his explanations. “Another belief,” he continues at last in a soft voice, “is the potency of the head as a means of directing the spirit in its journey to the life beyond.”
“Even if these are the reasons, sir,” Pym challenges, “what have such savage rituals to do with this good Christian boy?”
“My dear sir,” says Easton leaning back in his chair, some hint of his old arrogance returning, “our own glorious religion has undergone many centuries of change. I’ll ask you to remember it was not so long ago when our bishops would burn a man for not believing that wine could be turned into the Blood of Christ.”
A deathly silence now overcomes the table. A slow smile comes across Easton’s face. “Religion has become diluted and compromised, its vitality has drained away. We can barely even talk on the subject without fear of the accusation of heresy. The African rituals are rich and vibrant and have lost none of their violent beauty. We can all learn from them.”
“Is there no end to your horrors?” Pym gasps.
Easton merely bows sadly. The admiral interposes.
“Captain Easton, I must insist we give Lieutenant Baxter a Christian burial at sea using the text of King James’ Prayer Book.”
“Of course, sir. You have misunderstood me.” Easton’s brow is knotted, a picture of troubled hospitality once more. “I am a simple man of faith. I look to my glorious Church for instruction in these matters. The rituals to which I refer were carried out by simple, good-hearted women. I was explaining but not justifying their actions.”
Easton nods again. A sense of relief comes over the room.
The burial takes place just before dusk as the clouds burn crimson around the edges. The waves glitter like leaves of gold, waiting to carry their parcel to the underworld. Easton presides. The lieutenant’s body is wrapped tightly in the St. George’s Cross, and Easton’s crew—perhaps fifty of them on the deck—stand silent and respectful. Somehow the head has been bound or tied to the body so that the whole falls into the glistening waters with no sign that dismemberment has ever taken place. Tiny bubbles fizzle up to the surface and the night draws on with a single gasp of the breeze.
Pym takes his leave from Easton with polite solemnity. The
Loyal Pandora
, now drawn alongside, receives its captain. Its sails ripple then swell in unison to welcome the breeze. As the great masts creak and the ship begins to pull away, spewing foam from the bow, George feels a tug of envy. The presence of Pym on the ship and that of the
Loyal Pandora
nearby had up to now given George some sense of normality. The navy, though dwarfed by Easton’s ships, was present. Now, as the
Loyal Pandora
slices through the waters as fast as the wind will carry it, George feels the boards of the
Happy Adventure
wobble beneath his feet. Certain irrefutable realities begin creeping
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