Infernal

by F. Paul Wilson

  Tom came aft to the cooler and pulled out a Bud Light. Jack grimaced. Good movie sense, no beer sense. Maybe all the vodka he drank had killed off his taste buds.

  “Want one?”

  Jack shook his head. He’d stocked his cooler with Yuengling.

  “Maybe later.”

  Tom stepped below. He returned a few seconds later with a folded piece of paper, pulled up a chair, and settled beside Jack.

  “Ever see a treasure map?”

  “No.” Jack pointed to the helm. “I don’t mean to be picky, but shouldn’t someone be driving the boat?”

  “Like I told you, this thing pilots itself. It knows where Bermuda is and knows it’s supposed to go there. And there’s not another boat around, so relax.”

  Yes, Jack knew what Tom had told him, but he still didn’t like it.

  He unfolded the sheet and handed it to Jack.

  “Take a gander.”

  The sheet was actually four Xeroxed pages taped together into a large rectangle. A compass rose indicated that north was toward the top of the sheet. Right of center was a wedge-shaped landmass with a northward-pointing nipple. A line ran on a diagonal to a star surrounded by wiggly lines. The star had been labeled Sombra. The number of miles—eight and a half—had been written in ornate script along the line. Readings in minutes and degrees that Jack assumed to be latitudes had been placed above the nipple and the star.

  Ornate handwritten Spanish filled the lower right corner. Jack’s Spanish wasn’t up to a translation.

  “’Splain to me.”

  “Okay, Ricky.”

  Tom had spotted Ricky Ricardo. But that was an easy one.

  “Translation?”

  Tom closed his eyes and recited. “‘The resting place of the Sombra and the Lilitongue of Gefreda, in the depths near the Isle of Devils, this Twenty-eighth day of March, Year of Our Lord Fifteen-ninety-eight.’ And then it’s signed by Francisco Mendes, Society of Jesus.”

  Fifteen ninety-eight…

  “This is over four hundred years old?”

  Tom nodded. “The original is. It’s parchment and barely holding together as it is. I wasn’t about to take it out on the Atlantic.”

  “What’s “Sombra”? And what the hell is the Lilitongue of Gefreda?”

  Tom held up a hand. “Let me start at the beginning. When I was in private practice I joined a firm and inherited this client from one of the partners who was retiring due to ill health. The client’s name was Allan Wenzel, a sweet old guy who was a devoted antiquities collector—especially maps.” He tapped the sheets in Jack’s hand. “This was one of his favorites. He told me it’d been found in the ruins of a Spanish monastery and had languished in various antique shops for years before he discovered it.”

  “How did he know he wasn’t buying a Brooklyn Bridge?”

  “He had the parchment dated and it’s from the late sixteenth century. The details—the distance and the precise latitude reading—point to someone who was on the spot and knew what he was talking about.”

  “But who is that someone?”

  Tom pointed to the signature on the lower right sheet. “This Jesuit named Mendes, I’d guess. Wenzel’s guess was that he must have been a passenger.”

  “On what?”

  “The Sombra—a Spanish cargo ship.”

  Jack couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t tell me: It’s a treasure ship laden with gold and jewels.”

  Tom shrugged. “Could be.”

  “Okay. I’ll bite: Where’s this Isle of Devils?”

  “It’s the old name for Bermuda before she was settled.”

  He and Tom were headed for the Isle of Devils. Why did that set off a warning bell?

  Tom was pointing to the map again, this time at the tip of the nipple.

  “That latitude crosses the northern tip of St. George’s—Bermuda’s northernmost island. The line runs three-oh-eight degrees northwest and intersects the latitude of the map’s star right here.”

  “Why no longitude?”

  “Longitude was iffy in those days. They were pretty good at telling how far north or south they were, but the science of east-west location hadn’t been nailed down yet. But longitude isn’t necessary here. Run eight-point-five miles from the tip of St. George’s to this latitude and you’ll find the Sombra.”

  “If there ever was such a ship.”

  “Oh, there was. I did some research: Sombra was making a run to Cartagena.”

  “So how’d it end up in Bermuda?”

  Tom shrugged. “No one knows. She left Cadiz on March sixth, 1598, and that was the last anyone ever saw or heard of her. Maybe a storm blew her off course, maybe she caught fire, maybe an onboard emergency forced her to seek land. But whatever the reason, the Sombra hit the northern reef—those wavy lines around the star indicate reefs—and went down, probably like the proverbial stone.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Her class of ship had a deep draw—six feet. The reef out there is about three feet deep. If the Sombra was making decent speed, she probably traded damage with the reef: carving a path through the coral as the reef tore her open. She broke up and sank, and that was the end of her.”

