The Moonlight Crew


     On a cloudy day in late March, all Christina de Haverford could do to stave off boredom was read the newspaper, again. The Betchley Post-Journal was a small newspaper, for a small town. Most issues were only two pages, folded four ways. The news from far away came weeks after it happened, and local news rarely came at all. Weather and lifestyle items filled the empty space
      Much of the usable news was about weather, ports, lighting conditions, what boats were coming in on what days. This was the chitter-chatter of a coastal town in the year 1889. Christina knew that she would have to accept it, or leave. As of now, she’d taken a position in the post office, mostly sorting mail and other paperwork. The postmaster was old and infirm and the postman spent his long days doing actual deliveries. Much of the rest of the work was left to Christina.
      It was under those circumstances that she found a brown paper package that had gone undelivered for some time, shuffled between post offices and returned many times, stamps and paper labels affixed, twine wound around it more than once. It looked like it had been opened and re-sealed. The most recent postmark was from 1883. Had it really been here for six years? Or had it just been unofficially shifted around, with no one to claim it?
      Knowing that she would be alone for hours, she felt a nagging temptation. There was ample time to open it, see what was inside, and re-seal it if necessary. Her curiosity had a way of getting the better of her. She lingered in doorways, and stayed later at night in Fishman’s Tavern than she should, to hear stories and rumors. She’d heard about supposed illegitimate children, brothers who’d stopped speaking, even some especially outlandish stories about a crew of monster pirates who roamed along the eastern seaboard. Those were getting more and more popular. “The Moonlight Crew” got a little less believable each time she heard another strange detail.
      She took the chance and opened the package. She cut the strings with a knife and unfurled the brown paper. Inside was a lumpy shape, wrapped in canvas. She cut through the fabric strips that held that in place, and found a wooden crate. She made an audible “ugh” at the revelation of yet another layer. Wheels, within wheels, she thought, annoyed.
      She found a hammer in the closet and with some effort, pried open one panel of the crate. Inside was a solid block of a strange white material. After some experimental probing, she determined it was something akin to candle wax. She wished she could slide the wax block out of the crate in one even, perfect prism. Not sure what was inside, she found a dull file and started to scrape away wax in thin wedges and strips.
      Before long, she had a pile of white wax cast offs. In the crate were the outlines of a rectangular object and a round glass bottle. She decided her mission in life was to open this package and find whatever was in it. The moment when the glass bottle popped free of the wax was her moment of triumph, followed only by freeing the rectangular piece. It was wrapped in yet another layer, this time of leather. When she unfolded it, she found four books.
      The bottle, meanwhile, was sealed only by a cork. She popped that loose and unfolded — a letter? The paper was thin, but fully intact. The ink was vivid and clear and the text legible:

      Ocean-goer,
      Find within all the knowledge I have accumulated over the years in my icy dwelling. I intend to leave soon. I leave this copy of everything I’ve learned to the sea. Use it as you will. If unwanted, please re-seal and forward to Yale University.

      Christina looked at the outer packing paper with its collage of stamps and postmarks, and found more than one for Yale. It was almost suspicious, like people didn’t want this thing. The thought occurred to her that it was cursed, like an object from a mummy’s tomb.
     On the back of the letter was a variety of technical information Christina didn’t understand. She looked at the stack of books and saw they were mostly about naval engineering and ship-building. She opened the volume on top and saw that the margins were full of notes, and the pages interlaced with loose sheets and cards.
      “It’s a guide to building a boat,” she said, to no one, just letting the thought knit together over her head. “Who would send this? Who would do this? What the hell?”
      She glanced over the materials in front of her, shuffled some of the papers around, and looked at the letter again. There was a faint signature stamp near the bottom of the back page. In just-legible blue ink, it read:
     Haus von Frankenstein.

* * *

     The mystery of the package had taken root in Christina’s mind. She had re-sealed the crate, disposed of the wax by burying it under the post office steps, and taken the package home with her secretly. She kept it hidden in the one and only space that was truly hers, the wooden chest in her tiny attic room that contained essentially all her possessions. She saved these precious words there, secrets for her alone.
      She read the books and the notes, slowly, and carefully. She endeavored, whenever possible, to truly understand them. She made lists of unfamiliar words and concepts to research. She began some rudimentary translation from French and German. The information needed to understand everything she was reading was far beyond her humble town library, or locals from whom she could borrow books and life experience. But she continued on, driven to purpose for the first time in her adult life.
