A Smuggler’s Pact

By Su Haddrell

---

From the brow of the Starling, Maeve watched her crew loot the beaten schooner. The vessel sat low in the water, its torn sails flicking listlessly. It had the air of a fighter at the end of a bout, barely able to stand, the splinters in its mast like cuts drawn across its skin.

Captain Stuart appeared by her side and she wrinkled her nose. He stank of blood and sweat and the four-day drinking binge he’d returned from just in time to take the merchant ship. They had intended to re-purpose and rename the schooner, but the battle hadn’t gone as cleanly as Stuart had planned. The Starling had sailed in close and her carronades had torn through most of the other vessel’s hull while her guns had reduced the sails to shreds. Now it would cost more to repair the damn thing than it would to just dismantle it and use it for parts. Maeve ran a hand through her mop of dark hair and then retied her bandanna.

“A worthwhile battle!” said her captain, grinning with the thrill of it. Maeve scowled.

“We could have taken them with less aggression, sir. That pretty thing would have been a useful addition to the fleet. Now all we’ve got is a crew of dead merchants, a dozen guns and whatever they got stored in the hull. Not exactly profitable.”

“Well, the men were itching for a fight,” Captain Stuart said. “Least we didn’t lose any of them and we’ll still have plenty to trade at the port with a couple of good manifests to show off to the officials. All-in-all, a good days work!” He clapped her on the back but Maeve didn’t react. The captain sighed.

“You’ll get your chance at the next one that comes in,” he said. “I know you want to have a crack at your own vessel, but I need you here right now.” He sidled close and slid an arm around her waist. “C’mon, I’m sure I can order you to step away from first mate duties to join me for a little while...” His breath stank of alcohol and Maeve’s temper snapped. She spun on her heel and raised a fist, but the captain was too quick. He gripped her forearm and had it pinned behind her back before she could even reach for her knife.

“Now then pet, no need to get your claws out. Our deal still stands.” Maeve twisted her head and snapped her teeth at his nose but Captain Stuart wrenched her arm further and she moaned through her clenched jaw. “I could have you any time I want, kitten. Just you remember that. You serve at my pleasure y’hear?”

A young lad ran to them, looking harried and nervous. His skin was the colour of molasses and his thick hair was clipped close to his scalp. The captain released Maeve from his grasp and she relaxed and shrugged her shoulders, refusing to let him have the satisfaction of seeing her in pain.

“What is it, Henry?”

The lad bobbed his head at the captain and then the first mate. “We’ve got trouble, sir. The crew don’t want to take the barges through the river route. They’re scared.”

Stuart huffed and slapped his hand against the bow of the ship. “What the devil they got to be scared of? They just took down one of the largest merchant vessels we’ve had passing through in months!”

Maeve nodded slightly at Henry to dismiss him. “I’ll deal with this,” she said, and the lad darted away like a rat among the corn sacks.

“I told you about this the other week,” she said to Stuart. “Half the shipment we sent down the river route didn’t show up at the auctioneers’. They weren’t best pleased, as the spice merchants were in town to buy and the bulk load of madri wasn’t there to sell.”

“We lost a whole shipment of madri?” Stuart said in surprise. “When?”

“About eight nights ago. The barges disappeared. Now the crew’s mad with rumours of magic and voodoo and half of them won’t even go near the swamps. You were in your cups when it happened, I’d be surprised if you even knew what day it was.”

Stuart chose to ignore the jibe and paced back and forth across the brow, his boots clipping sharply against the wood. “Bloody superstition and storytelling. That’s what you get for taking on locals,” he snapped, chastising himself more than her.

“Sir, we need that route—it’s the best way of getting the goods into port under cover.”

“I don’t even know if it’s worth it,” Stuart argued. “It takes a week just to get through the damn bayou.”

“The lads know it well enough though. It’s the safest because it has the fewest patrols—you know that.”

