I move towards the door. My father grasps my arm to stop me. I take out the dagger hidden between my breasts and place the blade on his throat.
"Do not force me to do it," I threaten him. "I would not hesitate."
"I know."
"Let go of me, then."
He slowly loosens his fingers. Then he turns away from me and collapses into an armchair. His downcast eyes lose themselves in the flames of the little fireplace.
"All that effort to lose you once again, then?" he moans.
"It was not all to no avail," I observe.
"Very well. I will not stop you leaving. Just… grant me a few hours. I need to know your story."
And I tell it. Everything. From my romance with my Latin teacher to the attack on the Spanish galleon. We laugh together when I speak of my fervent admirer Jaime and the improbable nickname given to me by the seamen of the Anarkhia. I tell him of Brother Marcellin and John. I hide nothing of the manner in which I killed him. I explain my relationship with Steven. I admit that I love him as much as I hate him. Yes, everything. I tell all. And he listens to me, at last taking on the role of a father. I confess my new identity and the plan I have been preparing ever since I awoke from the fever. He smiles. His gold will not be wasted by a band of bloodthirsty pirates.
When I see the first rays of the sun light up his face through the little window of this private parlour, I hasten to finish my tale. I fear that I will not have enough time. I told the Irishman to get out as speedily as possible with his crew. What if he decided to leave town in the morning?
"Do you know how proud I am of you?" he suddenly worries, taking my hand.
All through my childhood I dreamed of hearing that sentence. What surprises life has in store for us! It has waited until I freed myself of parental consent before offering me this gift. I needed to understand that I did not need it to go forward.
"Father," I thank him with a kiss on his bearded cheek. "You have succeeded. You have saved me from myself."
"I live near Pontchartain Lake, you will always be welcome on the plantation."
"I am sorry to inform you that you would not like the ideas that I might cultivate in the minds of your workers."
"Ah, my daughter," he guffaws, shaking his head from left to right.
"Till we meet again," Monsieur Basselin.
"Fare thee well, Sirena."
I had felt that only once in my life. The feeling that I was free to do what I wanted with my life. The jubilation and gratitude for the chance I had been offered to write a new story. I felt strong, ready to embrace this bright future with my husband-to-be, Mister McPherson. I thought I had all the freedom. Mother's spite could not reach me across the Atlantic Ocean.
Protected by the large branches of the huge Angel oak tree, I was accompanied by my beautiful cousin Claire. Her gentle husband was striving to make a fire with his henchman Monsieur Dubois. My friend Hélène, light-hearted at the idea of the future wedding preparations, was joking about the strange accent of the Scots. I remember that I was laughing.
Far from France, far from the Acres, far from l'Aigle. A thousand leagues from my past. A moment which is etched in my being.
And a moment later, I met Steven for the second time in my life.
I run, I slip, I almost fall. The crowd is thick in this early hour. Trading wares waits for no man in Louisiana. Fortunately, it is not a long way to reach the docks.
My initial plan was to kill the man who had ordered me to be kidnapped and retrace my steps. I had imagined taking the route back and trying to hide the blood on my hands. It is so much easier this way.
The sun is beginning to become clearer behind the banks of the Mississippi. The Anarkhia is still there. I stand there watching it for a while. The boat has become my home. It is mine.
Steven is nowhere to be seen. I must wait. I know what he has done. He has hidden the chest under a sliding plank in his cabin and got drunk to bury the pain of leaving me.
I am quivering with impatience. Yesterday I heard say that he had a meeting early this morning to negotiate the transport of an illegal cargo of tobacco. There he is. How handsome Captain Steven Kelly is. He walks down the gangplank, his face dour. Cook is with him. Rotten Rick busies himself. He intends to escort them.
No, I need him.
I rush forward. Steven disappears round a street corner.
"Rick, get back on board," I order the pirate who has just landed.
"You?" he is surprised.
"Quick, captain's orders.
"Very well," he answers, amused and giving me a rotten-toothed smile.
I follow him and pull up the gangplank.
"We are leaving!" I shout. "Everybody up! Untie the mooring ropes. Leng to the helm, we are taking to the open sea. Bappé, look after the sails. Nick, Léon, make haste!"
The pirates are all still watching me.
"La Sirena…" a tearful Jaime gushes.
"The first one I see dawdling, will join John at the bottom of the ocean. That goes for you too Jaime, if you don't stop weeping. Look after the sails!"
"What about the Irishman and Cook?" Léon asks.
"We have the bounty. We have no need of them now. If you want to stay on the dock, I am forcing no man to follow me."
For a moment, I fear that I am losing Bappé and Leng. Rick is gleeful and has already unknotted two ropes. Finally, they all nod. I would not have been able to sail without their expert know-how.
Everyone is busy. Gwewa and Adjo have joined the troop on deck. They greet me as if we had never been apart. She knew I would be back. Men fear having a woman on board. Now the Anarkhia has two of them. And one is a witch. They are right to be fearful.
"So, Sirena, you bleed wicked master?" she asks with a predatory smile.
"It was pointless."
"A pity," she sulks.
"We may die if we leave now?" Adjo asks in a rough approximation of French. "White man kill for boat."
"Exactly," I reply without moving a hair. "Is this a problem?"
His nod sends a cold chill down my spine. His eyes are filled with hatred; the eyes of a killer. My new crew members are consumed with restrained violence. Good.
The ship moves and slowly leaves the dock. I watch the milling crowd. I feel his presence. The Irishman.
There he is, standing on the other bank. I would recognize his silhouette anywhere. He had forgotten his three-cornered hat on the deck. He was coming back for it.
The wind gets up. Its breeze caresses my skin and whispers a word in my ear.
Freedom.
It is no longer my father's voice that I hear. It is my own voice echoing on the torrent of the river like a mermaid's song. I place the hat on my head. It fits me.
Steven smiles at me from the harbour. He understands me. This is quite normal, since he helped to fashion me. Cook is trying out to the bewildered passers-by around him for help. His naturally passive state has been replaced by feverish agitation. Hilarious.
Steven gets smaller and smaller. I miss him already, my handsome Irishman.
"Where to now, captain?" asks Nick.
My sailors await my answer, their shining faces bathed in the light of the rising sun.
"Tortuga, my friends. We have a score to settle…"