by Kevin Hearne
Tempest found extra lanterns, and they were soon grog-tipsy and digging through oodles of loot. Captain Skullbeard and his crew tried all sorts of gambits to get attention, rattling ethereal chains and walking through walls and yanking off their ghost bones to throw at people, but the chill of terror Al had felt had fled. Of all the scary things that could’ve been in the hold, he was glad it was only some boring old ghosts. Ghosts he could deal with.
As he finished up his tallies, pleased to give Captain Luc the good news, he heard a sad sigh and looked over to find Captain Skullbeard sulking against the wall.
“Chin up,” Al said. “It’s not so bad. Luc’s a good captain, and we’re going to have an adventure. And we won’t put you back in the trunk if you’ll stop being annoying.”
“The ocean takes everything from us,” Skullbeard said, his voice echoing. “Such is the fleeting nature of life. Everything can disappear in a moment. The fathomless depths claim no prejudice, only souls. We haunt this ship as she haunts us, and one day you, too, will know the embrace of the still, cold water.” He shook his transparent fist at Al and shouted, “Crabs will pick the flesh from your bones! Particles of your person will be filtered in the baleens of whales!”
“Auggh! I hate baleens! And you made me lose count,” Al said.
When he, Morgan, and Tempest finally took the numbers upstairs to share with Luc, the parrot squawked appreciatively.
“ ’Tis a verrrritable trrrreasure!” he crowed. “Losing the Peach was a blessing in disguise! Extrrrra grrrrog for all! But what’s this about ghosts? Why did ye inventorrrry ghosts?”
Al sighed. “Yeah, that’s the bad news. I counted thirteen. They’re really annoying.”
“That’s just rude,” Skullbeard said, as he was now standing a few feet away, arm bones crossed prissily.
“Aye, well, ship ghosts always arrrre. They can’t rrrreally hurrrrt us—only borrrre us.”
“I want to go north,” Skullbeard whined.
“No. Now shut up,” Luc barked, before flying right through Skullbeard’s face.
That night, as Al tossed and turned in his new hammock, Captain Skullbeard stood over him, his empty eye sockets dripping with melancholy and possibly ectoplasm.
“Gah! What are you doing? What do you want?” Al cried.
“When ye were coming into the hold, did I overhear the otter woman say you were looking for Mack Guyverr?” the ghost asked craftily.
Al sat up a little. “Yeah, actually. We hear there’s an illegal otter-meat abattoir there.”
“I can get you there,” the captain whispered, then paused dramatically before adding, “for a price.”
And then, just when Al wanted the ghost to stick around, he disappeared.
Filthy Lucre had Feng set a course for Cinnamonk Island, the fourth of the Seven Toes, and had Gorp assign his crew to clean up the cannons that Vic had befouled with frosting. He relayed an offer to them all: Stay on as crew and enjoy a portion of the treasure they were on their way to discover as well as a share of the treasure already in the hold. Or be dropped off on Cinnamonk Island, be paid their due from the POPO, and find work on another ship. They had until docking at the Cinna Monastery to decide, and in that time, Qobayne would work to earn their allegiance. His experience and competence as a boatswain would prove to them that the Clean Pirate Luc was worth following.
Since they were sailing as the POPO in disguise, no one gave them any trouble. Royal Navy ships hailed them and asked by semaphore if they’d seen The Puffy Peach, and they lied and responded, WHAT. NO. WHAT IS THAT. NEVER HEARD OF IT. WEIRD. Other pirate ships changed course to avoid them, and merchant ships waved merrily at them as they passed.
Yes, it was good that they had switched to The Pearly Clam.
Brawny Billy came over to report good news. “Cap’n, the centaur is awake, an’ Milly Dread is feeding him oats and slices of grilled potted meat on a bed of sticky rice.”
Feng lit up with excitement. “The ship’s galley has musubi?”
“While supplies last,” Billy confirmed.
“An’ it ain’t EATUM?”
Billy shuddered slabbily. “Nah, it’s SPUM: Snouts, Pouts, Udders, an’ Mushybits. One hundred percent non-otter parts, or your money back.”
“Cap’n, can I get in on that?” Feng asked eagerly.
If a parrot could smile, Luc would’ve done so. Feng had been down in the dumps since losing all three of his friends and had not yet rallied. This was his first smile in days. “Billy, fetch some musubi forrrr Feng, please.”