Stuart nodded, his earlier anger forgotten. “Aye,” he said. “We need to keep that route open if we’re going to be taking more ships. That’s going to make us more of a target, but they’ll be spread so thin, they still won’t be able to hunt us down along the rivers.”

“What do you want to do, sir?” Maeve asked, half knowing what was coming.

“Go with them. Escort the barges into St. Pascon see that the goods arrive safely. If the crew sees you’re not afraid, they’ll put their superstitions aside. The damned shipment probably got eaten by a bloody alligator, but the last thing I need is a crew who won’t do as they’re ordered.”

Maeve sighed and looked up at her captain. Far be it for him to investigate and put himself in harm’s way. At least she was disposable. She balled her fists and stared across the green water to the beaten schooner.

“Aye, sir.”

They took five piroques in the end, three from the Starling and two from the fallen merchant ship. The crew sat two to a boat, with the cargo secured at their feet. They left in the early dawn, when the air was still cool and damp, and the humidity hadn’t yet risen to stifling levels.

The fog rolled in from the sea, twisting and curling through the cypress trees. Green moss hung down from the low branches like horsehair and algae clung to the trunks, a carpet of green that smelled musty and ancient in the still air. The swamp was never silent. The insects and frogs chirped a song of their own and the burweed hissed constantly from the gentle tide of water that flowed through it. The piroques glided silently through the water, slicing through the field of duckweed like blades.

In truth, Maeve was relieved to step away from the Starling for a time. Her spats with Captain Stuart were growing more frequent and it was becoming harder by the day to resists his leering. When he was drunk, she could distract him with whores, but he had more of a temper when sober, and his advances were increasingly violent. She’d earned herself a decent enough reputation by siding with him at the beginning, but she was beginning to wonder if she’d be better off on her own.

They rowed gently through the river until midafternoon, the canopy of trees overhead casting the swamp into a dusky green. Shards of sunlight stabbed through the branches, accenting the wildflowers and lilies that floated on the cloudy river. They stayed silent for the most part, the thick miasma of the swamp cutting off any need for conversation. Voices carried easily through the marshland and they couldn’t afford to be caught unawares by patrolling officials. The crew were nervous, but not about getting caught. The local authorities couldn’t spare enough men to patrol the rivers and they knew it. But they were nervous about more supernatural terrors.

The heat thickened until the air was steaming and sweltering in the gloom. Maeve tugged at her shirt, finding it sticky with sweat. Their navigator, a dark wooden block of a man named Remy, changed direction and guided them though a thick swell of grasses, disturbing dragonflies into flight. Signs of civilisation began to appear like a fungus growing over rock. A hand painted sign nailed to a tree warnid trespassers to beware. Lanterns hung from long poles dug deep into the marsh. Broken wooden jetties crumbled into the water.

They slowly pushed through until a building took shape in the murk, its lanterns flickering in its windows. The sound of a piano tinkled out through the thick forest and the spicy smell of hot stew carried on the muggy air. They tied the boats up against the jetty and headed into the crooked wooden inn. The hostel was empty save for a couple of local men who sat playing cards in a corner, a musician half-heartedly tapping at the piano keys, and an old man wiping down the ancient bar. Maeve’s crew settled themselves quite happily and for the first time that day, the conversation picked up until they were laughing and joking easily in the hot tavern. Maeve ensured they were fed and watered and then went outside to sit on the porch and drink.

“Surprised to see you out in these parts,” Cornelius Chenier appeared and sat down beside her. The old bench seat creaked beneath their combined weight and then settled. Cornelius had tended the bar from the day he had built it and he was as old as the cypress trees that grew around the place. His hair was thin and grey and hung long past his ears. He wore a floppy black hat low over his brow and his cotton shirt had holes at the elbows.

Maeve shrugged. “Didn’t get a lot of choice in the matter. Crews gettin’ scampy over damn ghosts.”

