by Kai Meyer
Griffin had been quiet for a long time, listening, but now he spoke too. “Do you really have any doubt after what we just saw?” With a kick he sent a dead fish slithering across the deck to Soledad. If he’d hoped that the princess would jump to one side in horror, he was disappointed: She skillfully scooped up the carcass with the toe of her boot.
“Anyway, I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Griffin went on, “and what Jolly has just told us is at least an explanation.” He grinned. “Not especially believable, but an explanation. And I’d rather fight against whatever is responsible for this here than wait in some harbor somewhere for ten thousand kobalins to suddenly come on land to find out if they like the taste of human flesh unsalted as well.”
Jolly sent Griffin a grateful smile, but at the same time she noticed that Munk didn’t look altogether happy about the pirate youth’s decision. Still, he’d kept Griffin from going overboard.
Soledad still hesitated, but then she nodded slowly, “Might be you’re right, boy” She turned around and made her way back to her place at the wheel. As she passed, she gave Jolly a quick wink. “Come with me for a minute? I want to talk with you.”
Walker’s face darkened, “Secrets?”
“Women’s secrets,” said Soledad with a slight smile, “You wouldn’t understand a word anyway,”
“I can be very intuitive,” Walker said indignantly, “And sensitive,”
“Of course. Jolly, are you coming?”
Jolly followed her up the steps to the bridge and watched as the pirate princess untied the rope with which she’d fixed the wheel.
“You’ve got yourself into a nice mess,” said Soledad in a low voice so that the men on the main deck couldn’t understand her.
“On account of the Maelstrom? I can’t help it. I wanted—”
“I don’t mean that.”
Jolly still didn’t understand.
“I mean your two admirers down there,” Soledad pointed with a nod to Munk and Griffin, who’d just had brooms pressed into their hands by Walker to clean the deck of the fish carcasses.
“My … admirers?” Jolly burst into ringing laughter. “Oh, come on, what’s this all about?”
“You’re either not as mature as you pretend to be—or blind.”
“Bilge!”
“Do you really not notice how the two of them look at you? And how they look at each other?”
“They don’t like each other. So?”
“That glint in their eyes is not hostility. Jolly. And not hate, either. It’s jealousy.”
Jolly laughed nervously, but she avoided Soledad’s probing gaze. “Griffin is a pest and a liar most of the time. And Munk is a know-nothing boy who plays with mussels.”
“I didn’t say that you are in love with either of them, but the other way around. Although I’m not so sure….”
“Oh, don’t worry about that!”
Soledad smiled slyly. “I only want to advise you to watch out. You appear to have plans, if you were serious in your talk just now. Your two friends won’t make this business any easier. No enemy is worse than the one in your own ranks.”
“You think one of the two of them could betray us? Out of jealousy?” She shook her head again. “Because of me!”
“Men do dumb things when they aren’t thinking with their heads.”
Jolly waved that off. “You’d better watch out for Walker, instead. I’ve seen how he stares at you.”
Soledad grinned. “One man alone is as reliable as a nun’s check. As long as Buenaventure doesn’t act like a male dog, I can manage Walker. One gets used to such things.” Her eyes sparkled. “You’re a pretty girl, Jolly…. I know you don’t want to hear that. But it’s the truth. And someday you’ll be a very beautiful woman. It doesn’t hurt if you learn to see the amusement in such situations. And, who knows, perhaps the good captain will be quite useful to us.”
“Just like Griffin and Munk.”
Soledad sighed, “You don’t have to admit that I’m right. Just keep your eyes open. And don’t do anything that can set them against each other. A powder keg is harmless compared to that, believe me.”
Soledad turned to her steering. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.
Jolly leaned on the railing of the bridge with both hands and looked down at the main deck, Munk and Griffin were struggling with the dead fish, swearing. They swept the bodies into heaps to throw them overboard. In spite of the nauseating job, they worked together like good friends.
But had Soledad possibly been right? Was the accord between them deceptive?
