Fortune's Flame

by French, Judith E.

  A painted warrior dropped his bow and fled into the trees. Another followed. Suddenly Kutii spun around and pointed his war club at a brave who stood on the far side of the pool. Bess whirled to see that man fall dead in his tracks. The remaining Caribs dropped their weapons and ran. In seconds, Kincaid, Bess, Hah-kobo, and four sailors were the only living creatures in the clearing. Kutii’s specter image flared bright, then faded until the spot where he had stood was empty.

  Hah-kobo spoke in rapid-fire bursts in his own language. He pointed to the place where Kutii had been, and then at the Caribs the ghost had slain; then he moved closer to Bess, touched the center of his forehead, and extended his open, weaponless hand toward her in a graceful but obvious gesture of reverence.

  Kincaid shook his head and turned to Bess, his eyes glazed with shock. “Did ye see—” he began, then broke off and looked back at the empty glade. The sunlight still formed a golden pool, but the Incan was no longer there. “Where in hell did he come from?” Kincaid rasped.

  “Not Hell,” Bess murmured. “I don’t know where he does come from, but I know it’s not Hell.”

  “Ye saw it too?”

  She nodded and went into his arms. He crushed her against him. She could hear the pounding of his heart and feel the tremor of his muscles.

  Kincaid released her and drew the back of his hand across his eyes. “A ghost.”

  She nodded.

  “I saw him before . . .” he said. “In the woods that night. Just after we left Fortune’s Gift.”

  She nodded again and laid a hand on his arm.

  “I must be losing my mind.”

  “If you are, we’re losing it together,” she assured him.

  “Ye saw it.”

  She smiled at him. “I’ve been seeing Kutii all my life.”

  “Kutii?”

  She nodded.

  “A futterin’ ghost.”

  The sailors rushed forward, crowding close around them. “What happened?” a man clutching a bleeding arm asked. Bess recognized him as a troublemaker named Tick Warder.

  “Why did they break off the attack?” another demanded. “Will they be back?”

  A bearded seaman tried to reload his pistol with shaking hands. “There must have been two dozen of ’em! Howlin’ little bastards!”

  “They got the cap’n,” the last man, John Brown, said. “Cut ‘is ’ead clean off.”

  Kincaid glanced at Bess warily. She shrugged.

  “Get us out o’ ‘ere!” Brown urged. “Get us out o’ ‘ere before we all ends up like Cap’n Davis.”

  Kincaid looked at the Cuna guide. “Will they be back?”

  Hah-kobo smiled. “Carib no.” He laid one brown hand on top of the other and separated them in a sharp, sweeping motion that said “Finished” as clearly as words.

  “He saw him,” Kincaid said to Bess.

  “All three of us, did,” she replied, “but they didn’t.”

  “Saw who?” the bearded sailor asked.

  “This is all his fault,” Tick Warder cried, giving Hah-kobo a shove. “If he’d done his job, they wouldn’t’ve—”

  Kincaid seized the man’s good arm and spun him around. “Touch Hah-kobo again and I’ll kill ye myself, ye worthless salt,” he said. “This Cuna’s all that’s kept ye alive so far. He stood by us during the attack, and maybe he’ll lead us safely back to the Scarlet Tanager so long as ye don’t make him mad.”

  Bess went. to the nearest fallen man to see if he was still breathing. He was dead, his eyes open and staring. She rolled him onto his back and closed his eyelids. She found Davis’s headless body at the edge of the clearing, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch it. It was the Cuna who retrieved the captain’s head and replaced it on his severed neck.

  They gathered the English dead and laid them in a row and covered them with giant ferns. The Caribs they left as they lay. When Bess and Kincaid had finished the onerous task, they washed the blood from their hands in the pool.

  The Scot’s face still bore the traces of shock. His lips were pale, his features tightly drawn. “What happened here?” he whispered to Bess.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “We saw a ghost.”

  “You could call him that.”

  “What is all this about ye being from the stars?”

  She shrugged. “Kutii’s an Indian. I don’t know, and he won’t tell me.”

  “Ye talk to this thing?” Kincaid’s burr thickened.

