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	Faeries of the Caribbean (excerpt)
	Story 3: Faeries of the Caribbean copyright 2007 Jacquie Rogers London, 1655 “Stop that!” I slapped the dodger’s hands off my breast without spilling a drop of the eight ales on my tray. I have a strong arm and a short temper. Most girls do after working a year or two as a serving wench—especially in dockside taverns. “Gimme some lovin’, Myra girl.” I easily evaded his grasp. The bleary-eyed old sot would only last another ale or two, and then he’d either pass out or take one of the wenches to bed. His wife would come get him in the morning. I would never marry a man like him. Alas, I had no other choices, so as long as I can make enough to support myself, I’d have no man a’tall. Like most young misses, I’d had my dreams. At twenty-two, those dreams were all but gone, replaced with long nights of hauling ale to sots with bad teeth and roaming hands. The tavern finally closed down. My feet hurt, my shoulders ached, and my belly needed food. I hauled my sorry arse up the stairs to my room—a small storeroom, really, that I shared with two other girls. The room still smelled musty despite my repeated scrubbings. The bare walls bore no decoration, but at least I had a cot to sleep in and a roof to keep me dry. I tossed my coin purse on the three-legged table and sagged onto my cot, too tired to unclothe myself. At least I didn’t have to endure the entertainments of the other girls and their fellows this night. What luck was mine, that I must endure such a life, yet keep my maidenhead intact. ‘Twas a tiring life with little amusement. I had only one true friend, Leanne, whose parents owned the bakery next to my deceased parents’ candle shop. But since I worked in a tavern, she could not associate with me any longer. “What I need is a faery godmother,” I muttered as I hacked off a slice of stale bread. A warm breeze blew through, and as I looked up, a faery girl flew by, her translucent wings sending sparkles about the room. Tall, but delicate, she had yet to fill her womanly form. She hovered as she studied the meager room, then gently lowered herself to the floor and stood. “My name is Keely. I’m your faery godmother,” she said while retracting her wings. “Tell me your most earnest desire.” Faery godmother? Godchild, more like it, as she seemed to be ten years younger than m’self. “My desire?” Not one single soul had asked me that since my parents passed from cholera four years ago. My heart wrenched and I got all blubbery, but I blinked back my tears. “Yes, your desire. That’s what faery godmothers are for, after all. You wouldn’t have called me if you had no need for one.” She tossed my cloak on the floor and sat on the chair cross-legged. “Now, let’s get down to business. What is the first thing you want?” “Food in my belly and a hot bath.” With a flick of her wand, my stale bread turned into a roast swan with all the trimmings. “Eat, then you bathe.” I tore into the meat like a rabid dog—it being the first decent meat I’d had since Boxing Day. Then I remembered my manners and wiped my hands on my dress before I picked up the glass of fresh, cold milk. It felt marvelous as it soothed my throat and settled in my belly. I closed my eyes and relaxed, enjoying the aroma of the bird, spiced apples, and plum pudding. “All my favorite foods! Thanks be to you.” “That’s what we faery godmothers do—grant you your dreams.” I took another bite of swan, then swallowed it whole when I realized I hadn’t offered her anything, which must have seemed truly ungrateful. “Please, let me fix you a plate.” “I’m enjoying watching you eat the repast you should have every single day.” “Me?” I laughed with a harshness that bore the sorrow of my position since losing my parents’ shop. “Nay, I’m a mere serving wench.” “Not many serving wenches can do sums, read, and mark their names. I wouldn’t call you mere. Now, finish eating so we can get to the good part.” Good part? Keely had given me the feast of my life, and this wasn’t good already? Not being one to argue, I obliged her and ate my fill, although at a more leisurely pace. “How old are you?” I finally worked up the courage to ask. “I thought faery godmothers were supposed to be wrinkled with gray hair and a little tiara.” “I’m five hundred,” she said indignantly. “I’m fully a woman now.” Keely stood, one hand on her hip as if demonstrating her womanhood. Her defensive tone indicated I’d hurt her feelings, although I had no idea why. But five hundred? Well, she was a faery, after all. “Five hundred years old?” “Aye.” She flicked her wand and I stood bathed and garbed in a beautiful cornflower-blue gown that would most certainly be frowned upon by those above me. The corset smashed my innards, but I felt quite exquisite, nonetheless. “Time to get down to business,” Keely said. “What sort of man do you want?” I looked down at my elegant gown and thought it looked quite nice, although I rather would have liked a looking glass, for surely this was a dream. “The son of a viscount, I suppose, to match my frock.” She studied me, her head slightly tilted and her forefinger in her chin. It worried me a bit when she didn’t laugh at my jest. “And where would you like to live?” “A nice cozy place where I could rock my babes to sleep every night.” I thought about the smelly docks and how the old tars talked about the fresh ocean breezes. Maybe a coastal abode would be nice, so I said, “And I’d like to hear the wind from the sea and smell the unsullied air—to breathe coal smoke and foul odors no more.” “Good, then.” Keely positioned her wand over my head. “Close your eyes.” “Why?” “Because you’re supposed to. I read it in the Faery Godmothers for Dummies handbook.” I closed my eyes. A strange sensation, maybe little bubbles, prickled my skin, and I fell asleep. * * * * Somewhere in the Caribbean, 1655 I heard waves washing against the building. No, I heard a man clearing his throat. “Go away.” In my restful state, I had no desire to argue with some man who wanted to swive, especially since I would have to rouse from the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept in. I felt most confined, however, and breathing wasn’t all that easy. And the swaying, swaying, swaying. I could barely tell which direction was up. My belly churned most ill. A man cleared his throat. “I be sick. Go away.” I opened my eyes. A man, well over six feet in height, with hair as black as midnight and eyes of aged whiskey, towered over me. His demeanor spoke of authority whilst his lips hinted at kindness, yet passion. The very act of moving my eyeballs made me more ill. “Madam, you do look quite green. However, you are lying upon my cot, in my ship, in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. Are you aware of what we do with stowaways?” My stomach roiled more as each second went by. “I cannot ken.” “We throw them overboard—but only after the crew has their way with her.” “Frankly, I’m too sick to care.”
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