Cornelius grinned. He shifted and pulled a pipe from his trouser pocket, fishing around the other pocket for his tobacco. He set about packing and lighting the pipe and then sucked and puffed with enthusiasm until he was satisfied. “Plenty o’ ghosts in this here swamp,” he said. “Won’t do ‘em no harm tho, just spirits wit’ no home themselves.”

Maeve snorted. “Don’t you go telling that to them in there,” she said. “They won’t leave the place if you do!”

“Seems to me that’d be good for business then,” Cornelius returned with good humour. Maeve grunted and sipped at her bottle. She leaned back in the seat and stretched her legs, crossing her feet at the ankles. “Well, you got us for the night, so you’ll have enough coin from that,” she said. “We’ll be out of your hair by dawn.”

They sat in companionable silence for a time, listening to the frogs and watching the mist swirl and twist across the wetlands. The night drew in and glowworms gently bobbed through the air, their eerie yellow lights casting soft patterns in the darkness. Maeve sighed in contentment. It was good to be off the ship. She felt at home in the swamps, surrounded by the thick green vines and the labyrinth of waterways. Part of her wanted to stay behind at the crooked inn, helping Cornelius cook his stews, tending bar when she was needed.

She smirked at herself. She knew she’d be bored stupid after a few days. She had a skill with a blade and a thirst for fire in her blood that was as bad as Captain Stuart himself and she knew she’d never be happy unless she was knee deep in trouble and winning the fight out of it. Once the run to St. Pascon was through, perhaps she’d need to find herself a new kind of trouble. The way they were going, it was only going to be another two days travel, all being well. She thought back onto the missing madri batch. It was unusual to lose cargo on the river routes.

“You heard of anything odd going on around these parts?” she said suddenly. Cornelius had dozed off and woke with a snort.

“Hngh?” he asked, searching around himself for his fallen pipe.

“We had a madri cargo disappear a few days back. Crews all spooked coz folk didn’t come back. You know if anythin’s going on?”

Cornelius shrugged. “Not seen any officials in these parts if that’s what you mean. They can’t navigate their cocks to their arses, let alone find their way around this place.” Maeve barked a laugh.

“I meant anything with the stink of devilry about it. I love this place as much as you, but you know how it gets when folk start to get hot blooded.”

Cornelius took a long suck from his pipe and looked out across the green waters.

“Mama Laveau said somethin’ the other night. She been seein’ more Will ‘o the Wisp than normal, but it might just be the season,” he mused. “She was out gathering herbs an’ came across a big ol’ dead patch of land. Pond water was as black as sin and still as the dead. Moss and vines all rotted and stinkin’.”

“What did she do? Did she know what it was?” Maeve wanted to know.

“You know Mama —there’s only so much occult voodoo she’ll get involved in. She got out o’ there and didn’t look back. Whatever devilry be goin’ on, it’s best left alone.” Cornelius rose to his feet and stretched his lanky frame. “You best get you and your crew some sleep, lassie, before they get themselves too half cut to be of any use to you.”

Maeve grinned. “Aye, you’re not wrong.”

Remy led the crew through the darkness back to the boats the following morning. They were sleepy and drink-fogged but followed orders without complaint. Maeve took the oars in the fifth boat to follow up the rear, feeling the need to exercise her muscles rather than sit placidly in the piroque for a further day. Henry sat up at the back of the boat, his eyes drooping with every sweep of the paddle.

The crew were subdued as they glided smoothly along the river in the early dawn, splashing gently through the water. The buzz of insects was hypnotic and Maeve had to wake herself on more than one occasion. The humid air was warm and soft rock of the boat was soothing. Maeve felt herself drifting...

A sharp cry rang out up ahead. Maeve’s eyes snapped open and suddenly they were in the midst of a thick fog the colour of dead fish. She turned around but could barely see the barge behind her and the three further ahead had vanished entirely. She pulled hard on the oars, pressing the wood through the pea coloured water.

Another cry, strangled and suddenly cut off.

Then, a scream.

