Chapter 33
Pressing his body against the ash tree, Alex glanced at the pile of rocks at his feet and gave Gwen a thumbs-up. She picked one up and grinned. As soon as the pirates crested the hill, they would pelt them. Then he and Gwen would move up the mountain to draw them farther away.
Alex couldn't see the river from this vantage point, so he had no idea how things were going. He could only hope between the hypnotized fish and Bartholomew's skillful swimming, everything would go according to plan. B-three could be a wimp on Earth, but last time they were in Artania, he'd really proved himself resourceful. He'd helped sculpt animals, painted magical hieroglyphs, and even led the pharaohs to freedom.
What had really impressed Alex was how Bartholomew fought Shadow Swine. He'd faced them head-on, turning those slime monsters to dust.
Alex tested his rock's weight and huddled further into the hollow of the tree. A turban emerged on the rise. Alex held a finger up. Another red-capped head rose. He extended a second finger and took a deep breath. “Now!” he cried, flinging his stone.
It missed by a mile, but Gwen's hit one right in the head. The man in the stocking cap swayed and fell.
“Yes!” Alex cheered, gathering another handful of rocks in his t-shirt.
A turbaned man with a long scar on one cheek drew closer, and Alex hurled a rock with confidence it would meet its mark, but it whizzed past the pirate's head.
Alex moaned.
Gwen had better luck tossing beechnuts three at a time. Two of them hit Scarface and left a matching scratch on his other cheek. The pirate clutched his face and charged uphill. Mom would have washed his mouth out with soap if she'd heard the curses that came next.
Alex heaved another stone. Not even close. Baseball was not his sport.
Then the brute made a beeline for Gwen. Imagining he was as a battering ram, Alex charged down the hill. It was like hitting a brick wall. Scarface didn't budge; instead, he grabbed Alex and lifted him overhead.
“Let me go!” Alex slapped at the pirate's arms
“Certainly.”
Alex blinked.
“As soon as you've done a lifetime of service as a slave.” He threw his head back and sniggered.
Alex kicked. His foot connected twice. Still, it might as well have been a feather for all the good it did.
Alex didn't want to call for help. Gwen was here by mistake, but it looked like his redhead friend had other ideas. She was already tiptoeing to them, the axe dragging behind her.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Alex squealed to draw attention. “You're hurting me.”
“Quit your squawking, kid.”
“Ouch! My arms!” Louder this time.
Inching closer, Gwen stole behind the pirate. She swung the wooden handle at his ankles. Scarface fell over like the tree, taking Alex with him. Now it was the pirate's turn to squawk.
Free, Alex grabbed Gwen's hand and plunged deeper into the forest.
Chapter 34
Bartholomew sat chained to a wooden bench in the hold. Stupid, stupid, he cursed inwardly. Should have gone faster.
Head bowed, Mona Lisa huddled directly opposite him on the same seat she'd occupied before. This beautiful woman did not deserve being soaked to the skin, auburn hair matted.
“I am so sorry.”
She gave him a smile that only made him feel worse. “There is nothing to forgive, bambino.” Even now her eyes were kind.
“But I failed.”
“Ahh, but it was a valorous attempt.”
“I am not the brave one. That's Alex's department.” Bartholomew stared at his shackled hands.
“Alex?” She gave him a puzzled look.
“My friend. He's out there right now waiting for us.” Bartholomew shook his head. “He wouldn't have let himself get captured.”
“Some events are unavoidable.”
“Tell it to Alex … or jeez, to Gwen for that matter.”
“You appear different from the rest of us.” Mona Lisa changed the subject. “Are you from the Photography district?”
“What?”
“You are neither painted nor sculpted. You look like one from the land of camera photos.”
“I don't know what that is.”
“How could you not?” Mona Lisa asked. “We are all created with the knowledge of the lands.”
He shrugged.
“But every Artanian from Photography or any other district of the Renaissance nation knows his or her place.”
“I am not from here. I am human.”
Mona Lisa gasped. “One of the Deliverers?”
