The War of White Sands

It seems that the entire world has come out to play under the flickering lamps of the Waiting Widow pub. Gentlemen and street rats toast to each other's lives while bohemian artists belt out hymns in perfect harmony with drunk politicians. Also among us is a larger-than-usual crowd of Irishmen, and they are the loudest and most celebratory of all. A line of them by the bar are ordering their fifth round, and it's hardly even midnight. They are amiable men, though, however drunk they may be. I have now heard fifteen proud recounts of the riots that their brothers engaged in this very day.

"Whatever the outcome, whatever the loss," one says as he claps his hand on a man who was now without one of his dear friends, "what matters is that we fought!"

A great clamour of cheers fills the air. It is a rare kind of night at the Widow.

Ten years ago, when I was fifteen, my father took me here to treat me to their famous hot cider and the spectacular view of the ocean. My father used to rave for hours about the ocean, about its gentle, welcoming arms that created for him a second home. He used to sail with merchant ships across the Atlantic. When I was younger and more impressionable, he would talk about his time there like he had discovered Atlantis:

"The very air you breathe, darling, it suddenly becomes a fountain of youth in your lungs. On a sunny day, the water blinding with its brilliance, nothing around you for miles, you could swear you'd fallen onto another planet in your sleep. And the creatures that live there, oh, you should see them one day, love! They can be as big as an island or as small as a grain of sand!"

I used to sit there, jaw agape, taking in his words and living through his memories. The way his eyes sparkled when he told me these stories, you knew he could see everything as clearly as he could many years ago. It was like he had been born the day he'd stepped aboard his first galleon, and lived only until the last time his foot would leave the deck. Everything else before and after that was forgotten.

When I was eleven, he stopped telling me his stories. He stopped reliving it all. He stopped caring. I was always aware that his heart would always be in the past, but I realized later that one can only do that for so long before they lose their heart completely.

"He'll find himself again one day, don't you worry, love," my mother would coax as she herself would stare aimlessly out the window. And so I waited for years, through drunken episodes that only seemed to gather in frequency. He was never physical with me, thank the Lord, but some sick part of me wishes he had been, because then perhaps I would have been part of his life. When he was drunk, he merely stayed silent and retreated to his room. When I would try to talk to him, not a word would escape his lips. After a while, I learned simply to ignore it.

The December that I was fourteen, my mother was struck with a fever too strong for her little body, and she passed away. I held her hand as it slowly went cold, a sad smile on her face. Father simply stood in the far corner, taking drag after drag of his cigarettes. When she was gone, I waited one long, hesitant moment before I finally approached my father and embraced him. His arms were stiff around my shoulders, but to this day I swear I felt his chest heave in one short sob. We broke apart, and we did not make eye contact. I left the room and tried to sleep, but instead I stared at the ceiling, mind spinning.

We lived separate lives from that moment on. Father would go out to work at the blacksmith's, and I would stay home and clean and rearrange and decorate. Sometimes he would stay the night somewhere else, so it could have been weeks before I would even be reassured that he still existed. The times that he was home, however, he did make an effort to be with me; whether that meant eating dinner together, occasionally helping me clean, or even more sparsely, simply sitting in silence in front of the fire together. He knew nothing about the people I was meeting, the life I was leading, and he had no interest. But I clung to the small part of him that knew he had a daughter and knew that it was his responsibility to be a part of her life.

In August of that year, it was a particularly stunning day, and I had planned to wander the nearby pier. Just as I had finished braiding my hair and putting on my day dress, he appeared in the doorway. He didn't look at me.

"Good afternoon," I offered. "I was just about to go for a walk. Would you care to join me?"

The smallest of smiles appeared on his lips as he finally saw me.

"Where to?"
"I was thinking of, perhaps, the pier. Is there somewhere you'd prefer?"
The smile grew, and a flutter of hope grew in my stomach.

"The pier sounds perfect. There's actually somewhere around there I'd like to take you."

The journey to the pier was strangely delightful. My father was laughing, asking questions about my life, telling me stories about his. For a brief, brief moment, I felt as though the last few years hadn't happened at all. We were finally a father and daughter again, taking in the simple joy of strolling down to the pier on a sunny day.

"Here we are," he breathed as he gently grabbed my hand. My heart was doing back flips at this small touch, and it was as though I couldn't focus on anything else. I was sure he could feel my pounding pulse in the palm of my hand as he led me toward the Waiting Widow; a seemingly unassuming two-storey pub that was nearly planted right on the wood of the pier, between scattered fisheries and butchers and tack shops and tiny hotels. The polished wood of the sign shone as it gently waved in and out of the sunlight. A few older men were perched outside, and smiled at us as we pushed through the doorway.

