“I have two brothers, Mister Tempest. Two pirate brothers. I don’t always like ’em, but I love each of ’em to the very depths of my soul. I can see why you’d cling onto anything to believe your sister — Grace — was safe. But, for your own sake, you must face the truth — however awful a truth it may be.”
Captain Wrathe looked deep into Connor’s eyes.
“You’ve come to us on the darkest of your days, Connor Tempest, but we’ll steer you back into the sunshine. You just see if we don’t.”
Connor nodded uncertainly, looking up from Captain Wrathe’s face to the ship’s mast. His eyes climbed higher still, up past the crow’s nest, until they settled on the skull and crossbones, flapping in the breeze. The sky was an almost perfect indigo now but the moon had risen, sending its cool rays onto the white skull.
9
CABIN FEVER
Grace was awakened by the sound of a bell tolling. Like the captain’s whisper, each toll seemed to seep into every chamber and crevice of her brain.
Opening her eyes, she found herself in a four-poster bed. She was propped up amid a sea of fresh white pillows and tucked under the softest sheets she had ever felt. She lay there for a moment, utterly still. The sound of the bell gave way to a strange music — punctuated by a rhythmic, almost tribal drumming.
Her arms were bare and, lifting the sheets, she saw that her old, wet clothes had been removed and she was wearing a pretty cotton nightdress, embroidered in intricate detail. Where had it come from? Who did it belong to? And who, she wondered with embarrassment, had undressed her?
The music was growing louder. Easing herself up onto her elbows, she glanced around the room. It was lit with candles in glass lanterns, which cast the softest light flickering across the wooden walls and floorboards. As she set her feet on the floor, the ship rocked to one side. It took her a moment or two to get her balance.
She stepped away from the bed, noticing that the wooden posts ended in intricate carvings. The canopy above the bed was heavily embroidered. To one side of the bed was a small, open washroom with a china basin and a jug of water. Everything in the room seemed exotic and luxurious. Perhaps these items had been acquired on the ship’s many voyages, thought Grace.
Outside, she heard voices over the persistent music. Grace turned toward the noise. She saw that there was a curtain, evidently covering a porthole. A note had been pinned onto the curtain. She stepped closer to read it.
Grace, please keep this curtain drawn at all times. For your own safety.
Your friend,
Lorcan Furey
His writing was rather old-fashioned but wild. He had used a fountain pen, and ink had splattered over the page. What did he mean by “for your own safety”? Both the words and the apparently hurried fashion in which they had been written made her shiver.
She reached for the curtain. It was very tempting to ignore Lorcan’s request. Something the captain had said earlier came back to her. We don’t want the others to know about this. Who were the others? What kind of ship was this?
Just then, she caught a snatch of conversation, right outside the porthole.
“I have such a hunger tonight.”
“As do I. I have never needed the Feast so much as this night.”
The Feast. The Captain had mentioned that, too. It was clearly an important and eagerly awaited event. The crew sounded extremely hungry. Perhaps they hadn’t eaten properly for some time. Maybe the ship had only just stocked up on fresh provisions.
Grace pressed her head closer to the curtain to hear more, but the people who had been speaking must have moved on. She waited for a while, fighting the temptation to draw back the curtain and look out onto the deck. Glancing at the candles in the cabin, she wondered if she might extinguish them, so that there was no light, and then risk drawing back the curtain.
Before she had a chance to act on this impulse, a rough voice — right outside the window — caught her attention.
“Midshipman Furey.”
“Lieutenant Sidorio.”
She recognized Lorcan’s Irish brogue.
“Ready for the Feast, Mister Furey?”
“That I am, Lieutenant.”
“Thought I heard you out on deck earlier.”
“No, Lieutenant. Out on deck? When would that be?”
“Before the Nightfall Bell.”
“Before . . . how could I? No one but the captain ventures out into the light.”
“I know that. But I could have sworn it was you.”
“Maybe you dreamed it,” Lorcan said.
“I don’t have dreams anymore.”
