by Kai Meyer
Dreams, Munk thought. Nothing but dumb dreams.
This noon he’d thought he heard cannon fire in the distance, and two or three times there’d been bright flashes on the horizon, shadowed by something that might have been smoke. But now the sun would be setting soon, and there were no further signs of a sea battle.
Just another disappointment—a broad, empty hope that sometime, something unusual would disturb the boredom on this island.
He was just about to pull himself together and run back to the farm when he noticed something. Out where the water was deeper and darker, where the sandy yellow-green of the bay turned into the blue of the ocean, he saw something that ought not to have been there.
Curious, Munk leaped to his feet, A narrow chain of reefs broke through the surface of the sea, a buffer against the breakers, around which lay an ever-present wreath of foam and spray, like a crown of flowers.
Between two of the outermost needles of rock something was floating in the water. It was a little bigger than a man and dark brown. Wet wood, of course. Perhaps part of a wreck. Or, by Morgan’s red beard, a chest!
Munk felt the blood coursing faster through his veins. Excitement seized him. He shoved back a strand of his blond hair, peered searchingly down at the thing in the water, and started moving. He stormed down the narrow path leading from the rock summit and through a banana grove to the beach. He paid no attention to the branches and leaves striking him in the face. Sand got into his sandals and ground painfully into the soles of his feet, but it didn’t hold him back.
In no time he reached the water, where at last he stopped. He looked cautiously around him—not out to sea but landward, where the white sand disappeared into the shadows of the palms, mahogany trees, and tree ferns, a wall of dark green, from which the cries of the parrots wafted over him.
No one to see him. His parents must actually be back at the farm by this time. His mother probably had supper already waiting. If his father were to see what he was going to do, there’d be a terrible row. They’d forbidden him to, at first with pleas, then with threats, and when he’d asked for the hundredth time why they didn’t want him to, they’d only been silent and exchanged dark looks. But how could they expect him to hold to their prohibition—at a moment like this, where great adventure lay no farther than a stone’s throw away?
Munk looked back over his shoulder at the jungle one last time, then placed his left foot on the water. The last time he’d done it had been over a year ago, secretly then, too, just to see if he still was able to at all. But his mother had been right when she said he’d never lose this talent. He was the only person in the world, she and his father thought, who had this power: At least they couldn’t walk on the water themselves, he was certain of that.
He was a polliwog, they’d said. And that there were men who envied him his skill and would harm him if he made it known in public. That was all. No further explanation.
A polliwog, then. The last one in the whole world. Did he believe that? He’d never in his life been off the island, and neither the Ghost Trader nor his parents had ever been able to give him a reassuring answer to his questions.
Munk ran out into the bay. Keeping his balance on the surf was always the most difficult part. There were no waves in the bay—they were breaking outside on the reef—so he made pretty good progress. On the open water he’d probably be knocked down after two or three steps. Perhaps his ability was only good enough to walk on still bays and quiet seas. If it was of any use at all.
The more secure he felt, the faster he went. Not just from high spirits, but because he also wanted to get back onto land as quickly as possible. Heavens, if his father saw him, he’d really be in a lot of trouble.
It didn’t take long to reach the reef. In passing, Munk noted how thick with mussels the reef was. Maybe he could still come back sometime later and loosen a few of them. But now he had something more important to do.
The longish wooden thing was half stuck between the rocks, encircled with bubbling froth. It was a ship’s figurehead, he realized now, and with a little luck he could grab the trident of the wooden Neptune without setting his feet on the treacherous sea foam. Yes, got it! Without too much effort he dragged the figure toward him. He noticed a small opening in the middle of the sea god’s face. Munk suppressed his curiosity. He’d have time enough to examine the thing later, but here in the bay it was too dangerous. He strengthened his grip and dragged the figure landward, until the sand crunched under the wooden back and he had firm ground under his feet again.
