Wild Bells to the Wild Sky

by Laurie McBain

  Liam O'Hara swallowed, although it was more like a gulp. " 'Twas a jest, nothing more, I didn't mean any harm by it," he explained without further delay and wondered how it was he'd ever thought Valentine Whitelaw so refined and sporting a gentleman when sharing a tankard of ale in London. In fact, Valentine Whitelaw had become a dour-faced, iron-handed stranger ever since they'd set sail, O'Hara decided peevishly, thinking this voyage had not been as amusing a venture as he had been led to believe. Indeed, Valentine Whitelaw had even seemed to forget that there were gentlemen on board and had treated them like the rest of his men, expecting them to eat and sleep with this rabble he called a crew. Even Sandrick had not been the amusing shipmate he'd hoped for when first learning of the man's presence on board. The man had been either sick or silent for most of the voyage. O'Hara wondered why he was even on board, since he was a wealthy man who had power and position at court. What could he possibly have to gain on this voyage? O'Hara grumbled to himself, thinking he'd be sitting pretty in London if he had even half of Thomas Sandrick's fortune.

  "Cap'n! The ashes of a fire I found out back are still warm!" one of the crew called out as he came running to the door of the hut, his face flushed with excitement. "There's a spring just beyond the clearing. There's even a pot they use for cooking. 'Tis drying in the sun on a flat rock beside the pool."

  The portly seaman exchanged a knowing look with his slightly pale and unusually quiet friend with the red beard.

  "There's even a spit set up over the fire."

  The portly seaman eyed his friend up down, as if trying to figure out how long the spit would have to be to skewer his friend.

  Valentine Whitelaw's eyes were bright with determination as he gave his orders, certain now he would at last discover his brother's whereabouts.

  Scattering his men, sending half toward the headland with O'Hara and half into the woods to search, Valentine, Thomas Sandrick, and the Turk headed in the opposite direction toward the cove.

  They hadn't gotten very far when a shout from the group that had gone toward the headland drew Valentine's attention. Valentine halted, but the Turk kept walking, gesturing to the point of the other headland, jest before it bent to parallel the shore. He had spied something and wanted to investigate. Valentine let him go while he and Sandrick waited to see what his men were yelling about as they hurried toward them, carrying something heavy under their arms.

  " 'Tis a cannon, Cap'n!"

  " We found it half- buried in the sand."

  " Off a Spanish galleon!"

  " Look out there, Cap'n. There she is!"

  " Broken up on the rocks."

  " Some of her cargo must have washed up on shore."

  " Might even have been survivors!"

  " No tellin' who we might be findin' on this island now."

  " We could be attacked! Maybe that's what happened to yer brother, Cap'n?"

  " Gives me the jitters, it does. Where the devil is everybody, Cap'n?"

  Valentine Whitelaw stood staring around him in growing dismay. Where indeed was everyone? Might Basil, Magdalena, and the child have been attacked by the survivors of this wrecked galleon?

  "Cap'n? Ye thinks we might have a closer look at that galleon? Reckon there might still be something salvable from it. Since we got a boat, we might find something interesting out there in the bay that didn't get washed ashore. There just ain't any way, unless he'd a boat, that yer brother could have gotten to it that far out," one of the crew suggested, thinking of the gold and silver he'd seen on that table in the hut. There was bound to be more treasure in the sunken galleons hold.

  But his captain was more interested in discovering what had happened to his brother to worry about the cargo of the wrecked galleon. " There will be time enough for that later. Take your men across the headland, Michaels. I want to know what lies beyond."

  "Aye, Cap'n," the crewman said, exchanging disgruntled looks with several of his mates.

  Valentine Whitelaw hadn't missed his men's disappointment. "Gentlemen. So there will be no further misunderstandings concerning this: Should there indeed have been survivors of that wreck you are so anxious to explore, then I would urge caution, for I would not want the Spanish to catch any of my men with their breeches off. Or were you gentlemen planning on swimming fully clothed? Were you intending on setting a guard, or were you all going to dive in and come up with your hands full of gold doubloons? And the gentleman in the boat, what were you going to do should you have been fired upon? A fine pair of sitting ducks you would have made. Once we have discovered whether or not we face an enemy, and have dealt with that threat, then, and only then, will we have the pleasure of exploring the wreck. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Aye, Cap'n," they chorused, some of them slightly shame faced, although O'Hara's eyes remained turned out to sea and the wreck that held such promise of riches.