  “He was a dear friend of my grandparents. He’s buried in the family plot at Fortune’s Gift. He’s not a thing; he’s a man.”

  “Nay. No man, but a spirit. Either that, or the lizard we ate had been samplin’ funny mushrooms.”

  “I didn’t eat any lizard, Kincaid,” she whispered urgently. “Kutii is real. At least, I see him and hear him as though he’s real. He fancies himself my protector.”

  Kincaid arched a heavy eyebrow. “And was this protector of yours with us when I thought the two of us were alone and . . . .” He searched for a word. “Intimate?”

  “No. It isn’t like that. I have to ask him to come—at least, I think I do. He never comes . . .” She sighed. “How can I explain it to you? I told you I was a witch, but you didn’t believe me.”

  “What I want to know is how a ghost can slay a man. I’ve heard of plenty of spirits, but I—”

  “The Caribs saw him too,” Bess said. “I don’t know how they died, but I’ll wager they died of fright. ”

  Kincaid splashed water on his face. “What of the treasure, Bess? Can ye find it, or shall we turn back while we still can?”

  She paused, kneeling by the bank of the pool, her hands in the water. As Kincaid asked the question, she had the strangest sensation of falling. She swayed and he caught her.

  “Bess, are ye all right? Ye weren’t struck by a poison arrow, were ye?”

  “No . . . no.” Her chest felt tight. She closed her eyes and saw a vision of brown mud. And in the mud, a single gleaming bowl rested. “The pool,” she cried. “It’s here, in the pool.” She pointed down into the black water. “Here, Kincaid, at the bottom of the pool. Grandfather didn’t bury the treasure. He sank it. Right here, by the waterfall. No wonder he was certain he could find it again! It was right here, all the time.”

  Chapter 20

  The waiting was unbearable as Bess watched the surface of the pool for Kincaid to come up. Her hands were clenched so tightly that her nails cut into her palms; her knees were shaking, and sensations of numbness had spread to her hands and feet.

  Surely, he’d been down for more than a minute. How long could he possibly hold his breath? she wondered for the third time.

  They had no idea how deep the pool was—or, if the treasure was there, if it could be recovered. Kincaid had insisted on diving down himself to explore the bottom. He’d insisted he was a good swimmer, but what if the water contained poison snakes or alligators? What if the pool was bottomless? What if he went down and never came up?

  Unable to stand the strain of waiting any longer, Bess began to strip off her shoes and stockings. But as she prepared to dive in after him, Kincaid’s blond head broke the surface.

  He gasped for air, blinked to clear the water from his eyes, and gave her a slow, satisfied grin. Then he raised one hand over his head in triumph. In that hand he clutched a golden disk inlaid with crescent moons of beaten silver.

  “It’s there!” she cried.

  “Aye, lassie.” He laughed. “Twenty feet down, in mud as thick and black as hell’s ashes!” He tossed her the shimmering object. It spun through the air like a golden bird and she caught it with both hands.

  Instantly, the sailors crowded close around, each man stretching out his hands to touch and heft the weight of the Incan nose plate. “Here, there! Let me see!” Tick Warder insisted. He snatched the massive piece of jewelry from the man called Long Tom and tested the gold with his teeth.

  “Is it real?” Brown asked.

  “Re
al as the nose on your face,” Warder replied. He stared gape-mouthed at the golden disk as though he expected it to vanish at any second. Bess ignored the seamen. Her eyes were on Kincaid as he took another deep breath and dove down again. This time the seconds passed like minutes instead of hours, and when he resurfaced, he brought up a hammered gold vessel in the shape of a llama’s head and a crumpled golden glove covered with strange designs. Three more dives brought a mace head of silver, a life-size ear of corn with gold-and-silver kernels and a silver husk, a single golden earring the size of Bess’s hand, a silver figurine in the form of a man with shell eyes and jeweled sandals, and a reed boat five inches long and worked in exquisite detail down to the last knot, carved of solid gold.

  The sight of so much gold turned the seamen to raving fools. They danced and shouted and laughed as though they were drunk. Each man clutched a portion of the treasure as he cavorted and rambled on, repeating to whoever would listen just what he would do with his share when he got back to English territory.