Their voices were drowned out by a rise in the volume of the music. Grace pressed still closer to the curtain, her forehead brushing Lorcan’s hastily written note. But now all she could hear was the music. Lorcan and his rather suspicious-sounding companion appeared to have moved on.
She weighed up the conversation she had overheard. Lorcan certainly had been outside. Clearly, he and the captain were intent on keeping her presence a secret. But what was the Nightfall Bell and why couldn’t anyone but the captain go out into the light? It seemed a strange rule.
She waited by the porthole, hoping to hear something further. She thought she could hear footsteps, but the sound was muffled and it might just have been the beat of the music. It lasted a while, and then gave way to silence. Utter silence. It seemed as if they had all come inside for the Feast.
Grace turned away from the porthole. Facing her was a little writing desk, with a chair tucked beside it. She walked over to the desk. Its surface was crammed with pens, ink, sharpened pencils, and a stack of notebooks. There was something deliciously inviting about the bound notebooks. She lifted an old fountain pen, but it slipped in her hand and the nib pricked her thumb. A bulb of blood quickly formed on her skin. A drop fell down onto one of the notebooks.
Instinctively, she lifted her thumb to her mouth to suck the wound clean. It was something she’d done countless times before, after a paper cut or pricking her thumb on a thorny rose stem. The blood tasted metallic but not unpleasant.
When she removed her thumb, the narrow wound was clean. But there was nothing she could do to remove the mark from the cover of the notebook. She glanced down at the pen, its nib also now stained deep red, as if she had dipped it in crimson ink. She shivered and looked around for a distraction.
Her eyes lit upon a lacquered chest of drawers, painted with unfamiliar characters, and set upon it, an ornately engraved silver hairbrush and mirror. Inset into both were gems that sparkled like freshly cut diamonds. She picked up the mirror, turning it over to look at her reflection. The frame no longer held a looking glass. It was clearly old and broken. What a shame.
Beside the mirror and hairbrush was a small wooden incense burner. It was lit and sent out a rich, soporific scent of vanilla and jasmine flowers.
She was aware of feeling very tired and retreated to the bed, sinking into the comfort of the mattress. Suddenly, she thought of Connor. What had she been doing, idly exploring this cabin? All her thoughts should have been of her brother and how she was going to find him again.
Maybe he had already been found. But, if so, wouldn’t they have brought him to her? The captain had told Lorcan to come to his cabin. She remembered that. What, she wondered, had been decided there? Panic flowed through her veins like icy water.
She had to get out of this cabin. She had to speak to Lorcan and the captain. Had to find out if Connor was on board the ship — and if he was safe.
Berating herself for not having done so earlier, she strode away from the bed toward the door. She reached out her hand and turned the door handle. It was a perfect brass globe, engraved with a map of the world. Her hand slipped off on her first attempt. She tried again. The globe twisted but the door did not give. On her third attempt, she pressed so tightly that her palm came away imprinted with the reversed outlines of the countries of the world. Still the door did not open. It was locked.
. . . please keep this curtain drawn at all times.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted the curtain and pressed her face flush against the icy porthole.
Her heart pounding, she looked out through the glass. She half expected an alarm to sound, or else to find herself staring into the angry eyes of Lorcan or the mysterious captain. But there was no alarm. And there was no one staring back at her. All she saw through the window was the deck. It was deserted. Of course it was. They — whoever they were — had come inside for the Feast.
Lucky them. She was hungry herself, but they hadn’t thought to bring her any food. She was hungry and tired and weak. Her father was gone. And now it looked like her brother might very well be lost to her, too. Feeling utterly dejected, Grace roughly pulled the curtain back across the porthole.
As she turned around, wondering what to do next, she saw a bowl of soup on the bedside table. It hadn’t been there before, had it? How could she have missed it?