      The technical challenge was engaging, but what truly compelled her was the character of the notes. They were written by a literate man, conversant in several languages. There were allusions to literature, from Shakespeare to Goethe. In the midst of all the technical talk was the story of a man in great pain, crying out. In Christina’s life, men were figures of fear and stern remove, not someone who understood the darkest days and nights of her soul. Amid the pain, there was also play. The notes talked of “Nemo,” a friend of the writer, her Captain Frankenstein, as Christina had decided to call him. She thought Nemo must be a pseudonym or university nickname for a friend, colleague, or lover of the Captain’s. Whoever she was, her arrival in the Captain’s “prison” appeared to change everything.
      Christina could piece together that Nemo arrived somewhere around 1875 and inspired this newfound love of the sea in the restless Frankenstein. The two had worked together to build ships suitable for sailing the sea and gone their separate ways after about ten years, based on the notes. Nemo had sailed to Russia on their prototype ship, while Frankenstein would leave for the Atlantic Ocean. Based on the postage on the package, it had first been picked up off the coast of New Brunswick in 1888. Based on that information, and references to living in “ice,” the only logical conclusion one could draw is that Frankenstein’s place of exile was somewhere in the North Pole, a place that everything Christina read suggested it was uninhabitable. Much of her new information defied conventional understanding, making it all the more exciting.
      The research weighed on her, as each lead took her down strange corridors. A simple note mentioning “Aronnax’s book” lead her to find something called Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, which completely altered her perception of Frankenstein’s handwritten diary pages. Now she knew that “Nemo” must be referring to Captain Nemo from this book, captain and designer of an advanced submersible called the Nautilus. Nemo had arrived at the North Pole, was taken in by Frankenstein, and the two of them began this new project. In a way, Christina felt like she was a part of their story. The package had arrived in front of her by random chance, and now she was inspired to explore, just as Frankenstein had.
      Her voluminous research notes started to resemble a book of their own. She especially treasured terms and references that her research could not decipher. Names like “the Order of Odysseus” or “Sebastian Moran” were not noted in any books she had access to. She found herself going to the harbor to see the few boats that went out and left from the dock in Betchley. She watched as they repaired their sails and oars and how the bigger boats sailed into the tiny dock with precision. She wondered what a life on the sea was like, how it weighed on the faces of the sailors, their broken backs and scarred bodies hiding eyes that had seen things Christina thought she never would.
      Christina was one of the youngest people in town. Most people her age had fled from this place, going to Dover, or Philadelphia, or Boston. A handful went to Montreal or ventured far out west. But she had stayed. Betchley was a quiet town, and sometimes it slept the sleep of death. Routinely, at night, she would walk the length of the town and not see another soul.
      She did not hate this town or the people in it, but she did find it difficult. She did not like farmer’s sons spitting tobacco on the ground and making lewd comments toward her. She did not like older bachelors, fussy and unappealing, glumly ask for her time or companionship, neither of which she gave up freely. Ben Reardon was a bother to every woman in town, except the old ones, and it made Christina long to be old, and sheltered from the attentions of such people.
      It was only because she read, and wrote, and studied, that she could found reason to keep living. Even if she was stuck here, she was building a way out. She could find her Frankenstein, or someone like him, someone who understood. She could read, because words did not rule her as fear did.

* * *

     In the cold October of 1895, Christina’s world opened. An intriguing ship of unusual size, long and tall but not wide, came into dock just as the sun set. The boat’s small crew emerged one at a time. Each alone would have drawn attention on a normal Betchley day. First was a very tall, elegant figure with a stoic face. He looked like a caricature of an undertaker, with long hair, a top hat, and dark glasses. He had a guitar case slung over his back. Most of the town had to crane their necks to see him up close.
     Next, a tall woman, not nearly as tall as the first but, for a woman, rather enormous. Without seeing her gorgeous face and long hair, one might not know she was a woman, wearing as she was practical men’s working clothes. She had tattoos on her face and jewelry on her hands. She had a look of bemusement on her face.
      Following them was an older Caribbean man, who wore thick eyeglasses, and an olive-skinned woman with shiny dark hair. They wore the same sort of simple attire but clearly customized with interesting fabrics and items, like shells and other products of the sea. They were talkative with one another, friendly, jovial. To Christina, it was a lovely sound, the kind only heard a few times a year in these parts, during festivals and fairs.