Munk fell on his knees and bent over the figure. It was completely clean; nothing had attached to the upper surface. On one side he found a pair of long furrows, which looked like teeth marks. The wood was very light there. The figure couldn’t have been floating in the water long. Was it a part of a wreck from the sea battle at midday?
Munk turned to the opening in the face of the figurehead. Meanwhile, the sun had sunk even lower. It hung between the tips of the jungle trees like a glowing fruit. Deep shadow lay on the plate-sized rectangle in the wood. Munk had to roll the figure to one side slightly to see inside.
“By Morgan’s red beard!” he murmured.
He said it again, and yet again, until finally he found the opening in the back of the figure and lifted the lifeless girl out onto the beach.
She had long, raven black hair and wore wide, brown cotton trousers and a white man’s shirt that she’d pulled in with a belt around her small waist. Four or five gold rings dangled from each ear. On both sides of her nose, precisely between the eyes, were two tiny diamonds, fastened with an invisible pin under her tanned skin.
The girl’s eyelids were closed, but the setting sun refracted on the facets of the two jewels, and it seemed to Munk that she was looking up at him out of sparkling insect eyes.
When Jolly awakened, the world was filled with a golden gleam, yellow-red beams of light fanning down through the cracks in a palm-thatched roof. Dust danced in them like tiny fish.
“Good morning,” said a voice beside her. “Do you understand me—I mean, do you understand my language?”
Jolly turned her head, astonished at how easily and painlessly she did it. With each breath she also seemed to suck in a piece of her past. Even before her eyes fell on the face of the blond boy, the first fragments of her memory returned.
“Where are the others?” slipped out. “And where am—”
“Safe.” The boy’s smile wavered; he tried to cover up his uncertainty. “No one here is going to do anything to you.”
Jolly’s eyes wandered over the room. The furnishings were simple and spare. Her things were lying on a chair beside the open window, neatly folded. Jolly saw her belt uppermost, beside it the dagger.
Too far away to reach it from here. She sat up slowly. If the boy bent any closer toward her, maybe she could grab him by the throat or, better yet, put him out of commission with a blow from the edge of her hand, the way Captain Bannon had taught her.
“You don’t trust me, I can feel that.” He shrugged. “For the most part, that’s all right with me.”
Jolly hesitated. There was something in his smile…. He didn’t look as if he was up to anything. Maybe he was telling the truth.
“Where am I?”
“On one of the outer islands. Eastern Bahamas, in case that means anything to you.”
Then she couldn’t have been floating in the water for long; at most, a few hours. “I have to get back to my crew.”
“There’s no boat on the island.”
She didn’t believe him. No one lived so cut off. But she didn’t need a boat. If she had to, she’d take the risk and walk across the sea on foot. Bannon and the other pirates were her family, she had to—
Suddenly she thought of something. “The spider! It bit me!”
With a nod, the boy indicated a small corked bottle beside the bed. “Mother’s all-purpose weapon. It helps for foot fungus, head itching, toothache, and most insect veno
m. Oh, well, sometimes, anyway. My father swears it keeps hair from falling out. Mum brought it from the mainland when we came here. It’s very valuable, she says, so she only uses it in emergencies.”
Jolly made a face. “It keeps hair from falling out?”
He grinned. “You haven’t seen Dad when he finds hairs in his hairbrush.” He was laughing now. “He uses it once a week, for luck.”
“What’s your name?”
“Munk. And yours?”
“Jolly.”
“Are you … I mean, are you something like a pirate?”
“Yes,” she said, with studied casualness, but really she was tremendously proud of it. “I’m Captain Bannon’s right hand.” That was probably a slight exaggeration, but what would such a farm clod know about these things?
Munk’s eyes gleamed. “The Captain Bannon? The sea devil of the Antilles? The same Bannon who lured Ossorio’s armada into the Gulf of Campeche a few years ago? And who kidnapped the Spanish viceroy’s daughter from Maracaibo?”
