The black sea rippled as a swelling mound rolled from the waves.
Gwen swallowed hard. “A whale?”
Alex squinted into the lathering ink.
A large head, dripping saltwater and foam surged from the sea.
Gwen didn't remember her scream. Glowing red eyes filled her vision as her throat strained. Then a hand clamped over her mouth. Gwen struggled, arms shooting in all directions in the scuffle to escape. Kicking, Gwen connected with a skinny shin before Alex wrestled her to the ground. “Quiet! You'll draw its attention to us.”
Gwen bit her cheek until she tasted blood. This thing rose higher and higher, its huge head like something between a horned dinosaur and an eel. Its scales were sharper than any creature she'd ever seen.
Or even imagined.
“We need the guns!” Alex rasped, pointing at the hatch.
Half-crawling, half-wriggling, they made their way to the closed trapdoor. Alex tugged on the chain, but as it started to open, a huge wave splashed overhead. Flipped on his back, Alex swept across the deck toward the railing.
The ship was rolling, its portside going under—and Alex with it.
“I'm coming, dude!” Gwen cried. Using her feet like flippers, she slid down the slippery deck. Then, wedging herself between the railing and her floundering friend, she turned. “I'll give you a boost,” she shouted. “Be ready.” Drawing her legs in, Gwen curled into a ball. In a single thrust, she kicked them straight, sending him back up towards the hatch. Her hair was plastered to her head as she tugged on the chain, but the hatch wouldn't budge.
“Put some weight into it!” Alex urged.
It lifted, but then the ship lurched once more.
“Try again!” Alex cried.
Gwen tensed her muscles and pulled.
When it lifted a crack, she wriggled through, Alex right behind. They scrambled down the ladder and found their shouting crewmates running around in circles. One sailor pulled up his pants while hopping across the hold. Another was picking up the tankards and dishes that had been tossed onto the floor. A third was dabbing at a bleeding gash on his forehead.
“Move more ballast to the starboard side,” Michelangelo bellowed. “We'll ride out this storm!”
“It isn't a storm!” Gwen cried.
“What?” Michelangelo looked at her as if she were crazy.
Alex dashed to the older man. “It's a monster…” He quickly told Michelangelo about the sea creature.
“Sickhert.” Michelangelo's brooding eyes darkened. “He knows we seek Mona Lisa and sent the Leviathan.” Raising his voice, he shouted, “Load the cannons! Prepare to fight!”
Chapter 41
Alex poured a bag of gunpowder into the upturned muzzle of the cannon. He grunted when hefting the iron ball to follow. It made a ting sound as it rolled in. He stepped aside so Marco, the gunner, could ram the long staff with a brass end down the barrel to seat the cannonball on the powder charge.
“Fire in the hole!” Marco cried, touching the portfire stick to the fuse.
With wide eyes Alex watched it sizzle and spit red sparks. He jumped out of the way and plugged his ears.
Boom! The iron ball shot out, and the cannon recoiled.
Alex peered from the porthole. The ball missed the Leviathan by a good twenty feet. Marco turned back to tell the crew, but they were already priming the touchhole for a second shot.
The ship shuddered. Splinters of wood rained down on them. “We are going to break up if we don't stop that beast soon!” Michelangelo cried.
Alex grabbed a second bag of gunpowder from the pile of sacks. The gun crew nodded readiness, and Alex repeated pouring in the charge and hoisting the ball into the muzzle so Marco could ram it in.
The cannon roared and jumped. Missed again. Three whole minutes to reload and nothing to show for it.
Gwen was at another porthole helping Michelangelo and Leonardo load muskets but the small lead balls merely bounced off the Leviathan's scales.
Okay, cannons and muskets didn't work. They were anchored and couldn't run. Magic was their only recourse. “Where is Venus?” Alex called.
Leonardo pointed to a place in the corner. There Venus stood in the center of the Three Graces, her face so serene that you'd think she was at a picnic.
“We need your help,” an out of breath Alex said.
“Our world will be saved if their art is true,” Venus replied as the Graces hummed a soft tune.
“I don't have time for riddles. We need weapons.”
She folded her hands in front of her. “Only a Deliverer can create what is needed.”
