Schlep, Schlopp, Shlepp Shloop . . .

Griffin Willoughby soggily tromped his way to shore. In the dim moonlight he could make out a small crescent island and the lagoon it encircled. He could still scarcely believe the terrible turn of events that had occurred earlier that night.

It had been just a normal smuggling run, just like any other. Opium, tobacco, and rum, to be delivered under cover of darkness to one of their main clients. What they hadn’t expected was the rogue monsoon, which had blindsided them, and with two massive waves, had swept away half of their crew. Griffin’s best friend and crewmate, Sam the lookout, had been one of the casualties. To make a terrible night even worse, without him, they hadn’t spotted this accursed island in time and rammed straight into the reef at nearly eleven knots.

The Greyhound, a clipper schooner built especially for outrunning the Spanish Navy, now lay on her starboard side, less than a furlong from the shore.

It was too much, Griffin was too exhausted. He was soaked from head to toe, clothes tattered, scraped and bruised, and apt to break down crying from the loss of his friends. He collapsed on the soft warm sand, eyes watering.

Strong sailor men don’t cry, Griffin, get your act together!

As if on cue to put words to his thoughts, the gruff voice of Captain James Richardson bellowed across the shores.

“Did I hire a crew of pussies?? Get up, you dogs! All our cargo be falling into the sea! I’ll shoot the lot of you!”

Groans and cries of protest sounded in response.

Griffin received a sharp kick to the gut. “Get up!” Richardson shouted. “Or are you just a molly wench? Shall I shoot yer balls off and give you a cunt?”

Griffin slowly got to his feet, contempt blistering within. He hated when the captain insulted him by calling him a woman. It was a stupid insult, yet it struck a nerve every time.

“Get to making us a fire while the rest o’ the crew salvage the cargo.” The captain shoved a block of flint into Griffin’s arms. “And keep a lookout for any dangerous critters while you’re at it. You’d best do a better job than your lover; if he’d done his, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Rage bubbled within Griffin, both at the insult to Sam and disgrace towards his death, and that Richardson was calling Griffin a sodomite, which he was definitely not.

“How dare you blame Sam for this?” Griffin snapped. “He died because you didn’t believe him when he said the weather was ripe for a storm!”

In an instant, Richardson jammed his pistol up under Griffin’s stubbly jaw. He pulled the hammer back with an audible click.

“One more word, boy, and I’ll blow your brains all over this fucking beach.”

Griffin’s breath caught in his throat. Captain Richardson’s hot, slimy breath wafted into his nose, the coarse hair of the captain’s beard tickling his neck.

“You wanna be the captain, huh? You wanna make the orders around here, huh?”

“. . . no . . .”

“That’s what I thought, pup.” Richardson shoved him to the ground. “Get that fire going, or I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”

The captain stomped off towards the ship.

Griffin pulled himself to his feet and brushed the sand off his shirt. He made his way further into the vegetation of the tropical island, grumbling to himself and picking up bits of palm fibers for burning. Why couldn’t he be more like Sam? Sam had a way with words and could talk the captain out of any rage. All Griffin ever managed to do was lose his temper and piss the captain off; it’s why he’d been stuck swabbing decks and cleaning shit for years now.

The image of Sam’s face, grinning ear to ear after telling a dumb joke, played in Griffin’s mind. Sam always knew how to make him laugh, and he’d always look in Griffin’s direction after each one to make sure he was laughing. Sam always seemed to be so concerned that Griffin was having a good time. Damn, he was probably the only reason why Griffin had stayed on the crew for so long.

Tears returned to Griffin’s eyes. It was all so fucked up! Why’d Sam have to be so selfless and stay up in the crow’s nest when everyone else had gone below?? Why couldn’t he be selfish for once in his life? It wasn’t fair! Why’d the captain have to be such a jackass? Why was everything in his life so wrong??

He slammed a fist into a nearby palm, and cried out in rage, anguish, and loneliness. He slumped to the ground, hot tears blurring his vision. Burying his face in his knees, he whimpered and sobbed, hoping to God he wouldn’t be caught by a fellow crewmate. He stayed that way for a long while, until his tears had dried up and he was left sitting silently, with only his thoughts to accompany him.

Through the wind blowing through the palm leaves, he heard the softest sound. A voice, feminine and beautiful, singing a haunting melody. It gradually grew louder, and was soon joined by others. He lifted his head and opened his eyes.

In the dimness, far off in the brush, he saw shadows of figures. And many glowing yellow eyes.

With a gasp, he jumped to his feet and scrambled back, tripping over himself and falling back on his rear. The singing stopped.

He strained his eyes against the dark. The figures were gone.

Shaken, Griffin hastily gathered the rest of the kindling and hustled back to the beach. He told no one about what he’d seen, and tried to ignore it for the rest of the evening. Still, he could not shake the unsettling thought that they were not alone on this island.

That night, he laid himself down to sleep with the rest of the skeleton crew, directly on the sand, with only the fire for comfort. As his eyelids grew heavy and he slowly drifted from consciousness, the singing returned. It was a breathy, melodious lullaby that danced and played with his sorrow, and caressed his heart. As he fell away into a dreamless sleep, he failed to notice, far off in the vegetation . . .

Yellow eyes.