Billy nodded and took his leave, and Luc instructed Feng to head for Vic. They found the centaur on the hoof, with his eyes wide open instead of half closed with exhaustion. Some food and sleep had done him wonders. When they’d first arrived on the new ship, he’d looked like an old feather pillow with hooves.
“Arrrre ye feelin’ fine, Vic?” Luc asked.
“Aye, Captain, thank you,” the centaur said around a mouthful of musubi.
“Good good good good good,” Luc said. “Ye have my thanks as well. I underrrrstand this ship would not be ourrrrs if not forrrr yourrrr aid. Yourrrr passage to Mack Guphinne is amply paid. We will stop therrrre afterrrr we visit Cinnamonk Island.”
“Thank you,” the centaur said, and for once, he sounded genuine.
“I hope you’rrrre prrrroud of what ye did. Ye should be.”
The tea wizard puffed up with pride and looked around to see who else might have heard that praise delivered. There was only Al, the short elf, who had just rushed up to them in his bedclothes.
“Yes, good job, Vic,” Al huffed, and then excecuted an elvish salute at Luc. “Captain, the ghost captain Skullbeard says he knows where to find Mack Guyverr. He knows where the otters are being taken!”
“Well, have him tell us, then,” Luc said with more patience than he felt.
“I don’t know where he is. He said he’d tell us for a price and then he disappeared.”
“Rrrrot and rrrruin,” Luc muttered in Feng’s ear. “These bloody ghosts can eat Brrrrawny Billy’s boxerrrrs.”
“No, we can’t,” Captain Skullbeard said, suddenly standing next to Feng and unable to resist the chance to bore a crowd. “We lack digestive systems or any corporeal body. Which is sad, because we can’t get smashed on grog or food drunk on musubi. But we can’t get scurvy either, so that’s good. In fact, an interesting thing about ghost anatomy is—”
“What’s yourrrr prrrrice, Skullbeard?” Luc squawked.
“We can get to the price in a moment. First I’d like to know why you’ve been so dismissive of me and my wishes. This was my ship, after all, once upon a time.” His haunting whine set Luc’s beak on edge.
“Because ghosts arrrre selfish.”
Skullbeard clutched his ghostly jabot. “What?”
“I think ye hearrrrd me just fine with those ectoplasmic earrrrs ye have.”
“Aye, I heard ye, I just can’t believe I heard right. How can you sit in judgment like that?”
“I’ve met ghosts like you beforrrre, Skullbearrrrd. Ghost pirrrrates, haunting theirrrr old ships with unfinished business. And I know what that business is.”
“Oh, ye do, eh? Please enlighten me, ye daft bird.”
“Ye need to give of yourrrrself beforrrre ye can move on.”
The ghost snorted out a small green puff of ectoplasm in response. “There’s no more of meself to give. I’m a ghost.”
“Ye have knowledge to give—useful, unborrrring knowledge—that will save lives! Therrrre’s an awful lot of dying going on at Mack Guyverrrr. The deaths o’ innocent otterrrrs. If ye help, ye will be doing the worrrrld a good turrrrn. Make up forrrr all the evil ye did while ye lived. Give us a map, Skullbearrrrd, and I’ll take ye to Cinnamonk Island, and the Cinnamonks will send ye to eterrrrnal rrrrest.”
&n
bsp; The ghost gave a prissy harrumph. “Huh. Ye think I have a heap of evil to carry around? A guilty conscience?”
“I do.”
The spectral Skullbeard scoffed. “What about you, then? Are ye not in the same profession? Won’t you be a sad ghost parrot someday?”
Luc ruffled his feathers. “Firrrrst of all, that’s an ad hominem attack, and it doesn’t worrrrk with smarrrrt people. But, no, I won’t. I steal from the rrrrich and give to the poorrrr. Filthy Lucrrrre is filthy—I’ve been awarrrre of that forrrr a long time, and the monikerrrr I chose is the Clean Pirrrrate Luc, ye see? My conscience is clearrrr. What doesn’t go to paying the crrrrew goes to the Cinna Monasterrrry. Otherrrrwise, how am I differrrrent from the capitalists? The exploiterrrrs of all people and things? Nay, I seek trrrreasurrrre to save lives. To give the disadvantaged the same chances to succeed that the prrrrivileged take for grrrranted. And now ye can do the same. Be a blessing unto otherrrrs, be the saviorrrr of otterrrrs, be forrrrgiven—be at peace.”