Like a powder keg, she’d said. Don’t do anything that can set them against each other.
Tortuga
Walker was right in one respect, anyway, and the encounter with the kobalins had proven it: The pigs had to leave the ship.
The unknown being that led the hosts of the deep-sea tribes and caused the fish rain over them couldn’t have noticed that Jolly and Munk were on the Carfax—what would have happened if he had, Jolly preferred not to imagine. But they dared not take the risk that the juicy prey below deck might attract the kobalins a second time.
Naturally, Jolly steadfastly refused to drive the Jean-Pauls overboard, Munk and Griffin supported her, while Soledad stayed out of the conflict. Walker raised a tremendous fuss until it occurred to him that they’d pass an island on their way to Tortuga where a handful of missionaries had established a small cloister. With Jolly’s consent, he set a course to the island. That he speculated on thus gaining a small supplementary income, he prudently kept to himself.
They reached the island on the third day of their voyage without a very great detour. They met no more kobalins on the way. The voyage was proceeding swiftly with a good wind, and Walker told them he hoped to reach Tortuga the next day.
With the help of the extremely pleased and grateful monks, they managed to get the Jean-Pauls unloaded. Every single one of the gigantic fattened hogs had to be driven out of the cargo hold, loaded into the ship’s boat, and rowed to land. The work was a sweaty, wearisome drudgery, which held them up for a full day, despite Walker’s predictions. Jolly was happy and satisfied when they handed the last pig over to the monks. In spite of all the dirt and the swine manure, she was sure they’d made the right decision.
It remained for her and the boys to clean the cargo hold and scrub the deck. Walker supervised them like a slave driver. His eye watchfully on his workers, mindful of every spot of filth, he leaned back tranquilly and lit a meerschaum pipe.
“How about you helping us?” Griffin asked grimly.
“I’m the captain,” Walker replied with a shrug, “not you. A small but significant difference.”
“It is not! Clean your stupid tub yourself!” Griffin flung his brush with force into a full bucket. Dirty water splashed onto Walker’s boots.
The pirate merely grinned. “Do I detect the spirit of mutiny? That carries twenty lashes, administered by my trusty and justice-loving steersman.”
Buenaventure drew his jaws into something that might have been a pit bull grin.
Griffin snorted scornfully, but he scrubbed on. “It’s pure spite! The ghosts could do it just as well.”
Jolly had already come to this conclusion, but she’d found that despite what Munk said, she had no success with commanding the ghosts. She simply did not know how to bring the wraiths under her control.
Walker had followed her vain attempts with malicious glee and of course refused to give the ghosts the order to clean in his position as captain. He offered the three of them the threadbare lie that the crew was urgently needed for other tasks. Unfortunately, he had no other choice but to involve his passengers in the necessary work on board. This was only the law of the sea, he said with obvious enjoyment; and unfortunately, he was right about that: Even pirates held to certain rules.
“If he grins once more, I’m going to throw him overboard single-handed.” Munk whispered and scrubbed even harder.
Griffin pointed to Munk’s belt purse. “Can’t you turn him into something? How about a pig?”
“Too hard.”
“Then at least make his hair fall out. Or make him lose all his teeth.”
“Also too hard.”
“God in Heaven, you can make gold! So something like that should be a simple matter for you.”
“The Ghost Trader said that there are few spells more difficult than the ones that change creatures—no matter if the change is big or small. Dead objects, yes. Sometimes even the elements. But a human being …” Morosely he wrung out his cloth. “Anyway, I can’t.”
Jolly glanced at Soledad, who was standing on the bowsprit of the Carfax and gazing absently into the distance. Naturally Walker had exempted the princess from the order to crawl around the deck on her knees and scratch off the swine dung. Jolly doubted that Soledad would have let herself be ordered by Walker to do anything anyway.
“I think I still see a hoof print … yes, right in front of you, Munk.” Walker contentedly blew a smoke ring. “And, Jolly, please keep after it a little more, eh?”