Jolly wrinkled her nose. “That witch treated me as if I was her damned maid. But I wasn’t having any of that! I mixed a sleeping potion into her food and then tattooed something on her behind—that shut her up finally.”
‘“Please enter!’ That was you?” Munk’s rapture was nearly boundless. “The whole Caribbean was laughing about that … at least, that’s what the Trader said.” He shook his head in disbelief. “That really was you? You must have been only six or seven then, at the most.”
“Six. Bannon taught me reading and writing when I was just four.” She could tell by looking at him that he still wasn’t sure if he should believe her. But she didn’t care. She was alive, although she’d been bitten by one of the spiders. Didn’t that mean there was still hope for Bannon and the others?
“Listen,” she said excitedly. “My crew … they were all bitten by the spiders. It was a trap. We have to take this medicine back as quickly as possible and—”
He shook his head, and his smile disappeared. “No.”
Her face hardened. “Yes, of course! I don’t care whether it suits you or not.” She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and at the same time snatched up the little bottle of medicine.
Munk didn’t move. “There’s no point in it. You were asleep for three days. The poison kills within one day. Even if you found your people out there, it would be much too late.”
Jolly grew numb.
“I’m sorry. Really.” He stretched out a hand to take the bottle from her, but Jolly was faster. Her left hand shot out, grabbed him by the neck, and flung him backward. With a gasp he tipped backward off his stool, and while he was still trying to grasp what had happened, she was already sitting on him with her knees pressing into his upper arms.
“Stop that,” he blurted in a voice filled with pain. “What’s all this for?”
Her head was spinning, and she wasn’t really sure what she was doing. Bannon was dead? And all the others? Her eyes burned, but she’d rather have collapsed into ashes on the spot than break into tears in front of Munk. If she were honest with herself, her attack only served to distract her, so she’d be doing something. She hated to feel helpless. That was something Bannon had always drilled into her: A pirate never gives up, he always finds a way.
“That hurts!” Munk tried to throw her off, but he couldn’t. “What’s got into you all of a sudden?”
Jolly took a deep breath, then stood up. After a moment’s hesitation, she stretched out a hand to help him up. He struck it away and jumped to his feet on his own.
“That was mean,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, yeah?” He only shook his head and massaged his upper arms. “What kind of a name is that, anyway—Jolly?”
“I was a little girl when Bannon bought me in the slave market in Tortuga. My parents were no longer alive then, and no one knew what my name was. So Bannon gave me this name. Until twenty or thirty years ago, all the pirates here in the Caribbean had red flags, so the French called them jolie rouge, which means “pretty red.” And then the English made “Jolly Roger” out of it, and the black pirate flags are still called that today.”
“Bannon named you after a pirate flag?” Munk grinned halfheartedly. “That’s great. I wish something like that would happen to me.”
“That someone would name you Jolly?”
“Adventure on the high seas. Pirates. Sea battles. Treasure hunts. All of it. Nothing ever happens here on the island.”
She looked at his upper arms. “You’re going to be black and blue … I’m really sorry, honestly.”
“It’s all right. Now I can tell the Ghost Trader I beat a few wild sea robbers into flight and got seriously wounded.”
“What is that, a Ghost Trader?”
He waved her off. “Later. First, I’m going to introduce you to my mother. Dad is on the plantation, but Mum must be outside in the vegetable garden.”
Jolly put the little bottle back on the table beside the bed. Her fingers trembled slightly. “Do you really think they’re all dead?”
“If none of them got the antidote in time,” he said with lowered voice, “they didn’t have a chance.”
Munk’s mother was a rough, good-hearted woman who had no use at all for pirates. Her earlobes were split and she was missing both ring fingers: scars of a freebooter attack to which she and her parents had fallen victim years ago. Captain Tyrone, the leader of the attackers, had been in a hurry to collect all the jewelry, and when the little girl hadn’t taken all her rings off fast enough, Tyrone had taken care of it personally with the help of his blade.