The ghostly Skullbeard sighed in wistful longing at the idea and nearly dissolved. “Give me a chart of the Several Macks, then,” he said. “Being ectoplasmic is exhausting.”
“Aye. Follow me into the cabin. And thank ye, Al, for brrrringing this to my attention.”
Feng walked Luc into the cabin, which Luc had not yet had time to rearrange to his liking or advantage. It was a dimly lit space that smelled of cheap pipe tobacco and stale beer. Feng rummaged around in drawers until he found a proper map of the Several Macks. He spread it out on the table facing Captain Skullbeard, set a lantern down on top of it, and the ghost raised a luminous, transparent blue hand to gesture at the islands in the Chummy Sea.
“There’s not much to the Macks. Nobody living on ’em but the odd hermit or religious zealot because they’re so inhospitable.”
“I’m awarrrre.”
Skullbeard tried to tap the southernmost island and his finger disappeared through the map. He grunted in frustration, raised his finger, and simply pointed at it. “Sail to this cliff face here—the Cliffs of Inanity, do ye know them?”
“Aye.”
“From there, ye set a course south by southeast. Ye will see Mack Guyverr’s spiral whirlwind soon after ye lose sight of Mack Enchiis on the horizon and before ye see Banhai ahead.”
“Perrrrfect. Thank ye, Skullbearrrrd. I will take ye to the Cinna Monasterrrry.”
“I wasn’t done.”
“Oh?”
“Ye can’t get through that whirlwind without some aid. It’s unnatural, ye see. A dark spell protecting the whole place.”
Luc huffed an avian sigh. “How do ye know?”
“We did a couple of cargo runs for the MMA and so we had to know, didn’t we? You’re right to want that place shut down. It’s an island of horrors, probably more so now than when I was alive. So to pierce that spell, ye have to go to Mack Guphinne first and harvest the berries of the ding-gull bushes. Watch out for the ding gulls themselves—they’ll fight ye for them and they’re territorial. But get yourself a bushel. Ye crush those into a paste, dilute into a wash, and paint your prow and railings with it. That will get ye in past the whirlwind.”
“What if we can’t find enough o’ these ding-gull berrrries?”
“There’s plenty, don’t worry. Even the old dried ones will work. It’s just that they don’t grow anywhere else, because they’re pretty nasty and no one wants to look at them.”
“Rrrright. Anything else?”
The ghost tried and failed to pick up a quill. “They’ll let ye dock easy enough on Mack Guyverr. But they’re going to want to see a shipping manifest or purchase order as soon as ye step off. If ye don’t have one, you’re going to be in for a fight.”
“How bad of a fight?”
Skullbeard gave an exhausted shrug. “I don’t rightly know. I never had to fight them. They have plenty of muscle standing around, though.”
But Luc had bigger problems than swole dock boys. “Who cast the spell arrrround the island? Do we need to worrrry about a wizarrrrd?”
“No. Word is, it was cast by a powerful witch who was dating the Dread Necromancer Steve at the time. Now she’s a marmoset in Songlen.”
“What?”
“Hey, magic’s a dangerous business. Ain’t enough treasure in the world to get me messing around with that stuff. Especially now that I’m dead.”
Brawny Billy knocked on the door and entered with a platter piled high with potted-meat musubi, and Luc was gratified by Feng’s pleasure and enthusiasm after his days of moping. Food had miraculous power to heal. Skullbeard excused himself while the first mate chowed down, the ghost having no need to eat nor any desire to watch the living indulge, and Luc also noted for the future that the arrival of food might be a half-decent way to banish ghosts.
The Cinnamonks were more into permanent banishment, or “releasing spirits into the ethereal wind,” as they called it. Once they landed on the fourth Toe Island, Captain Skullbeard and his crew gladly went to their eternal rest at the ritual behest of the monks, who chanted and gonged and otherwise entertained Pellanus, who, as a result of the entertainment, was inclined to indulge their prayers. Perhaps ghosts bored the gods as much as they bored humans.
