Jim Morgan and the King of Thieves

by James Matlack Raney

  Jim looked passed the King to Lacey. He could tell she was trying to be brave, and he knew she was, but that prat, Wyzcark, held her tight, letting his crooked little blade gleam in the moonlight. Then Jim looked at Red and the Dragons, smirking at him, beside themselves with joy at Jim’s predicament. Finally he faced the King again, smugly tapping his foot, waiting for Jim to give him the only answer left to give.

  “All right,” Jim said, swallowing hard. “I’ll get it for you. But you have to promise to do what you said.”

  “Oh, Jim.” The king looked hurt. “I swear it on my honor.” But Jim didn’t miss that thief’s twinkle in his eyes.

  Jim turned toward the building, which had a very plain door right in the middle of its very plain wall. He glanced back over his shoulder but once more at Lacey, still struggling in Wyzcark’s grasp. Then, as quickly as possible, before his courage abandoned him, Jim rushed toward the door, grabbed the handle, and stepped inside.

  TWENTY–NINE

  im half-expected a booby trap just inside the door. He closed his eyes tight, bracing for spikes to shoot up from the ground, or a cannon ball to drop on his head, but only silence and the cold night air greeted him on the other side of the door. As the door creaked shut behind him, Jim slowly opened his eyes, beholding the last sight he expected in a Pirate Vault of Treasures; a tree, standing in the center of a large open courtyard. This was no dried-up trunk with dead branches frozen in icicles, as were all the other trees in the English countryside just now, but this one rather thrived, pink and white blossoms bursting from every tip of every branch, as healthy and alive as if it were the middle of spring.

  “That same look crossed my face when I saw this tree for the first time,” a voice said, accompanied by the flapping of wings. Cornelius the raven landed in the courtyard not far from Jim, black eyes also fixed upon the tree.

  “You!” Jim put his hands on his hips. “I guess I should thank you for nothing so far. Fat lot of good you’ve done me and Lacey!”

  “I told you, boy,” the raven squawked defensively. “I’ve overstepped my bounds once already. If you knew the story of my life you would understand why I hesitate to do so again, which is what I’m about to do.”

  “How?” Jim asked, skeptically folding his arms over his chest.

  “By telling you what you’re about to get into, and by bloody well going in myself!” The black bird fluttered up onto Jim’s shoulder and pecked him once, solidly on the forehead.

  “Ouch!” Jim cried. “What in blazes was that for?”

  “For being a presumptuous brat when someone is trying to help you! Now, look at that tree. See anything funny about it?”

  “Besides the fact that it’s blooming in the middle of bloody winter?”

  “This is a magic tree, Jim,” Cornelius continued, ignoring Jim’s sarcasm. “It blew here as a seed from over the ocean, all the way from a distant shore over a thousand years ago. As the seed grew into a tree, it longed for the ocean shores that once were its home.”

  One day, a sailor, a true buccaneer who loved nothing more than the freedom of the ocean, was being chased across the land by a wicked king from whom he’d stolen a great treasure. When the pirate could run no more, he came to rest at the trunk of this tree, deciding it better to face his fate and wait for the king to catch him and seal his doom. But the tree smelled the salt on the man’s skin and the ocean wind in his hair, and it opened up the ground at the base of its roots, giving the pirate a place to hide. From that day forward, all free men of the sea have used this place to hide their greatest treasures.”

  “That’s a nice story, Cornelius, but what does that have to do with me staying alive long enough to get the Amulet?”

  “Everything! You see this is a magical place, Jim – a living place; the tree’s magic courses through every brick in this building. I heard the supposed King of Thieves’ story, but he was only half right when he said that pirates would give their treasure to anyone with the skill. The skill is important, but this place is like any other living thing. It weighs the intentions of those who seek their way inside, and if the intentions are right, if the soul is sweet enough, it may even help you find your way.”

  “Help me?” Jim said. “So it will let me take the amulet?”

  The bird pecked him on the forehead again.

  “Ouch!”

