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Three Tales o’ Two-Patches
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Those that go down to the sea in ships,
that do business in great waters;
these see
the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.
- Psalms 107:23 & 24
King James Bible
A hero ventures forth from the world of common day
into a region of supernatural wonder:
fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won:
the hero comes back from his mysterious adventure
with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.
- Joseph Campbell
The Hero with a Thousand Faces
in a way unknown to almost everyone.
- Idries Shah
The Sufis
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The Hook
In its glory days Port Royal had been a pirate’s paradise, infamously proclaimed "the wickedest place on Earth", a bustling black market where any dark desire could be satisfied. While not yet a ghost town, ever since the earthquake of 1692 the former capital of Jamaica had been dying slowly. The liquefication of the sandy earth and the subsequent flooding tides turned Port Royale into a rotten zombie-town, half-drowned beneath the relentless waves of the sea. Long ago, all the residents with common sense had fled for safer harbors.
In the dead of night, unseen hands hung a strange black flag above a freshly painted black door. The Brew D’Agon Traiding Compagnie had moved in and was open for business.
The light of dawn revealed a decrepit sea-beggar loitering by the door. To all outward appearances blind, the malingering pirate wore two eye-patches – one over each eye – as he sang for his breakfast in a raspy voice, remarkably smooth despite having obviously tasted more than a fair share of gunpowder, smoke, and grog. The sailor swayed drunkenly in the light tropical breeze, back and forth and side to side, as he proffered his ratty tricorn hat in an overwrought gesture of supplication to any and all passing traffic. The long black feather in the hat's brim barred the door surreptitiously, informing the crafty alms-seeker of any soul who dared attempt sneak past without paying a "voluntary" fee.
A hurried pirate, with a scowl for a face and a hook for a hand, marched past headed for the town’s dilapidated docks. Midstride, he paused to better appreciate the destitute minstrel’s salty lyricism. A rare smile graced Rob the Hook's lips and the resultant coin flipped into the blind busker’s feathered cap.
With his free hand, Two-Patches O'Kaine lifted one weathered leather eye-patch, and winked a suspiciously unclouded eye at his wounded benefactor. The piece-of-eight slipped by means of oft-practiced prestidigitation into a hidden pocket ingeniously concealed within a seam of the pirate's tattered and frayed, but finely embroidered, waistcoat.
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Clandestinely the ships raised their sails,
the swimmers continued to teach swimming
- Idries Shah
The Sufis
Just keep swimming.
- Finding Nemo
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The Second Tale
"Avast ye, bred'ren pyraat."
The barely discernable words slurred up from the jumble of dirty rags heaped outside the rear door of the Brew D'Agon Tea, Rum, and Coffee Haus.
Dear Lord, thought the richly dressed man who had just exited the ill-reputed establishment, it’s almost impossible to understand this fellow. If indeed it’s even a fellow man making this feeble attempt at coherent speech. Who could tell what odd manner of odious beast might occupy the darker, more odiferous corners of this god-forsaken backwater? Who, in their right mind, would truly want to know?
Stuart Sinclair Athol Brown III turned toward the source of the sound, prepared to face either drunkard or assassin. He wagered it was more likely drunkard, in this environment, but he had learned it was always best to play it safe. An exiled baron, such as himself, needed no reminding that a poorly chosen gamble – such as betting on the wrong faction in a dynastic power struggle – could have dire consequences. The depths to which he had so recently sunk tormented his finely-honed vanity.
Heaven forbid my sainted mother see me in my present state, he sulked inwardly. Look at me… fallen from grace, a rebel on the run, little more than a sea-roving bandit skulking down dung-filled alleyways in far-flung shantytowns. No slums worse than this vile hamlet, Cayona, but, if you had need of the worst kind of pirates, the isle of Tortuga was where you sought them.
The ragged mound shifted. A shaggy head – assuredly flea-bitten and lice-ridden – arose from the deep shadows at the base of the stone wall. A crooked grin lit up a face otherwise obfuscated by a matted bird's nest of a beard. The beastly man's eyes remained hidden in the darkness; not even a gleaming betrayed their presence. A greedy paw snaked out, grimy palm up. The bent fingers beckoned for the nobleman to come closer. The hand quickly retracted back into the shadows.
