Short Story Spotlight: The Teeth

The Teeth was one of the more challenging stories I wrote during 2023. I was very surprised to see that I had made it through to the next round (although I didn't proceed any further than that). This was my NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2023 Round 2 entry, and I think that with a bit of work, this could become a very compelling tale indeed.

My assignment was as follows:

• Genre: Historical Fiction
• Subject: Unwritten law
• Character: A cabin boy
• Word limit: 2,000

Here is my untouched entry. Please drop some feedback in the comments if you have any!

This will be the last contest story I post for a while. I am done catching up, and future stories will be posted if and when they do well in whichever contest they are entered in.

The Teeth

Sixty years separate me from my journey aboard the Pioneer in 1691, and I feel compelled to unburden my spirit. Perhaps my confession will rid my dreams of the horrors that make their home there and I can end my days in peace.

Having been newly apprenticed aboard a questionable merchant vessel called the Pioneer, I found myself early in that fateful year enduring the lot of a cabin boy. The Captain (for that was the only name I had for him at the tender age of eleven, and a man of such iniquity deserves no further mention) was always ready to correct my flaws through the use of his enormous boots. Jude, the cook (who I shall name for, although he beat me most days, still ensured that I had enough to eat) was my second ruler, endlessly dissatisfied with my slowness. I detested their endless errands and detested more still scrambling up the rigging to the yards when the sails needed trimming. The only bright spot in my days of ceaseless labor was my acquaintance with Sir Henry.

That was not his real name. When I searched the Jamaican and British Records later, I found several candidates, but none matching in terms of age or disposition. But that was the name by which he introduced himself less than a week after my apprenticeship began. He was our one and only passenger, and I was occasionally called upon to serve him.

Unlike the rest of the crew, who barely considered me human, Sir Henry spoke to me as an equal, insisting I use his Christian name. He commented once on the youthfulness of my appearance, but only to say that he was sorry to see the years already compounding in my face. I learned that Henry had bartered his way on board with a golden amulet and promises of more riches when we arrived at Sainte-Marie, a journey of many months. The amulet was deemed to be of high value, and speculation rang rife among the crew regarding what else Henry might have about his person. The decision was made to ‘humor the old man.’ After all, he could be relieved of his possessions after handing over the promised riches just as easily as before.

Every free moment I had, I spent at Henry’s side. This did not amount to much, given my duties, but occasionally I was able to spend entire afternoons in his quarters.

It was on one such afternoon that Henry took me into his confidence. By this time, he had begun teaching me to write. I was busily copying the opening verses of Genesis, slowly and methodically, when Henry asked me if I had heard of the Right to Vengeance. I told him I had not.

He proceeded to educate me. The Right to Vengeance was a tradition rather than a law. No judge would ever enact it into legislation, yet it was something that many courts adhered to, nonetheless. It stated that vengeance for an insult to one’s family was sufficient justification for engaging in criminal acts. He asked me if that seemed godly, and, not wishing to disappoint, I told him I did.

After some silence, Henry announced, “There is a pirate in Sainte-Marie.”

I agreed again. There were many pirates in Sainte-Marie. Our purpose in sailing there was to resupply the pirate settlement and avail ourselves of the many enjoyments that the island was said to offer. By this time, I had developed an understanding that, while my crew and captain were not pirates themselves, they operated in a distinctly pirate-adjacent capacity.

“Pirates attacked my village,” Henry added, another clue for me to ponder. Pirates had attacked my home once too, but I’d hidden and wasn’t found, a fact I relayed with great pride to Henry.

“Good boy,” Henry said, a sad smile on his face. Another pause, and then, “My grandson was not as quick as you.”

I continued to write as I considered Henry’s words.

“The pirates got him?” I asked. Now, I wince at the bluntness of the question, but Henry did not scold me. He simply said, “Yes, my boy.” I kept my eyes on my work. I could tell by his voice that he was crying, and it seemed shameful to stare at him as he did so.

“The pirate’s name was Alexander Becket,” he said. I nodded. It was Becket’s settlement towards which we sailed.

I was soon summoned, but before leaving I tentatively took Henry’s hand and squeezed it, a sign, I hoped (and hope still), of my deepest sympathy and love.

Many weeks passed with no time for visits. I am ashamed to say that I hardly thought of Henry at all until the first mate said to the Captain at dinner, “That old man is sick.” I paused in my work, but not long enough to incur the Captain’s wrath. “He won’t see the morrow,” the first mate added.

“Ai,” said the Captain, and they moved on to other matters.

I darted from the cabin the moment I was dismissed and made my way to Henry’s quarters.