      The last from the boat was a solid brick of a man, imposing and square-shouldered. He wore a rough leather coat, a fisherman’s cap, and a sour expression on his face. It was only when he got closer that Christina saw that his face was covered in scars, some with stitches still in. Perhaps always in? Some looked pale and long-healed, some looked red, and inflamed. Christina had seen, as most people had in those days, disfigured men, and so was prepared to be horrified by such a sight, but she wasn’t. She found this scar-stitched face with ridges of swollen pink flesh thrilling.
      Many townspeople stopped and watched the crew of this unusual boat disembark. There was simply no way to “blend in” to a town like this. Christina had read about what it was like in San Francisco, and she imagined characters such as these could walk those streets freely. They weren’t bothered, exactly, but they provoked stares and whispers briefly, until the spell broke. People in Betchley were not so much judgmental as they were paralyzed.
      Christina had been doing some of her end-of-day errands when the rowdy-by-Betchley-standards crew made their way into town. She made the rash decision to put down her groceries and follow them. Something new and unusual happening in her barren little town was the only thing that could take her mind off her reading and research.
      They’d assembled at Fishman’s Tavern, like most visiting sailors would. Christina had only been inside a handful of times, because she did not like the attention she got. Sometimes she’d go in after closing, when the nice Catholic boys in the kitchen like Patrick Nelson would make her little snacks of the leftovers, and talk to her kindly.
      Christina tried to play it off as something normal, and sat at her table in the corner, pretending to read, but actually watching. She could hear their discussion, as the tavern was still quiet and reserved, hours before the rowdiest and loudest of other customers returned from their inland jobs.
      The obvious tension in the air didn’t seem to bother the crew of the strange ship. They were polite and perfectly normal, appearances aside. They ordered ales and food, and the younger woman with the long dark hair dropped money on the table to prove their ability to pay.
      Christina wondered if she’d have to go up and talk to them, something she very much did not want to do. But just as she was seriously considering it, an old salt from the other side of the bar approached.
      “If’n you don’t mind me asking, I was wondering what all was your business in town? Ya see, we don’t get many, uh… well, the crews we’s gets aren’t exactly like yerselfs, ya see,” he said. He was nervously fidgeting with his hat in his hand. Was he actually afraid of them?
      The scarred man sighed for a moment, and gestured with his hand to the beautiful woman with the black hair. When she spoke, Christina was surprised to hear an accent. Italian, maybe? She’d never heard one before.
      “We’re the crew of a merchant vessel. We ferry important cargo to and fro for various institutions, yes?” she said. Her interrogator seemed satisfied by that vague response, possibly because he was bewitched by her beauty.
      “But here in Betchley, is there something important being delivered, at this hour? Still seems highly unusual,” the old salt said. He had a point.
      “Today, we’re picking up some cargo,” said the tall man with the guitar case. His voice was smooth and low. “Technically, in the morning. We didn’t arrive before the closure of your post office.”
      Christina wanted to hide, before realizing that they had no way of knowing she worked for the post office nor necessarily any reason to talk to her even if they did.
      “But you got a hell of a nightlife here, da?” said the tall woman with the tattoos. She spoke with a unique accent all her own. Was this what Europeans were like?
      “Er, well, we get by, if that’s what you mean,” the old salt said. He seemed satisfied but still intimidated by the strangers, and moved on.
      “Didn’t even ask the name of the ship…” Christina whispered to herself. She wanted to scream. What was the point in making a scene by asking and not getting any information? It was starting to seem as if the only reasonable option is to go right up there.
      By the time she talked herself into it, she was already moving. Of course her knees were wobbly and her feet sweating, but it didn’t matter. When else would fascinating people land in your lap like this? If you would spend your days dreaming, hoping for more, and then ignore it when it was in front of your face, there was no hope for you.
      She walked up, clumsy and awkward, and cleared her throat.
      “Hello,” she said, and bowed her head. It was easier than looking them in the eye, of course. “I was just wondering what the name of your ship was, sirs.”
      The crew shot looks back and forth before the scarred man spoke up. “There’s no need to hide your face from us,” he said, with a deep baritone voice. Christina hesitantly looked up. The scars intersecting his lips looked red and inflamed, raw and bloody. She wondered if he was in pain.
      “You’re looking at the crew of the Dog’s Blood,” he said. He gestured to the others at the table, in turn.
      “This is the lady Confessora Orloki,” he said, of the dark-haired woman. Up-close, Christina saw that her teeth were unusually sharp. “She’s my first mate, and diplomatic officer.” Hence why she answered the old fellow’s questions, Christina assumed.
