Isle of Fire

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “Him b’ long gone,” said Stede from the open door.

  “I had a feeling,” said Ross.

  Stede looked at the pouch of jewels. “How many did that rascal keep?”

  “Near as I can tell . . . he didn’t keep any.”

  Stede thought about that a moment. “Him b’ one outrageous mon.”

  “He’s a good man . . . at heart,” said Ross. “But I don’t look forward to the next time we meet.”

  “This b’ what we signed up for, mon. Some of them will not b’ seeing things our way, ya know.”

  “Still . . . I wish he—ah, never mind.”

  “Where to now?”

  “Saba,” said Ross. “Let’s go get Cat.”

  3

  THE CITADEL

  Father Brun rushed in with a bundle under his arm. He started to speak, but then saw the shattered mirror and Cat’s bloody hand. He quickly placed the bundle on the table near the window and helped Cat to his feet. Father Brun led Cat to sit on the corner of the cot, removed a clean piece of linen from a drawer, and pressed it gently into Cat’s palm. The monk said nothing but sat beside Cat and waited.

  Cat looked away. But at last, in a quiet, gravelly voice, Cat said, “I am just like him.”

  Father Brun placed a reassuring hand on Cat’s shoulder. “If by that you mean you are like your father,” said the monk, “then you are grievously mistaken.”

  “Have you ever seen him?” Cat exclaimed.

  Father Brun nodded. “Yes, but it was a long time ago.”

  “Then you know,” said Cat bitterly. “My eyes, my jaw, everything—it’s just the same. Every time I see myself . . . I see him.”

  Father Brun tilted his head thoughtfully. “I see someone quite different. Your eyes, your mouth—none of those things make who you are. And I am quite certain that you are nothing like Bartholomew Thorne.”

  “You saw what I did!” Cat’s face twisted with anguish. “You saw that rage. I would have killed Dmitri . . . if you hadn’t stepped in.”

  “I doubt that,” said Father Brun. “I’ve seen men stronger than you break a staff over Dmitri’s head without doing him much harm.”

  Cat laughed in spite of himself but quickly looked away. “But, Father Brun,” he said, “I’ve had memories come back. I’ve seen him go from perfect calm to a murderous rage in an instant—just like me.”

  “He’s done unspeakable horrors,” said Father Brun. “But you would never go that far.”

  “How do you know?” pleaded Cat. “There’s still so much of my past missing. So much I don’t remember. What if I really am just like him?”

  Father Brun stood, and his voice had an edge to it when he spoke again. “Cat, do you really believe that this has already been decided for you?”

  Cat looked at him and blinked. “I . . . I don’t—”

  “The way you are talking,” Father Brun interrupted, “leads me to believe you think that who you are is a fixed thing, a doom that cannot be avoided.”

  Cat’s mouth opened and closed, but he said nothing.

  “See to it that you banish that thought from your mind,” Father Brun continued, his voice sharpening as he spoke. “For it is a lie from the pit of hell! Now, I am very sorry for what you’ve been through, and you no doubt will bear scars from those unfortunate days in your mind as well as the scars on your back. But you, Cat, YOU are responsible for what you do with the time that is to come. Do you understand? There is nothing in your past that guarantees who you will become. Have you forgotten the lives you saved on the Isle of Swords? Have you forgotten the miraculous path that led you here? If you must consider the past, then think on those things. I for one am convinced that the Almighty has great plans for you.”

  Father Brun walked to the chamber door. “You know . . . the Holy Scriptures say, ‘Old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new!’ Your past may indeed have a strong hold on your life, Cat, but the Almighty is stronger still. When dark thoughts come again, think on that instead.” Father Brun paused to let his words sink in and then said, “I will return soon. It is time for you to learn why I have brought you to the Citadel.”