Alex had no idea what she was talking about. He didn't have any brushes or paint. He shrugged and turned back to the gunners.
“Only you have the power.” Venus placed both hands on his shoulders turning him instead toward the crew.
Alex tried to shrug her away, but she forced him to watch them all failing.
At the bobbing porthole, Leonardo strained to lift his musket and take aim. Sweat rolled down Gwen's cheeks as she tamped in gunpowder with the long staff and waited for yet another ball to miss. Even Michelangelo seemed insecure as he paced back and forth, shouting out orders that didn't make much sense.
Alex rolled his hands into fists, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.
Crack! The sea monster smashed against the hull again.
Alex clenched his jaw. How could they fight a creature that could weave about, bob, and dive? Swords, pikes, or lances would have to be so large that no one could heft them. The cannon was horrible to aim, and musket balls were as useless as grains of sand.
No, the only thing that could beat this sucker would be a larger creature—a dinosaur. Yeah, right. Like he could call one from the sea. Here, dino. Come on, boy. Help us fight the monster. He shook his head as the three Graces hummed louder.
“Hope will lie in the hands of twins—” the trio sang. “—hands of twins.”
“I'm sorry, Venus. I—” he began. Then all at once, the word twins flashed again in his mind. Alex scrambled down the forecastle stairs. “Please, let it be burning,” he muttered as he bent over to touch the cook's firebox. “Hell! Where is that flint?”
Alex glanced around.
The ship lurched again. Alex grunted and searched. His eyes scanned the floor and upward until he found it on the top shelf.
“First, pick up the iron bar and put it in your right hand. Then take the flint rock and hold it so the sharp edge faces upward,” he said trying to remember the cook's instructions the day before about making fire.
Boom! The cannon's recoil almost knocked Alex over. Steadying his stance, he picked up the flint like the cook showed him. Hold the char cloth atop the flint, then hit the rock with your strike-a-light bar.
Alex tried to remember what char cloth was. He didn't see any fabric in the box. Were they out? He wished the cook was there to help him, but all hands were on deck battling the monster.
He took a finger full of golden flax in the box, held it atop the flint, and smacked the strike-a-light against it. Once, twice, three times.
No flame.
Alex repositioned his hands and struck again. A metallic odor rose to his nostrils. It was working!
When he saw a spark, Alex blew softly. The flame singed his fingers, and he almost dropped it. Steeling himself, Alex set it on the grate and blew again. A beautiful blaze lit up the box. It warmed his face.
And promptly went out.
“No!” Alex kicked the iron stove, stubbing his toe. “Ow. Stupid thing!” He picked up the flint box and threw it across the room. It smashed against the galley wall with a clang and the contents spilled out all over the floor.
Alex stood there fuming, until he realized this was the cook's box, not his. If they didn't sink and somehow survived, the cook was going to be pretty ticked off to find his stuff strewn everywhere.
Alex flipped the container back over to put the items inside. Flax, the extra flint, the stri
ke-a-light bar, and some pieces of bark. He also gathered a couple of blackened squares of fallen cloth. He held one up to examine it, reminding him of the charcoal Dad used to barbecue with. Then he hit his head with the back of his hand. Char cloth! Like charcoal. He felt about as clueless as Bartholomew looked on the first day of school.
Grasping the char cloth atop the flint between his thumb and forefinger, Alex struck. He smashed his knuckles, drawing blood, but he didn't cry out. Instead, he struck again. This time more furiously. He had to get sparks.
“Come on, hit harder.”
In the distance, he could hear faltering cries. Faster he hit. One spark flew. Another.
“Light char cloth. Come on!”
A pea-sized glow appeared on the black square. Alex blew gently, not wanting to kill this infant flame. Leaning over the stove, he held the tiny ember against the tinder of flax and blew again. Flames wormed their way upward. Then he piled a few small twigs on top. His fire grew taller. Now it was time for the larger sticks and logs.
While the flames lapped up the fuel, Alex dashed back to Venus. “I need your husband. Can you call him?”
Venus gave him a smile that would have made any man fall in love. Although Alex was still a boy, puberty had been rearing its ugly head lately. He looked away.