      He gestured next to the old man with the glasses, quiet until now. “Our helmsman and navigator, and for my money the most effective member of the crew, Mr. Edgar Cornelius.”
      The pattern established, we went around the table in order, now. Roque, the tall one with the guitar case, was the ship’s cook, doctor, and bard; Skarta, the tall, broad-shouldered woman with the tattoos, was the “tactical officer,” which to Christina sounded mostly like she beat people up when necessary.
      “And I… am Capt. Frankenstein,” he said. “And to whom do I make such a fine introduction?”
      Christina just blinked, her nerves and this new information making her not especially able to participate in a conversation.
      “Christina de Haverford…” she said, trailing off. “Miss.”
      “Miss what?” Roque said.
      “No, I’m a… I’m a miss, I mean…” Christina said, mumbling, attention drawn elsewhere.
      “Just because she’s not married, doesn’t mean you have an invitation, Roque,” said Skarta, and the crew laughed. It was a big belly laugh, the kind that came with shared joys, shared experience, and shared drinks. They weren’t just crewmates, Christina realized. They were friends.
      “Mr. Frankenstein,” Christina said.
      “Captain,” said the beautiful lady, Confessora.
      “Captain. I’m sorry,” Christina said. Frankenstein put up a palm as if to say “don’t worry.”
      “Captain… I couldn’t help but overhearing that you were looking to go to the post office. I actually work there,” she said.
      “A working woman! Finally, some god damn civilization,” Skarta said.
      The captain murmured under his breath. “Why don’t you sit down and join us?” he said, finally. Christina pulled up a chair, still hesitant, and sat herself, on the opposite end from the captain.
      “I’m looking for something I sent through the mail many years ago,” Frankenstein said. “It may be lost to time, but I’m tracking it from place to place. I want to retrieve it, or even better, find the person who has it.”
      Her stomach gurgled. “This package, um, was it meant for a specific person? Because sometimes, without sufficient postage, things get lost or stuck… so they may never have gotten it,” Christina said.
      “No, not a specific person. When I sent it out, I was… isolated. Not living in the shared world of human beings,” he said. “It was a bit like a message in a bottle.”
      More than a bit, Christina thought, remembering the literal bottle. She still had it on her desk at home, the tiny space for working now dominated by treasures from her reading and research.
      “Does the post office have any such older packages in its possession? Or, detailed enough records that we might find another step in our journey. We’ve been up and down the coast to no avail as of yet,” Frankenstein said.
      “I don’t think the post office has it,” Christina said. A pregnant pause. “I know it doesn’t, because I have it. I opened it a year ago.” The words came out in a puff of hot air, and she wondered if she’d just signed her death warrant.
      From the head of the table came an almost indecipherable snort. It grew, blossomed, into a hoarse laugh, and then the rest of the crew joined in. Even Christina couldn’t help but giggle.
      “Why are we laughing?” she said, through spurts of joy.
      “We’ve been looking for you for six months,” Frankenstein said. “And you walked right up to us. It’s a funny world.”
      The food and more drinks came, and in the chaos, somehow even Christina got served a plate, and two beers of her own. She’d only ever drank a little before, but it seemed like special circumstances, so she didn’t object.
      “Christina. Miss de Haverford,” said Confessora from her side of the table. “You ‘have’ the package. Did you open it?”
      Christina was grateful for whatever social lubricant the beers provided. “Um, I did. I read all of it,” she said. That prompted a few concerned looks. Edgar, the old man, leaned closer to her.
      “All of it?” he said.
      “Oh, yes. Many times. I’ve done a lot of research studying up, trying to make sense of it all. I even worked on a few boat designs of my own, but I don’t think they’re very good,” Christina said.
      The crew all exchanged weighty glances.
      “You are a very interesting young lady, Miss Christina de Haverford,” said Captain Frankenstein. For the first time, his voice sounded like it had in her imagination.

* * *

     The meal went by quickly. These were working men and women used to taking their meals efficiently and without any wasted time. After they were done, Roque and Edgar went to the inn to arrange for a place for them to sleep that night — two rooms would be sufficient, apparently, and Christina wondered what the sleeping arrangements were like. The rest of the party was outside Fishman’s Tavern.
     “Christina,” said Frankenstein, “would it be possible to see some of what you’ve done? You can keep my books, if you’d like, but some of the letters, are… did you really read it all?”
