Sleepe No More
by Malia Wessel
“Came upon it in the Narrows, sir. Nine crewmen dead, causes unclear. That man’s the only survivor.”
Commodore Barrington surveyed the teetering madman, who slumped against the officer beside. Such a man seemed unaccustomed to the swaying of a deck, as if unsuited to the seas. Angry welts decorated the lengths of his arms, half-moons like teethmarks. “The French didn’t want him?”
“Frogs won’t touch him, sir. Kept muttering ‘navire fantôme’ and refused to board.”
“Hm.” The commodore took in the survivor’s matted locks and hollowed cheeks. The layers of grime made it hard to pick out features, let alone color. “Pirate?”
“Ship certainly is, sir,” the same officer replied, gesturing upward. “Black sails.”
Despite his apparent mindlessness, the pirate’s bloodshot eyes seemed to sharpen on the commodore, as if inviting conversation.
Barrington idled a few steps nearer, addressing him directly: “Name?”
The madman gave no answer but for a creaking laugh that wheezed out. His eyes lost their focus. From the rattle of his breath and haggard appearance, Barrington doubted he’d last long.
The commodore huffed. “Officer, take this man to—”
Before he could finish the order, he was grabbed by the lapels, breath hot and sour against his cheek. The madman’s beard scratched at his face, the sick-sweet stench of rot invading his nostrils as the man rasped unintelligible nonsense into his ear.
The attending officers hauled the pirate off before Barrington could do more than recoil. “Lock him up!” he commanded anew, wiping spittle from his cheek. “Question him on the morrow.”
With skin still stinging, the commodore strode from the docks. Construction was still underway around most of the island, but the commanding offices had been the first rebuilt. After all, a society couldn’t function without its government—their ability to operate was paramount. Saint Kitts at least remained in better shape than Nevis, which had been ravaged not only by the same earthquake a month prior, but also by a subsequent landslide and tidal wave. What of the wave that reached Saint Kitts had little effect on the English-controlled middle of the island. The French weren’t so happy with their lot; perhaps they’d been too overrun with repairs to apprehend the pirate ship drifting through their waters.
Barrington had only been reviewing documents a quarter of an hour before there was a knock at his office door. “Come in.”
The officer that entered was the one from before, Potts, a young man still bare of face but fiercely loyal to the navy. “Sir, we searched the ship. We found, er...something we thought you should see.”
“Yes?”
Officer Potts placed a waterlogged, leather-bound journal upon the desk.
“A book?”
Potts cleared his throat. “The pirate’s journal. It seems—well, sir, it seems to be addressed to you.”
Barrington was not a man to appreciate pranks. “Is that so?”
Rather than answer, Potts flipped open the cover with a delicate finger. The ink had blurred from moisture, but he could just make out the words: To Phillip H. Barrington.
Barrington’s eyes flicked up to meet the officer’s. “Did you confront the prisoner about this?”
“Not yet.” Potts shifted on his feet, as if uncomfortable. “We didn’t read it, sir. But what the Frenchies said, about a ‘ghost ship’—”
Barrington silenced him with a lazy wave. “Leave it where you found it. Dismissed.” He didn’t wait for the man to depart before returning to his papers.
#
That night, Barrington couldn’t sleep. He lay motionless under the covers, staring at the ceiling above. Margaret slept soundly to his left, unaware of her husband’s unease.
What had that pirate whispered? ‘Gone collar...niece mow’? He knew it was merely the rambles of a madman, but he couldn’t shake the echo of it from his mind. It clung to him, like an itch in his brain too deep to scratch.
That itch kept him awake all through the night. His eyelids wouldn’t rest, even when he threw an arm overtop. They blinked open of their own accord, despite the fatigue dragging at him. By the time the sun rose, the commodore had no choice but to see to his duties with crescents deepening under his eyes. With the bustle of repairs, the lone pirate slipped from his mind, and by that evening, weary from his sleepless night, Barrington retired to his home without consulting Officer Potts on the matter.
