A Spirited Gift

“Can’t you do a spell or something, witch?” he asked Shayla. “We could get these answers faster.”

“I’m not a witch,” she protested. “I’m a medium. So unless you want me to contact the magistrate’s spirit, you’re out of luck.”

Rafe didn’t reply—we were at Mark’s little house by then. It looked much like the Rib Shack—pale green-painted cinder block with a dark green roof. I felt pretty sure the two buildings must have gone up at the same time.

Mark was working on his roof, pushing off tree branches and hammering down loose shingles. He waved when he saw us and came down with a smile.

“You know Duck history is my favorite subject,” he said after I’d told him the reason for our visit. “I need to wash my hands. Then we can talk. I’m afraid all I can offer you for refreshments is some warm Coke and a few Twinkies.”

He smiled at us in his warm, friendly way and ushered us into his home. He was a short, older man with gray hair and glasses who looked more like a librarian than someone who roasted pork for a living.

Shayla and I had some warm, flat Coke—it would have been impolite not to. Rafe paced and fumed at the interruption as we all sat in Mark’s tiny living room. There was a big masking tape X on the front window, but the glass was all in one piece.

We talked about all the gossip involving the storm—how the Harris Teeter grocery store was almost empty, and several residents weren’t able to get the prescriptions they needed with the road blocked. Mark knew some things I hadn’t heard, and I gave him some tidbits that surprised him.

When we were all caught up, Mark brought out his research into Rafe Masterson’s life. “Well, like I was telling Dae earlier, Masterson was a pirate—no doubt about it. He was a particularly nasty pirate too. Some historians feel certain he robbed and sank at least twenty ships.”

“That’s a lie!” Rafe roared at the man who couldn’t hear him. “I sank a hundred if I sank one!”

“He probably killed several dozen people too.” Mark leafed through his documentation and cleared his throat. “People around here were scared of him. They had good reason to be.”

“But you said he might have been hanged for something he didn’t do,” I reminded him.

“Oh yes. I have reason to believe from the old records, that he retired—if that’s what pirates called it. He kind of went underground for a few years, and no one knew what happened to him. Many people thought he was dead.”

I thought of the dream I’d had about Rafe’s ship being destroyed. Maybe that was when he disappeared.

“He reappears in a county document.” Mark handed me the copy of the old paper. “He got married. Looks like he tried to start a new life. But I have a feeling he couldn’t get away from his past. He and his wife had two boys in quick succession. I have their birth certificates, of sorts. They’re handwritten notes made by the local midwife who kept glorious records of the children she delivered, bless her soul. Her notes have been invaluable to anyone interested in Duck history.”

Shayla and I looked at the records and passed them back to Mark. “So what happened?” she asked. “Did people forget who he was?”

“There’s no way of knowing that,” Mark answered. “It doesn’t appear he was a landowner, probably kept a low profile, since the local law enforcement—probably a magistrate—would’ve remembered him too well.”

“What about the hanging?” Rafe yelled, swinging his arms. “Tell them I was innocent.”

“The next time we see his name, it’s on a docket at the prison. He was sentenced to die by hanging.” Mark looked up and smiled. “I’m not sure how he managed not to be drawn and quartered. It was popular at that time for pirates.”

“You know, I thought everyone always said he was drawn, quartered and hanged after being tricked into coming to shore,” I said.

“That’s just folklore,” Mark said. “This is what really happened.”

“And what makes you think Rafe wasn’t guilty?” I asked.

“Well, I found a few documents on other prisoners who were being held at the same time. One of them—I can’t make out his name—was released, and Rafe’s name was put over his for smuggling. I think someone just wanted him dead.”

Shayla looked at her bright red fingernails. “Who can blame them? I mean, the man was a thief and a murderer. He might’ve been killed for something he didn’t do, but it sounds to me like he deserved it.”

“Mind your tongue, witch!” Rafe yelled at her. His anger blew all of the documents we’d been looking at on the floor. Two of the windows (probably damaged in the storm) blew out, and the door that had been open, slammed shut.

“What was that?” Mark asked, looking around. “I didn’t even realize those windows were bad.”

I got on the floor and picked up all the papers. “Do you know the name of the magistrate who condemned Rafe to death?”