     “Every word. Sir,” she said. She wondered what to tell him, of the dashing, romantic rogue, the version of him that existed only in her mind. A lonely man who took to the sea out of pure love.
     “I’d like to see what my seedling has blossomed into,” he said. “I believe the ladies will… accompany us.” He gestured to the two women of the crew, who stood several steps behind them. They walked, the four of them, maintaining formation, for the length of the streets until arriving at Christina’s uncle’s house. She wasn’t sure how she’d explain visitors, especially strange ones like this, so she just lied and said her aunt and uncle had been asked to be seen by Father Mervyn at his office across town right away. That would buy them a good forty-five minutes at least, and she could always chalk it up to a misunderstanding. The entire town thought of her as a foolish dreamer already, so it truly didn’t matter.
     When they were out of the way, she quickly hurried all three of her guests into her room. She felt a spark, just from being so close to people. From realizing how much taller Skarta was, to seeing Confessora’s lustrous hair and smooth skin, and, yes, to seeing Frankenstein up-close, stitches popped, skin damaged, the wet luminescence of fresh, raw lesions on his face.
     “This is… all of it,” she said, showing off the chest that at one time contained all her possessions, and was now dominated entirely by Frankenstein research. All the original material from the package, including the crate itself, organized and collated and cross-referenced. New books she had managed to secure, loose pages and sections from encyclopedias and other books, her own drawings, her own writing. Everything her dreams had conjured.
     Frankestein looked at it all, inspecting each item like it was a lost friend. He even sat there and read some of Christina’s words. She couldn’t decide if she was more mortified or ecstatic.
      “I have so many questions,” Christina said. The captain looked past her at his crewmembers for a long time.
      “I can provide you with some answers,” Frankenstein said.
      “I don’t know where to start,” Christina said. “Plus, now I want to know more about your crew…”
      “We’ll get to that. Ask me something,” Frankenstein said.
      “You call Nemo ‘she’ in all your notes and letters. But Aronnax says Nemo was a man. Why? Was that code?” Christina said.
      Frankenstein laughed. “You’ve thought about me this long, and your first question is about Captain Nemo?”
      “Well she— he— she was important to you, right? And to this whole journey. Obviously, you have a ship, and a crew, so you really did—“
      “Steal her idea? Or take inspiration, I think you could safely say. We helped each other. It’s not code. The reason I refer to her that was is because Captain Nemo is a woman. She’s still alive, and should be for some time, I suspect,” Frankenstein said.
      “Wow,” Christina said. What else was there to say?
      “How could you possibly have survived in the Arctic for years?” she said, the question coming easily. “At first, I thought that might be code, but it doesn’t make sense.”
      “There is an answer, but I’m not sure it’s a story I can readily tell you, just yet,” he said. He put a hand on her shoulder, and Christina was comforted by it. “You have done something incredible here with nothing but books at your disposal. Imagine a Christina de Haverford with experience of all the world’s wonder and glory and horror… that would be someone special.”
      She melted a little bit. She wanted, so badly, to be special. “I would love to learn more about the world, but there’s no place for me,” she said. “I’m too fearful. I have the anxieties…”
      “You have no idea how much I have been afraid in my life, Christina. And how often I’ve had to fight through that fear. To kick and kick until I broke free again. There is something in you. The same thing I see in all my crew. Something fierce,” he said. He put a gloved hand on her shoulder.
      “Captain… we may have an issue,” Confessora said. She was looking out the window. Christina and Frankenstein rushed over, to see Roque, Edgar in his arms, running in their direction. Behind him, was seven or eight men, each with with knives and axes and other tools of death and destruction.
      The three of them ran down to the street and stood up to the mob as a united front. Frankenstein, being captain, made his way to the front. “What do you want? These are my men, and they’re my responsibility,” he said.
      “Leave,” said the leader of the mob. Christina, face contorting, recognized him as Ben Reardon, the handsy drunkard with a filthy mouth.
      “You would have us set sail in the dead of night? Without even the moon to guide us?” Frankenstein said. “If you intend to kill us, don’t leave it to the ocean to do your dirty work for you. Look me in the eye.”
      “I’d be happy to, you disfigured freak,” Reardon said, and pulled up an old-style hunting rifle. Christina wondered if he’d ever actually used it before.
      “Are you insane? You’re going to kill someone,” Christina said.
      “That’s the idea! Come on, baby girl, come over here away from these goddamn freaks. You don’t want to be in their clutches…” he said, and reached out a hand.
