Oil lamps flickered near doorways, on tables and around the bar. The damp cedar sawdust on floor had a sweet and sour quality to it as it mixed with spilled beer, spit, and manure tracking in from the street. The blubber that once insulated great sea creatures now gave a squat lamp an orange flame with a curl of black smoke, filling the low-ceiling pub with the smell of ripe fish. Everyone partook in tobacco as they drank: pipes, cigars, rolled cigarettes, and snuff; either snorted or chewed. A dark halo ringed the spittoons due to the patrons’ poor aim. The fireplace crackled, with a wrought iron grill cooking meat and porridge, adding to the smoky haze. Outside the night air was biting cold, but the pub was warm and humid, an oily sheen on every face. The Whale’s Teat was filled with dockworkers. They remained in port year round, supplying, offloading and repairing the great whaling ships that came and went. The paydays were smaller but the survival rate was considerably better. A bearded imp of a man started to play his concertina, a few foul notes squealing as he unfurled the folded box.
“Oh for God sakes Jamie, if you’re going to kill that thing, just be done with it. I can’t stand to hear it suffer anymore!” Killen said.
“I’m just warming her up,” Jamie replied.
“Try warming her on the fire, maybe that will sweeten her song a bit,” Killen taunted.
“You’ve no appreciation for the finer things. You’re a peasant, and wouldn’t know art if it thumped you on the chest!” Jamie retorted.
“Is that a threat, now? And here I thought we were friends. I think we’ve all had a sour bellyful of your art,” Killen smirked at Jamie.
Jamie again pushed and pulled on the box, pressing the ivory buttons on the side, but yowling screeches and wheezing was all it produced.
“It’s the damn air in here. A chimney sweep would choke on it,” Jamie complained.
“I think your little squeeze box may have the consumption Jamie. Why don’t you let it die in peace and have a pint?” Jamie put the concertina back in its case and took a seat at the bar with his back to Killen.
“So how many men returned on the Good Helen today? I heard there was some trouble.” Killen asked his tablemate, Barclay.
“They lost a third of the crew. They found a pod and dropped the boats, but the whales scattered, as did the crews. One boat capsized by harpooned beast, which then slipped the hook. It smashed the survivors into chum. The other crew gave chase to a mother and baby, but lost them to rough water. As the storm grew, they were too far out to be recovered. They say the ship tried to hold water, but was tossed about like a ball in a scrum, so they had to raise sail and break for home. Five men were washed over.”
“Terrible. Terrible,” Killen said, shaking his head. “Although it will put a few widows back on the market. So there’s hope for me yet.”
“You’re going to hell Killen, and those women are in mourning,” Barclay scolded.
“I’m only looking to help my fellow man. Who is in this case is a woman. What’s more Christian than that?” Killen asked. As he started to finish off his pint, he grabbed his leg and cried out, “Argh! Me leg! My damn shakes are back!” Killen grabbed his upper thigh, trying to stop the spasm.
“Could you maybe use a nice tincture for that?” asked Mary Fallon, at the next table.
“Get on with you, witch! Nobody needs your potions here!” Killen protested.
“I know what ails you Killen, and I can help you, for a price. Which just went up for your unkind words of my practice.” Mary retorted.
His leg went off again. “Argh!” Killen jumped up, clutching his leg, limping to the back of the pub, into a dark hall and through an unmarked door.
In a dry storage room smelling of cured meat, dried barley, and hard cheeses he pulled down his pants, struck a match and saw the parasites poking out of his leg. Their milky-white heads tipped with eyes like tiny beads. A few dozen had migrated through his skin. The leader, larger than the rest, wriggled almost free of Killen’s leg meat but kept his tail hook attached for safety.
“What the hell are you doing out there?” the worm asked. “You think this is some kind of game? We’re on a schedule. We need to migrate.”
“I was workin’ up to it,” Killen explained. “I can’t just wrestle some poor sod to the ground and have you jump on board, now can I? How would it look? But if I comfort a widow or two, then we’d be skin on skin and you and your friends and change homesteads while she’s asleep. Trust me, I know a thing or two about the carnal arts, the poor widow will be sleeping like a baby when I’m through with her. Then you’ll have all the time in the world to jump ship.”