Bartholomew nodded. Then he explained how this was his second journey into Artania. He described the year before when he and Alex rescued pharaohs. The words came easily, tumbling out like pebbles down a stream. He also shared how his father drowned in a mud puddle, turning Mother into a germophobe who only recently allowed him to go to public school to finally get friends like Alex and Gwen. “And when we met Leonardo, he knew you were still alive. He said he could feel your presence in his heart.”
“He must have heard my prayers,” she said. “Poor Papa.”
“Ha.” The harsh voice made Bartholomew jump. “He won't simply worry. He'll be destroyed when he hears of your Mudlark transformation.”
At the foot of the ladder stood the same red-bearded pirate who captured them. Even though he had a ridiculously loose turban and a shiny gold earring in one ear, his beady eyes gave him such a sinister appearance that Bartholomew had to look away.
“So this is your rescuer?” The pirate guffawed. “A Photography district coward who cannot even meet my gaze?”
Mona Lisa started to protest until Bartholomew shot her a glance and shook his head. He didn't want the pirate to know who he truly was. “At least I have not betrayed my own kind,” Bartholomew said, still not daring to look at the man.
“What know you, Photo?”
“The prophecy.”
“A bedtime story for children,” the corsair said with a sneer. “I will be stronger than any Artanian when Lord Sickhert makes me a Mudlark.”
Bartholomew shivered. He'd seen firsthand what happens during a Mudlark transformation. First, an enormous mouth in the ground smacks its bulbous lips, waiting to close on an Artanian. Then it swallows, and the morphing process begins. When Mudlark Maker finally spits the Artanian back out, it's no longer a beautiful creation but a zombie slave.
“Child, meet Aruj Barbarossa … better known as Redbeard.”
“You forgot to mention my other titles.” The turbaned man placed his gnarled hands on his hips. “Greatest pirate of the Mediterranean. Scourge of the Barbary Coast, Sultan of Algiers, and brother to Hizir.”
“Of course. How could I forget?” Mona Lisa replied with a sarcastic smile that Redbeard completely missed.
“Wow!” Bartholomew gushed trying to widen his blue eyes. “I didn't know you were famous.”
Redbeard puffed up his paisley tunic and stroked his velvet cloak. “Not meaning to boast, but I am feared both near and far. Everyone trembles at the sight of the Red Raven, the swiftest galley on the Mediterranean.”
“Have you been in lots of battles?”
“One or two.” He chuckled. “Actually, it's in the hundreds, but who's counting?”
Bartholomew realized if they were ever going to escape, he required more information, but he needed to proceed carefully. “Will there be a battle I can watch when you take us to … to …” Bartholomew paused to segue slowly into the question. “By the way, where are we going?”
“Venice.” Redbeard stared off into the distance. “No, sadly this journey is a mere delivery. Although it would be fun to attack a few merchant vessels on the way, eh?” He poked Bartholomew in the ribs.
“You bet!”
“I might be able to accommodate you.” The captain turned to go, but as if thinking the better of it, he spun back. Glaring at Mona Lisa, he bent close to her ear. “See how much more fun we can have if you cooperate?
”
Mona Lisa glared at him. “Never. You are a traitor, Aruj.”
“And you, my dear, are a fool.” He stood and waved in Bartholomew's direction. “At least the small one understands my greatness.” He raised a sword and shouted, “Hizir, prepare to set sail!” With a dramatic flick of his cloak, Aruj Barbarossa exited.
Mona Lisa smiled at Bartholomew.
“I wish I had thought of your clever tactic, bambino.”
Bartholomew blushed. Maybe he wasn't such a failure after all.
Chapter 35
Gwen shuddered as she slowed to catch her breath. The trees here possessed a surreal aura that made her feel uneasy. Even with Alex at her side, she couldn't shake the impression that something was wrong with this place.
Coming to a sudden halt, Alex put his fingers to his lips.
The air was still. A few sparrows twittered here and there, but there were no drumming feet or loud curses. They should have heard more angry pirates chasing them.
Gwen sidled closer and whispered in Alex's ear, “Maybe they're trying to sneak up on us.”