Buenaventure made a sound like a dog rejoicing over the return of his master and mistress; this time there was no doubt that the pit bull man was laughing.
Jolly thought she was going to chew the edge of her wooden bucket with rage.
But she didn’t.
She kept on scrubbing.
The island of Tortuga took its name from the highly individual shape of its silhouette on the horizon: The first French settlers had dubbed it la Tortue, the turtle.
Merely a few miles separated Tortuga from the shores of Haiti, one of the largest land masses in the Caribbean. Tortuga was almost invisible in comparison. Had not the first Caribbean pirates decided to settle there in the previous century, the oval hump with its tropical forests would probably have been shown on only the most precise maps.
Buenaventure steered the Carfax around the inhospitable north coast of the island, past cliffs and rocky promontories, rounded a barrier reef in the south, and entered the fortified harbor. With its two narrow entrances, it was easy to defend. Unlike New Providence, there was no sandy beach here, but a paved harbor street just beyond the edge of the water. Behind it rose houses with tiled roofs. On each side of the city stretched a wild, rank jungle of mahogany, oaks, ironwood, and bougainvillea.
It was already dusk when the Carfax found a suitable anchorage. They could get away from there swiftly if they needed to make a dash for it. With the onset of darkness, the ghosts were hardly visible as they reefed the sails. Walker had warned beforehand of the sensation the ghostly sailors on the Carfax would cause, but his concern turned out to be baseless: Most ships in the harbor were deserted, and the few watches left on deck had other things on their minds than paying attention to the new arrivals.
The comrades left the ship in the care of the ghosts and went ashore on the gangplank. Jolly looked longingly at the waves that splashed against the harbor wall below them. She battled the urge to run down to the water and leap from wave to wave; it was like a craze that seized her after long sojourns on land or aboard ship. The waves seemed to call her name, the wind pulled at her. Even the smell of the saltwater seemed to her spicy and inviting at such moments. But she withstood the desire. She couldn’t attract any attention now.
When she asked Munk if he felt the same way, he shook his head in amazement. “No,” he said, “not at all.”
On land, they separated. Soledad and Buenaventure wanted to listen for news of the Ghost Trader in the taverns. It seemed almost impossible that he’d reached the island before them, but it couldn’t be completely ruled out—anyway, they’d lost at least a day with the unloading of the pigs.
Jolly, Munk, Griffin, and Walker, meanwhile, sought out the old flag maker of whom the Ghost Trader had spoken. Silverhand was well known on Tortuga; in fact, there was probably hardly any freebooter flag hoisted in the entire Caribbean that hadn’t come from his workshop. He embellished the famed skull not only with crossed bones but, to order, with sabers, pistols, even beer pitchers; another popular motif was skeletons, some armed with sabers, others with wine goblet in hand.
“Welcome,” Silverhand greeted them, shaking Walker’s hand cordially. He regarded Jolly and the two boys with slight suspicion, although Munk’s admiring fascination with the many flags on the wall quickly placated him. “Just look around, boy,” he said in a voice that sounded like the hinges of a rusty treasure chest. “I make two copies of every flag, one for the valued customer, the other for my collection. Every scurvy villain who prowls these waters and orders a Jolly Roger from me is immortalized in this room—almost every one of them finally got themselves strung up by the Spaniards or the French. Some flags vanished forever when their ships went to the bottom; others burned, along with the crew. But they live on in Silverhand’s workshop and recall their captains … and the gold they left behind.”
He let out a snarling laugh. It struck Jolly that his hands were just as bony as the skeletons on his flags. But the most conspicuous features of old Silverhand were his scars. Jolly had already met a number of men who proudly carried the souvenirs of many a battle. Silverhand’s scars, however, were not from saber blows or pistol balls. Walker had told them the old mans story as they’d made their way through the narrow streets: After he’d been at sea for many years, as sailor and as mate, even as cook, he finally landed on the tub of a particularly evil, degenerate freebooter. For some long-forgotten offense, that captain had the slight little sailor keelhauled—one of the most terrible punishments to be imposed aboard a ship. The victim is drawn across the hull beneath the ship on a rope. Any who don’t drown remain marked for life: Depending on the condition of the ship, the rough wood inflicts the most horrible wounds on the poor devil. The tub Silverhand had signed onto was in pitiful condition, the hull covered with mussels. The sharp edges and points cut Silverhand’s skin to ribbons, until it was hanging from his bones like a knitted garment.