  “Are you dense?” the raven asked. “I said that was only half of it - the skill is still part of the game. The vault has many rooms that hold many treasures. But the tree will guide the hunter to the room he seeks through obstacles that will test only that seeker. Understand?”

  “I think so,” Jim said, rubbing the sore spot on his head. “But will you help me, Cornelius?”

  “To pass the first two, yes. As best I can,” the bird nodded. “But past the third, you must go on alone, Jim Morgan. Now, are you ready?”

  Jim’s stomach somersaulted in his gut, but somehow he managed a nod. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “All right then, my boy.” Cornelius pointed his beak toward a doorway beneath an arch at the far end of the courtyard. “There’s only one way left to go, and that is onward.” Jim nodded grimly, stepping forward and passing beneath the branches of the unnatural tree. Winter snow crunched beneath his feet, and blossoms of spring dangled above his head, like some half-forgotten dream. As Jim neared the door, an ancient inscription carved across the rugged green panels appeared in the soft moonlight.

  Beware all ye who enter here, dangerous magic lies within.

  Jim swallowed hard, drawing in a slow breath of icy air, knowing in his heart that to save his friends there was no other way but forward.

  “In we go,” Cornelius said quietly. “And Godspeed to us both.”

  The green wooden door creaked open with Jim’s lightest touch and he stepped through into the dark room beyond.

  Moonbeams through iron-barred windows crisscrossed the large hall that stretched open before Jim, and a rather foul smell of something old and rotten stung his nose.

  “Ugh!” Jim pulled one end of his scarf over his nose, but it being as threadbare as the rest of his outfit, the putrid stink burned right through regardless. “What died in here?”

  “I’d put an eight piece on it being those chaps up there,” Cornelius said. Jim followed the raven’s upward gaze. Whole skeletons of long-gone intruders hung like awful Halloween decorations from wicked, long spikes pointing down from the ceiling.

  “Gads, Cornelius!” Jim cried. “How’d they get up there?”

  “Let’s hope we don’t find out,” Cornelius replied, ruffling his feathers with what may have been a shiver of fear. “Look ahead and I think we’ll get an idea of what we’re up against, my boy.”

  Sure enough, at the end of the hall stood a long table, keys of every shape and size lining it from end to end. Some were made of gold and silver, others of rock or wood, and even some - Jim gulped when he saw them - out of old, white bones. Beyond the table stood a lone door, carved of red-stained oak, built into the cobweb-draped brick wall, a large bronze handle with a deep, black keyhole leering out from beneath the thick webs and dust.

  Jim stepped cautiously around the table and approached the door. In the blue light of the moon, he made out ancient, carved letters in the face of the door. Jim swallowed hard as he read the old words aloud.

  Open the door, Use the key,

  escape thy death with guesses three.

  “Well, that’s plain enough,” Cornelius cawed.

  “Very plain,” Jim quailed. “Pick the right key in three guesses or end up a set of bones up on the ceiling there. And oh right, you only have to pick from about ten thousand keys! Very plain indeed… plainly impossible!”

  “Stop that immediately!” Cornelius snapped, pecking Jim fiercely on the side of the head. “Your father was one of the bravest men to ever sail the seas, and I doubt he’d look too kindly on his son knocking his knees together like this, even in the face of death!”

&nb
sp; “I’m not my father!” Jim cried, his nose and throat suddenly stinging fiercely. “And I don’t think he’d be surprised that I was afraid. He didn’t think too much of me, Cornelius.”

  “Jim,” Cornelius said softly this time, and instead of pecking Jim again, he patted him on the head with an outstretched wing. “I know that’s not true. For reasons you may not realize, I know that’s not true. And yes, I also know that you’re not your father. But you’re his son, and you’ve come a long way all on your own. Look at everything you’ve managed thus far! Do you know what fear is, boy? Fear is dwelling upon all the misfortunes in the world that may happen upon you. But courage is knowing in your heart all the wonderful deeds you will happen upon the world!”

