Inkman's Work

The pirates laughed, the one holding him showing a handsome grin. Inkman said something in their language and the younger pirate nodded and lifted Radford up into his arms as if he were a child in swaddling clothes. All of them headed for the beach. Radford would have felt mortified being carried if he had not felt so weak.

“My English is better than your Catalan, true?” When the younger pirate spoke, his unshaven face brushed against Radford’s cheek. The rough texture made Radford shiver. “I see your surprise. I was raised by a Scottish whore. Salort is my name.”

Salort bore Radford into the surf. Inkman followed as far as the water’s edge, calling out to them instructions. The Catalan pirate gently lowered Radford into the sea, allowing the gentle waves to cover him except for his head and neck still cradled in Salort’s arm. With his free hand, the pirate began to slowly and careful wipe away the mud the salt water eroded.

The briny kiss of the sea made Radford gasp. He clutched at Salort’s shoulder until his knuckles were white. He imagined this was what birth felt like and wondered how quickly babies must forget the pain.

“Almost clean,” Salort said. “A little longer.”

Radford panted by the time he was lifted from the water. He glanced down at his side and saw the now pale and pink, like a newborn’s tender skin.

The Inkman clapped his hands and smiled. “Bien. And when this is all healed, I shall hide the scar.” The tattoo artist’s fingertips danced around the edge of the cut, the touch a tease causing unsettling sensations. “Or perhaps I shall bring notice to it? Whatever our little hare wants.”