How I became an outlaw in Peru, a short story
Chapter two (continued):
My relentless search for Carlos the Janitor

The First Mate, (who was hired in Papua New Guinea and was most probably a headhunter), after having the procedure explained to him in gestures, cast us off and we were underway. I must admit to having had some trepidation at the sight of a Papuan Highlander, complete with bow, penis gourd and bone through his nose being our chief navigator. Of course, I had not heard of the proud seafaring tradition of his people, living in landlocked high mountain ranges as they did, but when I questioned him, his shaking of his bow and lewd gestures with the penis gourd left me in no doubt that he was a sailor.
I was also worried by the attentions of Boris the Bosun, who I felt, seemed to show an unusually intense interest in my welfare, to the point that he even offered to share his bunk. I had no intention of being 'press ganged' to wake up beside a hirsute Russian sailor, wearing a wedding dress with no recollection of the night before. Deciding that audacity might save my honour (amongst other things), I came up with a plan. Life with the nuns had given me a deep insight into the human psyche, not to mention a propensity for violence.
Knowing the Russian love of authority, I beat him senseless with my walking stick.
"Down you cur" I said in a deadly voice. Boris, true to my expectation, submitted to the violence, and made no further advances upon me, although I would occasionally find him looking wistfully at my firm young body. But I belonged to only one person, and she was but a memory, my Sister Marie.
We sailed the long way around the Cape of Good Hope, because the Captain said that he "didn't trust those Hawaian savages." This struck me as a lie.
One of the seamen hinted darkly that it probably had more to do with his buying the North Island of New Zealand for the princely sum of several bottles of rum and some beads. Apparently no-one had told the Maori about this, and there were rumours of several fleets of large tattooed men in dugout canoes eager to discuss the sale. Perhaps he should have questioned the validity of buying the place from a drunken Scotsman named McGillicutty (lately deceased apparently).
Several days into our voyage I was drawn to our cargo, thousands of small statues of the Virgin Mary, reminding me so much of my saintly Sister Marie.
Taking one up, I realised that the head of the statue unscrewed, and the pungent scent of 'Old Gutripper Rum' filled the air. "So," I thought, "not so much a reminder of Sister Marie, but definately a reminder of Mother Superior after Vespers on a Saturday night".
The smell filled me with a sad nostalgia for my carefree childhood in the Convent, the cold porridge, the cold baths, the regular spankings at the hands of my firm, yet fair, beloved.

The next day we were approached by another ship, and as I looked over the rail, I realised that something was wrong.
I saw the flag at the top of the vessel unfurl as they pulled alongside, it resembled the skull and crossbones, although the skull appeared to be wearing a turban.
It was the dreaded Pirates of the Indian Ocean, screaming at us in their rough lingo "Goodness gracious me, please be heaving to or we will be forced to be shooting you very much Sahib".
The vicious, if polite, scoundrels.
After stealing our cargo, the pirates decided that we should be made to 'walk the plank'. As the youngest, I was chosen to be the first."Be brave", I thought to myself, "you must get out of this and avenge Sister Marie". Suddenly, as the sitars started to play, a plan formed in my mind. I remembered my time with the 'Great Pacozoni' and one scam, er, show we had performed.
I also happened to remember that the coat I was wearing was his 'show' coat, and that a small dove was still concealled within the right sleeve. How that small, brave creature had survived the voyage I had no idea, I could only think that perhaps it snuck out at night and stole food from the galley, before returning to the only home it had ever known. Now I would have to rely on this brave little bird to save our skins.
Wailing like a banshee, I leapt into the air in front of the first pirate, and flung the dove into his face. His reaction was slightly unexpected, instead of trying to gut me with his ceremonial dakashar sword, he dropped to his knees. Suddenly, silence filled the air as all of the pirates knelt, then started chanting in a strange dialect.
I appeared that they belonged to a rare Thugee sect which revered the 'Sacred Dove' and that some few of their holy men spend their lives trying to make them appear from their sleeves.
We were saved!
As a holy man, the pirates generously offered to take me back to their temple palace, to live out my days surrounded by beautiful women, my every need catered for, to share my enlightenment. I explained that sadly, I could not, as I was on a quest to find another 'Sacred Dove'. Little did they know that this dove was a dangerously incompetent Latin American handyman. The pirates mournfully agreed, returned our cargo and allowed us to proceed on our voyage, although they did raise some questions as to the whereabouts of several of their crew, who appeared to be missing.
Although I had noticed that the First Mate was continually burping and picking his teeth with a bone toothpick which I could have sworn he didn't have earlier, I said nothing, and we parted company.
Now we sailed onwards to South America, and my destiny.

To be continued........................................................