Maeve pulled hard and then handed the oars to Henry, whose eyes were wide and filled with fear. “Keep rowing!” she barked, when he swapped with her and then sat motionless on the bench. He snapped to attention and nodded, pulling against the water with fierce determination. Maeve stood up, balancing herself easily against the rocking of the vessel. She squinted through the thick mist, seeing nothing but grey. Something long and dark moved through the air up ahead. The piroque cut through the water and suddenly the mist cleared and Maeve saw...everything.

Several large tree roots rose up out of the brackish water, whipping at the fog and stirring up the water. The two remaining boats teetered back and forth on the turbulent swamp, their occupants clutching desperately at the sides. As the mist cleared further, Maeve gazed over the burweed and saw a huge tree. The thick trunk was blackened and twisted with knots like massive tumours growing across its bark. The branches were skeletal and crooked, reaching down towards the barges like scratching fingers. The vines at the base of the tree flexed and grew, stretching themselves across the water. A tendril of green caught against one of the oars and the men screamed, falling over themselves to cut it and throw it into the water. They were too slow. The vine thickened and more threads travelled along it, coiling tightly around the paddle until they grasped the side of the boat. The creeper knotted around the seats and pulled at the little piroque.

One of the men leapt into the water. Immediately a thick brown tree root snatched him up. He shrieked and the root squeezed, severing his body into two and cutting the sound off. The remaining man pulled out his knife and slashed wildly at the vines that were trailing around the little boat. They began to climb up his legs, knotting and entwining around his body, pulling his arms close and wrapping him tightly. His screams were cut off when the creeper enveloped his head and the vessel was pulled beneath the waves. The two men in the last remaining piroque frantically paddled in circles, their panicked cries carrying through the fog. The vines and roots slowly snaked through the green water towards the boat as though stalking their prey.

Maeve took in the entire scene with a calmness born of blood and fire. A shadow of movement caught her eye. “Take us nearer the tree!” she hissed to Henry, who stared at her blankly. “Do it!”

The lad pulled at the oars once more and the craft drifted towards the little island. A woman stood beside the disfigured old tree, her arms raised, her eyes blazing red with magic. Maeve drew her pistol and jumped into the shallows. She cocked the hammer and aimed. “I see you swamp witch!” she cried. “You let my crew go!”

The creature dropped her arms and turned to face Maeve. Her face creased into a wide grin and her teeth were blackened and sharp. “You have no power, girl. Who are you to order me so?”

“I am Maeve Chenier, first mate of the Starling and daughter of Cornelius Chenier! By the Laws of Arcadia, I command you to release my crew!”

The witched laughed, a deep cackle that cracked like dry wood. She raised her arms and the vines began their slow swim forward once more. “You have no command over me daughter of Chenier! These are my territories. Marked from here to the still pond and the Batreyu Island. You trespass on my domain and you pay with blood.”

The vines grasped another one of the men and began to coil around his legs and arms. His companion pulled out his knife and began cutting furiously but the plant wound tighter and tighter.

“These territories were marked by Arcadia Decree,” Maeve argued. She held her pistol steady, horribly aware that she only had one shot. The swamp witch scoffed.

“The Arcadia Decree is of no consequence. Its magicks are old and weak. This is my land now.” Her eyes flashed with red once more and the crewmate screamed and died. Maeve cursed loudly. She turned to the man in the remaining boat and to Henry who was cowering in their own vessel.

“When I fire this shot, you get out of here as fast as you can. Go back the way you came, you hear me?”

“But Miss...” Henry stuttered.

“Go back the way you came. That’s an order!” Maeve hissed. She spun on her heel, raised her pistol and fired the shot.

Her aim was true.

The swamp witch fell backwards, landing on the soft earth with a thump. The writhing brown roots and green vines dropped into the murky water with a splash.

“Go!” Maeve gestured, but didn’t turn to see if they obeyed. The creature kicked out at the ground, her moans deep and guttural. Maeve walked over to where she lay and knelt beside her. The swamp witch squirmed, clutching fistfuls of grass beneath her. Maeve watched the steam rise from the wound in her chest. She was healing quickly.

