Rockfleet (The Pirate Queen Book 0)

by Jennifer Rose McMahon

  My knee bounced like a jackhammer.

  The persistence of the awake dreams proved something was there. Something that needed to be explored further. But it could be dangerous.

  Had Mom tried to face the wind?

  The doctors said it was her weak heart that killed her, but that’s because they didn’t know. Maybe Gram knew though. I always saw the fear hiding in her eyes.

  But maybe facing it was the only way.

  My eyes narrowed.

  I’d have to face my greatest fear. My stalker. My mother’s stalker.

  I wondered, if I tried hard enough, if I could make an awake dream happen. Like, start one myself. I could search it then, for my mother or for whoever, or whatever, was causing it.

  My mouth formed into the shape of an O as I brought my fist up to it and turned my gaze back to my guidance counselor.

  "Bell's about to ring," she said.

  The twinkle in her eye proved she saw my wide-eyed epiphany, but didn’t question it. She allowed it to remain private.

  I waved as I left her office and wondered what had happened to the burdened weight in my pack. It was light as a feather now, allowing a bounce in my step.

  I shot a warm smile at the grimacing secretary as I left the guidance suite with my new sinister, if not sadistic, plan brewing in my mind —— how to conjure my own vision.

  Flying through the front door and hurling my backpack in the middle of the landing made my grandmother's head turn to me in a snap. I kicked my shoes off and went around the kitchen toward the porch.

  "What? No hello?" Gram poked her head out of the far side of the kitchen, cutting off my course.

  "Hi Gram! Just going outside. I want to grab some fresh air. It's such a nice day." I darted past her, anxious to try my new plan.

  "I've yer cuppa tea here. And some bikkies. Come have yer snack."

  Gram loved our after school routine. She'd ask how my day was. Watch me have my snack. Try to read my face and actions for any evidence of my growing up or having the slightest thoughts of adolescent deviance. It was so obvious.

  "In a minute. I really just want to hang outside for a bit. Is that okay?" The pitch of my voice was too high and I bit my cheek to quell it.

  My nerves quaked through my body as I considered invoking one of my terrifying visions. But I was done with them controlling me and knocking me off my path.

  I had to do this.

  To take charge.

  To get my life back.

  I prayed I’d be safe in the unknown void of the tempest, the storm that was always present in my visions. But what better place to invoke it than my grandparent’s peaceful garden? It made sense to do this at home. Certainly better than the exposed, unguarded cemetery.

  Gram looked back at the cup of tea, as if it might feel slighted or hurt. But it had nothing to do with the tea.

  I groaned inside, rolling my eyes in private, and turned into the kitchen.

  I sat as Gram's self-satisfied smile crossed her face and I clenched my teeth in annoyance. The tea burned my mouth as I inhaled it under her close scrutiny. I grabbed a cookie, still warm from the oven, and pushed my chair back to stand.

  "Thanks Gram!" And I flew down the porch stairs into the garden.

  St. Brendan welcomed me back, wondering what took me so long. The look in his eye told me he knew I was up to no good.

  He was right. I had a devious plan. A good one.

  I hoped.

  I sat in front of him, cross-legged, and closed my eyes. My breathing slowed and I focused on waiting for the wind.

  My eyes popped open as my heart rate burst them wide. What would I do if it worked? What if the force was too strong and I got hurt? Or worse.

  My insecurity nagged for me to go inside the house. It pulled my eyebrows up in worry. But my pinched lips and tight fists showed my resolve to keep going. My confidence that I could start my own awake dream pushed me forward.

  I closed my eyes again and concentrated.

  Every subtle breeze shot my eyes open again and again, only to be disappointed by normalcy all around me.

  I kept them closed longer, waiting, focusing. I meditated on the wind — the ancient sound of the voice that followed me out of the cemetery that day, the smells that carried on the violent gusts, and the ominous darkness that enveloped me.

  Nothing.

  I opened my eyes. This time I was sure I saw a smirk on St. Brendan.