He didn't respond but stared into the grove of trees they'd come though. Alex rubbed his forehead. “Something's not right. I'm going to go check it out.”
Gwen started to protest, but before she could get a word out, Alex disappeared into the underbrush, leaving her alone in this dark place. “Okay, girl. Everything's fine,” she muttered. “Alex'll be back in a minute with this Mona chick in tow. Then we can all go home.” She took a deep breath, wishing she could believe her own words.
It didn't work.
“So nightmarish art is everywhere. You're okay, aren't you?”
As if in answer to her question to herself, the ground in front of her split in two. At the same time, the trees shriveled and turned brown. Dead leaves crumbled and showered into her hair. She turned to run, but an even larger pit opened in the new direction. Teetering, she held out her arms to avoid tumbling in.
Something like a rising river of dark magma erupted from the fissures. Then two muddy heads atop hunchbacked monsters surfaced. Fighting the urge to scream, Gwen spun round and round, but she saw nowhere to run.
“Hello, human,” one slime-coated creature rasped. Not much taller than her, its spiked hair was like black thorns. Its thick, gnarled fingers ended in werewolf claws, and it smelled like a nasty science experiment gone wrong.
Brushing the debris out of her hair, Gwen crossed her arms and tried to glare at the fiend. Her toughness was an act, but it made it easier to face those eerie yellow eyes.
“What? Art got your tongue?” the pig-nosed thing grinned at its partner, brown lips curled back to reveal shark teeth.
The second creature hooted and snorted like a drunken hog.
Gwen tightened her arms. This voice sounded familiar, like something out of an old dream. No, out of a nightmare of the worst kind—one that wakes you up in a cold sweat while you feel a muddy string snake over your naked arm.
The spike-haired thing leered at Gwen. “How's your mother, human?”
“Mother gone, boss,” his comrade giggled. “She chased by art.”
No sound escaped as Gwen opened and closed her desert-dry mouth.
“We don't need her to speak, do we, Stench?”
“No, Captain Sludge.”
“We just need her to remember what we can do.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Stench stepped closer and bobbed his slimy head. His matted braids dripped brown ooze on her arm. “Sharks. Cyclops. Mama run away.”
These things knew about her nightmares? Shivering, Gwen brushed slime off her arm. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“Ahh, she can speak.” Captain Sludge bent closer to whisper in her ear. His hot breath on her neck was as rank as poison gas. “There will come a time when your friends will ask you to act. But you won't.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You will stand frozen as if in fear.” He flicked his cape and backed away. “Exactly like you are now.”
Gwen glanced down. Her arms were crossed so tightly her veins bulged.
Stench's hand cupped a bat-like ear. “Captain, someone coming!”
Sludge waved his hand, and the fissure widened. He and Stench sank below the soil. “Tell no one … or else,” he warned before his head disappeared into the closing ground.
Gwen shuddered. A dream-invading monster? She clenched and unclenched her fists.
Her heart was still racing when she heard birdsong. She looked up. Fluttering sparrows and wrens circled the trees warbling Landini's haunting melody.
As they sang, a rainbow of flowers and ferns burst from the cracked ground the monsters left behind. Next, the barren trees morphed into an orange orchard heavy with painted fruit.
When tinkling giggles came from the blossoming trees, Gwen blinked at the approaching trio of women in long gossamer gowns. Hand-in-hand, they skipped and twirled as they sang with the warbling birds overhead.
One of the goddesses from Mount Olympus strolled behind them. No, she didn't stroll. She glided, her sandaled feet barely touching the ground as flowers bowed before her. When they drew closer, the skipping women spun around three times and sat cross-legged in a circle.
Gwen shook her head. This place just kept getting weirder.
Floating nearer, Venus smiled down at Gwen. “Hello, child.”
The goddess reminded Gwen of Mom—a perfect oval face with flawless skin, not a freckle anywhere. But where Rochelle's gaze seemed aloof, Venus's was warm. Her smile made Gwen feel like she was curled up next to Dad in front of a cozy fire. “What's going on?” Gwen asked.