  "Good. Now let us waste no more time," the Madrigal's captain requested as he turned away, certain his orders would be followed his time as he started back along the beach. He glanced in the direction Mustafa had gone, but the Turk had long since disappeared.

  Thomas Sandrick stared about him curiously. " 'Tis so quiet," he said. "Almost unnatural."

  They had just reached the headland when the silence Thomas Sandrick had remarked upon was shattered by a horrible cry. Valentine looked up in time to see the strangest figure flying through the air in pursuit of Mustafa as the Turk came tumbling down the rocky side. He landed with a splashing thud in the middle of a tidal pool on the beach below.

  Tristram Christian had fallen asleep while on duty, just as Lily had suspected. Sitting propped against his favorite pine, his bare, brown legs crossed at the ankles, he hadn't sighted the ship flying the red cross of St. George anchoring just off shore. Nor had he seen the boat load of men being rowed ashore, nor later the shadow that fell across the rocks and blocked out the sun.

  He hadn't heard Capabells's agitated cries in the branches above his head until too late. Opening his sleep-drowsy eyes, he had yawned lazily, wondering what the ruckus was. Stretching, Tristram had glanced up to see a horrifying sight.

  The tallest, cruelest corsair he'd ever seen was standing over him. The man was even more terrifying a sight than the French pirates. Later, Tristram was to remember little about the man who had been about to attack him other than the fierce face and curved sword; both were certain to haunt his dreams for many nights to come.

  Crying out, Tristram had jumped to his feet, or perhaps he had been pulled to his feet. Tristram was never to remember exactly, for the ferocious-eyed man had hooked his fingers around his arm in a murderous hold, or so the young boy believed as he started kicking and clawing at the madman who had caught him napping. But even more heart-stopping for the lad was wondering how he would explain all of this to Lily, if he lived; and then she would probably kill him for not having taken heed of her warning to keep watch at all times.

  Tears of fear and desperation had been coursing down Tristram's face when he had been as startled as his attacker. Suddenly, like some fantastic winged serpent, Lily had flown at the man. Or perhaps it had been Cisco he had seen and he had just thought Lily was flying. The parrot had been in the tree, at least the last time Tristram remembered hearing him, but whenever Cisco spied Lily he would fly down to her.

  That was exactly what had happened. Cisco had landed on Lily's shoulder as she walked beside the cove, and he had been perched there, curious about the feathers that had sprouted on his mistress's shoulder, when she had come stealthily up the other side of the headland. Intent on surprising her brother, she had seen instead a horrible man shaking Tristram by the scruff of the neck.

  She hadn't stopped to think, she had just come running, forgetting for a moment the bizarre outfit she wore. Cisco had flown in the air, green wings flapping. At the same moment that Lily had landed before the Turk, Capabells had swung out of the tree, his little face twisted into a mask of ferociousness as he squealed at the interloper who had
so disturbed the quiet.

  The Turk had released the squirming boy to shield himself from what had become an attack from all quarters. Taking a step backward, he had stumbled, his balance thrown off even more by the hands that had pushed against his chest and sent him over the edge of the cliff. The last thing the Turk had seen as he'd disappeared over the edge had been two green eyes glowing like emeralds in a grotesque face that reflected like the sun.

  "Come on, Tristram!" Lily cried, grabbing his arm and pulling him after her down the other side of the headland and out of sight of their attacker.

  Capabells scampered along beside them and Cisco swooped low over the sands as they raced along the shore and into the safety of the trees.

  Out of breath, their hearts beating wildly, they stood staring at each other. With shaking hands, Lily removed the headdress and mask. "Who the devil was that?" she demanded.

  Tristram continued to stare at her, unable to find his tongue or catch his breath.

