The Maiden Voyage of the Maryann

LINEAGE OF CHARACTERS (year born)

Mary (1702)

Ann (1719)

Ester (1739)

Elizabeth (1765)

Isabel (1785)

Elaine (1805)

Sarah (1830)

Sophia (1855)

Winifred (Winnie) (1875)

Madeline (Maddie) (1890)

Caroline (1915)

Isadora (Izzie) (1935)

Margaret (Maggie) (1960)

Emily (1980)

PRELUDE

LOOMINGS

The rider tore along the wooded path, fear charging his heart to beat furiously. He knew his long ride and perhaps his short life neared an end. At last through the trees he could see the dark ship anchored silently offshore, swaying slowly with the currents of the sheltered bay, and rounding the bend he saw the silhouette of a man, ghostly gray in the light of the full moon. He slowed his pace as he approached the water’s edge. A dangerous man, a pirate feared by all who sailed the seas or lived near its shores, waited for him.

He dismounted and walked tentatively towards the pirate. He’d traveled all night, turning the message over and over in his mind, examining every angle, trying to find a way to deliver the missive without it sounding as bad as he knew it to be. He doubted the pirate wanted to know all the reasons for the message, the politics, and personal fortunes that were wrapped up in the decision to stop him. Calm prudence seemed the best course.

The pirate towered well over six feet, a menacing presence in daylight and even more so at night. A large tri-corner hat with a flamboyant white feather made his height appear even greater. In the blush of morning sun, the rider saw the pirate wore a dark red jacket and a clean, ruffled white shirt, in stark contrast to his long ragged black beard and mustache. The gleam of a steel cutlass glinted at his side, secured by a golden cord around his waist. He couldn’t see all this in the shadows of the trees, but the rider knew it to be so, as others had told it to him in preparation for his mission. The pirate looked every bit that of a proper gentleman who had just stepped out of a tavern on his way to his well-kept home and his fashionable wife. Nothing could be further from the truth.

What have ye? His voice was deep and gruff. Though it had weariness to it as if the tall man knew what the message would be yet needed to hear it aloud for it to be true.

The rider took a deep breath. Despite the length of time he had dwelt on how the message would sound, nothing could guarantee he would live through its telling. Cautiously he began,

Governor Spotswood is sending a ship, captained by a Lieutenant Maynard. They have orders to kill you.

He left it at that. The less said the less chance of being shot where he stood or run through by the cutlass.

The pirate grunted, kicked the ground with a black boot adorned with a large silver buckle, and then spat on the ground. The rider didn’t move a muscle until with a wave of his hand the pirate dismissed him. He melted back into the dark of the woods, grateful to have survived an encounter with Blackbeard, the notorious pirate.

CHAPTER ONE

EMILY

Emily’s fingers clung to the top of the mast, cold and damp in the fog. Despite the calm air of the grey cloud that surrounded her; the wooden pole she wrapped her arms around swayed from side to side and fear gripped every muscle in her body. How exactly had she gotten here? She remembered climbing up; compelled by something she couldn’t understand. The moon had been out only moments before she put her foot on the first square of the rigging, yet as she put one hand over the other to climb, the cold damp air grew thicker until she could see only the mast.

Below the wooden mast, splintered and weathered, lay the battered deck of a pirate ship. Below, in the ship’s galley, huddled thirteen women who, if Emily understood it all correctly, were her ancestors. One said she was her biological mother. Emily had learned of her own adoption only weeks ago, a revelation made by her mother as Emily filled out a medical form. The topic of family diseases came up and Sydney, the woman she thought of as her mother, broke down in tears and revealed a secret she’d kept Emily’s whole life. Emily ran out of the room, confused, and scared.

Is that how she arrived on top of a ship’s mast? Could the shock have driven her out of her mind? Emily remembered feeling so out of sorts, unsure who she really was now, that she talked a friend into going to a bar in Charleston, far from home and everyone who knew her. There she had met Mark, good-looking and likable, who played the drums for the band. He had the type of free spirit she imagined her real family had. It didn’t take much for them to get into bed together, her first time, though she didn’t let on. Did the sin of that act drive her here?

Don’t be silly, she told herself. You’re up here because it is your turn, and the ship could ram into the rocks. The fog made any attempt to see outcroppings impossible, so she hung on and prayed for clear skies.

Her mind wandered to the first time she saw the deck of The Maryann. It had been days before, a week maybe, hard to tell with no electricity or clocks. Her phone had died but proved useless anyway without cell coverage. It might have even stopped working the minute she walked into the tea shop on East Bay Street.

The shop looked like someone had pulled it off a back shelf, fluffed it out, and plunked it on the sidewalk between two trendy boutiques. The paint - white at some point – was now a combination of bare wood and faded tint. Its façade matched the sky, grey, blotchy, and dismal. The other shops along the bustling street radiated energy of the now. This shop seemed oblivious to time or calendar and determined to keep its own course.

Emily felt sympathy for the little shop. It felt out of place, and she could relate to that. At that moment Emily felt very out of place. The last few weeks had been a deviation from her normal, ordered existence. She thrived on the drumbeat of eat, sleep, work. Yet, in the span of a few weeks, she had learned she had been adopted and then, almost immediately that she had foolishly gotten herself pregnant.

The bell attached to the top of the door frame rang as she crossed the threshold and stepped into the shop. Like an attic, things crowded the floor and shelves, old ship bells, chronographs, and life-saving rings. Emily stood in the center of the shop and allowed her eyes to scan the room in an unfocused way. The items had a familiar feel despite her lack of sailing experience. She often dreamed of oceans and sailing ships but had never actually spent much time in or on the water.