The worms in Killen’s leg were an aggressive form of STD prevalent in the West Indies. The native people had immunity to them, so they never grew beyond microscopic size and didn’t cause any real harm. But once non-native sailors started to arrive from the New World, the parasites thrived. Growing to the size of mealworms, developing eyes and establishing a loose hierarchy. A few of them would be chemically designated to absorb testosterone from their host and become the leaders of their of their colony. They grew a mouth and larynx, and were able to speak. Many hosts tried to rid themselves of the parasites, but they would instantly withdraw and migrate to wreak havoc: burrowing into nerves, lungs, the heart, testicles, the eyes; anyplace unpleasant that would force their host to do their capitulate. Their goal was to continue to spread and grow their numbers. A colony could smell other infected hosts and would steer people to only unaffected partners. Although with Killen, the colony wanted to evacuate because he was rife with syphilis, gonorrhea, tuberculosis and hepatitis C.
“We need to leave your vile body before you die. And given your habits that could be any moment.”
Killen struck another match, to be able to see his tormentor. “Alright. I’ll take care of it tonight.”
“Any clean body will do, don’t be picky. A man, a woman, even a goat would be preferable to the cesspool we’re living in.”
“I have a zest for life, and I’ll not apologize for that!” Killen said. As he did, the worms moved his kidneys and started to nibble on the outer membrane. Killen dropped to the ground, writhing in agony, biting his arm to keep from crying out.
The worm in his thigh warned, “We don’t want to hurt you Killen, but you’re giving us no choice. Get it done.”
Killen pulled up his pants and returned to his seat.
“Everything alright?” Barclay asked.
“Just a spasm. They come and go, nothing to worry about. Hey, let me buy you a couple of shots. You’re always been such a good friend to me Barclay.”
“Killen McCloud buying me a round? Now I know you’ve gone mad. But it you have the money, don’t let me get in the way of your raving.” Killen went to bar and ordered the drinks. When he returned Mary Fallon had joined them. She was waving about a bundle of dried herbs, with curls of white smoke rolling out over the table. The smell was sweet, like orange peel and clove, with a hint of something bitter like pine tar.
“Witch, I’ve told you we don’t need your black magic here. You’re polluting our fine drinks with your smoky madness.”
“Take a deep smell, I’m trying out a new blend for a hangover cure. No charge, and surely something you could use,” Mary offered.
“Aye, if it will make you move on, I’ll smell your stinkweed.”
Killen took a deep breath of the sweet smoke, and felt a bit dizzy. Forgetting himself, he kept on taking deep breaths as Mary held the bundle under his nose.
Killen slurred a bit, “I’m not feeling well. I think I better get some air.” He stood, disoriented.
“I’ll take you,” Mary offered.
“I’ll stay here with the drinks, for safe-keeping,” Barclay said, with a heavy-lidded smile.
Outside, the frigid salt air bit into Killen’s flesh, and cleared his head. He realized Mary was holding his arm, and they were nestled into a carriage stall. He sensed an opportunity.
“Ah Mary, I know I’ve played hard to get, but you’ve always been my favorite. I was just too shy—“
“Shut your gob, you damn fool. I know you’ve got the worms.”
“No! Don’t say it, they’ll chew my bollocks off if I waste any more time!”
“The smoke makes them sleep. So you can speak freely,” Mary replied.
“Ah Mary, this cursed life I’ve had! I’ve done no harm, and now I’ve got these terrible creatures inside me, telling me what to do!”
“You’ve dipped your cock into any warm puddle you find! And you were planning to do the same to Barclay. Sweet, innocent, stupid Barclay. You should be ashamed.”
“I am, but these little beasts have a hold on me! Quick, let’s cut them out while they’re sleeping!”
“So you want me to flay you open right here? You daft fool, the only way to get rid of them is to lure them or to drive them out!”
“Either sounds fine, Mary. Please help me!”
“Here, drink this tonic. It will finish the worms for sure.” She handed Killen a little flask and he drained it.
“Not too bad, a bit sweet,” Killen said.
“I add honey to make it go down smooth.”
“Something’s happening, I’m tingling all over Mary, and feel a bit twitchy.”
“That’d be the strychnine. The cramping will soon take you over, and then you’ll stop breathing. But I added a healthy helping of opium, so it shouldn’t hurt too bad.”
Killen fell to the ground, overcome with convulsions, then went calm like a baby napping after a bottle. The lead worm wriggled out of Killen’s nose, sluggish but still alive.
“What have you done to us? Killing your own kind! You’re as bad as the humans!”
A worm sprouted from Mary’s nose, “We want that Barclay boy, and you were going to take him. You had to be stopped. Anyway, this woman is quite resourceful and we can do great things with her talents. If we plan it right, we can take over this land, and maybe the world!”
“You’re mad with power!” the worm coughed, growing weary.
“We’ll see.” Mary’s worm retracted, and Mary returned to the pub.
“Where’s Killen?” Barclay asked.
“He had to go. But why don’t we get better acquainted? Would you like another round of shots, dear boy?” Later that year Mary and Barclay would establish the first Freemason Lodge.