The torrential rain pummelled my body ruthlessly until the first light of day. And yet, I feel dry and empty. My tongue and throat are parched and grains of sand scrape against my skin. I ache all over!

I am alive.

Yesterday's tornado has moved on. A cloudless sky stretches along the horizon. If it were not for all the corpses of sailors washed up by the sea, it would be impossible to imagine that the elements had been unchained last night.

Is it a mirage? A cracked brown leather boot stands before my sore eyes reddened by the salt water. I have already seen this. Gwewa's face is just above mine.

Absurd. Not her. Again.

Her hands search my body, looking for a weapon. I try to make a move to defend myself, but she continues her inspection with no consideration whatever for my bruised and battered carcass. She squeezes my aching skin.

"Stop!" I plead, panting with pain.

The pressure increases. Her nails dig into my flesh. My ordeal seems to last an eternity.

At last, Gwewa releases her hold. It was not a splinter that had embedded itself in my shoulder, but the point of a pike. The former slave throws the piece of metal before my eyes which are bulging in pain.

"Not at all, little Irishman," she mocks as she kneels in front of me.

Florence was right. But it does not mean that I was wrong. Perhaps all women are witches. After all, my own mother had abandoned the Catholic faith and practised ancient pagan rituals unbeknownst to my father.

I have no idea of today's date. It must be October or November. It will soon be Samhain.

We celebrated it just the once. Brian was around two. I was six. I remember the smile that lit up my mother's face. Little Liadan who was only a few months old. We had left Cork to help one of my mother's cousins who worked the land. My father had stayed behind.

Yes, that was real happiness.

Green grass as far as the eye could see. Fresh air. The lakes. The fields. Hunger was never far away, but it was easier to bear. The work was exhausting. But it didn't stop us from revelling until late at night.

Other women came to our modest cottage that evening. It was the end of the summer and the beginning of winter. We bade a farewell to the sun's rays and welcomed the firelight. We celebrated the last harvest. I wondered at the tales and legends of my ancestors recounted by the fireside. My aunts had a gift for telling those magical stories. I would tremble with fear as I impatiently waited to hear what would happen next. The realm of darkness swept my mind and my soul up in a whirlwind. My spirits in a fog, I tried to put my finger on the secrets of those sealed worlds.

The next day, everything was different.

We would soon be returning to the town. To malice. To hostility. I have never been able to understand why we did not stay there. Why did my mother choose to go back to that brutal man, in that stinking town teeming with wretches? Why abandon nature in exchange for the stench of piss in the gutters?

My mother. I both love and hate her too.

All my life, she has made me pay the price of her weaknesses. Today, I am celebrating my own Samhain.

No harvest to reap. I lay down the burden I have been carrying and which is not mine. I open up to the realm of the dead.

I had completely forgotten those happy moments in my life. Did they really exist? Pain causes me to faint. For how long I do not know.

Of all the pirates on the Anarkhia, it had to be she who found me. The witch of my nightmares. I would have preferred any other sailor, except Carpentier of course.

Even so, the presence of Gwewa fills me with unexpected hope. If she is here, that means that others have survived the shipwreck.

"Where are they?" I groan.

I do not recognize my rough voice, made hoarse by the salt of the sea.

"Me only," she warns me, showing me the pocket knife she holds in her hand.

Her answer does not reassure me. The wave of hope that swept through me when I saw her is disappearing gradually. Florence is dead. I am isolated on this deserted beach, with only a bloodthirsty madwoman for company. Her savagery and ferociousness terrify me.

When she ground her fingers earlier into my flesh, the she-devil inflamed my injured shoulder. Blood flows from my raw wound. Lying motionless on the sand, I can only endure and wait.

Gwewa busies herself around me. Is she doing one of her infernal dances? Does she mean to sacrifice me, invoking a strange divinity to guarantee her survival? I remember what Florence said to me on the Anarkhia. Black magic only exists in the heart of those who wish to stay in power. Or something of that ilk...

At last, my companion in misfortune ceases her chaotic motions and comes up to me. She is chewing a black paste in her mouth. The slimy substance lands in her hand.

Oh no! She is not going to do that! She will not dare!