What I saw that day was completely different from the scene before me tonight. The bar was nearly empty, save for one lone soul nursing a large mug of something strong. I could see the dust glittering as it floated through the sunlight from the windows. Even the dining area was fairly sparse in population, with only a sailor and his wife at one table and a lower-class family seated at the booth in the corner. The bartender cleaned the nozzles of the enormous kegs with a dirty rag before giving the counter a half-hearted rubdown. Along the front wall of the pub was a series of stools with a long ledge so people could eat and also enjoy the view of the ocean beyond the large, aging windows. It was here that my father seated me as he went to the bar to order.

I was all too intrigued by this place that had captured my father's attention. I gazed around in wonder, completely ignoring the ocean before me in favour of this mysterious location. In the back corner, I noticed, was a hallway, in which the stairs to the second floor could be found. Out of that hallway walked a woman, the likes of which I had yet to see. She walked with an unnerving balance of grace and carelessness. Her dress was a size or two too large for her, I assumed, for it hung dangerously low on her chest. It was still a wonderful dress, all things considered, with its deep green fabric and intricate black detailing. Her fine blonde hair was piled on top of her head in a loosely braided bun, several strands falling about her small face, which was powdered and darkened with haphazard eye shadow and lipstick. She briefly approached the bartender and my father, who were still talking - my father could be too agreeable with strangers, sometimes - and at one point, she looked at me. I suddenly felt very aware of my dull brown hair, scrawny frame, and pale features as she seemed to give me a once-over. I quickly turned back to face the ocean as she began to make her way toward me.

"So you're Carter's girl, ah?" she said, calling my father by his first name. He must know her very well, I thought. He must come here often. I nodded quietly, trying to inconspicuously take in the sight of the lovely creature now seated on the stool next to me. "My name's Angel, but you can call me Angie if you like."

I managed a smile.

"Not really one for words, are ya?" she observed, "Well, I'm sure we'll be friends soon enough. Your father's a good man. I'm really gonna miss him."

And just as a million questions began pushing at my lips, she was headed back down that hallway, but not before giving my father a quick kiss on the cheek. Every word she had just said had raised so many things in my mind that I didn't want there. I didn't have time to ponder them long, however, as my father finally returned with a hot cider for me and a small glass of whisky for him.

"There you go," he said with a smile, placing the steaming drink before me and taking his seat next to me. "This place is famous for their cider; they use a different spice or something. Go ahead, try it."

I took a sip, and though it was yet too scalding hot to really taste, it did promise something delicious if I only waited a few minutes. I smiled, and my father laughed, and I was suddenly willing to forget that the last five minutes had happened. Once more, we were merely a father and daughter enjoying a sunny day by the pier. About halfway into his whisky, his gaze wandered out to the sea, and his thoughts followed.

"You know, it's been too long since I've been out there. I'm not sure I even have my sea legs anymore. But that's the thing about the ocean, love. No matter how you betray her, she remains as beautiful as before. She hasn't changed since the dawn of time," he rambled as I watched him come alive with memories for the first time in nearly five years. "She is one lady who will never stop loving you as you are."

I never stopped loving you, I wanted to say. But instead, I offered a meager nod.

"Darling, I have to be serious with you now," he said, eyes still focused on the ocean but suddenly more stern, "It's time I returned to my lady."

I simply stared, wide-eyed, as he began to explain exactly how he would be leaving my life.

"There's a merchant heading to England tomorrow morning, and he offered to take me with him. Love, don't look at me like that. You're nearly a woman now. I will leave everything within the house to you, for I won't be needing much. But darling, I've arranged to have you live here with Mr. McCain," he said as he gestured to the grinning bartender, "and he'll take care of you. Whatever you need, don't worry about asking him, alright? He's a kind man if you're kind to him."

I have worked as a prostitute at the Waiting Widow ever since that very night.

Tonight, I understand Mr. McCain will be expecting me to earn upwards of five to ten clients, with the drunkards piling in so thickly that they are literally coming in through the windows. I have taken care of three already, causing my initially perfect coif to fray and my makeup to smudge, but it is about this time of night that the men stop caring. Angie, though a little withered through the years, still manages to charm client after client without effort. Upon our last conversation, she already had five men fall prey to her wiles. She is in the corner booth now, shamelessly throwing herself on a businessman and loosening his tie.

"Scarlet!"

I quickly look over to the bar, where Mr. McCain is giving me an impatient glare. His booming voice always manages to carry over the buzz of a crowd. He gestures for me to come to him.

"How's my girl doing?" he inquires.