The sight that met my eyes as I entered my friend’s final resting place will haunt my dreams until my death. Henry lay in his hammock, his wispy white hair coiling like corkscrews, his skin rough and scaly like a fish’s and flaking from his bones. An old wound on his arm had reopened, blood and pus seeping to the floor, and a trickle of blood from his open mouth stained the side of his face.

But what drew my eye the most were the two white teeth that lay on the floor beneath Henry, one half covered in blood, but the other entirely visible.

It is those teeth that cause me to wake, sweating and sometimes screaming. They were so wrong, so other, so out of place and above all they communicated a truth that I could not deny.

My friend was already dead.

I don’t know how long I stared at those teeth, but it could only have been a few moments. My mind went to our last conversation and, when it landed on the memory of the Right to Vengeance, I acted.

It was permitted to punish people who hurt the ones you loved. That was how I understood Henry’s unwritten law then, and how I choose to understand it now. While the Captain had not killed Henry, he also had not helped. Depriving him of Henry’s riches seemed a fair punishment.

I rose swiftly and pulled the small chest from the place we had hidden it. Then, averting my eyes, I reached for the key around Henry’s neck. The memory of his scabbed, dead skin beneath my fingers is something that often invades my mind.

The key allowed me to open the chest and transfer its contents to my satchel. Emeralds, the size of my fist. Sparkling necklaces and amulets. Countless coins.

After a slight hesitation, I returned a handful of coins, an emerald, and a pearl necklace to the chest. My hope was that the crew would assume that Henry had overstated his wealth and be content to stop searching after finding the meager riches I had left them.

I returned to the Captain’s cabin where I found him soundly asleep. I made some noise to see if he would wake. When he did not, I crawled to his small bed and pulled a box from beneath it that contained a collection of despised keepsakes from a life the Captain had long since abandoned.

It was in this box that I hid the treasure, the only place no one would look.

The next day was a tangled nightmare. I remember forcing myself to watch when they threw Henry’s body overboard. I remember the furor as his quarters were torn apart. I remember helping them search and I remember the anger that erupted when so little of value was found. Everything else was a blur.

At the time of Henry’s death, we were only a few weeks from Sainte-Marie. As we drew nearer, my mind awoke from its grief and a new plan began to form. It is at this point that moralists may wish to stop reading, although I can say with certainty that I would not act differently if I were afforded the opportunity.

Once docked, I ensured I was the one to carry the Captain’s unloved box onto land. It was a matter of moments to nip away and hide the treasure in a nearby thicket, keeping only a handful of coins. Identifying my prey was also easy. Becket, a large, loud man, surrounded by pretty and well compensated adorers, soon made his presence felt.

Gaining access to a man with as many loyal followers as Becket should have been the point at which my plan failed, but even that was easy, making me wonder if the confused god from Henry’s Bible was indeed watching over me as my friend had promised.

Becket had a servant, a dry-land equivalent of myself, who I bribed with all the coins in my possession for access to Becket’s bedroom. He laughed (with a bitterness that only made sense later) when I told him I wished to beg Becket for employment, but he took my money and led me in secret to Becket’s bedchamber.

Becket lay, snoring, on one side of a large bed. Strong fumes told me that his slumber would likely be deep. On the other side I could see another sleeping form.

A knife lay next to the bed. I crossed the room on tiptoe and reached for it. Becket lay on his back, head titled to reveal his throat, into which I plunged the knife, wrenching it this way and that to cause the most damage.

Blood sprayed everywhere. Becket’s eyes flew open, and he tried to grab my hand. In a panic, I wrenched the knife free, causing more blood to spurt.

Becket fell back against his reddening pillows, a small gurgle emanating from his lips. Then, he was still.

The other sleeper shifted but did not wake.

I realized then that I was covered in blood. Fear gripped my heart, but almost immediately my eyes fell upon clothes lying on the floor.

Boy’s clothes.

Another glance at the bed confirmed how small the second sleeper was.

Hurriedly, I replaced my bloody clothes with those of the sleeper’s. On a whim, I grabbed a satchel and filled it from the stack of scrolls on Becket’s desk. Henry had said that paper was more powerful than money, when used correctly, and I owe much of my current wealth to the maps and other information that I took from Becket that night.

Holding my head high, and hoping I looked enough like the boy in the bed to pass unnoticed, I strode from the house, using the back entrance through which I had arrived. I was halfway to where I had buried Henry’s treasures when a shrill, terrified scream split the air.

The boy had woken.

That sound, along with the way Henry’s skin had felt when I touched it after his death, are two of the specters that live eternally in mind. I think about that boy often, and what his fate, caused by my hand, might have been. Every time I receive a new shipment or sign a new contract, each time a coin falls into my waiting palm, I think of that boy.

I think of him more than Henry himself.

But mostly I think of those two slippery teeth in a pool of dead man’s blood, glistening malevolently in a lightless room.