  Cat didn’t know when Father Brun would be back, but he needed to get out of his chamber, breathe the fresh sea air, and clear his mind. He found himself wandering over the lush green hills outside of the Citadel. The entire island of Saba in the Caribbean was a long-dormant volcano, now green with trees and foliage and surrounded by smaller stony mounds and wavelike terrain. But through years of toil, the monks had flattened out several plateaus and converted them for their purposes. Cat followed a wide and winding path. Men in simple brown robes moved to and fro like worker bees in a hive. Some tended to mango or other fruit-bearing trees. Others tirelessly hoed long rows in the soil. But all who saw Cat stopped their work, smiled, and nodded slightly as he walked by.

  Even after a week, it was still unnerving. The first day on Saba, Cat had asked Father Brun, “Why do they keep doing that?”

  Father Brun had laughed quietly. “Word of your deeds has spread far and wide, even reaching little Saba. The monks show their gratitude to the one who delivered the Nails of Christ. All five hundred members of the Brethren who dwell here—and the hundreds more abroad—have been praying for you every day since your return.”

  Cat stopped on the crest of a green hill and looked back on the Citadel of the Brethren. Cat marveled at it still. For all its orchards bursting with flowering trees, its dizzying rows of lush crops, and its serene pastures, its other name—the Monasterio de Michael Arcángel—seemed to fit it best for it looked more like a fortress than an abode for monks. It was nestled in a mountainous crescent at the base of the volcano. The hills and rocks formed a natural defensive barrier, protecting the monastery on three sides. The structure’s façade, which was all that was visible from Cat’s vantage, stood tall with seven parapeted towers, implacable, curving, crenelated walls, and a high iron gate that looked to Cat as if it could withstand a dozen barrels of Jacques St. Pierre’s black powder.

  Cat wondered how these men of God could be so peaceful and, at the same time, be such formidable warriors. And he wondered what they could possibly want with him.

  A bell tolled from the Citadel tower, snapping Cat back to awareness. Cat wondered how long he’d been standing there. The sun looked markedly lower in the sky. Cat rushed back to his chamber.

  There he found Father Brun standing at the window. Cat began to apologize, but Father Brun turned and shook his head dismissively. In his hands, he held a large leather-bound book. He held it out for Cat.

  “This”—Cat said, taking the volume from the monk—“this is the book I brought back from the Isle of Swords.”

  “Yes,” replied Father Brun. “But what you did not know is that, aside from the Nails of Christ, no other treasure from that place is of more worth to the Brethren than this book. You see, this volume chronicles the pilgrimages of those blessed members of the Brethren who traveled to the Isle of Swords and looked upon the nails. There is great wisdom in such moments, and I think God speaks to us today through the writing within these pages. It is . . . precious to us.”

  Cat looked up questioningly.

  Father Brun nodded. “You are wondering why I spirited you away from the crew of the Robert Bruce and brought you all the way to Saba only to see this book. How could I not? For in the final written pages of the volume you will find something that belongs to you, perhaps . . . something that will help you. Your memory has still not fully returned?”

  Cat shook his head. “Only some visions, bits and pieces, but always as if I am watching the life of another.”

  Father Brun smiled sadly. “Read, Cat, . . . and may God deliver your memory or if not that, wisdom to live this life without pity for the missing years.”

  Cat stared at the book. With a combination of raw anticipation and fear, he opened it and began turning pages toward the end. So many amazing tales of men who had been transformed by
an encounter with the nails that held their savior to a cruel Roman cross—in many ways it was inspiring to Cat. Of course, he couldn’t read it all because most of it was in Latin or Spanish. He began to wonder what Father Brun had been talking about. There seemed to be nothing that concerned him directly.

  Then Cat turned the page. He froze. Most of the entries in the journal had been written in large flowing script. What he saw written on this next page was actually quite ordinary and, well . . . slop pier than most. All the entries thus far had been addressed to members of the Brethren who would come after. The heading on this page said . . . My son.

  Chills, like whitecaps on a windblown sea, surged across Cat’s flesh. He began to read.

  My son, you have come to the very place I prayed you,d come. I came here seeking gold and jewels. I found something else. And I suspect your father will not approve of the choices I now feel I must make. Whatever happens, my young lion, remember that I will always love you and be with you. Did you know that ,s what your middle name means? Lejon . . . it is an old Norse word for lion. With your mane of blond hair, and your courage, I always thought the name fit. If you are reading this, you truly have become the lionhearted man I knew you,d be. May you find here that which rescued me.