"Three so far, sir."
"That's pretty good! Pretty good!" he cheers as he leans in closer. "But you know what, I think you can do better. I think you could easily can about ten more if you really wanted to."

"You say that like I would."

"Come on, now, Scarlet, don't you tire out on me now. There's another crowd of Irishmen popping over soon from Shankman's Bar down the street, and they'll already be nicely warmed up. You so much as bat an eyelash at them, and they'll be yours. Now go forth and be merry, love!"

He gives me a light shove into the crowd, and the hunt begins. There's a paperboy at the bar exaggerating his drunkenness; clearly his first time, and vomit would inevitably ensue shortly. The bohemians are always an easy bet, but the group of them have moved outside to engage in a little herbal relief. A hand on my back suggests a possible client, but as I turn, the poor man passes out on the floor. I pause briefly, not sure what to do about the body at my feet, before I ask the nearest gentleman to kindly help me carry the fellow to a spot where he won't be trampled.

"Compromising position for him, brilliant position for you, don't you think?" Angie quipped with a wink as she quickly led the businessman towards the upstairs. I groaned.

The timing was flawless, as just then, a mob of cheering Irishmen stormed into the pub. A few found other familiar faces in the pre-existing crowd and quickly congregated with them, while others piled in front of the bar eager for drinks. One group of them, about fifteen, chose instead to head straight for the booths and settle down. Interesting. I watched them for a moment, taking in their heavy, ragged clothing and contrasting gold chains that were tucked into their linen shirts. They talked amongst themselves in somewhat less animated fashion than the crowd surrounding them. A laugh here and there as they observed their surroundings, but on the whole, they were strangely quiet for this kind of setting.

"Good evening, miss!"

I turn to my right, where a fair-featured man in tattered clothes smiles at me intently.

"Sir," I nodded, "How are you this fine night?"

"Bloody amazing," he drawls as he draws himself closer to me. "And yourself?"

"I am well, thank you," I answer, trying to observe whether this man would be worth the pursuit. "Are you here by yourself tonight?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm like a lone wolf," he responds, adding an embarrassingly loud howl for effect. "And I am oh so lonesome."

"I am quite sure we can cure that."

"I am quite sure you can," he winked. I am getting a little uncomfortable with how he clings to the table next to us, his breath so near me that I could taste exactly what he had drunk over the course of the night, but I stay strong. Mr. McCain's eye is on me.

"Is there... is there anything in particular I can do for you, sir?" I offer in an attempt to look active in this pursuit.

"What would you like to do?"

Nothing.
"Anything your money can buy, good sir," I suggest with a brief touch of his hand. He shivered.

"Anything?" he inquires with a sickly grin.

"Anything." I draw my hand gently up his arm, watching as his face suddenly darkens with pleasure.

Suddenly I'm being pulled through the crowd, colliding with body after body as this man drags me towards the hallway. I fight to maintain my composure as his grip digs painfully into my wrist. It's not unusual, particularly at this time of night, for men to be so aggressive. But something about this man frightens me. My heart pounds as we finally break out of the crowd and dive into the dark hallway. Suddenly he flings me against the far wall and proceeds to throw me over his shoulder. He carries me, stumbling, up the stairs. I can no longer hide the fear in my eyes. With every stumble, we both come closer to a fall that would break our necks. I try to contain my shrieks. We barely make it to the top of the stairs when he lays me down, out of breath. I am frozen and cannot put together enough coherent thought to think of what to do next.

"Which room is yours, miss?"

I weakly gesture to the second room down the hall, eyes fixed on the man before me.

"Let's be at it, then."

I somehow manage to gather enough strength to get my feet beneath me, and wander into my room. I quickly say a prayer that he will at least be brief, that the bruises will be minimal.

My prayers are silenced as he enters the room, heavy-footed, and stops at the doorway.

"You'll have to forgive me, miss, I'm new at this," he grins. I can hardly stop my breath from quickening a pace. He storms toward me and crushes my neck with his grip, devours my mouth with his own. Both of us collide with the wall, and I try with the last inch of my effort to make it seem like I was at least making this worth whatever money he was going to pay for this. He makes it difficult, though, as I can feel the bruises forming on my lips.

As he hurls me down on the bed, I try to listen to the commotion downstairs. It has become one of my tricks to envision myself down there, merely drinking and chatting and, like Mr. McCain likes to announce, being merry. I imagine who I would meet, the conversations I would have. Tonight, I envision my discussions with the quiet group in the booth. I would ask who they were, where they were from. I would point out their gold chains, and they would tell me epic stories of battles won to earn them. They would laugh about how one of them didn't really deserve his, because he hid during the entire battle. He would defend himself with another grand story of adventure and courage, and I would hang on every word. I would laugh with them. I would be joyful. I would be...