  "How did he get so close that he could grab hold of you like that?" she asked, pulling off the cape and folding it across her arm. "You fell asleep again, didn't you. I've warned you, Tristram. Did you think it was just a game?" she said angrily, for she'd never been so scared in her life and she still didn't know what they were going to do now that the pirates knew they were here.

  "Where's Dulcie?"

  Tristram's eyes grew wider than they already were, his horrified expression answering Lily's question.

  "She was down on the beach looking for shells. I remember seeing her down there just before I--"

  "--fell asleep," Lily finished his sentence for him.

  "Oh, Lily! I didn't mean to! Honest. I just closed my eyes for a second. What are we goin' to do? Do you think they got Dulcie? Oooh, I'm sorry, Lily. I'm sorry," Tristram cried.

  Lily stood watching the beach, just in case their attacker or any of his scurvy friends should be in pursuit. "I don't think they would've gotten her. Unless she had fallen asleep," Lily speculated, not seeing Tristram wince at her choice of words, "she would have seen them coming ashore. Dulcie is probably hiding somewhere, waiting for us to come for her."

  "What are we going to do, Lily?" Tristram asked with a sniff. "He was a horrible man. He didn't look English. I would've known an Englishman, Lily," Tristram said.

  "They must have just come ashore. Their ship is probably riding at anchor beyond the reefs. I don't think they would have come from the far side of the island. I bet they haven't found the hut yet. That must be where Dulcie is. She's waiting for us by the spring," Lily decided. "We've got to get to the hut first, Tristram. The table is set. Mother's things are in her chest. All of our belongings are there. They're a bunch of thieves and they'll steal everything," Lily predicted.

  Taking the cape, Lily wrapped it around the headdress and mask, then hid them at the base of a nearby tree, covering them with several overlapping palm fronds.

  "What were you doing with those?" Tristram asked, then frowned. "Why were you dressed in them?"

  "No one will find them now. Come on, Tristram. We have to find Dulcie and clear out the hut."

  "What if they're already searching for us?"

  Lily smiled, her pale green eyes glinting, and in that instant she would have reminded many of Geoffrey Christian. "This is our island, Tristram. Just let them try to find us," Lily vowed before dragging him after her deeper into the forest.

  Valentine Whitelaw eyed Mustafa curiously as the Turk drew his sword. The curved blade gleamed dangerously as he brandished it to the sky in what appeared to be a gesture of ceremonial significance.

  All eyes were centered on the Turk, who had just survived a deadly confrontation with a strange creature. Someone said it had been a sea serpent, but the red-beard said he'd seen it fly and it'd had feathers. There was a lot of mumbling amongst the crew, and several had glanced for reassurance at the Madrigal riding at anchor just off shore, their beached boat within easy running distance of where they now stood.

  "Mustafa," Valentine tried once again to draw the man's attention. "What exactly happened? Mustafa?"

  Finally, the Turk turned to face him, but Valentine could not get the man to meet his eyes. Valentine began to suspect what was bothering the Turk. He felt he had lost face. He had been frightened by the strange apparition that had so suddenly confronted him. Fear was something the Turk was not accustomed to dealing with. It was a matter of personal pride. He had vowed to serve the man who had saved his life, and now, because he had shown fear, he felt he had betrayed that sacred vow.

  "What did you see?" Valentine asked again.

  "A young boy was asleep under the tree," he finally said in his low-voiced, thickly accented English.

  "A young boy?" Valentine demanded doubtfully. "Are you certain it wasn't a girl?" he asked, thinking of Geoffrey Christian's daughter. "She would probably be small and thin."

  The Turk shook his head. "It was a boy. Asleep. He woke up. I grab him. He fights me. Then"--Mustafa paused, his mouth tightening--"then, jinni come. Bad. Evil. Should leave island, Cap'n, before it is too late."

  "Jenny? Who the devil's she?" one of the crew who'd been listening intently now demanded.

  "Mustafa, listen. That was no supernatural creature you saw. That was no jinni," Valentine told him. "There was a human being beneath that feathered cape and mask. And he was probably just as startled as you, perhaps even more so."

  The Turk muttered something beneath his breath, his eyes scanning the woods.

  "Don't like the sound o' this at all," murmured one of the crew.

  "How old was this child, this boy, you caught, Mustafa?"