But again, that night, he couldn’t sleep.
Rather than toss and turn till morning, Barrington dressed once more and ambled listlessly down to the docks, guided by the moon to that abandoned pirate ship, bobbing upon the waves. Even within the captain’s cabin, moonlight streamed in strong through the windows, like a beacon, illuminating the madman’s journal where it lay on a cushioned chair. He supposed, prank or no, it couldn’t hurt to investigate.
The leather was soft from wear and warped across the spine, but it held together with surprising craftsmanship. Beneath the silvery glow, Barrington sat and opened the book.
To Phillip H. Barrington. If it were a prank, his subordinates were bold to use his given name in lieu of a title.
The next page began with a date, Feb. 18, 1690—only three months back. The commodore read on:
—————
Do you remember me? I doubt it. Yet I’ve remembered you.
This daye is the first of my long death. Yet, as far as I’ve come on this desperate voyage, it shall not budge my purpose. You may not recognise the creature I’ll become—I daresay I’ll not either—but I write this account in hopes it spurs your remembrance.
I’ve sailed neathe the black flag this past half-decade, not for treasures, nor infamy, but in search of yourselfe. It took years to ferrett you out, secreted away in the shoales of the Americas, but find ye I did; I crossed oceans to reach these West Indies with nary a care for mine owne wellbeing. Even now, as I face the inevitable, I harbour no regrett for this decision, so long as it draws you into my grasp.
Give me leave to begin at the beginning: You knew me as that young Irish lad who fawned at your feet & clutched at your bootstraps when you left in the mornings. My mother, you knew only as a whore, though bothe her & I believed you thought kinder of us. I still recall every honeyed vowe you whispered into her neck, every false word you chucked my way, kindling a hope you never intended to burne. In troth, you were not that much older than myselfe, only a distance of 10 years, yet those years were enough for me to see a father in you. I hadn’t yet learned that young men shouldn’t be trusted.
I was but 11 when you forsook my mother & that unborne childe in the street. Though you promised shelter, you spurned her; though you vowed protection, yet you allowed your own seede to choke the life from her. Neither she nor the babe survived the birth, but they cried to their last breaths. At the tyme, I fruitelessly hoped you’d returne, if only to holde her hand. But she wasn’t important enough for that, was she?
I begged, for a tyme, till a kindly shopkeeper took me in & taught me my letters. I might’ve been content there, if not for the vengeance brewing in my hearte. For years I bided my tyme, learned my way around weapons & books, battles & ships, till I one day hearde your name on the lips of a naval officer. Commodore, he called you. ‘Twas a hellish way to discover that as my mother & I’d been fighting for survival, you’d been awarded promotion.
You needen’t knowe every detaile of my journey from shopkeeper’s assistant to deckhand to fugitive; you neede only trouble yourselfe with one thing: I’ve procured my revenge. If you’re reading this, I’ve found you. There’s no escape from the curse placed upon us bothe. Have you noticed the onset yet? Have you come seeking answers? Or is it yet a surprise?
This curse wasn’t a parte of my plan—a simple killing would’ve sufficed. I considered different ways: a ‘slimming downe of partes’, as they say, beginning with the fingernails & ending with the shoulder blades—you can imagine how the process repeats on each limb. Or perhaps the pride of the Royal Navy: the iron coffin? They say it dries men to a crisp before the day is out. But no—this curse is far crueler than any I could’ve dreamt up.
It came upon us without warning, without reason, as we set saile for the Americas. Perhaps ’twas a gifte, from God to myselfe, encouraging me on my quest. Or perhaps from the devill, for who else has such thirst for revenge? Who else could design such a hell?
The first to suffer, our captain—the catalyste—did not reveal the cause for his tempers & fits for 6 days. After, he could only holler his agony to the seas. ‘He has my soule!’ he’d cry, fingernails cracking on the bulwarks. ‘He feastes upon’t as a dog feastes on scraps! He’s gripped me by the throate and won’t let go!’ On & on he howled, night into day into night again, his voice nothing but a wheeze by the end—though a wheeze was enough.