Suddenly, I am snapped back to reality, with the clasp of the client's large hands around my throat. I can't breathe! His face is contorted in rage as he presses his hands ever deeper into my skin. My heartbeat becomes erratic as I begin to run out of air. I try to get a sound out, anything, but nothing escapes his grip.

"Bloody wench!" he growls through his teeth. I flail my arms pathetically in an attempt to escape, but I can't get a hold on anything. I begin to feel my face flush. My heart has begun to slow down. With the last morcel of energy left in me, I kick my knee upward, praying it will strike the very spot it needs to. He yells out in anger, and his grip loosens a little, allowing me to move slightly closer to my night table. I grab the candlestick, and with my whole body, whip it at his head. He goes down. I roll my body out from under him and onto the floor, not even thinking as I bolt out of my room and nearly throw myself down the stairs.

Mr. McCain meets me at the bottom.

"What on earth is going on, Scarlet?" he booms. I'm still regaining my breath.

"That man... that man..."

"That man is your client, Scarlet, and he's not paying to be left alone up there."

"He tried to- "

"He will pay for whatever he wanted to do. Now get back up there."

I nearly burst into tears as I clutch my neck and think of what waits for me up there. He wouldn't be unconscious for long.

"Don't do that, Scarlet. Be a big girl. Gather up your nerves and he might still leave a tip."

"I can't!"

Before he could raise his hand against me, something in the corner of his eye catches his attention.

"What did you do?!" he rages as his eyes suddenly reflect a dim amber glow.

Heaven help me. The candlestick.

"You dumb fool!" he screams as he grabs me by the arm and begins to lead me toward the stairs. "Get up there! Go!"

He throws me down on the stairs, and impatiently grabs me under my shoulders, urging me up the stairs. "I gave you everything! I fed you! I loved you! And you want to burn it all away? You can burn with it!"

A commotion stirs in the pub as people begin to scream and trip over each other to escape, having undoubtedly heard Mr. McCain, or having caught a glimpse of the orange glow which continues to grow brighter.

"Stop, sir," a voice calls out from what seems like miles away. "Let her go."

I have grown hysterical and in no position to be able to see what is going on, but I feel McCain's grip weaken.

"If you think coming to her rescue will win her for free, patron, you're mistaken," McCain bellows.

"I don't care about winning her, bartender. This building is ablaze and neither she nor you deserve to be caught in it - although I may be beginning to change my mind about you."

"You're clever, good sir. But her fate is sealed. A talent with words will not defy me."

"I highly doubt that."

"Do you challenge me?"

"Of course."

McCain's hands remove themselves entirely from my body as he takes a swing at the heroic stranger. I turn my body to see who he is. I remember... I remember seeing him... he was one of the quiet ones! His short brown hair is tousled as he quickly dodges the swing, landing McCain's fist in the wall. A playful grin sparks across his face as he eyes his pained opponent.

"Want to try that again?"

He is taunting him now, arms wide in phony submission. McCain, of course, takes the offer and hurls himself at him, his larger size hurling both of them to the ground. I peel myself off the stairs and watch, crouched, from behind the railing as the two struggle against each other. I briefly look back at the blaze above me, which has now spread to the doorway and roof. It won't be long until this whole place is in ashes.

As I look back, I realize that the mysterious man now has McCain beneath him on the ground, knife drawn and sparkling with the reflection of the fire. He backs away slowly, knife steady in his hand. He moves toward me.

"Thank you for your kindness, good sir, this has been fun. But I really must go. I'll be sure to write."

And with that, the knife was back in his pocket, and I was in his arms and flying over McCain's stunned body and through the doomed and empty pub. The cold air outside feels foreign as he finally slows his pace and sets me down.

"Are you good on your feet, miss?"

I nod, not even sure what to make of what had just happened. For all I know, this man could be just as bad or worse than the men who had nearly taken my life only moments ago. But still I walk with him, his arm supporting me. As I look around, the pier had come alive with many a soul who had come to watch the Waiting Widow burn to the ground. Cradled in the arms of the businessman was a weeping Angie, who was, despite the impending loss of her home, completely unscathed. Thank heavens.
"I have a question for you, miss. You seem like a smart lass."

We have finally broken free from the commotion of the pier and are now heading toward a completely separate beach. Docked at said beach is a beautiful ship; small but undoubtedly fast. The wood around the rails is ornamented with carvings of winged creatures unlike anything I'd ever seen, and the figurehead is a woman with great wings like a swan's. The sails have been released, and it appears that the crew is preparing for launch.

"What is your opinion on pirates?"