  The Turk held out his hand about waist-high, maybe a little higher.

  "Not very old then. Too young to have been . . ." Valentine paused. "Did he speak?"

  Mustafa frowned, trying to remember. "He cried out."

  "What did he say? What language?"

  A sudden look of surprise spread across the Turk's swarthy complexioned face and he grinned, startling the crew, since they'd never seen the man smile.

  " 'SDeath! It's pirates!" the Turk said, remembering now the small boys cry of alarm when he'd glanced up to see him standing there. "Lilyhelp. Lilyhelp. He say again and again. Lilyhelme. Lilyhelme."

  "Lilyhelp? Lilyhelme?" Valentine puzzled. "At least we know the first thing he said was in English. Lily," Valentine said the name softly. "That was Geoffrey Christian's daughter's name."

  " 'E wanted this Lily t'elp 'e, eh?" said one of the men understandingly, considering it was the Turk who'd caught the lad.

  " 'Lily help me,' " Valentine said with a slight smile, but it quickly faded when he realized the boy had not called out to Basil for help.

  "I thought there be just one child, Cap'n?" one of the men asked, then began to turn a mottled color as he realized some of his mates were snickering while others were beginning to look uncomfortable as they caught their captain's eye and remembered O'Hara's snide remarks in the hut.

  "Take several men and return to the hut," Valentine ordered, unwilling, at least for the moment, to speculate on what might have happened on the island during those seven years when Basil and Magdalena had found themselves stranded. "They may try to return to it while we're here. If you do see them, I do not want them hurt. Try to catch them if you can, but do not harm them. They are just children. Remember that."

  He sent the rest back the way they had been headed when they'd discovered the cannon. With Mustafa and Thomas Sandrick and a handful of men accompanying him, Valentine started toward the headland and the peaceful cove beyond.

  "Here, Cap'n! Ye be right. The footprints head out across the sands toward that tall pine on the edge of the forest. Reckon they scurried off like a couple of scared rabbits. They be little ones, too. Ye know, I don't think they be quite as small as the ones o'er yonder, Cap'n," one of the crew said curiously as he knelt down to examine the imprints dotting the sand. "Well, I'll be," he said, rubbing his chin. "Don't likely kn
ow what kind these be here? Ain't human, Cap'n," he declared as he looked more closely at the monkey's paw prints.

  "Jinni," Mustafa murmured, causing the man walking beside him to cross himself nervously.

  They had nearly reached the row of trees bordering the sands when Valentine suddenly halted. He gazed at the tall pine, his eyes narrowed against the glare off the water as he stared intently at something in the cool shade beneath the tree.

  Slowly, Valentine approached the two graves marked with simple crosses. In silence he stood before them.

  "Basil."

  Valentine closed his eyes against the pain, all hope gone now. Basil had been dead for over two years. Next to his grave was Magdalena's. Valentine opened his eyes. He stared down at the crosses. The lettering of Magdalena's name had been carved with such precision and care, as had the date of her death. There was no doubt in Valentine's mind that Basil had made that cross and buried Magdalena less than two weeks before he himself had died. The lettering was ill-spaced and lopsided, as if carved by a child's unsteady hand, but the same "Our Beloved" that had been carved above Magdalena's name had been carved above Basil's.

  Valentine knelt down on one knee beside his brother's grave. He reached out and touched the cross; then he stood. Without a word, he started to follow the tracks into the woods, his men hurrying to catch up to him. Only Thomas Sandrick remained a moment longer by the graves. His face was shadowed as he stood there deep in thought. Then he turned away to follow Valentine Whitelaw. He met the others halfway, for they hadn't gotten far before they'd lost all sight of the trail in the thick undergrowth and had to return to the beach.

  During their search, they had traveled back toward the bay. They emerged from the woods on the far side of the headland, close to where they had beached the boat. Valentine started toward the path that led to the hut when suddenly a thin, black-haired child broke from the underbrush like a bird on the wing.

  Valentine could hear the excited cries of his men just behind the child, whose small bare feet were carrying it directly toward them. When the child saw the man approaching from the opposite direction, cutting off its escape, it froze, and then bolted toward the surf.