Maeve opened her belt pouch and began to reload her pistol. “I grew up in these lands,” she said calmly, as though sitting for a quiet drink again outside the inn. “I know the history. I know the magic. I know it’s weakened.” The witch moaned again and glared balefully up at Maeve. Her eyes flickered red, but she couldn’t hold the spell and they settled back to muddy brown.

“I care not for your history, girl,” she hissed.

Maeve shrugged. “What do you care for?” she asked.

The swamp witch seemed to hesitate. She was clearly unused to negotiation. She must have known only distrust for people—humans who fought and destroyed and used up everything around them until nothing was left. The wound in her chest sizzled and she wheezed uncomfortably. “I want my territory. I want to feed.”

“Mmhmm.” replied Maeve conversationally. She finished with her pouch, cocked the gun and held it to the swamp witch’s head. “I am not in the habit of killing the inhabitants of these marshes unless they threaten me and mine,” she said. “We both grew up here. You have a right to this land as much as I. I believe we should come to an accord.”

The witch glanced along the barrel of the gun. “An accord?” she hissed. She had ceased twitching. The wound in her chest still smoked but had stopped sizzling.

Maeve nodded. “There are men who would take this land as their own. We use these swamps for our own ends, but there are men who try to stop us. In exchange for our crossing your lands, I propose we bring a sacrifice. You receive blood. We receive passage. What say you?”

The witch’s eyes burned red for a long moment and Maeve felt the huge deformed tree beside her shift and move its roots. She heard the vines creeping up behind her, the soft hiss of the plant coiling around itself towards her. She didn’t turn around, refusing to react. She kept her eyes steady on the swamp witch and tipped the pistol very slightly, preparing to fire. The magick left the witch’s eyes. There was a thud behind Maeve as the huge vines dropped to the ground, sounding far too close for comfort.

“You got guts, girl,” the witch hissed. She batted the pistol away from her head with a gnarled hand and sat up. “Get that thing away from me.”

Maeve tucked the weapon back into her belt and rose to her feet, reaching out a hand to the swamp witch, which, after a moment of hesitation, she took. The creature was smaller than on first appearance. Her face was yellowed like a dying leaf and her hair was a nest of straw laced with grass and lichen. She wore a gown of sorts, woven from moss, and it hung over her shoulders like a thin blanket.

The witch stretched out her arm and opened her palm. Thin roots began to grow from its centre, knotting and twisting themselves over and over until they formed a small ornament in her hand. The knot was smooth and deep brown, the colour of swamp mud on a summer’s day. It was quite beautiful. “Take it. Whoever you choose to cross these lands, have ‘em bring my token. I will sense them. Bring token and blood. You will be allowed to travel.”

“You have my gratitude, witch,” Maeve said. The swamp witch grunted and began to shuffle away. The thick shrubs and vines opened up around her.

“Morag. Not witch. Morag,” she said. Maeve gripped the token tightly and as the marsh swallowed Morag completely, she raised her hand in farewell

Maeve turned to leave, idly wondering how the hell she was going to get back to the Starling. Henry sat in their piroque just a few paces away. He quickly rose to his feet, his mouth hanging open in wonder.

“How...what...how...?” he stammered.

“I thought I ordered you to get out of here!” Maeve snapped. Henry closed his mouth and then shrugged.

“Couldn’t leave you behind, Miss,” he said shyly. Maeve raised her eyebrows and climbed into the boat.

“Your own damned fault if you’d been killed, then,” she said.

Henry sat down and took the oars, but rested them in his lap, unwilling to move. “You must have powerful magicks Miss,” he said with some awe.

Maeve shrugged. “Not really,” she said. “Unless you count knowing all the lore around these parts.”

Henry shook his head in wonder. “But how’d you stop her, Miss? She was going to kill you! When I saw all them creepers going after you...”