Today his body looked as if all the pirates in the Caribbean Sea had sharpened their knives on him. The raised stripes ran every which way; his mouth was crooked in his face, and one eye was missing. His fingers were all that were left whole, so that he could earn his keep with meager pay in a flag makers workshop. Soon he’d taken over the business, and now for more than twenty years he’d provided the corsair ships of the Caribbean with those symbols that instilled fear in law-abiding men.
“What can I do for you?” asked Silverhand, leaning his broken body against a pile of bolts of black fabric. Jolly estimated that he was at least eighty, ancient for this part of the world, where most men died young, on the gallows or in cannon fire.
“Show him the spider,” said Walker to Munk. Munk pulled the little box out of his belt pouch, snapped open the cover, and handed it to the flag maker.
“A vicious beast, I’ll wager,” the old man said after he’d taken a long look at the spider. “So you aren’t here because you’re interested in my flags.”
“I think they’re fantastic,” said Munk sincerely.
Silverhand grinned with his crooked mouth. “You’re a good boy. Tell me, why are you showing me your spider?”
“It’s really—”
“My spider,” Jolly broke in. “I belong to Captain Bannon’s crew. My name is Jolly.”
“Bannon?” Silverhand scratched the back of his bald head, which was just as scarred as every other part of his body. “Bad business, that. I heard the Maddy was sunk. Bad, bad business.”
Jolly told him what had happened.
“Spiders, Well, well.” Silverhand brushed a hand over the upper bolt of fabric as if he’d just discovered it was there. “Beautiful creatures, in my opinion. But dangerous. As deadly as the plague.”
“I wondered if you’d perhaps ever seen one like this in your voyages.”
“Is that why you’ve come? Because I’ve been around more than anyone else?”
Jolly nodded. “That
’s what someone told us, anyway.” She looked around and noted that Walker was listening attentively to her every word as he regarded her with a look of amazement.
Strangely, it was Silverhand who gave her the explanation for it. “You have much of Bannon about you, my child. The way you talk, the determination in your look. How long were you with him?”
“As long as I can remember.”
“Then you must be the little polliwog he caught for himself.”
Again she nodded, although it made her uneasy.
“A lot of fellows were damned envious of him. He was lucky, he was. Polliwogs, those were the most valuable treasure a person could think of. I wasn’t at sea anymore at the time, but everyone was talking about it. Here and in the taverns and aboard ship. Some stopped at nothing to get one for themselves. Murdered to get their hands on the little wights.”
Jolly’s uneasiness grew. She hadn’t forgotten what Munk’s father had intimated: that possibly Bannon hadn’t bought her in the slave market but killed her parents and carried her off.
“The spider,” she said with a trembling voice, pointing to the open box in Silverhand’s bony fingers. “Perhaps you’d take another look at it!”
But the old man’s uninjured eye remained fixed on her, as if all the others had suddenly left the workshop. He measured her with looks, appraised her, burrowed in her thoughts as if in a drawer.
“Silverhand!” It was Walker’s voice that finally broke the spell. “We don’t want to take any more of your time than necessary. Do you know spiders like that or not?”
Reluctantly, the old man took his eye off Jolly and stared into the box again. “Hmm,” he said lingeringly. “It’s certainly a rare specimen. I’d like to wager it comes from the mainland. I’ve never seen one with a pattern like that in the islands, anyway.”
“Are you sure?” Walker asked.
“Not sure. But I’d be pretty surprised to be wrong.” He gave the little box back to Munk, who immediately put it away.