  Jack waved the sheet. “I don’t get the point.”

  “Simple: Someday I’m going to find her.”

  “If she hasn’t already been found.”

  Tom shook his head. “The Sombra is not on any map of Bermuda wrecks, and believe me I’ve checked them all.”

  “So you’ve got a map of a wreck that isn’t there.”

  “No, I’ve got a map of a wreck that no one else knows exists.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Jack tapped the big sheet. “The map maker knew. And if there were any survivors, wouldn’t they talk up the wreck?”

  “To whom?”

  “I don’t know—the Bermuda government?”

  “The island wasn’t inhabited at the time. The Brits didn’t colonize it until 1612, and even then it was considered part of the Virginia colony.”

  Jack was confused. “Then how…?”

  Tom smiled. “How did the map wind up in a Spanish monastery? Good question. That’s what makes the Sombra so interesting. Someone drew the map, then hid it away.”

  “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Does if the Sombra went down with something valuable—very valuable—that you someday wanted to go back and retrieve. And here’s another little tidbit: Sombra means shadow. Isn’t that cool?”

  So cool it gave Jack a chill.

  “Did you find a manifest or anything like that?”

  Tom rose and went to the cooler. “Want one while I’m up?”

  “I’ll take a Yuengling.”

  Tom returned and handed him a green bottle.

  “No… no manifest.”

  Jack sipped and considered how little sense this made.

  “Without a manifest, what makes you think the wreck holds anything of value?”

  “Because of another ship of the same class named San Pedro that went down two years before the Sombra. It was discovered back in the fifties and yielded gold bars, emerald-encrusted jewelry, and a couple thousand silver coins.”

  “Which must have kicked off a massive treasure hunt.”

  “It did. The gold rush turned up three hundred fifty different wrecks. And those are just the documented ones.”

  “But not much treasure, I’ll bet.”

  Tom shook his head. “Not a whole hell of a lot. Most were just rotting wood.”

  Jack sighed. He didn’t get this.

  “What makes you think you’ll find any more than that?”

  “Wenzel. He did a lot of research and learned that the Sombra was carrying a very special cargo—the Lilitongue of Gefreda that Mendes mentioned.”

  “Which is?”

  Tom’s brow furrowed. “He didn’t know, and couldn’t find out. All his research yielded only a few veiled references. But apparently it was considered something of great valu
e.”

  “Just what is a Lilitongue?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest. I Googled it and came up empty.”

  “Think it’s shaped like someone’s tongue?”

  Tom made a face. “The word ‘tongue’ has a load of meanings besides that incessantly wagging muscle in your mouth. It can be anything from a spit of land to the pin on a belt buckle to the clapper inside a bell to the pole that runs between the horses on a stagecoach.”

  “So which is it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “And Gefreda?”

  “Same thing. I assume it’s either the name of the maker or the town where it was made. But I’ve got my own theory about the Lilitongue of Gefreda. I think it’s some sort of jewel, or a unique piece of jewelry, and I’ll bet it’s worth a fortune.”

  Yeah, right, Jack thought. And I’m Captain Hook.

  A lost jewel. Sheesh. Had Tom really bought into this?

  The reefs Tom had mentioned, however, were apparently real, and they worried him.

  “Three hundred and fifty sunken ships. Maybe those stories about the Bermuda Triangle are true.”

  “Don’t tell me you believe any of that balderdash.”

  Jack had come to believe a lot of things he’d once considered “balderdash.” He didn’t want to add Bermuda Triangle lore to that list. At least not while he was sailing through it.

  “Well… easier to believe in than the Lilly Lips of Gandolfini.”

  “The Lilitongue of Gefreda. And forget the Bermuda Triangle. No one can even agree as to where the ‘triangle’ is supposed to be. But the wrecks are real. All three hundred and fifty of them have been mapped, but not one of them is called Sombra. And not one location matches the location on my map.”

  “So what’s that tell you?”

  “That it’s waiting to be discovered!”

  Jack shook his head. “Tells me it’s probably not there. Or it was there once and the tides carried it off.”

  Jack refolded the sheet and tapped it against his thigh.

  “I don’t get it, Tom. This treasure map thing… where’s it going?”

  “Nowhere at the moment. But someday I’m going to dive that wreck and find the Lilitongue of Gefreda.”

  “When? I thought you were going to disappear.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe someday I’ll sneak back.”

  Yeah, right.

  “Speaking of disappearing, it’s no easy thing these days. You’ll need help.”

  “Like who?”

  “Me. I can put you in touch with folks who can fit you for a new identity.”

  Tom looked touched. Maybe even a tad guilty.