Jolly was anything but happy that Munk broadcast the truth about her so freely. Pirates were most unwelcome guests among the simple island farmers, and that wasn’t just true for the Spaniards, who’d set themselves up as overlords in this part of the Caribbean and tried to annihilate all pirates.
On the other hand, she had herself to blame. She shouldn’t have told Munk anything about Bannon. It would only make it harder for her to get off the island.
For there was no doubt at all in her mind that she must start on the search for Bannon and the others as soon as possible, no matter what Munk said.
Jolly’s thoughts were filled with the images of the events on the Spanish galleon as she followed Munk across the fields of the plantation. His mother had suggested he show her the farm, but Jolly heard nothing of his explanations. Bannon had fallen into a malicious trap, which someone had planned way ahead of time. And if she actually was unable to help him anymore, she would stake everything on finding out who was behind the deed. That was the least she owed him.
Munk, who was ahead of Jolly, had fallen silent. He’d probably noticed that she wasn’t paying any attention. Silently they pushed through the thickets of the rain forest, under tree ferns that were as tall as five men and from whose fronds water was still dripping, even at midday; past wild orchids and the biggest hibiscus Jolly had ever seen. It must be almost noon, and the air here in the jungle was humid and oppressive, quite different from the open sea. Jolly found it hard to breathe.
Only when they reached the coconut palms on the shore did she feel better. The sight of the ocean calmed her.
Munk turned to her and pulled a shallow wooden box out of a leather pouch fastened to his belt.
“Here,” he said, “maybe this is good for something.” He opened the box and turned the opening so that Jolly could look inside.
There lay the body of a dead spider, as big as a baby’s hand.
“I found it in the figurehead. See the marking on its back? I’ve never seen one like this here on the island. If you find out where it comes from, you’ll probably find out who lured you into the trap.”
Jolly looked from the spider to him. “How did you know that I—”
Munk shrugged. “That you were just thinking about it?” He smiled slightly. “I told you I can feel things like that. And—to be honest—it wasn’t really hard to
figure out, the way you were stomping so angrily through the undergrowth just now.”
Jolly had to laugh, in spite of herself. It was clear that Munk was glad to have distracted her, but he quickly grew serious again. “Anyway, it’s the best clue you have.”
“Not a bad start,” said Jolly. “Thanks very much.”
She stretched out her hand for the box, but he snapped its lid shut and quickly shoved it into his little pouch again. Jolly frowned.
“Let me go with you,” he said. “Otherwise, I’m going to die here of boredom someday.”
“It’s not that simple.” She repressed her anger and tried to be diplomatic. Of course she’d never take him with her. She was a pirate and he was only a farmer’s boy. She could walk on the water, he didn’t even have a boat.
“I want to get out onto the sea too,” he said doggedly. “I want to see pirates and explore other islands. I don’t ever want to be a tobacco farmer like my father. I’d rather run away from here.” He’d said that so easily, and now he started, though barely noticeably. “Sail away, I mean.”
Jolly sighed. “Let’s see what happens.” She had to find the right time to take the spider away from him. She didn’t want to attack him again; that wasn’t necessary. Tonight she’d sneak into his room and steal the box.
Munk fastened the pouch to his belt again. “Come on, I’ll show you the fields.”
She wasn’t interested in tobacco farming, but nevertheless she followed him through a strip of jungle, behind whose tangled underbrush a clearing appeared in the sunshine.
“Didn’t you say you and your parents live alone on the island?”
“So?”
“Your father can’t possibly work the fields without help.”
“And he doesn’t.”
“So aren’t there other workers, then?”
Munk grinned broadly. “Oh, well,” he said, laughing, “ghosts have to be good for something, don’t they?”
Mussel Magic
At first the sun so blinded her that she saw only the silhouettes of the tobacco plants in the foreground and behind them a brown-green confusion, as if a painter had let the colors on his palette run together.