  Hunt well.

  Katarina Thorne

  Cat stared at the signature at the bottom of the message. Katarina Thorne. Mother. He let himself fall backward onto the cot and lay with the book open on his chest. She’d been on the Isle of Swords. Of course, that’s how she got the map and the key to the chest that held the nails. And . . . she left them for me: a trail I could follow. The lock of red hair had been hers. The green diamond had been worth enough to hire Vesa Turinen to take them to Portugal. The cross had been the key. The pouch itself had the map etched inside it. Cat closed his eyes and began to wonder how so many things had fallen into place so that he could journey to the Isle of Swords and rescue the nails. And how, in turn, the nails had rescued him. He also thought about his name—his full name— Griffin Lejon Thorne. He had been named after a lion. “Hunt well,” she’d said.

  “Extraordinary, isn’t it?” Father Brun asked.

  “My mother wrote this,” Cat whispered. “She wrote it for me.”

  “Yes,” Father Brun replied, but sensing Cat’s need, he said nothing more.

  “She died . . . she died not knowing if I would ever find it.” Suddenly, he felt a pulsing in his head. His skin prickled. In his mind’s eye he saw cold blue eyes flaring with venomous anger. A whip crackled. He saw a spray of blood on a stone wall. And then the vision was gone. He bowed his head quietly for a moment and then said, “My own father . . . tortured me. He left me for dead on that blasted island. If Anne had not come when she did I would have died. I would never have known.”

  “It goes far beyond coincidence,” said Father Brun quietly.

  Cat nodded. He had thought the same.

  “Your coming to the Isle of Swords,” Father Brun went on, “was a divine appointment. You were called by the Almighty.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you not? Remove one small event from the chain that led you to the Isle of Swords, and what happens? It all falls apart. No, Griffin Lejon Thorne, you were called to rescue the most sacred of relics. You were called to find your mother’s final message to you. And, I think, for something more.”

  Cat’s blue eyes flickered. “What do you mean?”

  “I brought you here for you to read this book, but also to make you an offer. As you no doubt noted on the way into the Citadel, the Brethren . . . are not ordinary priests and monks. Not superior— no, not by any measure that matters—only called for a different purpose. Some of the men here grew up in the church, but many others were grafted in. Some were members of the military. Others were pirates.” Cat’s mouth fell open.

  “For many years, the Brethren order has remained hidden, involved only when our hand was forced and also to protect the holy relics of God. But the world has changed and not for the better. Evil roams abroad, preying unchecked on the innocent all around us. The Brethren has spent a season in prayer—seven years to be precise—beseeching our Lord for wisdom. What, if anything, should we do? And over this time, we have been brought to the conclusion that we cannot remain idle any longer. It seemed a great answer to prayer that Declan Ross and the British were willing to assemble a fleet to hunt down and redeem those who have made piracy their lives. But we are now convinced that their effectiveness may be undercut by powers beyond their control. They will need help to defeat the menace that yet stirs.”

  “My father,” whispered Cat.

  “Yes,” said Father Brun. “He may yet live. Though, if that is the case, he is but one among many—and by far not the worst. The Brethren has been called to come forth as the Soldiers of God to stem the black tide that approaches. And we would like you, Cat, to join us.”

  “Me?” Cat was stunned. “But I don’t even believe in God . . . not completely.”

  Father Brun looked at Cat knowingly. “We are content to leave that in the hands of the Lord.”

  “I don’t know what I can do to help your order.”

  “You can captain a ship. The Brethren has purchased a trio of tall ships for a special mission. We have, through great research and prayer, selected captains for these vessels. And we want you to be one of them.”

  Cat closed the book and stared. After the training session with Brother Dmitri that morning, Cat figured the Brethren would want him off the island as soon as possible—and now they ask him to join them? “You mean . . . you mean, you still want me, after what I did?”

  Father Brun frowned. “Of course, I still want you,” he said as if Cat could not be any more absurd. “I want you now more than ever. You are a broken man, and a broken man in the hands of the Lord is a powerful weapon.”