  Jim took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders a bit. “All the deeds I will happen upon the world,” he said to himself as much as to the raven.

  “That’s right, lad. Your father happened quite a bit on this old earth, and something tells me you’ve got it in you to happen more than a little yourself. Now, there must be some clue amongst the keys to tell us which one it is. So let’s get to it!”

  “All right then,” Jim said, shaking his hands and arms loose of any clammy fear, and scanning the table full of keys. “Well, we get three guesses, so I think we should try the most obvious first. This is the Vault of Treasures for pirates. Bones are a symbol of pirates. So let’s try this one.”

  He reached out and grabbed the most frightening of all the keys on the table: the full skeletal remains of a hand, the pointer finger carved into a key. Jim almost laughed when he thought of the jokes Paul would make with this little beauty, most likely using it to pick Peter’s nose, no doubt, but the thought of his friends in the hold of the pirate ship reminded Jim of why he was here, and of what he had to do.

  “A good guess, I’d say,” Cornelius nodded. “Give it a turn.”

  Jim moved to the door, inserted the skeleton hand key, and twisted it hard to the right. A loud crack reverberated through the hall, and with a wall-trembling rumble, the ceiling above fell, the skeleton-littered spikes diving toward Jim and Cornelius, crunching to a halt only a few feet above their heads.

  “No!” Jim cried out. He covered his head as though his thin arms might shield him from the iron spikes, but the ceiling once more held in place, this time close enough for Jim to look into the empty eyes of the skulls that hung there. “Well, that wasn’t such a good guess.” His breath came in sharp gasps, and his heart slammed within his chest.

  “Apparently not,” Cornelius agreed. “And that answers the question of how those poor blokes wound up on the ceiling.”

  “Right, the ceiling came down to them. Let’s try again,” Jim said, tossing the skeleton-hand key aside with disgust. “What do you think we should try?”

  “Well,” Cornelius said, studying the table of keys. “While skull and cross bones are indeed the symbol of pirates, this particular place has another symbol.”

  “The tree! Of course, Cornelius!” Jim cried happily. “How could I be so stupid? I bet the key to this door was made from some of the tree’s own wood. And look!” Jim pointed to an elegantly carved wooden key, a red and white blossom sprouting from the end.

  “Yes!” Cornelius flapped his wings in excitement. “This must be it! Turn it, turn it, and let’s move on!”

  Jim rushed with the key, slamming it into the keyhole and jerking it hard over. Another booming crack split the silence of the hall of keys, but the door remained locked, and the spiked ceiling careened toward the floor once again. Jim ducked, cowering low with his hands over his head, and even Cornelius looked away in terror, but once again the ceiling came to a skidding stop, just short of crushing them to death. When Jim stood back up, the sharp points of the spines were close enough to prick his finger upon their lethal tips.

  “Wrong again!” Jim threw the beautiful wooden key against the wall in anger. “Now we only have one guess left, and I have no idea what to pick!”

  “I’ll tell you this, boy,” Cornelius said darkly. “Some wicked pirate must have had a hand in dreaming up this trap. Two wicked hands actually, which cuts out quite a few candidates I had in mind if you ask me. Since we’re about to die I might as well tell you the story of Two Hook Henry. Now there was an unfortunate chap if I ever met one.”

  Jim ignored the poor bird, who was doing his best to keep their spirits up on the verge of disaster, and instead, morosely traced the unhappy events that had led him to this tragic end. But when he returned to the memory of standing in his father’s study, the dastardly Count Cromier gloating over his wicked deeds, he suddenly drew in a sharp breath. “Two hands,” he said.

  “Yes,” Cornelius said drolly. “Both of them, within two seconds of each other - never seen anything like it, unless you count the time that Blind Jake lost both his eyes in a knife-throwing contest —”

  “No, Cornelius!” Jim shouted. “A man’s heart and a man’s mind and man’s own two hands are the only keys he’ll need to any door in any lands,” Jim quoted the stanza the count had read from his father’s picture frame.