      “Ugh! I’d rather be with them than you, any day, you… you jackanape!” she said.
      “God damn you, stupid girl, you don’t know what’s good for you, come here,” he said, and roughly grabbed her wrist. Before he could get far, Skarta’s hand came down on Reardon’s arm.
      “She said no,” Skarta said.
      “You think I care what you think, you carnival sideshow bearded woman disgusting--“ Reardon was suddenly interrupted by one of the most horrible sounds Christina had ever heard, a violent cracking and rending of flesh much worse than when chickens were slaughtered. She never knew before this moment that a human bone could make a sound so loud it echoed.
      Reardon screamed, horribly, and the mob couldn’t quite decide what to do. Half ran home immediately at the sight of violence and the other half surged forward as if they were going to attack. Roque stepped between the two groups.
      “I wouldn’t bother,” he said, and he leaned down to touch the ground. His hand glowed blue-white, and Christina thought she could see his bones underneath. It crackled like a cloud heavy with rain and lightning. “Cross this line and you’ll experience a pain a hundred times worse than what your friend is.” He drew a clean, even line in the dirt, with the index finger of his glowing, electric-blue hand, and just stared. All but one left. When they left, his hand “faded” back to normal.
      “You know you can’t just walk in and invade a nice, normal town, right? This is our town! Not some place for freaks!” he said. Christina wasn’t even sure who this was who was talking, and it was “his town”?
      “You are the freaks,” Captain Frankenstein said. “You are the freaks! You attacked us! You chased my men away just as we were making accommodations!”
      “God damn, this whole country is fucked up,” said the man, using a word Christina had never heard before. The captain picked up Ben Reardon’s gun, emptied it of ammunition, and threw it across the line to the lone member of the mob.
      “Take this and go,” he said. He did as instructed. Now, the crew of the Dog’s Blood, and Christina, looked down at the mewling Ben Reardon, his arm broken. He was still screaming and wailing. It was wrong to enjoy it, but she did.
      “What do we do?” Roque said.
      “What I said was true. We can’t sail until morning,” Frankenstein said.
      “I have somewhere you could hide,” Christina said.
      “What about him?” Edgar said, pointing to the still mewling Ben Reardon on the ground.
      “We’ll bring him. And… work on him,” Frankenstein said, and made eye contact with Confessora.
      “We should really go now,” Christina said. If Frankenstein hadn’t taken her hand, she’d be frantically gesturing by now.
      Roque picked Ben up in his arms and they started off, following Christina. She guided them back essentially where they’d come from, to Fishman’s. She ran into the kitchen. She saw Patrick Nelson cleaning up and was relieved. He definitely liked her, and she trusted him.
      “Patrick,” she said. “I need you to do me the biggest favor ever. I know it’s a lot, but you just need to let us into the cellar, and make sure nobody goes in there until we leave in the morning. Okay? I’ll… I don’t know, there’s not much I can promise you. But you always—“
      “I’ll do it. It’s okay, Miss Christina,” Patrick said. His voice was clear and quiet and sweet.
      “Bless you,” Christina said. He didn’t ask for it, but she touched his cheek, and kissed the other one lightly.

* * *

     Inside the cellar, they negotiated for space for everyone, which wasn’t easy. They were nestled tight among the preserved fruit, wrapped cheese, and bottles of vinegar and other substances. They passed some cheese around to nibble on, and laid down Ben Reardon between them.
      “Christina,” Frankenstein said. “I want to answer your questions. But there’s a lot you don’t know about us. Things you wouldn’t have found in any book or newspaper, no matter where you looked. I don’t want this boy to die, even if he is a lout. But to save him will require us giving up a valuable secret.”
      “I can handle it,” Christina said.
      “I believe you. What I’m worried about is what comes after,” Frankenstein said. “There’s no time. Roque, go ahead. Boy, bite down on this.” He took off one of his heavy leather gloves and folded it over itself once before putting it in Ben’s mouth. Ben looked at Christina in a sort of panic.
      “Better do what they say,” she said, coldly.
      Roque set the bone in bone’s arm, painfully wrenching it back into place. Ben’s face was practically purple. Christina wished she were a better person, who didn’t enjoy seeing her enemy in such fanatical pain. Then, Confessora took his arm and breathed on it gently.
      “Don’t enjoy any of this, little piggie,” she said. She bit down on his arm, and little rivulets of energy seemed to flow through him, veins of glowing green appearing as his blood and muscle stitched themselves back together. It looked painful even as his arm returned to healthy shape. Confessora looked like she wanted to spit on Ben as he calmed down, staring at his now perfectly-functional arm with four bite marks at the end.