"Hither, bred'ren. Pax D'Agon, heh?"
The decrepit vagabond wheezed and hacked. A downy feather, black as pitch, appeared – as if by magic – in the foul air. It floated away, a shadow on an otherwise invisible updraft, disappearing over the rooftops and into the night. The dark mass chuckled. The deep, eerie laughter echoed through the dark alleyway.
Stuart took a reflexive step backwards, his left hand ready on the hilt of his rapier as he retreated. Contradicting his defensive physical posture, the nobleman’s words were offensive – haughty, provocative, and derogatory – perhaps due to years of elitist cultural conditioning, perhaps as a way to mask his fear. He spat his reply
"Cease your mumbling, you old fool! Who could expect me to decipher your faltering gibberish?"
Scowling, the obviously deranged vagrant began rummaging about in his pile of rags, frantically fishing for some undoubtably murderous object. The rustling of the wastrel's fumbling seeped nightmarishly into every corner of the alleyway, echoing far too loudly like coal-black shadow-wings that flap in feverish dreams. The besotted man crowed as he produced the object of his quest. Fearing the worst, the nobleman's grip tensed on his sword, relaxing only when he heard what he least expected… not the ringing clank of metal, but the musical clinking of glass.
"Yo ho ho! Hither, mi bred'ren. Partake. Imbibe."
A plain, clear bottle materialized before him, within which a liquid fire – a barely restrained ecstatic electricity – danced madly. Even trapped like a genie in a transparent lamp, the powerful spirit still easily dispelled the darkness surrounding them. In the otherworldly light cast by the magical elixir, a mystery was solved… the dispossessed Baron finally understood why he had not seen his adversary's eyes. The sinister character wore two midnight-black eye-patches - one over each eye. Dear Lord, the nobleman realized, the damned fool is drunk AND blind.
The blind drunk focused his attention on Stuart, his unkempt head cocked at an odd angle, as if he were listening intently to something inside of the nobleman. The mysterious sea-beggar’s smile broadened. The old bum was apparently amused by what he heard. The mountain of rags shook with quakes of mirth as the foul old man nearly died in fits of cackling laughter.
“Harrr! Harrr! Beware, laddie! Ye mermaid wit’ two tails… she be callin’ fer ye, mate. Yo ho ho! Be aware. D’Agon fhtagn.”
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Dreams are messages from the Deep.
- translation of Sardaukar chant
Dune (2021 movie)
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Three “Tails”
“The Lounge" was the official euphemism employed by the Brew D'Agon Traiding Compagnie, Incorpirated, to refer to the recruiting-stations/safe-houses imbedded in select Brew D'Agon Tea, Rum & Coffee Haus franchises. To enter the Lounge, a pirate had to pay a hefty membership fee or be invited by an authorized Corpirate representative.
In the sleepy hamlet of Leogane in French controlled Haiti, the well appointed but dimly lit Lounge was deserted more often than not, but not at this moment. At this moment, a beefy buccaneer sat frightened and motionless at a finely carved and polished oaken table in the center of the room, a cut crystal goblet in one stilled hand.
Before this moment, Arthur Aquino had never known fear, – born an unwanted bastard child, raised on the hellish streets of various Caribbean pirate havens, educated in gambling dens and on privateer gunboats, a seasoned veteran of countless horrific sea-battles and fortress assaults – a pirate’s life was the only life Arthur had ever known. All the things most sane men feared were mundane events to Arthur. Killing was just another chore, akin to swabbing the deck or disposing of trash.
Arthur didn’t fear anything on earth; Arthur was feared. He ended many fights just by showing up. Soldiers and sailors laid down their arms rather than risk certain death at the hands of this monstrous bull of a man.
Highly sought after by any pirate captain forming a crew, Arthur had always been well rewarded in gold and booty, but he had grown weary of the price paid in blood. He’d lost too many friends over the years, seen too many lives taken. In a dog-eat-dog world, too many people end up as cannon fodder, little more than lambs led to the slaughter.
There has to be a different way, Arthur had decided.
