offered to show me the collection of
curiosities he had acquired on his voyages, I accepted with pleasure. The first
few items were the usual clutter that the locals in far flung places will sell
to gullible white men, but I made a credible show of being interested. He had,
he assured me, saved the best for last. He led me to a cabinet about the height
of my chest and the width of my outstretched arms. He opened the doors, I saw
it and the years fell away. The breath was taken from my body and my heart was
frozen with fear. It was a primitive ritual display of bones and feathers of
sacrificed small animals interspersed with clay fire pots against a backdrop of magic symbols painted
on a tanned human skin. The centerpiece wasa human skull also
painted with ritual symbols. I had seen one exactly like it during my first
voyage as Master, when I landed on Turtle Island in the Caribbean. When I regained consciousness the guests were
gathered around me and my wife was holding my hand.

As our carriage made its way through the empty streets toward
home my thoughts drifted back to the circumstances of my childhood. I was born William Fletcher. My parents were
indentured to one of the great plantations upriver of Charleston. My memories
of that time are mostly of working alongside of them in the fields. The year
that I turned 10 a coughing sickness swept through the area and took both my
parents. I stayed long enough to see their Christian burial by the plantation
folk and then set off for