“I anticipated your need,” Venus said, stepping aside.
There stood Vulcan, a hammer in one hand and a heavy anvil at his feet. Alex picked it up. Leaning back to balance the weight, he waddled back toward the galley. Once there, Vulcan told him which supplies to gather.
“Got it.”
Vulcan stoked the fire, his strong back dripping with sweat as he squeezed the bellow handles. The room grew hotter as Alex exited to collect the materials.
When he returned with his final load, the wall of heat that assaulted him was so intense it stopped him at the door.
Alex tried to remember that he was a creator. Even in this sweltering heat, he could generate a pocket of safety. Bringing his hands together, he envisioned cold air. His heart beat once. He imagined a refrigerated suit, and sweat evaporated off his skin. His heart beat again, and his red cheeks cooled. By the third heartbeat, a wintry breeze blew his hair back.
He pulled his hands apart and cracked his knuckles.
“Let's make a monster.”
Chapter 42
Bartholomew watched the sun move across the sky, dreading every changing shadow. Soon the pirates would attack the unsuspecting vessel, and the poor people aboard would get hurt. Maybe die. He stole a glance at Mona Lisa.
Her usual smile was gone, replaced by a tight-lined mouth.
Bartholomew wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right. That soon she'd be home, laughing with Leonardo. What a dummy he was! He strained against the shackles. The clanking metal dug into his raw skin.
“I, too, seethe,” Mona Lisa said.
“If only I hadn't opened my big mouth.”
“Gaining Redbeard's trust was a wise course.”
“But I should have thought about the consequences.”
Mona Lisa shrugged, rubbing her hands over each other as if stroking a sick child.
They sat in silence, a sharp contrast to the surrounding sounds of loading muskets and sharpening swords. The pirates told nasty jokes and slapped each other on the back as they all chattered away.
All, that is, except one small boy.
With shaking hands, Pico carried bags of gunpowder, musket balls, and kegs of water to the raised platform known as the forecastle. The crew called it, “fo'c'sle.”
Those wide eyes reminded Bartholomew of his last trip into Artania. Everyone expected him to be a hero, but when faced with a Shadow Swine holding a pharaoh captive, he didn't strike. By the time he moved, it was too late. He could still see the pharaoh's dying eyes, and the burned in his memory.
Some hero he was, encouraging a pirate to attack innocent people so he could escape in the confusion.
Bartholomew felt a lurch as the rowers below silently extended their oars. Twenty-four paddles slipped in and out of the sea like flukes of killer whales on the hunt.
Mona Lisa remained silent, but her clasping and unclasping hands screamed Bartholomew's failure. At the same time, the last remnants of the afternoon sun burned dismay into his skin.
The sound of marching boots made Bartholomew turn to see Captain Barbarossa strutting across the deck, velvet cloak billowing behind. He halted in front of Bartholomew and adjusted the turban on his head. “Sir,” Bartholomew acknowledged without meeting his eyes.
“Now you'll see some real action, Photo,” Redbeard said with a cocky grin.
Bartholomew cringed.
The captain twisted both sides of his long moustache and puffed up his chest. He tapped his foot. When Bartholomew said nothing, he grunted. “Cat got your tongue, boy?”
Bartholomew was so worried about the other ship that he'd forgotten to compliment Barbarossa. He straightened his back and tried to put on a better face. “Action … wow,” he said in a dull voice.
“You don't sound very excited.” Redbeard's eyes narrowed.
Make it good, or he'll put you below. Bartholomew thought, but said, “Oh, I'm just a little tired.”
“I'd heard tales of Photo's being weak. You be printed on such thin paper.”
“Not strong like you, Captain Barbarossa.” Bartholomew managed a wan smile.
The pirate chuckled. “Ahh, you'll be seein' just how strong I be in about …” He paused and looked to the west. “…two minutes.”
Bartholomew felt his heart sink, and the shackles around his wrists grew cold. It couldn't be time already. Beside him, Mona Lisa shook her head sadly.
“What be your problem, lady?”
“You,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “How can you be so cruel to your own kind?”
“Baah!” He waved a hand. “What know you? So weak.”