He marveled at a rainbow of refracted light reflected on a facet of the crystal chalice in his hand before he took a single sip of VodouBrew™ (patented by The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor Heronimus Jones, the mysterious CEO of Brew D’Agon, Inc.). In an instant, Arthur’s hierarchy of thought was violently usurped by one thought, and one thought alone.
What in the fuck made that god-awful noise?
Simultaneously chittering, skittering, and slithering; the concurrence struck a nerve of revulsion in the most ancient part of his mammalian brain. The sound immobilized Arthur like nothing had before. His eyes were the only muscles he dared move. They darted around the room searching for the source of the unnatural sound. The terrified pirate counted three distinctly separate tails – are those tentacles? – that he prayed belonged to a local species of giant rodent or reptile with which he was hitherto unfamiliar. Arthur struggled to keep his two eyes on the three “tails”, coming at him from three separate corners, all at once. Arthur finished praying with a feverish whisper.
"In your Holy Name, I pray! Amen!"
A singular fog-like breath seemed to rise up from beneath the intricately in-laid wooden flooring and also, seemingly impossibly, from betwixt the seams of time-space itself. A lonely, burning tear trailed down the pirate's scarred face, rested for a brief moment on the ledge of his cheekbone, and then….
Time stopped,
forever more,
Before starting again;
Only slightly askew,
this time.
The Lounge’s locked door explodes inward in a cacophony of splintering wood and groaning flesh and metal. Infamous for being unfailingly inebriated and immediately identifiable by his two pitch-black leather eye-patches, Two-Patches O'Kaine barges through the locked side door, nearly tripping over his feet due to his awkward momentum. Stumbling sideways, Two-Patches draws a ridiculously massive blunderbuss from beneath a flowing, tattered overcoat – an incongruently fluid motion when juxtaposed against the man’s drunken stagger – and levels the flared barrel squarely in Arthur’s brutish face.
Staring into the gaping maw of an oversized firearm has an instant sobering effect on most sapient hominids, and Arthur Aquino is most definitely sapient. Truth be told, ugly as he is, Arthur is far smarter than his imposing physical presence might imply. As has been so often the case throughout his life, it is Arthur’s brain, not his brawn – not his intimidating strength, but his ability to quickly assess the true nature of a situation –, that saves him. He notices the shift in tense, but is unsure what it means or even if it’s relevant to his immediate survival. He decides it isn’t. Almost instantaneously, Arthur's primal fight-or-flight response kicks in, sending the newly God-fearing pirate sprawling to the floor. Luckily – or perhaps according to some grand design –, Arthur ducks beneath the oaken table just as Two-Patches' hand-cannon belches flame, smoke, and shot scant inches above Arthur’s giant skull. Surprised to still be alive, the ogre peeks out from under the table and smiles half-mockingly, half in disbelief.
"You missed."
The scent of black powder tinged with the stench of singed hair is mixed with an unidentifiable aroma. A whimpering, like a deflating air-sac wheezing, trails off into nothingness. Three "tails" vanish, slinking down knotholes in the wooden floor. The earth trembles at their touch. The corner of Two-Patches' mouth curls into a benevolent smirk as he lifts an eye-patch and winks.
“Warnin’ shots arrr supposed to miss mi friend. D’Agon fhtagn.”
The confusion creeping across Arthur's face signals the beginning of a journey into a deeper understanding.
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(Trembling earth) lay thee prostrate
below,
where the great octopus is,
and dare to meet his Word,
and answer face to face.
- Maori song translated by John White
The Ancient History of the Maori, His Mythology and Traditions
Shipbuilding was connected with some dimension
of this activity, but
in a way unknown to almost everyone.
- Idries Shah
The Sufis
books are boats.
- Dan Brown
The Lost Symbol
“It was long claimed
the ship was carrying a secret cargo.”
- Tintin reading to his canine companion in
Adventures of Tintin
And so they hanged
as many shipbuilding craftsmen
as they could find.
- Idries Shah
The Sufis
their dead bodies had told their secrets
in dreams to the first men,
who formed a cult which had never died.
This was that cult,
- H.P. Lovecraft
The Call of Cthulhu
And the shadow ship started to emerge from its shadow.
- A.E. Von Vogt
Earth Factor X
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