  Bess was strangely unaffected by the discovery. The treasure they’d come so far to find suddenly seemed unimportant. Her overwhelming concern was Kincaid’s safety as he continued to plunge down into the swirling black water.

  “I’ll take a turn,” she offered. “You’re tired. I can swim.”

  “Nay.” Kincaid wiped the water from his face and rested against the bank between dives. “The bottom is treacherous. It’s a tangle of logs and grass. The chests that held the treasure are long gone, if it ever rested in chests at all. It’s no place down there for a woman.”

  “No place for you either,” she said, gripping his hand tightly. “We’ve enough already. Quit before something happens to you.” She couldn’t keep the quaver from her voice. “You’ve brought up a fortune already. There’s no need to be greedy.”

  Kincaid’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “The men must have their share, not just these with us, but Rudy and the others who remained on the Tanager. It costs money to maintain a ship and a crew. We need enough to get us back to Maryland, and then enough to assure us both security once we get there. I’ll bring up what I can, woman. For we’ll not pass this way again.”

  “The Caribs could come back,” she reasoned. “Let’s take what we have and go.”

  His only answer was to dive again and yet again, until darkness fell over the glade. Bess knelt by the bank, heedless of the growing pile of priceless artifacts, while tears slipped down her cheeks. So intent was she on Kincaid’s condition that she didn’t notice when the men’s mood shifted from joyful to sinister.

  Tick Warder, John Brown, Long Tom, and Murray—the fourth sailor—gathered in a knot on the far side of the clearing while Hah-kobo busied himself with making a fire. The Cuna guide had shown little curiosity about the treasure. Instead, he’d spent most of the afternoon constructing a crude shelter of branches and interwoven ferns and palm leaves. Hah-kobo’s back was to the sailors as he crouched by the fire pit and blew patiently on the glowing tinder.

  Kincaid heaved himself up on the mossy bank as rain began to fall yet again. “All right,” he said wearily to Bess. “That’s the last of it. If there’s more gold down there, ’twould take the devil himself to dig it out of that mud.”

  She threw her arms around him and pulled his head close to her breast. It was impossible to miss the exhaustion in his low burr. “There was no need to go down so many times,” she murmured, running her hands through his wet hair. “Senseless.”

  Rain spattered against their bare skin, but Bess continued to hold him tightly until she was as soaked as he was. “Hah-kobo’s going to cook something he shot,” she said. “I saw it, but I don’t know what it is. I guess—”

  Without warning, Kincaid shoved her down and threw his body over her. A flintlock roared and a man cried out. Bess looked up to see Tick Warder staggering across the clearing toward the fire, a fired flintlock in his hand and a tiny feathered shaft protruding from his neck. “What?” she gasped. Her insides twisted and she felt a sensation of the earth falling away beneath her. “Caribs,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Nay,” Kincaid said. “Stay down.” He was already rising and crawling toward the place where his pistol lay on top of his shirt and boots.

  Bess stared as Warder fell to his knees, then sprawled forward on the deep moss and lay still. She glanced at Hah-kobo, but the Cuna hadn’t moved. He was watching the remaining sailors as they grabbed what they could carry of the gold and dashed into the forest. When they were gone, he got up and came over to Bess and Kincaid with his hands open to show that he held no weapons.

  Kincaid grabbed his pistol and checked the priming, but Hah-kobo shook his head and made a “finished” motion with his hands. He moved in front of the Scot and pushed the barrel of the gun toward the ground.

  Bess glanced warily around the clearing. Nothing moved. The only sounds were those of a cicada trilling shrilly and the hushed patter of rain against the forest floor. “I trust him,” she said. “Whoever killed Warder, I don’t think he’ll hurt us.”

  Hah-kobo smiled. He cupped his hands to his mouth and uttered a bird call. Seconds later, Che stepped out of the green wall of ferns into the clearing.

  “No shoot Che,” Che said loudly. In his hands he carried a blowgun and a handful of miniature arrows. “Englesh bad,” he said. “Englesh want kill yellow hair. Che stop.”

  Bess swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a wan smile. “Thank you, Che.” She looked up at Kincaid. “Why?” she demanded. “Why would they want to kill us? We were going to give them a share of the gold.”