  “What’s that?” Cornelius said. “Quoting old pirate texts? I was trying to keep things light at a time like this, but if you insist on being religious about the whole thing I know some lovely psalms about dying—”

  “No Cornelius, don’t you get it?” Jim said. “That’s the riddle! You said this place knows who you are and tests you. The count read that old pirate saying in my father’s study, and then Dread Steele said almost the same thing to the Ratts. Pirates believe that they have the keys to anywhere in themselves, in their own minds and hands. I think the answer is no key at all - just opening the door with my own hand!”

  Without waiting for Cornelius to respond, Jim dashed over to the door and grabbed the handle.

  “Oh, dear!” Cornelius crowed. “Are you sure? Are you truly sure?”

  “Know in my heart what I can happen upon the world, Cornelius,” Jim said, and, closing his eyes tight, and breathing one last breath, he turned the handle of the door. Another loud crack snapped the silence and Cornelius squawked loudly. But this was the cracking of the old door, and it swung out before Jim with a tired creak.

  “Aha!” Cornelius flapped his wings and crowed like a rooster. “Brilliant, my boy! I knew you had it in you!”

  “Thank you, Cornelius,” Jim said, blushing for a moment at the praise and feeling deeply grateful to have a friend at his side, or on this case, upon his shoulder. But there was little time for congratulations, for the door was opened, and the second room of the vault waited on the other side.

  THIRTY

  f it were possible, the next room was even drearier and darker than the Hall of Keys, cold stone blocks jaggedly set in the ceilings and the walls, pitch-black mortar crawling between the cracks. But it was what lined the center of the room that concerned Jim the most, three rows of bronze pillars, standing like limbless trees in a metal forest. More skeletons, draped in shreds of ruined clothing, the scraps clinging to the white bones, lay gathered in sad little clusters around the bases of each pillar like tired workers who sat down for naps, never to rise again.

  “Well,” Jim gulped, aghast at the morbid scene. “At least there aren’t any spikes on the ceiling.”

  “I suppose that’s a silver lining,” Cornelius agreed as he flapped down beside one of the long-dead raiders of the vault. “So I wonder what got these poor fellows.”

  “It looks like they just sat down and died,” Jim said, turning his attention to the tall bronze spires that lined the room. “And what about these? Some are taller than others, and thicker, but they’re just stuck in the ground like flag poles or something.”

  “A clue, I’m sure there’s a clue,” the raven cawed, flying back up to perch on Jim’s shoulder. “Let’s find the door.”

  They wandered through the orchard of bronze poles for a few moments before finally reaching the red door on the other side. On both the right and the left of the door i
mmensely heavy anchors of bronze hung by rusty chains from holes in the ceiling, balanced upon their points atop narrow, stone perches.

  “Strange,” Cornelius murmured in Jim’s ear. “No apparent danger, large spires all over the place, a counterbalance by the door, a whole slew of dead men telling no tales…I’m not so sure I like this room.”

  “I don’t like any of this,” Jim said, studying the door. As with the door in the Hall of Keys, this one, too was marked with carved letters of a riddle.

  Feet flat, eyes sharp,

  No flags on the poles, no halves, only wholes,

  Solve the clue in guesses two.

  “What does it mean, Cornelius?” Jim asked.

  “You’re asking me?” the raven said, ruffling his feathers indignantly. “These are supposed to test you! What do you think it means?”

  “Well,” Jim said nervously, for this riddle seemed far more difficult than the last. “I mean, I guess there’s a key for the door, and it has something to do with the poles with no flags.”

  Cornelius stared at Jim. Jim stared back at Cornelius. “Well, that’s just brilliant,” the raven said.

  “All right then,” Jim said, more than a little affronted. “Let’s hear your idea, Mr. Genius!”

  “Well, for starters, I don’t think the key is a traditional one like the last time.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Firstly,” Cornelius folded up his wings as though he was putting hands on his hips. “We already had a clue with keys like that and I doubt the maze would repeat itself. And second — this door doesn’t have a keyhole.”