No, I'm the weak one. If I'd been stronger, we wouldn't be here, Bartholomew thought. What would Alex do if he were in this situation? He'd say, “You have talents, B-three, so use 'em.”
“Cap'n! The ship!” one of the Moors called.
Redbeard withdrew his sword from its sheath and waved it in circles. “Rowers, pull! Gun captains, ready your teams. The time to attack is now!”
He dashed up to the fo'c'sle, and with a dramatic leap swung around the foremast and pointed his scimitar out to sea. Bartholomew tried to raise a shackled hand to shield the sun from his eyes, but the chains were too tight. He swallowed hard as the three-masted ship, sails unfurled, approached. It was still too far away to make out any people, but Bartholomew imagined them all smiling away. Happy souls floating unaware.
Oblivious to the coming horrors.
They drew closer. Now Bartholomew could see a boy in the crow's nest of the other ship.
“Does he see us?” Bartholomew asked Mona Lisa in a low voice.
“I don't know.”
Both waited for him to aim his spyglass at the Red Raven, but he never turned in their direction.
“Do something,” Mona Lisa whispered.
Wishing for a miracle, Bartholomew glanced around. Nothing caught his eye. A few more seconds, and Redbeard would be attacking. In desperation, he screamed, “PIRATE SHIP! LOOK OUT! PIRATES!”
“GO BACK!” Mona Lisa cried, joining him.
“PIRATE ATTACK. STAY AWAY!” Bartholomew called.
“PIRATE SHIP!” the two of them shouted in unison.
“What be this?” Redbeard pivoted away from the cannons toward the shrieking Bartholomew and Mona Lisa. “Bahh! Brother, gag the prisoners!”
“PIRATES! PIR—” Bartholomew's screams were cut short when Hizir shoved a bandana into his mouth. Even then, his throat strained with muffled screams. He tried to see if the other ship had heard, but Hizir moved in front of him, blocking his view. He shot the pirate a dirty look and kicked out with his feet.
“I knew you couldn't be trusted.” Hizir
leaned in and backhanded Bartholomew. His long nails left bleeding marks on the boy's cheek. Bartholomew felt his face grow hot where the man struck. Blood dripped onto the gag, adding the taste of iron to the bitter cloth.
The rowers quickened their pace, closing the gap between the two ships. Mona Lisa gave him a nod of appreciation, but he still didn't know if they'd been heard.
Boom! A cannon ball burst from the merchant ship. A slight smile tugged at the corners of Bartholomew's mouth. Their warning had worked.
“Port rowers, pull. Starboard, rest,” Hizir ordered.
The Red Raven's bow pointed like a battering ram.
The merchant ship fired three more cannon shots, but two sent up plumes of water off the starboard beam, and the third missed on the port side. As he watched the hopeless splashes, Bartholomew realized it was nearly impossible to hit their galley. It was such a narrow target.
“A fly to swat! Ha!” Redbeard burst out laughing. He shouted orders at the gun crew and three cannons fired simultaneously.
Let them miss. Please.
Crash! The iron balls pierced the other ship's hull.
“No!” Bartholomew choked through the cloth.
“Again!” Redbeard cried.
Cracking wood splintered. Through the gaping holes Bartholomew could see the sailors scrambling to get out of the way. Men shouted frantic orders as they clutched at wounds in their sides.
Bartholomew winced when he saw that the crew even included boys smaller than Pico scurrying to escape. A few ducked behind sacks, while others leapt inside barrels. Two just covered their heads.
But there was no place to hide.
“Plundering you wanted,” Redbeard bent down close to his ear. “Plundering you shall have.”
Bartholomew shook at his chains. He'd been too late. Again.
As soon as the merchant ship was lashed to its side, the pirates poured over like ants onto spilled honey.
Although they'd already lost, one sailor fought so valiantly Bartholomew was sure he'd escape. Hand over hand this valiant warrior climbed the rigging and then swung back and forth jabbing with his rapier. Holding off a quintet, he cut down three, then leapt onto the deck. He made a wide arc with his sword before facing the remaining two. He was just about to drop a fourth when Pedro tripped him with his peg-leg.
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