Her mother, Sydney, an elegant lithe woman, had been a dancer before she retired to raise Emily. She filled Emily’s weekends with ballet recitals, opera, classical concerts with the philharmonic, and endless visits to the Metropolitan Art Museum. She could identify ballets by the orchestra’s first notes, and painters by their brush strokes. Yet, her awareness of their talent didn’t elicit any of it in her. Attempts to draw, dance, or play music, came out stilted and plodding, with no evidence of passion in any of it. Her mother tried not to show her disappointment, but the words slipped out occasionally and Emily could hear it in her voice.

Keep trying dear, art is in your blood, I just know it, and what’s in your blood will always come out in time.

She couldn’t say it, but Emily knew the arts didn’t flow in her blood, especially now that she knew that someone else’s blood flowed through her veins. Some strange couple she didn’t know, and had no hope to know, gave her the unique dimple on her cheek and red-hued hair. Emily had been angry at first. Over the last few weeks, as she learned the story of her adoption, she became more accepting and even excited to wonder what really did run in her blood.

She imagined her real parents, wealthy and now lonely, ready to welcome her back into their lives. Sydney shaped Emily’s childhood around the activities Sydney loved, activities Emily sat through. A wave of nausea swept over her, which reminded her of the baby, she had gotten herself knocked up. What talents would flow from her to her baby?

‘Her baby’ just didn’t sound right, and even thinking about it made her heart skip a beat.

Towards the back of the shop and she saw a woman, sitting on a stool behind a makeshift counter. An old brass cash register occupied half the counter space and Emily wondered whether it functioned.

Freckles dusted the woman’s nose and a bandanna held back her long, strawberry-blond hair.

You look like you could use a cup of nice hot tea.

Emily gaped at the woman as her voice penetrated Emily’s silent contemplations, a voice like hot cocoa poured steaming, thick and sweet into a cup.

Tea would be nice. Emily agreed.

The shop woman waved her to a doorway in the back, covered with a darkly patterned fabric, pulled back and held in place with a large fish hook. Gold fringe dangled from the edges of the fabric. The woman herself wore an explosion of bright colors on a loose top and skirt.

The light dimmed in the back, but as Emily’s eyes adjusted, she could see two tables covered with colorful tablecloths and an eclectic mix of chairs. She chose a table and sat down. She watched the woman move about and thought that she looked just like a gypsy, or at least the ones she’d seen in movies.

The woman went to a counter in the back, made from a wood plank set on two large wooden barrels, and poured hot water from a standard aluminum percolator coffee pot into a delicate English teapot decorated with pink roses. Huge blue hoop earrings shimmered as she reached into an earthenware jar and pulled out a handful of tea leaves.

Emily could smell the tea as it went into the teapot. Then the woman closed her eyes, began to swirl the pot, and chant in a low incantation. Moments later she brought the teapot and the only two matching teacups over to the table. With great care, she set the cups down, turned the handles to face away from Emily, and poured out the tea. The golden-brown liquid flowed from the teapot.

When you’re finished, I will read the leaves for you. She had a thick warm accent, I’m sure it will be very interesting for you. Her eyes held Emily’s for a moment and then she too sat down and carefully picked up her cup and sipped the hot tea.

They drank in silence. The tea tasted stronger than her typical cup of English Breakfast Tea and had a slight bite to it. Emily would have left it were it not for the watchful shopkeeper, who hovered, waiting to read the leaves. She drank as much as she could and set the cup back down. Dark bits of leaves swirled at the bottom. The woman quickly swooped in and began to read the leaves.

Her blue earrings dangled down and tapped the sides of the cups as she hunched intently over Emily’s cup and mumbled to herself. Emily wondered if this woman meant her harm. She had never read of a kidnapping that started out this way, not that she had read all that many stories about kidnaps. After what seemed like an eternity the women looked up.

You are worried about the baby.

Emily held her breath. How had this woman, a woman she had just met, known about the baby? She had told no one about the pregnancy, not even her mother. She had only learned herself and couldn’t show it yet.

Perhaps the shame showed on her face. The hours of anxiety she had lived since the blue indicator on the pregnancy test, she had bought at the drug store and peed on it at home. The blue patch on the stick signaled the worst possible outcome Emily could have imagined. Her limbs had felt heavy like she sank in molasses while all the things she hoped to accomplish paraded by. She felt overtaken by a mistake. Her thoughts swirled, should I end the pregnancy or have the child and raise it, or have the child and give it away in adoption, like me. Given away sounded so heartless. The irony of the situation was not lost on her.

What kind of a mother would she make if her first thoughts were how do I get out of this, she wondered. What kind of mother am I to get pregnant this way? I’m an idiot, that’s what kind.

Emily felt a powerful sense of responsibility in every aspect of her life. Before she made any decisions about this baby, she felt an obligation to tell the father. She had met Mark about a month ago at Dooley’s, a popular bar in town. He seemed nice enough and different from the guys at work. A musician. The kind who worked at a funeral home and she never expected to see again. They had hooked up the day after Emily learned of her adoption. It had been wild and out-of-character conduct and regret overwhelmed her. She didn’t ever want to see him and relive the embarrassment of that night. She thought she could put it behind her as a growth experience that would grow dim with time. Oh, if only that were the case.

How do you know? Emily asked.

Bedalia knows much others do not. The shopkeeper continued to study the cup.

Yeah well, I’d rather others not know. This isn’t my proudest moment.

How did the father take the news? Bedalia asked though it seemed clear to Emily that the woman already knew the answer.

He took it well, I guess. Seems like he’ll do the right thing, whatever that turns out to be.

The right thing is the right thing.

"I’m not sure