Some of the POPO crew chose to leave the ship with their shares of the booty already in the hold, but most chose to remain under Captain Luc’s leadership and seek even more treasure in the Several Macks. Everyone from The Puffy Peach crew used their shares to purchase new clothing—they hadn’t enjoyed proper fits since losing their britches on the island of Clan Nabi and losing their ship to flame. Stripes, buttons, and artistically frayed hems abounded, along with squeaky new boots. Milly Dread took advantage of the bustling port market and restocked the galley with potted meat and rice for more musubi, as well as sacks of oats and other goodies for Vic’s voracious appetite; keeping the centaur fed was now understood to be as important as keeping a good supply of gunpowder. Luc had Feng buy up plenty of paint, that the ship might be repainted in a secretive cove of an uncharted island. Qobayne made sure they were well stocked with armaments and repair materials; they’d enjoyed an anonymous run through most of the Seven Toes, but now that some of the POPO crew were leaving, word would get around that the Clean Pirate Luc was at the helm of The Pearly Clam, and they could expect more trouble.
After they set sail for the Chummy Sea, Luc left Feng at the wheel and called Morgan into his cabin. “We need to talk about the futurrrre,” he said.
It was time to move the girl on to the real pirate manual.
The Pearly Clam sailed past the last three Toes and toward the Macks swiftly and with surprisingly little trouble. With more crew on board, Tempest was free to return to her studies, and even Captain Luc was supportive, proclaiming that, “Having a lawyerrrr on a POPO ship can only be a good thing. The lass can arrrrgue with anyone what seeks to keep us from ourrrr goal! Orrrr at least keep ’em jawin’ and distrrrracted whilst we sneak up with sworrrrds!”
Every day, as she read and made notes, accustomed now to the sway of the deck and the heat of the sun, Tempest rubbed at the brown scaly patch on her wrist and constantly watched the sea for threats. She felt certain that someone would keep them from their goals, that the pirate life was becoming too easy and the crew was due for shenanigans of one sort or another.
But day after day, nothing terrible happened. The sea was calm, the winds fair. No one suspected that the repainted Pearly Clam harbored the wanted crew of The Puffy Peach. She soon finished all her books and notes and wished Mingo were still around so that she might order her second-year books by mail and be that much closer to a correspondence degree. She asked Luc if they could stop in at a port to do business, but the captain fluffed his yellow feathers and shook his head.
“Not safe,” he said, clicking his beak. “We need the element of surrrrprrrrise if we wish to
stop this mustelid-killing maniac.”
And so Tempest grew cagey and anxious. She would’ve normally talked about it with Morgan, but Morgan had entered a new stage of mentorship with Captain Luc and now had studies and worries of her own. She practiced giving orders and sometimes even steered the ship as she learned about navigation. Tempest was happy to see her friend coming into her own but very aware that she personally felt left out. She had no aspirations to be a sea captain, and although she enjoyed life on the Pearly Clam, it didn’t feel like her true calling. When she searched the sea, she often felt as if she were searching for herself. And she kept finding nothing.
Al had obtained a journal in the Cinnamonk Market, and he spent more and more of his time in the crow’s nest, writing feverishly and staring at the clouds. When the muse took him, the elf was a madman, up all day and night, scribbling. And when the muse was off shopping for togas or whatever muses did, he was fractious and sleepy and not much fun, muttering about his longing for an affirmation gecko of his own.
Vic, too, was cagey. He’d grown more open about his tea magic but hadn’t gained any social skills. The few times Tempest tried to talk to him, he went back into what she considered Swole Mode, like he still thought being tough and brusque was a good way to win friends. He always apologetically slipped her a little cake or cookie as she took her leave, but she felt sad that she couldn’t break through the centaur’s metaphorical hard candy shell to gain a deeper understanding of the sweet, mushy center within.
By the time the ship neared Mack Guphinne, Tempest was sick of potted meat and desperate for some kind of adventure—well, any kind that didn’t involve cannibals, no matter how luxurious their pre-murder bathing practices. She volunteered straight off to march inland to obtain the ding-gull berries, grateful for the chance to walk with her toes in good, rich dirt and run her fingers through wiry grasses and along the waving green leaves of tropical plants. Her skin had dried out, her feet cracked and callused and crusted with salt. The sea, she was beginning to realize, was probably not the best place for a freshwater dryad.