He could not sleepe, he confessed to us at length. Not a wink since leaving land. We gave him draught of dwale, but it wouldn’t calm him. We gave him more, more than enough to kill 10 men, but nothing could bring him downe. Invincible; unkillable! He was like a god—but a pitiful god, that soiled his trousers & clawed at his owne flesh. Our once-formidable captain staggered about his cabin, a living ghoste, mindless, unfeeling, immune to the world. By the tyme we thought best to toss him o’erboard, he’d already passed it to another & saved us the trouble of his murder. His corpse we disposed of, warped as it was, grinning obscene & ghoulish in its paralysis—but this did nothing to stop the spread.
Perhaps in some twisted sense of selfe-preservation, none relayed how it was passed onward. Only the bearer knew; only the bearer held that weapon o’er the rest. Once the curse became too terrible to beare, the only escape was to transfer it to the next & fall onto the tender mercy of death. One by one we dropped! Before long all us there knew our lives would soone be forfeit.
The others prayed to God not to catch this plague. I was not so foolish; I only prayed I might receive it last, so as to gifte it you. By then I knew my path, had found the proof I’d sought to ambush your island refuge, and needed only staye the course. My prayers were not answered. As I hid one night, dozing behind a barrell, heate assailed my ear & a whisper filled my mind, clear as morning air: ‘gan codladh níos mó.’
You may not share my acquaintance with the Gaelic tongue; allow me to translate—this be that deathly edict of the geas: ‘sleepe no more.’ Thus I curse ye, Commodore—sleepe
—————
Barrington slammed the journal shut mid-sentence, heartbeat fluttering against his throat like the erratic flight of moths.
Gan codladh níos mó. Was that what the madman said? His mind resisted—how could he be sure?—yet his blood pumped faster, as if it knew better than his brain.
Barrington wanted nothing more than to retreat home to bed, but a niggling fear tugged upon his heartstrings, too awful to put to the test. For, what if he couldn’t sleep? Would that not confirm the pirate’s claim?
The commodore stood, legs trembling; he sat once more, unsteady on the rolling waves. Nothing could help. For he did remember that little boy, who’d clung to his boots, and the widow he’d long left behind.
Barrington couldn’t stop his hands—they reopened the journal.
—————
no more! The only sleepe for you shall be the peaceless sleepe of death—a murderer’s death, of restlessness & damnation. & I shall meete ye there; I shall be your particular demon.
Forgive the ramble, Commodore—the detailes go first. I yearne to write downe every thought before my mind consumes itselfe.
There were 2 left after me, but I couldn’t permit that temptation. I needed to save my curse for you; no other soule could stand in the way—I knew it’d be too easy to give in, to pass it on in the madness to come & thus I acted swiftly. As soone as I knew, I threw the pair o’erboard. I was invincible, you see; in life, I’d been weak, but as a ghost, I could decimate multitudes.
By now, you must be curious about the facets of this little affliction. I’ll take pity on ye, for it isn’t a pity, really, to detaile the symptoms of your impending demise. On the contrary, I relishe the chance!
Firstly, of course, you lose the function of sleepe: this doesn’t seeme so wretched at the starte, merely a fatigue. Yet as the nights drag on without a moment’s respit, the body aches, the brain throbs, o’erwhelmed in its voracity, & no drug nor poison dares take mercy on you. Attempt to end your misery, if ye will, take your owne life—no matter the bloodloss, no matter the paine, your soule will not abstract itselfe. Nothing on Earth can harm you—what a dream!
Next, madness creeps in slow, like a thief in the night. You don’t notice, at first; you believe in your own sanity above all else. One may never knowe if you realise it, truly, or if stubbornly you retain that selfe-faith to the last. I’ll trye to record an answer as mine owne progresses.
Then is the loss of faculties, that which would debase ye if still you had wits. The minde goes, and thus the muscles, nerves, senses all fracture into chaos. If you’ve seen madmen—if you’ve seene my future state—you can grasp the extent of this incoherency.