  I looked back toward the house and watched Gram's shadow at the kitchen window doing dishes. My eyes moved across the yard to Joey's garden shed. I wondered if my grandfather was in there. He was always supportive of me and my antics. Maybe he’d be able to help somehow.

  His mystical stories of ancient Ireland whirled through my mind as I thought of the secrets he held so tight. The ones that hid in the tears that wet his eyes any time he spoke of home.

  I pushed myself up to standing and went to the shed. It was always off limits, since I was a little girl. Joey didn't want me to get hurt by the tools or sharp equipment, and even though I was older now, I still felt like I shouldn't go in there.

  As I got closer to the shed, a shiver ran through my core. It started deep in my marrow and shuddered straight through me, to the surface of my skin. I jolted and looked back toward the garden to be sure nothing had changed.

  Turning back to the shed again, I moved closer. Something stopped me in my tracks though; childhood rules of keeping out? Warnings of danger within?

  I stepped closer.

  Maybe there was something in there I wasn't supposed to see.

  Curiosity widened my eyes as my heart rate accelerated. I peered back toward the garden to see if anything was happening, if maybe this was part of it. Part of my plan — working.

  I crept to the window and lifted onto tip-toes. I peered in through the old dirty panes and saw the familiar bags of fertilizer, pitchforks, and mowers. Shelves of trinkets and small garden tools lined the side wall.

  The opposite wall was where the ominous tools hung. I envisioned machetes, swords and devices of torture as I stared at the weed cutters and axes of all varieties. My leg bumped the wooden handle of a tool leaning up against the shed, and the hatchet fell into the mulch.

  I picked it up and wrapped my fingers around the contoured wooden handle, well-worn from years of use, and wielded it through the air like a master woodsman - slicing at invisible vines and battling imaginary marauders.

  The security of having a weapon felt good. But I couldn’t really imagine how it would be useful against one of my visions.

  I moved back down toward the garden with my tool and chopped it into the soft ground around St Brendan. I pulled it up from the loose soil and moved toward the wild zucchini vines. With another chop, I sliced through a vine that encroached out onto the lawn.

  I dropped to my knees and placed the axe across my thighs and balanced it there. My eyes fell closed as I pictured myself in an ancient land where a weapon such as this would be my normal sidekick. My personal defense.

  A breeze blew my long hair back away from my face and I lifted my chin into it. It filled my senses with floral scents and smells of fermenting garden compost.

  My hands tightened on the wooden handle by instinct. The smells turned from garden fresh to salty brine, forcing my eyes open in surprise.

  I blinked to clear my sight — to see what I knew I should be seeing. But it was gone.

  The garden vanished. St. Brendan - vanished.

  Oh my god. I did it.

  My eyes darted around without my moving a muscle. My fingers tightened on the axe handle again as my ears piqued like a wild animal’s. The contours of the wooden handle no longer fit my grip and I dropped my chin a millimeter to look at it. My breath sucked in as I stared at a dagger in my lap - long leather hilt, longer metal blade.

  My first instinct was to hide. To slap my own face to wake me up. Or to simply evaporate into thin air.

  But that wasn’t what I came here to d
o.

  I came to find answers. To stop the torment. To get back on my path. The one meant for me.

  I looked back toward the house to search for Gram's comforting silhouette in the kitchen window and instead gazed upon a wide expanse of beach, green hills and gray mist.

  I turned back for St. Brendan but was blinded by a bright flash of light glinting off sheer metal.

  My ears filled with a blood-curdling battle cry on the wind that pierced through my soul with electrified terror.

  In front of me was complete chaos and mayhem — stormy gusts of blasting rain, and devastated wreckage all around. Wooden crates strewn on the beach, torn fabric flapping in the forceful wind, and sea-soaked, bloated bodies. Dead men. Everywhere.

  My breath sucked in at the sight of death all around and panic coursed through my veins. I’d never seen dead bodies, contorted from anguish and suffering, like this before… only peaceful in caskets… and the terror made me want to run.