  “They wanted it all,” Kincaid answered.

  “Englesh no kill Star Woman,” Che said. “Che hear Englesh—this fellow . . .” He pointed to the . body of Tick Warder. “This fellow say kill yellow hair. Take woman. Take gold.”

  “They wanted you as well, Bess,” Kincaid said. His face hardened in the flickering firelight. “And now the jungle will take them. They’ll not get far without Hah-kobo to guide them. They’ll die of thirst or snake bite, or maybe the Caribs will find them first.”

  “Che watch all time,” the little Cuna said, coming to stand beside Hah-kobo. “Carib come, Che watch. Che kill.” He held up two fingers. “Carib bad. Englesh ship fellow bad. Star Woman no bad. Yellow hair no bad. Friend Cuna. Yes?”

  “Friend Cuna, yes.” Kincaid extended both hands to the Indian. Che shook them vigorously, then leaned forward and hugged Kincaid.

  “Could we get in out of the rain, do you think?” Bess asked. She was all too aware of the dead man lying not ten feet away and of the fortune in gold scattered across the clearing, but she was nearing the breaking point. She had witnessed so much since daybreak that she just wanted to curl up in Kincaid’s arms out of the wet and not have to think. Her head was pounding, and her skin felt hot and goosebumpy all at the same time. “Please?”

  Kincaid put his arm around her and led her into the relative shelter of the open-sided hut. “Take off your clothes,” he said. “You’ll catch a fever if you stay in those wet things.”

  Bess’s eyes widened. “Here? In front of all of you?”

  “I’ve seen you without a stick on more than once, and I doubt you’ll shock Che and Hah-kobo. Out of them, I say.”

  “In a pig’s eye!” she cried. “I’ll dry off by the fire, but I’ll be damned if I’ll strip stark for a gaggle of wild men.”

  He chuckled. “Ye put me in that lot, do ye, Bess?”

  “First in line,” she flung back at him. “Crowned king of barbarians and lunatic savages. ”

  “But ye love me all the same,” he teased.

  “Aye,” she answered softly. “God help me, but I do.”

  Later, after Bess and Kincaid and the two Cuna had shared a meal of grilled sloth and wild plums, Che and Hah-kobo slipped out into the rainy night. Kincaid stretched out beside the fire, and Bess curled up in the shadow of his arms. “Why did they go?” she asked sleepily.

 
Kincaid chuckled. “I don’t think they feel too comfortable so close to a witch. I think Che’s afraid that you’ll turn him into a frog.”

  He was weary unto death, and his eyelids felt as if they were packed with sand, but he knew he couldn’t sleep. He trusted the Cuna, but only so far. In the end, Bess’s safety depended on him.

  What had happened here in the clearing was almost too much to accept. The gold was real enough, but before, when the headhunters had attacked them and the ghost. . . He’d gone over and over it in his mind, trying to make some sense of it. He didn’t believe in spirits, or witches, or water sprites. There was no way he could believe this woman in his arms was anything but flesh and blood. But there was no way he could dismiss what he’d seen with his own eyes either. A ghost. An Indian ghost had appeared in a bolt of lightning and slain two of the Caribs by pointing his war club at them. It was crazy, and thinking about it could make a man crazy.

  Bess lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles one by one with caresses as soft as thistledown, causing ripples of excitement to run along his spine. “Am I a witch? Truly?” she asked him.

  He stared down into her pale face. In her prone position, her eyes were in shadow, but he felt the heat of her azure gaze and his throat tightened. “Ye have the sight, that’s certain,” he admitted. “And there’s many would name ye witch, but I see no evil in ye, lass. Your soul is as lovin’ and pure as mine is black.”

  He felt her flinch. “Don’t say that about yourself,” she said. “You’re a good man.”

  His gut wrenched. “I’ve spent a lifetime killin’ men, some a hell of a lot better than me.” Robbie Munro’s homely grin rose in his mind’s eye. “I’m bound for Hell, and I’ve none to blame but my own actions.”

  “Soldiers fight.”

  “I killed my best friend over a whore.”

  “Yes, and you can’t change it. But that’s in the past. It doesn’t mean you don’t deserve some happiness. You can build a new life with me.”