      While Ben was distracted, Edgar, positioned by his head already, pulled some pinkish powder from a bag, rubbed it between his fingers, and blew it in Ben’s face. Ben made a face like he was drunk, and promptly passed out. Christina just looked at the Captain’s hand, now seeing that it, like his face, was stitched together by scars and scabs. He had a blue and gold ring on his finger.
      “We’ve nothing but time, Christina… I’m sure you have questions you’d like to ask,” he said. “I’m prepared to give the answers.”
      “Okay, um. Confessora… what did you just do?” she said, going for the obvious bait.
      “Oh, god, do I have to?” she said, looking at Frankenstein. He nodded. “Well… the short version. I’m from… a rather long way away. And where I come from, we have abilities like this. Healing, blood magick, um, a few things in that vein. It’s rather complicated...”
      “Fangs, blood magic, it’s like Carmilla,” Christina said, remembering some of her folklore research. She was initially trying to discover more information about sirens and other sea legends. “You’re… I didn’t think things like that were real.”
      “Many things are, that you might not expect. Confessora’s story isn’t the only strange one,” Frankenstein said.
      “Please, tell me,” Christina said. “The world is so big, and my life is so small.”
      Frankenstein leaned back, as much as he could in the cramped confines of the cellar, and closed his eyes.
      “Listen well,” he said. “We are not exactly merchants like we claimed to be. We are, legally speaking, pirates. Have you ever heard the legend of the Moonlight Crew?”
      “A crew of pirates, monsters in disguise, who come only at night, and raid towns of their wine and women— oh, my word,” Christina said. Her head ached with nerves at what she had gotten herself into, and her heart ached with overwhelming love for these people, these monsters, whatever they were.
      “Indeed. At first, I liked that we had a little legend. And it helped, to scare people,” he said. “But it’s gotten out of hand. People have said things about us that couldn’t be further from the truth. Attributed things our enemies have done, to us.”
      “Enemies?” Christina said.
      “Other pirates, other governments, other… organizations,” Frankenstein said, ambiguously. “We have many. I assembled this crew to make a mark on the world. And I found people like me. Yes, monsters. My monsters.” He smiled like a proud father, and Christina could admit to herself, she found it attractive, scars and all.
      “But Captain, your…your scars, don’t make you a monster,” she said, aching within.
      “They don’t. But I’m not an ordinary person. I was not born as you were born. I was built. Created, by my father, Victor Frankenstein, from pieces of corpses,” he said. Before Christina could even process that statement, he gestured to his left, towards Confessora. They were going in a circle.
      “Ah… I guess we’re not hiding anymore, are we?” she said. “I come from a civilization on another planet. All the people there are like me… vampires. I was sent here to find a mate. Well, a few mates, to add to the royal family.”
      “Royal… you’re a princess?” Christina said, and involuntarily put her hand over her mouth.
      “That’s what surprises you?” Confessora said, and laughed. It was a beautiful sound, Christina thought. “Please, please, the next person go.”
      Skarta spoke next. “I’m a couple thousand years old. I’ve been everything you can imagine. A barbarian, a witch, a priestess, a wanderer. I bathed in some mystical waters a long time ago, and I’ve looked like this ever since,” she said. She grinned, proud of herself.
      Edgar. “I’m just a man, but a skilled one,” he said. “I know six or seven languages, I’m skilled in herbs, craftsmanship, weapons, gunpowder, and diplomacy. Plus, I can steer or guide just about any kind of boat, and build ‘em, too.” He nodded firmly and smiled. At least Christina wasn’t the only mortal in the group.
      The circle wound past Christina and over to Roque, who sighed. “Well, you saw my hand already, so I can’t hide that,” he said. “I was born in 1671. I was a pirate. We found an island full of strange plants and animals. I was sealed inside some kind of flower. Mummified, preserved, I don’t know what you call it. I didn’t wake up until Captain De Mello found me, and I joined his crew. That kid was a nut, but I love him. He gave me my life back.
      “And your hand?” Christina said, determined not to let information slip past.
      “When I woke up, my hand could do that. I touched Death, and it touched me back,” Roque said. Christina said nothing for a while, just trying to put the pieces in order in her mind.
      “Captain, I have another question,” she said. He nodded his assent.
