“Anne, look here!”
I looked over to where he was crouched. Nestled in amongst the sea grass lay a huge conch shell. Mark picked it up and held it aloft, a magnificent grin stretching over his beautiful face.
“I’ve never seen one that big!” I exclaimed, like an utter simpleton. I felt my face prickle, embarrassed at my unguarded outburst. Thankfully, Mark did not seem to notice.
“I’ve never seen one at all,” he said. “I’ve heard about them, though. This here’s a queen conch. A very rare find. A very rare find indeed.”
He turned the rough, spiralled exterior over to reveal a beautiful bright coral pink underbelly. He traced his slim fingers over the large glossy pink outer lip. A brown snail emerged from his hiding place, its huge pointed claw swiping at Mark’s fingers. It seemed very odd to me that something so beautiful could accommodate something so ugly and aggressive.
Mark took a knife from his coat pocket and made short work of cutting the snail from its shell, thoroughly scraping out its crevices. He transferred the bulbous flesh to his knapsack.
“That’ll be a good addition to tonight’s meal,” he said, beaming. He knelt and washed the shell in the warm waters, before standing and holding the conch out to me, like it was the most precious prize in the world. “For you.”
“Oh!”
Delighted, I took the shell from him and turned it in my hands. I ran my fingertips in and around its many whorls and stroked the smooth, shiny inner surface.
“It’s heavier than I thought it would be,” I said. “And much more beautiful than any shell I’ve seen before.”
“Every queen conch is beautiful on the outside. Sometimes, rarely mind, you find a pearl inside one. A priceless pink pearl. They are so very hard to find, and so very valuable.”
Excited, I brought the shell’s opening close to my face and peered inside the empty crevice, looking for hidden treasure.
Mark chuckled. “I already looked, Anne. Alas, we didn’t get lucky this time.”
I smiled ruefully up at him. He was watching me intently.
It occurred to me then that, somehow, he had relaxed me enough that I had been acting a little too soft for my liking. I placed the shell carefully on the wineskins in the rowboat and leant against the rail, acting as nonchalant as I could.
“You’re quite the dark horse, ain’t you Mister Read?” I said, kicking off my boots and paddling my feet in the warm, shallow waters.
“Whatever do you mean, Miss Bonny?”
“You know – master swordsman, water diviner, shell connoisseur. What other tricks do you have up your sleeve, one wonders?”
He laughed and shook his head. “I just like to get on with things, Anne. I don’t make a fuss, is all. There’s nowt special about me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Still, I have been thinking I can maybe learn a thing or two from you.”
“It’d be my pleasure, Miss Anne.” He took off his tricorn and held it to his chest, bowing elaborately. “What service may I offer you first?”
“I want you to teach me to fight like you.”
He laughed, a bright, musical sound that warmed me. “You would have to listen, Anne.”
“I’ve got ears, don’t I?”
“Sure enough.”
He walked to me and drew my sword from my sash. I felt a pull in my centre and involuntarily took one step closer to him.
“Hold out your left hand,” he said softly.
His breath smelled sweet, like apples and fine spices. I held my hand out, palm up, and he placed the centre of my sword on my hand, balancing the blade perfectly, parallel with the sand below.
“The first lesson you must learn is that you are your sword, and, in knowing that, you must always be balanced - mentally and physically - for your sword to become one with you.”
Stepping back, he performed the same action with his own sword, levelling it on his palm, and sank into a deep lunge - balancing his body perfectly. His sword did not move a whisker during the whole manoeuvre. “Try it, Anne.”
I copied him as best I could and was quietly pleased when my sword hardly wobbled in my hand.
“Room for improvement, but a good start.”
“Damn near perfect, that was!” I retorted.
“Now, stay exactly where you are and flip your sword up, catching it with your fighting hand, like this.” He flipped his sword up and over and caught it smoothly by the hilt with his right hand - still in a perfect lunge.
Cocky now, I tossed the sword up, too quickly, and sent it twirling away from me, missing the catch completely. It sank blade-first into the wet sand, and I lost my balance, toppling to the ground.
“For pity’s sake,” I huffed, brushing down my breeches. “What’s all this throwin’, twirlin’ and catchin’ nonsense? When do we get to fight properly?”
“You mustn’t let your emotions take charge of your sword.”
“I ain’t. My sword wants to kill you.”
“Your sword is an extension of you, Anne.”
“Fine. Then I want to kill you.”
“No, you don’t, Anne. You want to learn.”
“Stop saying Anne.”
His eyes twinkled with mirth, and something I thought looked like admiration. “Your sword reacts best to discipline. To physical control. If you let your heart rule, you will lose the fight. Every battle is won with the head.”
“Are you implying I ain’t clever?” I challenged, jutting out my chin.
“I’m implying your passion overrules your cleverness, of which, by the by, I have absolutely no doubt. Now…prepare…breathe. And…en garde.”
He settled into an elegant half lunge and levelled his sword at my chest, completely still, ready to fight.
I pulled my boots back on, picked up my sword, assumed the lunge position, and for the first time in my life…I decided to listen.
We practised until
