Yo-Ho-Ho For The Jolly Old Fellow!

When your historian received a summons in the unmistakable handwriting of Capt. Morgan Corbye inviting, nay, demanding that I join her for seasonal libations aboard the Winged Adventure, I thought it best to forward to her a small overture by means of a messenger, our last encounter having left me somewhat in her disfavour. When the boy arrived at my apartments following the delivery with his ears, nose and digits intact, I felt it safe to assume that at least for the nonce, the good Captain had forgiven my transgressions. Not wishing to commit another social faux pas, I had decided (and wisely) to forgo presenting Captain Corbye with a better grade of rum; her preferences in that regard are carved in stone and no man dares offer anything but her usual. I sent along eggnog instead, a beverage for which the Captain has a great fondness (when liberally laced with the aforementioned rum), and one which does not keep well at sea. That I should suspect an ulterior motive never crossed my mind, demonstrating how easily we are lulled into false perceptions.

The Captain met me at the railing, handed me down to the deck with the gracious demeanor of a high-society dame and escorted me to her somewhat inelegantly appointed cabin where a single lantern illuminated the upturned trunk which sufficed as her table. It was then I saw the error in my assumptions, for on the table was the Swear Box. I had last seen it in the hands of our timid village parson.

Now it must be told that Captain Corbye has at her command a wealth of invective the likes of which is not often found even at sea. Her bold language was how she became acquainted with the Swear Box. The clergy had been making the rounds of the pubs whilst several legitimate vessels were in the harbour and the ships' crews taking liberty on shore, for sailors will swear and it was the cleric's purpose to fine them, funds thus raised to benefit the sea-widows of the town. Most sailors obliged him with prodigious and purposeful donations; benevolence is in their nature. Capt. Corbye, on the other hand, refused to pay up a cent for a particularly descriptive oath she had vented upon the innkeeper and all his antecedents. That was the last I had seen of the Swear Box, and now it was resting beside my gift of eggnog and the Captain's diminishing store of rum. I knew that I would be expected to respond in kind to each curse Morgan Corbye uttered, but only I would pay the fines she set. Oh, the parson would get his Swear Box back, no doubt about that, and the widows would eat well over the holidays, but my purse would be a great deal lighter before this night was through. Morgan Corbye had found a means to aid the needy in true piratical style.

Portents

The old gypsy cringed when the curtains of her sitting room were drawn back abruptly and a handful of silver coins were tossed on the wool shawl covering her divining table. The voice was one she remembered all too well, and though the payment was shabby compared to the contributions from her regular clients, she did not argue when she was addressed harshly. "'Tis naught but mumbo-jumbo, ye thievin' witch, though ye put mese'f in th' right quarter fer a tidy bit o' commerce last we met. I be thinkin' ye knows summat wot most ain't privy to, wot wi' cossettin' th' Guv'nor's purty new wife like she were a pet poodle. I thinks them ears o' yourn ain't quite so deaf as ye makes 'em out t' be, an' I'm wantin' t' know wot's afoot. Get on wi' yer hocus-pocus, ye canny ol' charlatan, an' be givin' me th' information 'owever ye wants t' dress it." Morgan Corbye sat down on the stool opposite the fortune-teller with a loud clatter of armaments. From her belt she drew her infamous black-bladed dagger and banged the hilt on the table. "Get on wi' it, I says!"

The gypsy woman drew the Queen of Pentacles from her Tarot deck and said, "Significator, a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman of power." She then passed the deck to Capt. Corbye who shuffled and riffled it until the old woman feared the cards would be damaged. Then the pirate cut the cards into three extravagantly unequal piles and placed them face down, barely within the gypsy's reach. In the manner of hundreds who had gone before her, the fortune-teller dealt the cards into an ancient Celtic pattern, speaking a formula as she did so.

"The Ten of Rods covers you." She paused for effect, as if she thought her divination skills might be able to read a reaction from the pirate. She was awarded a glare which left no doubt that she was to continue and quickly, or be at peril for her life. "The Tower reversed crosses you." Of all her patrons, Morgan Corbye was the one who most frequently had that particular card turn up in that particular position. The gypsy suspected her of having marked the deck. "The Seven of Cups crowns you. The Four of Cups is beneath you. The Six of Swords is behind you." This latter card was reversed, another frequent occurrence when Capt. Corbye sat opposite. So far, there had been no surprises. The gypsy could have told this portion of the Captain's fortune without any cards at all, but now she had to venture onto shaky and dangerous ground. "The Nine of Rods is before you." This was a momentary reprieve. Now she knew that Morgan Corbye's inner strength was not in question. Surely it would carry the day in the remaining cards.

The diviner laid out the final column from bottom to top: Four of Swords, Seven of Rods reversed, the Empress reversed and the Five of Cups. She paused to read the portents for only a moment, but was yanked from her meditation by the Captain's abrupt, "Well?" and the bright sound of silver against silver as a cairngorm brooch was slapped down among the paltry coins. The stone alone was worth half a year's visits from the Governor's wife, and the silver setting would stock the old woman's larder with a plentiful store of dried beef and flour, should she happen to survive her interpretation of the cards. Drawing a deep breath and marshalling all her skills, she read the augury.

"You come to me uncertain, emboldened by some success and yet finding too much opposition in your ventures for your liking. You want to know if you are in a bad patch, if the circumstances which go against you are out of your control. You want to know if you have the strength to endure what is being handed to you. I will tell you what I see.

"You desire change, Morgan Corbye. You are dissatisfied and bored. You want adventure. You have something behind you which is as yet unresolved, something you long to bend to shape by force of action. I tell you now that you have the strength to do this, and it is easily within your grasp. Take action, but be discreet and cautious with your time and resources. Do not expend them hastily or without careful consideration. Indecision is your enemy. It will lead you into the maze of anxiety and confusion which you already know and therefore fear. Do not let fear master you, and do not be distracted by small losses which shall pilot you to greater gains. Do these things, Captain Corbye, and you shall have fair sailing."

The knuckles of the hand gripping the haft of the black dagger whitened, but the point did not move as Capt. Corbye picked up the cairngorm with her other hand. The gypsy's eyes widened at the uncouth retraction of a proffered stipend. The pirate's expression hardened as she brought the dagger to bear on the point of the diviner's nose. "Ye bloody fraud!" she burst out, and gave the gut-shuddering croak which served her as a laugh. "I paid ye fer a dark an' dangerous man in me life, an' all ye've got t' offer is a bit o' me own 'istory recited? Dry up!" With a final gesture, she knocked the table to one side, scattering the cards, dealt and deck alike. Had she looked back, she would have seen the Knight of Swords upright beside her Queen.