Gwewa spreads her foul liniment on my skin with surgical precision. The abrasive burn of her remedy courses down my arm.

"Fucking hell!" I cry. "Go away! Let me die in peace, you bloody woman."

"No, no, no," she answers seriously. "Need you. Find her."

"She is dead, you fool," I rant through my tight lips.

I sit down. I am beset by vertigo. I have never felt so weak.

"You stupid," she answers drily. "Sea not kill mermaids."

What is the use of parlaying? She is insane. If she wants to hold on to this illusion, I may as well let her hope. I do not have the strength to believe it.

"Where are we?" I ask, surveying our surroundings.

"South Tortuga," she says under her breath.

It is true. Sirena was sailing Southwards after the attack on Marcelin's brothel.

"Must be the West coast of Santo Domingo, then."

Gwewa shrugs.

"I am hungry and thirsty," I say to myself.

"You find food. Me not slave now."

"I was not saying that for... Forget it."

I straighten up, taking great care. The blood has congealed around my wound. Holding my arm tightly against my chest, I am careful not to make any sudden moves. Behind me, a dense tropical forest promises a myriad of dangers. And before me, the sea stretches as far as the eye can see. To the left and right, a bank of white sand.

Not a living soul apart from my healing woman.

"Where are you from?"

"Africa."

I smile. She makes me think of a little girl.

"No, I mean on this beach. How did you arrive here? From the East or the West?"

She points at the North-West coast.

"It is unusual to walk into the sun," I comment.

She puts her head on one side and frowns.

"You also, you walk towards light."

Her statement hits me like a bomb. For half a second, my heart stops beating. Just as I was beginning to find her likeable, now she talks in riddles.

"We must go there," I announce, taking a first step in the direction she has just shown me.

I am called to order by my state of exhaustion. I almost fall down. Gwewa catches me and helps me to sit down in the shade of a palm tree.

"Not yet, Irishman. Too weak."

She is right. I cannot take two steps without faltering.

We take inventory of our possessions. Gwewa is equipped with a belt knife and four pistols which we cannot use because the powder is wet. I have only my clothes and my boots. Carpentier left me nothing when he imprisoned me in steerage. Not even my honour.

The day goes by exasperatingly slowly. Even though Gwewa had claimed she did not want to serve me, she goes to look for water and food. She comes back during the afternoon, her arms full of coconuts. We manage to open the fruits with a stone and the butt of one of her pistols. We savour the nectar, chew the firm flesh and drink the precious juice they contain.

Gwewa is a good comrade. Silent. Efficient. When evening falls, she asks if she can look at my injuries. She nods and goes back into the jungle, leaving me alone to face nightfall.

When she reappears, she has a dozen or so long, stiff stems in her hands.

"Aloe Vera good," she says, holding a long branch out to me.

I raise her offering to my mouth. Suddenly, she falls on me and smacks me on the lips.

"You are mad!" I am offended and lift my only movable arm to protect myself.

"No eat, stupid captain. Rub wound. Juice good."

Gwewa demonstrates on her own bruises and grazes. She applies the plant directly to her skin. I do the same. The sap has a soothing effect. I spread it on my burned fingers, my scraped knees, and my belly which has suffered from Carpentier's repeated onslaughts.

My new comrade manages to light a fire in a trice. The moon emerges between two black clouds. Round and full. It has been a month already since Florence abandoned me on the dock in New Orleans.

Her image is etched on my mind. So beautiful. So strong. When I saw her fight on the Anarkhia, her splendour filled me with pride. I did not create Sirena. I just helped to fashion her. To reveal her. I protected her in order to save myself. In many ways, she has been my salvation.

Like Gwewa, I want to believe that she is not dead. I do not know if she can swim. When all is said and done, I do not know her as well as all that.

I dream of holding her in my arms. If I find her, I promise to keep to the straight and narrow. No more piracy, killings or beatings. No more of this mad quest for gold, glory and riches. I leave all that to Carpentier.

Dana, here is my vow. If Florence is alive, I swear that I shall devote my life to our happiness now and in the future. Like the unknown brother in Louisbourg, I shall be content to enjoy things as they come. Fresh air, water and food. And a woman to love.

Nothing else matters.