An Epic of Sorts

The Epic Of The Spy
WK 3, QTR 1
By Avila M. Dauvin


Tell me Muse of the Scarlet Spy, one who compares with a fox, searching for prey with bloodthirsty eyes and a cunning gleam crowding the narrow pupils. He pounces on a lone figure, crushing it with the force of gravity and bringing it up to the snout in bloody triumph. The day will come when the Spy will be judged of its false actions and long nose.

The shipyard was cold and stinky of dead fish long dead and men long hardened by the glare of the sun and the dead weight of the crusted anchor. Like a heavy burden turning the hearts of the trespassers cold as ice with nothing but the frost to disfigure it. The men all looked towards the west and same did one pudgy Ethiopian, black as the Arabian coffee bean and just as strong. His teeth gleamed in the sunlight like pearls one dives to the death in search of. The pearls would champ on the hands of many men who went looking for fortune, clamping them tight in the mouth of iron with a jaw of granite, concealing the man to his bitter fate of death.

The Ethiopian, The Devil as he was called by his master was grinning at the sailors in a hideous fashion. His long fingers curled menacingly and his nostrils flared like a bull to charge with enough momentum to hurl the victim and crash him against a fence. “Oh glory!” the Devil cried. “Why must thee take no girls aboard?”
“We shall take one as a wife and cook!” hollered back a brawny sailor, his lip curling back to form the smile of a python, coiling against the mast and ready to strike in his defense.
The sailor glanced upon a lass with hair as golden as the barnacles that stuck to the hold of the ship like leeches. He grabbed her and carried the lass to the ship, clamping her mouth shut with his dirty paw. “This here is my wife!” he yelled and “We wants to go to China!” He was triumphant of his prize and tied her in the hold so she would never escape. “Never again, old hag shall you se this here land of yours. We shall marry in China and you shall keep house for me.” He laughed like a magpie after a treasure and with his wings flew up the the deck snarling over the priceless treasure.

The Ethiopian, called The Devil by his Master swung up on deck and sprinted to the hold. The girl was crying bitterly like an infant without candy and she cried louder when the black man crouched closer. “Go! Go! It is no use. He shall kill me if I'd try escape! He already has done so to seven other girls such as myself.”
The Ethiopian smiled and showed the pearls men would try to get by knocking his skull. “I shall get killed,” he said quietly. Quiet was all he was. The stillness was immense. He clutched the girl and asked kindly, “Can you swim, dear mistress?” She replied in assent. He loosened the ropes hold on the girl and carried her up. The ship had not cast off and was rocking in the bay like a toy sailboat that boys long to throw rocks at. He bent over to let her down and she dropped in the water and swam like a mermaid, her golden locks streaming after her like seaweed clinging to the skull and sucking up the scalp.
The Ethiopian had hoped against hope that his life would be saved. He saw his chance to jump into the sea and drift towards shore. But no, it was not to be.

This might seem as a morbid epic and you shall be wondering where does This little girl get such vulgar ideas, but there may be meaning in these words. I wrote without ceasing and that might mean the Holy Spirit was on the move. Who knows?
Continued in Dec