Maeve stared out across the bayou and watched the water slip back into stillness. Insects droned low over the water and she spotted the dark shadow of an alligator swimming purposefully towards the bodies of the dead. “Not everyone is the enemy, Henry,” she said softly. “She was just defending her territory. Much like we defend our own.”

“But Miss, she had magic!” Henry stared at her reverently.

Maeve dragged her eyes away from the beauty of bayou and scowled at the lad. “Was just nature,” she snapped. “ And we got ourselves a new ally, provided we got the blood to sacrifice for it.”

“Powerful ally to have then, Miss, if she wants blood.” Henry positioned the oars and then guided the boat out of the shallows and turned it around. “We going back to the Starling? What you going to say to Captain Stuart?”

Maeve gazed over at the deformed black tree and ran her fingers over the wooden knot she’d been gifted. They’d lost eight crew members, a dozen crates of supplies and would return back to the Starling empty-handed. Captain Stuart would likely lose his temper and she’d be under his thumb forever more. She suddenly felt very tired. Siding with Captain Stuart was no longer advantageous, she realised. If she’d gotten to the swamp witch sooner, she might have saved more of the crew. The guilt gnawed at her gut.

It was time she took on more responsibility. It wasn’t just enough to look after herself. Most of the crew came from the wetlands—it was time she looked after them too. God knows Captain Stuart wasn’t interested in doing so. While he still captained the Starling, whether it be from the deck or the local flophouse, none of the crew were getting a fair deal and it was about time that changed. Maeve grinned slightly. Maybe there was a way out from under his thumb.

“Everything alright, Miss?” said Henry, watching her carefully.

“I was just thinking on your question,” she said. “What are we going to say to Captain Stuart?”

“He’s going to be spittin’ feathers when he sees us come back,” Henry said nervously. “I ain’t looking forward to it, that’s for sure.”

Maeve studied lad with more care. He was lean, but a couple of summers on the water had strengthened him. He was loyal and knew how to make himself useful.

“You don’t like Captain Stuart much, do you Henry?” she asked gently. The lad looked away, but nodded slightly and carried on paddling slowly with long smooth strokes.

“None of the crew do, Miss,” he said shyly. “He’s too free with the whip and too stingy with the loot.”

Maeve nodded slowly. “That he is.” she agreed. She leaned forward on the bench, resting her elbows on her knees and toying with the wooden trinket between her fingers. “I was thinking it was about time the captain made one of these river route runs himself,” she said, watching Henry carefully. “Maybe introduce him to our new ally.” Henry was quiet for a moment, pulling on the oars as though he could do so for days.

“I don’t think that he’d come all the way out here,” he said, staring out over the water. Maeve waited, hoping she’d gauged the boy’s loyalties correctly. “You’d need to give him a good reason to make the run himself,” he said after a moment. He turned his dark eyes to Maeve and his gaze was steady. A smile twisted at the corner of his mouth. “Something that would convince him to make the expedition.”

“Something like a decent hoard of gold that we happened upon?” Maeve said.

“I reckon you could convince him, Miss.”

“I reckon I could too,” she said. “And the crew?”

Henry thought carefully and then shrugged. “Half of them’ll scarper and the other half would be loyal. What with you and your powerful magicks.” He grinned impishly.

Maeve scowled again. “Weren’t no magicks, I told you that!” she snapped.

“Well...they don’t know that.” Henry said. Maeve cast her eyes out across the bayou once more, a smile playing at her lips. The lad pulled on the oars and the wetlands swished softly against the hull.

“You know what, Henry?” she said after a while.

“What, Miss?”

“I think you’d make me a very good first mate.”

“Um. Thank you, Miss.”

Maeve pocketed the wood knot and sat back in the base of the vessel. A snake slid smoothly across a branch above them and up ahead, a heron took flight, its wide wings flapping lazily in the hot bayou air. The piroque cut smoothly through the marshes until the cypress trees and hanging moss engulfed them completely.