  “But Captain Ross . . . the Bruce.” He didn’t mention Anne, but he could see her face in his mind. “I am one of his crew. They’re my friends.”

  “And that is the decision you face. Declan Ross and the crew of the Bruce are fighting a threat to all who travel the sea. But there is an enemy beyond their means, an enemy the Brethren must face on its own terms.”

  Cat was silent, deep in thought, and then blurted out, “I need time to think about this. But . . . if I did decide to join the Brethren, do I have to wear a robe?”

  Father Brun laughed aloud. “This is the simple and customary garb of the Brethren for most occasions,” he said. “But there are times when we must conceal our identity. This may be such a time. Think on it. You have the whole week to consider. But when Declan Ross returns from the northern coast of South America, I will need your answer.”

  4

  THE WHISPERING GALLERY

  In the shadows of the great dome of St. Paul’s in London stood a lone figure. Clad all in black, he faded in and out of sight as if tendrils of the night tried relentlessly to contain him but could not. He loathed being in a church. But the infamous pirate Edmund Bellamy had told him it was the only way to meet the Merchant. The north side of the gallery, he’d said. Precisely six minutes after midnight—don’t be late. The Merchant will speak to you then. If he trusts you, he’ll tell you what to do next.

  “Very punctual,” came a long whisper. It sounded as if spoken by someone right beside him, but the man in black looked left and right along the gallery’s curling rail and saw no one.

  A man of ordinary courage would have been startled by such a disembodied voice. But the man in black had seen too many horrors—caused most of them himself—to be affected in the least. He knew that his visitor, the Merchant, stood exactly opposite of him, 107 feet away, in the darkness on the southern side of the gallery. It was peculiar, if not frightening, that the acoustics of the great dome made it possible to hear even a whisper over such a great distance.

  “Did Bellamy tell you what I want?” asked the man in black, his voice a raspy whisper.

  “Your first request was easy
enough,” said the Merchant. “But the second . . . well, now, that required some digging.”

  “They exist, then?”

  “Oh yes. That proud race will never die out. I have done business with them before. But they will not suffer anyone who is not of their blood to be among them for long. And . . . they demand much of a leader.”

  “And the other item . . . can you find it or not?” demanded the man in black. He hadn’t climbed the 259 steps to play games.

  Laughter drifted eerily across the gap. “I already have. Locating it was nothing for a man of my means. Wresting it from the hands of its current owner . . . that will demand time and my . . . unique methods.”

  “My errand cannot wait,” said the man in black.

  “No, I expect not,” said the Merchant. “Nonetheless you will wait six days. Upon the sixth, you will find me in Whitechapel. Third alley west of Sullivan’s Tavern. After nightfall, knock on the third door from the road. I will have the items you want. But . . . my price is high.”

  “I am quite sure I can cover it,” said the man in black.

  “Can you?” asked the Merchant, a note of contempt in his bodiless voice. “You and Edmund Bellamy are so alike. Arrogant.” The word hung in the air. “In six days, I’ll have what you ask for, and then we’ll see what you are willing to part with in return.”

  The voice disappeared like a wisp of smoke. The man in black heard no footsteps, but he felt certain the Merchant was already gone.

  His boots scraped on the cobblestone of the alley in spite of efforts to approach his destination in secrecy. Most Londoners had gone to bed long before. Still, the vacant passages between ever-crowding brick buildings amplified every sound.

  He approached the third door from the road and raised his hand to knock. His gloved fist suspended in midair. The man in black had waited impatiently for six days for this, and yet he hesitated now. There was something foreboding about this door. It was tall and covered in dark filth as if blasted by fire. The doorknocker was a thick, tarnished ring clenched in the teeth of a hideous gargoyle of a face that seemed in the act of a scream. An icy chill pooled in the pit of his stomach. Fear was entirely foreign to the man in black, except that which he himself inspired. He drew back his hand and stroked a gray sideburn all the way to his jutting chin. Then he knocked. Before he could rap a second time, the top half of the door swung away. “Welcome . . . to my shop,” a voice slithered out of the darkness.