Will I disgust you, upon our reunion? Will you cower from my touch? This I hope to witness.
Now, Commodore Barrington, you knowe your future, as do I, & the horror it holdes. I’ve destroyed my life to end yours. ‘Twas worth every second of anguish; all agonies that followe, I welcome with joye!
Yours, Domnall Brydy
—————
The entry ended there, only for further torment to continue on the next page. Barrington tried to resist, but his curiosity betrayed him—
—————
Feb 20, 1690—
Mine eyes burne with desire for a sleepe that will not come; not e’en these lids will shut more than fleetingly. Each bone aches like muscle, my gums itch from teeth—I’ll yank them out.
Fear not, Commodore! We suffer together. For every stab of ailement I encounter, the thought of yours makes it that much sweeter to beare. O gods can’t have conceived of such tortures, nor such bliss! I bite at mine owne flesh to keep it feeling & watch your fingers bleede from’t.
You’d be surprised how quickly it ruines you. Only 3 days & already I’ve lost controll of these spasms. Is it real, I wonder, these visions before me? Mermaids above deck call out, their bodies opaline in moon-glow. Are they real? I think they are! Yet I dare not go—I daren’t let slip the words to someone else.
Those words, I’ll save for you, those words which linger
—————
A knock startled Barrington from his frantic reading. Dark pupils overtook his eyes as he stared at the cabin door, too paralyzed for speech. The knock sounded again. Barrington managed to clear his throat.
“Sir?” Officer Potts ventured, peeking in. “Stevens said he saw...”
Sunlight blinded the Commodore. He squinted, mute.
“Morning, sir. The prisoner—that pirate we detained—we meant to question him last night, but—”
Barrington’s muscles unlocked. “Yes? What is it?”
Potts folded his hands behind his back. “He passed away.”
The sharp bark of laughter shocked them both—Barrington hardly recognized it as his own.
“Sir?”
A short phrase, foreign, tempted his tongue in that a second, tickling at his mind. He reigned it in. “Dismissed.”
Potts hesitated. “Are you alright, sir?”
The commodore’s mouth creased upwards at the corners, more grimace than smile. “Dismissed!” he snapped, again biting back the Gaelic words.
Once Potts had vanished, Barrington let himself go—the laughter small and erratic, yet unstoppable, like water bursting from new holes in a dam no matter how many were plugged. He knew, in his bones, the truth. There was nothing to be done; as insanity slowly overtook him, he’d suffer the curse until he could stand it no more and sent another to their death. Who would it be? Who could deserve such cruelty? And more than all that—where would it end?
His family would be eating breakfast by now. Margaret, who’d been his companion twelve years, who’d seen the best and worst of him—was he now to repay her with a fate worse than death? What of their children? Would the innocent be spared?
“Whom should I kill?” he breathed, thunderous in the stale air of the cabin. “Whom should I condemn?”
Hysteria bubbled over as his eyes drifted back to the open page.
—————
on the roote of my tongue, waiting to see your face—the face of that man who killed my mother.
I will hunt him downe; even when my wits faile, when I forget my name & my mother’s smile, when I lose all sense of language & humanity, I’ll remember that man’s face—I’ll searche for it in the cloudes, in the waters, in the boardes of this ship, & when I find it, I’ll recite those words, the last either of us shall heare: gan codladh níos mó, gan codladh níos mó, gan codladh níos mó—
—————
Barrington sagged to the floor, timber skinning his knees as he flipped through the remaining pages, few phrases sensible amongst unintelligible scribblings. His eyes stung; breaths tore from his throat—How long did he have? How long till he lost all reason? The boat shivered; the text swam—
—————
ne’er shall you rest
gan codladh níos mó
ne’er shall you have peace
gan codladh níos mó
ne’er shall you sleepe
gan codladh níos mó
no more, no more
gan codladh níos mó
gan codladh níos mó
gan codladh níos mó