She cupped her hands around the bowl. It was piping hot and she quickly pulled her hands away. It could not have been sitting there when she awoke or it would have cooled by now. How had it got there? Where had it come from? She watched steam spiral from the bowl, puzzled. Her bafflement soon gave way to hunger. Like the rest of the crew, it had been some time since she’d eaten and the soup smelled so good.
Beside the bowl was a spoon, wrapped in a cloth napkin. As she unwrapped the napkin, a note fell out and fluttered to the floor. Grace knelt down to retrieve it. It was written in the same spidery writing as before.
Drink this. It will make you feel better. Be patient!
Your friend,
Lorcan Furey
Be patient! Grace frowned. She had ended up on a very strange ship indeed. Where no one but the captain ventured out before nightfall. Where you wished for food and it appeared at your side. Where no one was supposed to know she was here. It was too much to take in.
At least they had brought her some food. She lifted the spoon and dipped it deep into the bowl. It tasted like no food she had ever tasted before. Absolutely delicious.
10
THE LIFE OF A PIRATE
“You can take this bunk,” Bartholomew told Connor.
It was basic, makeshift even. Just a wooden bed frame with a thin mattress and some space underneath to store a few possessions. Not that Connor had any possessions anymore. He and Grace had left Crescent Moon Bay with only the contents of their backpacks. And the storm had stripped them of those. All he had now were the tattered clothes on his back, such as they were.
“You can’t sleep in those wet things, buddy. Here’s a shirt — and these trousers should fit okay.”
“Thanks.” Connor caught the bundle of clothes that Bartholomew threw at him. He peeled off his wet things and hung them from the rafters, slipping into the dry shirt and trousers. Bartholomew was a few inches taller than him, and he had to roll up the hem of the trousers and the cuffs of the shirt. No matter — it was just a relief to be in dry clothes again.
Connor sat down on the bunk. The mattress springs groaned. It was clearly old and worn.
“You’ll get used to it after a while,” said Bartholomew. “We work hard on this ship. Even the moaning mattress won’t stop you from getting a good night’s sleep.”
“Wait a minute . . . is this your bunk?”
Bartholomew shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”
Connor was touched by the man’s kindness. He was a stranger to him, and he’d given up his bed.
“I can’t take it,” he said. “First your clothes, then your bed. Where will you sleep?”
“Don’t worry about me. I can sleep on anything.”
With that, Bartholomew threw down some sacking onto a spare patch of floorboards. He plumped up his kit bag as if it were a fine pillow. Unbuttoning his shirt, he hung it from one of the rafters. Lying back, in an undershirt stained with sweat and grime, he stretched out as if he were settling down on the plumpest, most comfortable of beds. He fished a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it, slowly breathing in the smoke.
Connor grimaced.
“Sorry, Connor, would you like one? Reckon I’ve got enough to make another.”
It wasn’t that. Connor hated being around smoke. But he could hardly complain after all Bartholomew’s generosity.
“No, that’s cool. I don’t smoke, Bartholomew. But thanks.”
“Call me Bart, mate. Bartholomew’s too much of a mouthful.”
Connor nodded and watched as Bart blew smoke rings into the candlelight. For a time, neither of them spoke. Connor wriggled around, trying to find a more comfortable position on the bunk. Sure enough, the mattress whined and a loose spring dug into his back. Saying nothing, he adjusted his position and stretched out again.
“It’s pretty basic here,” Bart said, letting out a spiral of smoke, “but everyone pitches in. The captain’s kind of old school, a bit irregular, but he treats us like his own family. He’s a good guy.”
Connor leaned toward Bart to lower his voice. “What about Cheng Li? The captain and Cheng Li don’t seem very keen on each other.”
Bart smiled. “That’s one way of putting it. She’s a bit of a thorn in his side and he’s . . . well, he’s like a bloody great dagger in hers.” Bart laughed. “Like I say, Captain Wrathe, he’s old school. I’m guessing you don’t know much about the pirate world?”
Connor shook his head.