  I diverted my eyes from the disaster and looked out onto the angry sea bulging with swells that crashed onto the beaten shore with every heave of the tide.

  Without mercy, the heavy waves assaulted a ship that had run aground on jagged rocks. It keeled to the side, taking in the weight of the ocean, sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss. The masts and black tarred deck bobbed in the frenzy of the angry sea as the dark wooden vessel groaned and foundered.

  Another shout of command filled my ears and I turned, grip tightening on my dagger.

  A woman signaled for me to come to her as she leaned over the waterlogged, lifeless body of a man. Her gnarled face was stricken with concern and focus as her wide eyes begged mine for help. Before I could even think, my feet tore through the sand to reach her.

  But like a bad dream, my legs turned to jelly and struggled with each step through the sinking sand. I used every ounce of my strength to move through its resistance. Just as I found my rhythm, I fell back and lost ground.

  I pushed forward again, only to be yanked backward a second time. My shoulders shook and jolted me.

  I turned to swing at whoever was trying to stop me and Gram's face met mine with a startle. Her frenzied eyes shot the fear from her soul straight into mine.

  I squinted and blinked to clear my vision, then looked back over my shoulder to the beach and the woman who needed my help.

  "Maeve?"

  I turned back to Gram.

  "Maeve. What are you doing?"

  I pulled from her. "She needs my help!"

  I looked again to the beach and was caught in St. Brendan's stare, his head tilted in cold judgment.

  My spine straightened as my eyes shot wide open.

  It had worked.

  I'd created my own awake dream. My heart beat nearly out of my chest.

  "Maeve?"

  "Sorry, Gram! I'm fine! I was just fooling around." I lowered the axe in hopes of it going unnoticed.

  Gram reached for it and took it away from me as her eyelids lowered and her lips pursed to the side.

  "What's the axe fer?"

  I chewed on my lip.

  "Oh, the weeds. They're taking over. Thought this might help." I kicked at the axe head resting in the grass by Gram’s foot.

  "Sure, ya know yer not ta touch your grandfather's tools. You could get hurt." She turned and walked toward the shed. "Come on. In the house wit'cha, now."

  She glanced at me through pinched eyes, like I'd had a psychotic episode or something.

  I'd been too eager when I flew through the door after school. It made her suspicious I was up to something. I'd have to be more careful next time.

  Next time?

  I wondered if I’d actually be brave enough to do it again. It was bad. There were dead people. And what if this was the true cause of Mom’s death? Then there was real danger.

  But the woman.

  The woman needed me.

  And the way she looked at me - it was like she trusted me without question, or expected something from me. I didn't want to let her down.

  I looked into my open palms and pulled them into my chest, closing my eyes. I looked deep within my soul.

  There was something there for me. Something in that vision, in that ancient land.

  I nodded my head.

  I’d decided.

  I would try to go back again.

  Chapter 3

  I was going to chance it and go back.

  Generating another awake dream was no guarantee, but that woman needed me. And the look in her eye, well, it was so familiar. Like I was home. It gnawed at me every minute.

  It was more Gram who I had to worry about at this point. If she had any idea of what I was doing she would go crazy. It would be all about getting back to therapy and trying different meds. Whatever it took to make me comply with the zombie expectations of modern life.

  To me, that was scarier than transcending time and place through a haunting vision that I was starting to believe held mystical power beyond my imagination.

  I'd been avoiding Gram since the 'event' in the garden the other day. The way she looked at me after that made my arm hairs bristle. It was like she didn't recognize me anymore. She was trying to figure me out, more than normal anyway, and it worried me.

  Avoiding her, I followed Joey down the porch stairs toward his shed. His weekend gardening rituals were like clockwork and my sudden insatiable curiosity fueled my every breath.

  I'd never noticed, or paid attention to, my grandfather's intentions before. I always took him for granted with his predictable routines around the house. But now, something about him made my senses tingle. Intuition maybe. Like he knew something more than what he was letting on or as if he held a secret.