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Yeah,” he said, but knew he was really doing it for Dad.

  * * *

  Afiaza Harbor—Tenerife

  March 14, 1598

  Brother Francisco Mendes smelled the rot, heard the scuttling of the rats as he picked his way through the oaken beams, braces, and knees of the Sombra’s midship cargo hold. Had this been a galleon, the hold would have been crowded with rows of cannon and bins of shot and powder. Not so an unarmed merchant nao.

  Francisco had suspected that the ship was running light, and indeed it was. As much as he had wanted to, no opportunity to inspect the hold had presented itself until now.

  He had guided the Sombra along the first leg of the established merchant route: out from Cadiz into the Atlantic, past Gibraltar, then hugging the African coast, keeping land always in sight. The planned route led south to Cape Verde, where they would turn due west and head for the Caribbean.

  But Francisco had seen to it that Captain Gutierrez fell sick as they approached the Canary Islands. The first mate, a wisp of a man named Adolpho Torres, had argued for a return to Cadiz but the captain had forbidden it. A matter of pride.

  Francisco had guided the Sombra to Afiaza Harbor on Tenerife where they had anchored and had the captain taken ashore for treatment.

  And now, here in the hold, his suspicions were confirmed. Sombra was indeed running light. He’d found bolts of fabric, worked iron, samples from many of Spain’s manufacturing sectors… but only samples.

  Why? Merchant ships unfailingly set sail with their holds packed floor to ceiling, leaving no space, no matter how small, empty. That was why their crews usually slept on the deck. They slept on the Sombra’s deck too. Not because of lack of space below, but by captain’s orders.

  Yet to Francisco even this half-empty hold seemed too crowded, the air too thick. He felt his throat closing.

  He forced himself forward. He had a description of the relic—or rather its container—but so far had had no luck finding it. He wanted to locate it before the ship got under way again. Moving belowdecks with a lamp held high was difficult enough on a docked ship. But once at sea the pitching and rolling might cause him to drop the lamp. The greatest threat to a ship—greater even than running into one of England’s race-built galleons—was fire. Once they put to sea again he would need another pair of hands to help him. Those would be Eusebio’s, but Francisco could not risk anyone learning of their connection. Not yet, at least.

  Eusebio had been conducting his own clandestine searches, taking turns with Francisco while the ship was in port. But it would not be there much longer.

  His search so far—nearly an hour—had yielded nothing. Could the cardinal have been wrong? Was the relic on another ship, perhaps?

  But then, as he lifted a bolt of dark blue fabric, he spied a small chest tucked into the forward port corner. It perfectly fit the description: small, almost square, with teak sides and brass fittings.

  The Lilitongue of Gefreda… what was it? What was its dark power?

  Better not to know.

  And now, God forgive him, he must take the next steps in the plan.

  “Senor Mendes?”

  Francisco started at the sound of his name and dropped the fabric. He turned and found one of the crew hanging from the rope ladder to the deck.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Senor—I mean, Captain Torres wishes to see you immediately.”

  “Captain Torres?”

  “I am afraid so, senor.”

  Eusebio had told him that the crew did not like the first mate. But from the sound of it, he was now in charge. Francisco hoped that Captain Gutierrez had not died. He had grown to like the man during the short time he had known him. He had intended to give the captain only enough poison to make him sick. He prayed he had not miscalculated the dose.

  With uncertainty gnawing at his viscera, Francisco climbed the ladder and headed for the officers’ quarters.

  He found Torres standing in the middle of the captain’s cabin. Everything about the man was thin: thin physique, thin lips, thin face, thin hair.

  “I was informed that you were in the hold. What were you doing down here?”

  “Simply checking the cargo to make sure none of it has shifted.”

  “Such is not the navigator’s concern.”

  “You are correct, sir. But since navigation is dependent on the helm, and since shifting affects the helm, and since my services are hardly needed while at anchor, I thought I might take a look. I must say, I am puzzled.”

  “Why is that?”

  “There is so little cargo.”

  Torres smiled. “I said as much to Captain Gutierrez, and he told me the holds will be bursting at the seams on the trip home.”

  Francisco could imagine only one reason for that: Someone was paying mightily for the relic.

  How could that little chest hold something of such value?

  Torres sniffed. “But be that as it may, the captain is too sick to continue and has relinquished command to me.”

  “Then he is alive?”

  Torres nodded. “Just barely. He almost died, but now he appears to be recovering. But it will be at least a week before he is on his feet. He wished me to complete the voyage.”

  Francisco breathed a sigh of relief.
Gutierrez, at least, would be spared.

  “I will aid you in any way that I can, Captain. In fact, I know a route that will help us make up much of the time we have lost here in port.”