      “What is the Odyssean Order? Or Order of Odysseus. You used both names in your notes,” she said.
      The captain laughed. He pulled the blue and gold ring from his finger and passed it among the group over to Christina. When it was closer, she could see that the design was two stylized rings — or “O”s, she assumed.
      “It’s a group of us. Adventurers of the sea. Roque’s old captain, Enzo De Mello, was a member too. Captain Nemo introduced me. I never understood the romance of the sea until I met her,” he said. Another look, not fatherly this time, but warm and nostalgic. Here in a dirt floor cellar, stacked ass to ankles with beautiful monsters, Christina felt at home.
      The night went on. Roque managed to pull out his guitar, with some difficulty, and someone, somehow, pulled a bottle of wine from one of the crates. They passed it around, sang songs, exchanged stories, and Christina only asked a few dozen questions about their amazing lives. She had so many more. She wanted to remember every detail, and not let a single one escape into the hazy breezes of the winter to come.
      When the first crack of sunlight came through the wooden cellar door, the entire crew, it seemed, snapped awake.
      “It’s time to move,” Captain Frankenstein said. He pushed the outer latch open with a knife, and then peered up just enough to check that there was no one there waiting for them. Hopefully, their attempt at intimidation had worked, and the Dog’s Blood was intact. Frankenstein gave the “go” sign, lifted the door, and the crew filed out one at a time. Ben Reardon was left on the doorstop of Dr. Mason, along with some money in a pouch. Skarta offered one last time to cut his throat. Christina declined.
      The crew moved with professionalism and grace, and Christina could only imagine what they looked like on the high seas, bounding from sail to sail or ship to ship. She could only imagine, because, she thought, she’d never see. She stood stock-still.
      “Captain,” she said, calling out. “I have one more question.”
      “That’s all we have time for,” he said.
      “Can I come with you?” she said.
      Frankenstein stared her down, looking at her gravely, with narrowed eyes. For the first time, she noticed that they were two different shades of brown. From two different people, she realized.
      “You’ll have to work. You’ll have to fight. You’ll have to break the law. I don’t wish it, not for anyone and especially not for you, dear Christina, but you will have to hurt people, maybe kill them. You might never be able to return here, or see your family, your friends, your people, ever again,” he said.
      She took that in seriously, and thought. She wondered about Patrick and the other boys who were kind to her. She wondered about the old men who genuinely brightened when they saw her smile. She wondered about quiet nights in the summer when she could stand alone and watch the waves come in and know that she had all the time she could want to live in stillness with a full moon overhead.
      “I can do that,” she said. “I… need to do it.”
      “Gather your things. And bring your books and notes most of all,” he said. “The rest we can replace. I don’t want my archivist starting off with a gap in her memory.”
      “Archivist…?” she said.
      “You didn’t think you’d just be swabbing the decks, did you? We need someone to document our doings and deeds, for history’s sake,” he said. “I can think of no better than you.” He gestured to Skarta, who came running.
      “Skarta will accompany you. There isn’t much time, so hurry,” he said.
      “I’m glad, but… I didn’t think you’d actually say yes,” Christina said.
      “I guess I’m a soft touch. Plus… you remind me of Mary,” Frankenstein said. “I’ll tell you about her sometime. Now, we have to move.”
      Skarta and Christina dashed to her aunt and uncle’s house and up to her room. She assembled all the books and papers she could, except those that belonged to the library, as well as a few practical items like clothes and tools. She could just barely close the trunk, and was amazed when Skarta lifted it easily — with one hand.
      Her noisy exit awoke her aunt and uncle who stood there with disapproving looks on their faces.
      “I’m going. I won’t be back. Thank you for all you’ve done. If you truly love me, do me this one courtesy: Don’t lie about what happened here. These are not monsters who kidnapped your defenseless niece. They’re the only people in the god-damned world who ever looked and saw the real me, and I’m going with them,” she said. There was no time and no inclination for an argument.
      They ran. Her mind was a flurry of thoughts and dreams and words and books to come. She imagined a ship with a library, curated by her, sailing the world over. She imagined all those things she never allowed herself to, like making love, cutting her hair, firing a gun. She imagined and she ran and she smiled.
      The crew was already assembled on the Dog’s Blood, and Skarta and their newest membereagerly joined them. Christina was out of breath, and she sat atop her trunk, secure and unmoving. Her lungs filled with the salty air of the sea. She prepared herself to navigate by new stars, and sail under a patchwork flag.

© Jess Umbra, 2026
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