  His stories of Ireland, the ones laced with Jameson Whiskey, were fairy tales to me — legends and myths of a magical time and place. He’d told them to me my whole life and they became a part of me without me even realizing it.

  And now, something about his stories made me look at him more closely. Castles and pirate ships filled his fables as he spoke of Irish lore and its mythical clans. I realized that his stories had prepared me somehow for what I experienced in my vision.

  The ship. The green hills. The salty breeze. The lost language that rang clear in my ears.

  It was all familiar to me because of him.

  His large frame lumbered across the wide lawn and I envisioned him in his youth. His broad shoulders and immense height would have made him an imposing figure.

  The wedding photo on the mantle, black and white, faded, looked like one of those carnival vintage photos you could dress up for and laugh at, but when I looked closer, into his light blue eyes, I saw a handsome man full of strength and hope – with a vision for a prosperous future.

  But I also saw a depth of knowledge in his young eyes. Like he’d seen more than a lifetime of sorrow in his short years.

  He turned without warning and I jumped.

  "You're like a sly fox, followin' me 'round. What's with ya?" The twinkle in his eye put a smile on my face.

  "Just curious." I gathered my hair and pulled the elastic from my wrist to wrap it. "What are you doing? Do you need help?"

  I’d never been more interested or intrigued by his world. Ever. And I was sure he held some information that could be useful. Maybe he didn’t even realize it.

  "Ach, sure, not t'all." He reached for the axe leaning against the shed. His hand jumped down the handle toward the blade and he ran his thumb across it to test its sharpness. "Just gonna prep the garden for winter. Maybe ya want ta gather them last zucchinis. Get 'em outta the way before I make a mess of 'em."

  He gave me a job!

  He never did that. I'm usually swooshed away or sent back into the house.

  He opened the shed door. "Wait a sec."

  His footsteps echoed off the floor as he moved to the far side. I stepped closer and peered in. He reached for a tool hanging off a nail and returned to me with it.

  "Here ya go. Cut 'em with t
his. You always had a good eye for the garden." He handed me the heavy sheers.

  I squeezed the handles, causing the blades to cross again and again, and headed straight down to the vegetable patch.

  “Hey, no runnin’ with scissors, Cailín. Sure, I don’t be needin’ any pocked eyes in me house.” He laughed.

  “Yup!” I called back.

  I loved it when he called me Cailín. It meant ‘girl’ in Irish and was endearing to me the way ‘Joey’ was to him.

  My lips pressed together as a tightness hit my chest. My throat stuck and I couldn't swallow. Thoughts of my grandfather always did that to me. I loved him. And I knew he loved me.

  I looked at St. Brendan and then into the zucchini vines. The leaves were broad, hiding their treasures somewhere beneath. I pushed the leaves from side to side as I moved through the patch, looking for the one hidden secret nestled somewhere below.

  A salty breeze moved across my face like velvet and caused me to stand up straight, eyes wide. I looked back to the shed and heard my grandfather's footsteps moving about within. My eyes darted around the garden and the breeze went still.

  My first instinct was to run up the lawn toward the shed, to the safety of my grandfather. My next instinct took over though, much stronger - to go back to the woman on the beach.

  The longing gaze in her deep blue eyes gave me the same feeling of home as Joey's gaze always did. Only hers held a stronger pull on my soul, one I couldn't shake. The feeling of having... a mother again.

  My eyes stung and misted.

  My knuckles went to my lips as I thought.

  I missed my mother. She helped make everything so clear. Like I had a purpose. With her, my life was wide open in front of me. But now it was closed. Shut tight.

  I looked at the garden sheers in my hand and then up the lawn toward the shed. I was wasting time. Avoiding my life by going through with someone else's plan for me. Mundane steps, like a machine churning out ghosts. Finishing high school. Then college. Then a job.

  That was supposed to bring happiness? It meant nothing to me. My head shook in defiance.

  I was done feeling like a misfit. Like I didn't fit in anywhere. Grieving for my mother in every breath of every day. Bumping and stumbling my way through my own life.