“I have been sent to help you find the Smiling One,” Venus said.
“We don't need any help. My bud is rescuing her right now.”
Venus shook her head sadly. “If only it were so.”
What did this painted lady know that Gwen didn't?
There was a rustling in the trees. Gwen glanced to them, expecting to see Alex with Bartholomew and Mona Lisa.
But only one face emerged from the underbrush. It was as white as that monster's sharp teeth.
Alex didn't really need to say a word. His eyes said everything. “The ship is gone, and so is Bartholomew.”
Chapter 36
Bartholomew was chained next to Mona Lisa on deck. Two days earlier, Redbeard said they needed fresh air and sunshine. Bartholomew figured it had more to do with showing off prized prisoners to the crew than his or Miss Mona's health, but he kept his suspicions to himself.
Alex is never going to find us, he thought, shaking his head. We've been at this for days. They'd already passed the Leaning Tower of Pisa, skirted around the islands of Elba and Corsica, and now were anchored off Sardinia to load supplies.
As the pirate crew rowed back and forth in the bay, filling empty kegs and barrels with water, hardtack, and dried fish, Bartholomew mused about how strange it was that Artanian people needed food. Since they were living art, you'd think they wouldn't need to eat. But in many ways, they were as fragile as the humans who made them.
Mona Lisa's hands rested peacefully in her lap with long, delicate fingers as pale and smooth as Hygenette's, except Mother's hands were nervous and fidgety. Mona's were as calm as beach glass. “Worry not, bambino,” she said. “Rescue will come.”
“If only I had your faith.”
“It has been foretold,” Mona Lisa said. “Our world will be saved if their art is true.”
Bartholomew didn't remind her of the line that preceded it: And many will perish before they are through.
A ship's boy shuffled to him, a wooden tray of grapes, bread, and dried meat in his small hands. Bartholomew ignored him until he realized that the lad's hands were trembling.
“Hello,” Bartholomew said with a reassuring smile.
Instead of comforting the boy, his shaking increased until Bartholomew was sure the cups on the tray would topple. Bartholomew reached for the clattering platter. “Here. Let me hold it for y
ou.”
The boy jumped as if Bartholomew's hands were snakes ready to strike. Eying him nervously, the cabin boy away. “Don't go,” Bartholomew coaxed.
“W-why?”
“I thought perhaps we could talk.”
“No!” His mop of hair bouncing as he spoke. “C-captain said I no t-t-talk. Y-you be d-dangerous.”
Bartholomew set the tray down and held his palms up. “Look. No weapons.”
“And what could I do to you?” Mona Lisa's mouth turned up in her famous smile. “Whip you with my veil?”
“I no know.” The little guy drew a circle with one barefoot toe. He glanced up at Bartholomew shyly. “Is it t-true?”
“What?”
“You come from f-faraway lands?”
“What does he mean?” Bartholomew whispered to Mona Lisa.
“He looks so strange,” she explained, “because he is from the Photography district.”
“But it b-be forbidden. No one passes his own b-border.”
Now Bartholomew understood. Each of the Artania lands was separate, and they stayed that way. The Renaissance nation never mixed with the Photography district and vice versa. He smiled. Maybe this taboo would work to their advantage. “I was given permission.” Bartholomew paused and leaned forward, hoping his next words would hit the mark. “By the Thinker.”
The boy backed up as though to flee.
“What's your name?” Bartholomew asked quickly.
“Name?” The boy stopped and stared before taking another step away.
“Yes. What are you called?”
“They call me ship's boy.”
“But don't you have another name? From your parents?”
He shook his head. “No p-parents. Some call me s-stupido. Or they c-cry Piccolo when I be working slow.”
Bartholomew looked to his companion for a translation.
“Piccolo means small,” she said.
It was true; this ship's boy was little. He only came up to Bartholomew's chest, but he didn't look weak. Actually, he looked wiry and strong, kind of like Alex.
“I think we'll call you. Mmm. Pico. What do you think?”
The Kidnapped Smile Page 12