Broken they were, the men that sailed the Borgory Nine. “Prevail, and hail we men so fine.” It was canny how a group of men as tattered and derailed as these could forge such lasting bonds of fear, and forced trust. “No more shall we work for our woe.” Their minds were on the corner of madness and brilliance, never turning unless to devise some tact that would further their dreadfully keen existence.

For endless nights these beasts journeyed over clean waters after abandoning the Island of Mother Ebe, a once-commercial city now chilled by the pirate menaces that looted and killed for their dues, as the story went. The Borgory Nine sought only to reap the boons in the looter’s wake, and they did. The men ventured onto the skeleton of this desolate isle and rummaged through the shattered buildings, abandoned by owners seeking their one chance to be assailed again, though perhaps they would be free. Not much was expected to exist in this ravaged waste, but the men of the Borgory Nine had grown to favor the unexpected; and so our story begins.

So we own the seas, we dregs,
So we own the seas.
Sordid souls and wild legs,
So we own the seas.
Never have you seen a group
Of dreadful dogs as these.
So we own the seas.

“Prepare to port men, we feed ourselves tonight!” The old ship moved slowly beside the dock, its warped wood bow creaking under the short wake of the rising tide. The ship itself was a marvel of the changing world, beautifully ornate with classic roman embossments along the perimeter of the deck, and a strong woman soldier gripped tightly to the bow, one arm raised in glory, holding the half-sword that remained in her splintered hand. The spar deck was well-kept, as the glory of that vile ship was the pride of the crew.

A short, burly man with a strong beard and oversized blue jacket was the first to scale the side of the Borgory Nine and step foot on the dock, one so familiar with the trampling steps of thievery, dirt, and death.

“Come awn, ye all, what aw’ ye wai’in’ for?” He waved the crew that hung over the weak rails to join him, and one by one the men descended. The pounding of boots echoed across the shore of the silent, deserted island, a march strong enough to shake the barnacles off of the pier and ripple the water surrounding it. Looking out the men could see a horizon of tropical palms, still growing tall below a dank blue-grey sky, replete with clouds and wild terns, and above the razed houses devoid of light and devoid of life.

The men dispersed and ventured into the city of the isle, leaving no one standing on the wide dock but the Captain, a tall, well-built man with a long black robe ornamented with gold trim, and a straight three-cornered hat of the same dark shade. In no hurry at all, he traced each plank of wood, step by step, squinting at the remains of the bustling town, unfaltering glare piercing the hearts of the ghosts of former business owners and vendors, and mothers and children.

The walk into town began on a short dirt path between towering palms, then slowly opened up to reveal a row of businesses on either side, constructed fully from a combination of lumber and palm wood. Dirty men sporadically ran from building to building as the Captain strode slowly past the fractured windows and pillars. A slight light shone in the corner of his eye, and, planting his foot, he turned to face a run-down saloon, with dusty tables flipped, legs snapped like twigs in a squall of sword and pistol. The Captain glided up the rickety steps and in through the hanging wooden doors.

On a red, cushioned stool in front of the bar counter sat a man with a bottle of bourbon and a dripping candle, the source of the light that drew the Captain in like a moth. The man’s hands were glued to the drink, and his arms glowed beside the flame. He wore a blank cotton shirt with shortened sleeves. His head was bald as a pearl, and seemed to luminesce as the light struck it. Unwilling to startle the man, though strong and unshaken as he looked, the Captain trudged his feet against the grey wood and sat without acknowledgement on the stool beside him.

The bald man smirked silently, his gold earring glinting as he moved. “If you are not real then I do not care for your company. If you are real then surely you have a name.”

The Captain was taken aback, slightly, by the greeting and replied, “I am called Captain. Years on the open ocean have helped me forget who I was. Captain is who I am.”

“Then you are lost.” The man took a swig from his bottle.

“And you are?”

“Lost like you. I care not for acquaintance or familiarity, so I would hope for you to call me Mr. Clean and know me only as a man so coincidentally sitting at this bar same as you.”

“Ay, it’s funny you look anything but clean. How is it that you are the only man in this oasis?” The Captain inquired, wanting more to learn this man’s story than to pilfer, for the moment.

“Ah, we, Captain, we are.” He turned his head, revealing to the Captain his robust, slightly aged face, bushy white eyebrows, and glossy blue eyes that seemed to reflect the shallows just off of the coast of what seemed to be his own island.  “We are those bred to live, uncaring of ones we should love, unwilling to stand down when it would otherwise be sensible. I left, Captain, but there was nothing to flee from. I returned knowing the risks, and my safety from them.”

“And you simply knew, Clean, that you were safe? Then surely you must be a scoundrel as they were.”

“And what had these scoundrels done, do you assume?” Questioned Mr. Clean, anxious to learn how much the Captain thought he knew.

“They have trespassed here. They have ruined this town, of course, murdered the innocent, stolen that which did not belong to them, and left you sitting here, it seems, to dwell on it.”

“I am not a drunk, Captain, nor am I an idiot, and I do not talk down on those I do not know beyond the word of the distraught and the biased. And you are wrong,  good man, as those very criminals were born of the island and come from nowhere else.” He sat the Captain into a more comfortable chair, one lying on the floor that he had remounted and dusted off after years of disuse, and stood as he revealed to the Captain his account, one to which the Captain could do naught but listen silently.

“Not much was known of this island when English settlers landed on it about one hundred and fifty years ago. They named it the Island of Mother Ebe, after the guiding ship, the Ebe Mariner, that so graciously carried them here and out of the reach of pirate threats in the West. They began to level the palms and gather excess lumber from the ship, no longer expecting to journey away from the island. The more they built, however, the angrier the Mother became, a fact so sadly unknown to the settlers. Their houses and businesses were built, yes, but as the years passed they began to find that the supplies they had would not satiate their needs. They turned against each other: mother killing child to have more food for herself, fisherman raiding his companion’s store for supplies. The townspeople were cursed by the island, as she was wise enough to relieve them only of their satisfaction. And that was enough.

“Businesses and houses were left as you see them now. No longer did the town bustle. Many were left dead, others ventured off only to be taken by the Mother herself.”

The captain shifted in his seat and interjected, “And you?”

“I? Well I told you, I am as you, respectful, and I heard the cries of the island. I know that you came to this island and did not see riches, did not see beauty. I know of the ghosts that stopped their mourning to stare at you and smile with empty eyes.”

“You know nothing of me.” The captain spit.

“I know that you sit here before me. I am afraid that you will leave this bar to find the empty town that you arrived at. Your men do not know respect, Captain, and I should expect that the island has corrupted them as it had its original visitors.” The Captain ran outside, and Mr. Clean slowly followed until his partner stopped. The Captain of the Borgory Nine stared at the dock, and at the smallest site of his beautiful ship escaping to the dusky horizon.

He turned to Clean. “You knew this!” He shouted, “You knew of this and yet you kept me seated in this dirty pub with your idiotic story!”

“Corrupt company corrupts even those as pure as you, Captain.” The Captain sprang in anger, drawing his sword and cutting swiftly across the innocent chest of the man that he now faced. Mr. Clean fell to the dusty earth and pulled the Captain down with him. His muscles relaxed, and his veins thinned.

“Stay in your vile town, worthless stranger,” the Captain growled as he stood and ventured senselessly into the depths of the palm forest.

“I am all you have!” Clean screamed back, slowly losing his strength, “You will fall like the rest of them!”

His voice fell to a whisper. “At least my conscience is clean.”