Page 3 of Shiver Me Satyr

“Her what?!” I shout as I throw the door open. I’ll tolerate the illicit affairs of men and women because only the gods can judge us, but never adultery. An adulterer hurt me worse than a sword through the innards, and I won’t tolerate anyone else being hurt in that manner…but I’m not on the high seas…where I’m in charge.

A man the size of a house jumps to his feet behind me.

“Okay, in we come,” says the satyr kneeling at the feet of a highborn lady. His face shines with her nectar. Her marriage box weeps between her open legs for all to see. The shoe locked at waist level by a frayed leather strap costs more than the fee to dispatch this arsehole. I’m dragged into the pantry while I collect my jaw from the floor. The door slams behind us and clicks to lock. “Can you use that thing?”

“What?”

“The sword on your belt,” the satyr says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do you know how to use it, or is it for show?”

“She’s not your type,” murmurs the noblewoman as she pulls his face back between her thighs.

“You will not continue this affair in my presence! I am Captain Betts ofPatricia’s Wish,and I will not tolerate this conduct!”

“Wait your turn, peasant,” snaps the woman as she rocks her hips against his face. She presses him to her while maintaining eye contact with me. I can’t believe this woman is getting off! I should behead them both and be done with this.Her eyes bug out, and her jaw drops as she finds her pleasure. It’s like a boat sinking. I don’t want to watch, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the spectacle.

I’m boiling with rage. I wish them every curse, plague, and pox known to this world!

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” says the satyr between puffs of air. “We can allow this pirate to dispatch your husband and escort us out of the pantry.”

“I’m a believer in love, but I refuse to dispatch anyone in the middle of a bar. You should’ve let go of your husband when your feelings shifted,” I say, moving a shelf of root vegetables that are obstructing a window. “We can climb through here and be on the boat before he breaks down the door.”

“I’m not going on a pirate ship! There are rapists and murderers aboard,” shrieks the woman.

I glare at her. “Do you think I’d run a boat of rapists and murderers?”

“That would put you at risk,” she concedes, biting her lip. “But I refuse to leave my husband! I won’t be destitute for some filthyOther.”

Hybris rocks back on his butt as if she slapped him. She steps over him like he’s a sack of potatoes and throws the door open. On the other side, the giant man glowers at us. He picks her up with one arm and swings her aside. Before I know what I’m doing, I place myself between the simpering satyr and the giant with my sword drawn. No hotheaded husband is taking the other half of our bounty from my crew!

“You and I are on the same team,” I tell the giant. “He’s a menace, but so is she. If you take care of her, I’ll make sure you never see this son-of-a-biscuit-eater ever again.”

2

Hybris

Why didn’t anyone tell me that sailing on a pirate ship would be so boring? The reports from the Governor of Carolina made it seem like we would be sinking ships and beheading merchants twice a day. My experience onPatricia’s Wishhas been the opposite—a bunch of muscular men sitting around sewing sails like in a lady’s quilting circle, but with more tattoos. They offered to teach me to sew, and I had to laugh. Me? A highborn male in my prime, wasting my days sewing? Dream on.

Since I have no assigned chores, I can lie back and scratch my itchy crotch. While I never regret an encounter with a lady, I’m often given a parting gift when I venture out of my normal circle. Let’s see…who could it have been? Lady Penelope was clean. I did a thorough examination of her marriage box before settling into her heat—as she required. I also checked Lady Margaret…right? It certainly wasn’t Lady Beatrice because her husband keeps her on a tight leash, so I’m her only affair. Ahh, but Lady Patrice…she’s a wildcard…

“If you scratch your crotch rot, you will only make it worse,” Chub grouses at me from his spot on the helm. I hung my hammock across the sterncastle deck to collect sunshine—not a lecture from the old salt. He sounds just like my father when my mother was out of earshot.

“It’s not crotch rot,” I reply like a petulant child. “I’m readjusting.”

“Oh, I’m not falling for that,” Chub shouts with a loud guffaw that has the crew on the rigging turning to look at us. “I sailed under—no, not under, I was the only one who never lay under him. I sailedforCaptain Teeth. The man had so many different ailments of the marriage rod that he built up a tolerance to them—like his body recognized the pox, Bube, or crabs and fought them off without the brain intervening. Many a night was spent in apothecaries, dispensaries, and homes of reported witches bargaining for oregano oil.”

Chub’s stories of the infamous Captain Teeth are the most exciting part of sailing. I bet the boat was one big party when Teeth was captain. Too bad I couldn’t do my summer internship with him. I bet I’d gain more skills to be used in Boston than waiting for Captain Betts to give me duties. Would Captain Teeth know the exotic ways to pleasure a woman? There are rumors of tantric ways from the East that would make a European whore blush. A world-traveling pirate captain would know if they exist…and allow for time to practice them—unlike this boat of ninnies.

Every day is the same. The crew rises to complete their morning chores—rope braiding, cleaning, and sewing. Then it’s an awful breakfast of biscuits, which are hard enough to substitute for lifting heels on my shoes. Next, they take orders from Captain Betts to set a course for the day’s sail, followed by handcrafts, reading (or learning to read as is much the case), and, aye, more sewing. Once the sun sets, it’s another round of cement biscuits, and the night crew takes over the boat. Those who’ve been up all day enjoy themselves by drinking, dancing, playing music, and telling stories. Even then, someone is alwayssewing. Soon, I’ll either break mentally or break my resolve and learn to sew.

“I bet the crew didn’t sew so much when Teeth was Captain,” I muse out loud.

“A hole in the sail could spell our doom, Young Hybris,” Chub lectures from his place at the helm. “The wind tears through the snag to slow us down and decrease our ability to steer. If you ignore a small hole, you only end up with a bigger hole—one that tears the cloth from ye mast. Then what will you do with no sail? Sit idle in the ocean until your crew starves or a hurricane spins ye dizzy. Want to be a pirate? Learn to sew.”

“I never wanted to be a pirate,” I grouse as I uncoil myself from the hammock. The afternoon sun blisters my sensitive skin—unlike the leather casings on most pirates aboard. My face burns as brightly as the infection growing in my drawers. I should retire below deck to search for the latest gossip or nap. Most likely a nap since there aren’t enough people aboard to have juicy gossip. If anyone is getting laid, there aren’t walls on the orlop deck to prevent everyone from listening in, but nobody cares who buggers whom. There are no scandals.

The crew’s acceptance and support of one another is positively dreadful. I’ve never missed the double-crossing, backstabbing, and two-faced nature of Boston more. We always had someone to talk about and, on a good week, someone’s life to ruin. Pirates live by this stupid code that spoils all my fun.

“Good thing you never aspired to take the helm,” Chub says with a smile that says he knows more than he’s saying. “You’d be rubbish at it. You may have the education of letters and figures, but your work ethic stinks worse than your trousers. In the five days you’ve been aboard, Greenhorn has learned to read a new chapter. He’s your age and catching up to you insmarts. What have you done to better yourself? Caught up on sleep and irritated the dickens out of your pox?”

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