“That’s okay, most landies don’t. See, in our world, Molucco Wrathe is something of a legend. The Wrathe family is pirate royalty. Molucco is one of three brothers and they’re all pirate captains. Molucco’s the oldest. Then there’s Barbarro. They have some feud going, haven’t spoken in years, so they say. But then there’s the younger brother, Porfirio. I’ve heard Captain Wrathe talk about him many a time. Reckons he’ll make the finest captain of them all.”
Bart had reached the end of his cigarette. He scrabbled about in the candlelight to find the box of tobacco and began rolling another.
“Now, as I say, the Wrathe brothers belong to the old school of piracy, as do I . . . I guess.”
“How old are you?” Connor found himself asking.
“How old do you reckon I am?”
Connor shrugged. “Twenty-nine? Thirty?”
Bart hooted with laughter. “Thanks, buddy, I’m twenty-two! But I guess I’ve lived a bit. Thirty? Mate, I’ll be lucky to see my thirtieth birthday. Some other bloody pirate’ll have run a broadsword through me by then, I’m pretty sure about that.”
He didn’t seem too dismayed by the prospect, thought Connor as he watched Bart light the second cigarette.
“Where I come from — where Captain Wrathe comes from — piracy’s all about getting what you want, when you want. Life’s an adventure, isn’t it? At least, it should be. I could never be a landie — shut in an office, trapped in four walls.”
Connor’s eyes roamed around the tiny cabin they were in.
“Oh yeah, it’s pretty boxy in here, but this isn’t where I live,” Bart said. “I live out there. The ocean’s my office, thank you very much. The islands and the reefs are the only walls that hem me in. I may work harder than the guy next to me or the guy next to him, to get food in my belly, but I’m a free man in ways they’ll never know. And you know what?”
He turned to Connor, fire burning in his eyes. “When that sword comes to get me, I’ll be ready, buddy. Because I’ve lived more in these two and twenty years than most blokes do in a lifetime.”
Connor felt the power of his words. His own heart was pounding at Bart’s speech. He couldn’t yet tell why. Was it fear? Fear of death? Somehow, with everything that had happened, death had lost some of its mystery. Death had claimed his father and might very well have taken, or be poised to take, his sister. All in all, Death was lik
e an uninvited guest who just wouldn’t leave Connor Tempest alone. He wasn’t sure that he felt fear toward Death now, so much as anger and resentment. He wasn’t going down without a fight!
“Tell me about Cheng Li,” he said, changing the subject. “You said that Captain Wrathe is an old-school pirate. How about Cheng Li?”
“Mistress Li is utterly new school. She’s fresh out of Pirate Academy. No joke, that’s what it’s called. She graduated top of her class — with honors. Which makes her just about the most qualified pirate to ever sail the seas. But there’s piracy in her blood, too. Her father, Chang Ko Li, was one of the most bloodthirsty pirates to ever hoist the skull and bones. He was known as the best of the best. That’s a heck of a lot to live up to.”
He held the cigarette up in the candlelight, watching the tip burn down.
“Anyhoo, Mistress Li is here as an apprentice. It’s the final part of her training. She’s done all the academy stuff and this is to test her out, to see how she fares in real-life situations. It’s a bit of a joke, if you ask me. Straight out of school and she’s suddenly second-in-command. When other, more experienced blokes, well, it just doesn’t seem quite right. Know what I mean?”
“Is it because she’s a woman?” Connor asked. “How do the pirates feel about that?”
“Oh no, that’s not it — we’re not a sexist bunch. Take Cate — Cutlass Cate. She’s one of the best, one of the most popular on this ship. In a fight, she’s the one you want at your side. What she doesn’t know about swords ain’t worth knowing.”
Bart let out a long, deep yawn.
“I’ve got nothing against Mistress Li personally. She’s actually been pretty straight with me. Sure, she huffs and puffs and tries to keep us in our place. But deep down, she’s scared. She’s just a scared little girl, I reckon. A school for pirates, well, it’s just nonsense. Nothing can prepare you for life at sea. Nothing.”
Demons of the Ocean Page 5