‘Have you told anyone this, Mischief? Good, he wasn’t in the lab when it went up! Come on, there’s a meeting in the town square … Yes, yes, we’ll get the book later …’
The Librarian’s voice trailed off as if she had stepped outside. Wicked quickly tucked the envelope into a pouch at his belt and put the book back on its shelf. Then he tiptoed from the little room, closing the door behind him.
Silently, he inched out into the library, past the bookshelves and the sculptures, towards the front door. He was nearly there when he heard footsteps on the stone path outside.
In a single leap he made it to the desk and dived beneath it. And he might have stayed hidden too if the vase of red roses hadn’t wobbled with the impact then toppled over, crashing onto its side. A stream of water dripped onto the floor.
The footsteps came slowly towards him and stopped only inches away.
He heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘Is … is someone there?’
Wicked closed his eyes. He’d lingered too long. What a fool he was! A weak fool.
‘Come out and show yourself!’ The voice had gathered strength, but quavered at the last word.
Wicked ached at the sound of it. He couldn’t bear her fear, or the thought that he had caused it.
He crawled out from under the desk. But as he straightened he bumped against the corner, stumbling onto his knees, dropping something from his pocket.
The Librarian lunged at it.
The silver flask.
He let her take it. What did it matter now?
Slowly, he stood up, watching her glance from the flask to his face, to his scruffy beard and ragged jacket, his fraying trousers and bare, dirty feet. He didn’t flinch or wriggle. He stood, drinking her in, this last taste of his Treasure.
‘What are you doing in my library?’ she demanded.
Those same dark eyes, black-lashed, scared, curious. Always curious. He could see it in her mouth – not set but slightly open, as if searching even now for the right question. A wave of longing rose up inside him.
They stood together in the small room, eye to eye.
It was too much.
‘Treasure,’ he whispered. He held out his hand.
She frowned at it. ‘Did you steal this?’ She held up the flask, waving it at him before placing it beside her on the desk. With her eyes, she dared him to snatch it back.
He nodded. But the tongue in his mouth was locked.
‘But why?’ Her voice broke. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’
He studied the rim of grime around his toenails.
‘Will?’
His head jerked up.
‘Is it you?’
‘I haven’t heard that name in a long time.’ Her voice shook his heart, making the blood charge through his body. He took a shuddering breath.
‘But how could you have changed so much? You used to be so … tender.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘You were my best friend.’
‘And you, mine.’
In the silence they could hear a child wailing, a mother calling.
‘Then you were gone.’
He straightened his shoulders. ‘You helped me, an’ I never had a chance to thank you back on Thunder Island. You and Honey saved me. And now you’ll be wishing you hadn’t.’
Treasure drew up her chin. ‘You’ve seen some terrible things, I know. Done them, too. But you can change your life, Will. If you want to make amends, you can come back to live and work here like the others. It’s a good life, Will. We could get to know each other again, and imagine,’ her mouth suddenly twitched, ‘you could even have a bath!’
He smiled. Then he looked down at his hands. ‘I’m not like the other men. A bath won’t get me clean. You don’t know it all. I … wouldn’t fit in.’
‘Why do you say that? It’s a wicked crime to have stolen this potion – but if you say you’re sorry, if you show how truly willing you are to do better, the village will forgive you. I will forgive you.’
He held her gaze until he couldn’t bear it anymore.
What you treasure most will be turned to sand.
He set his jaw. ‘You’ve got your potion, an’ I’ve said my thanks. What more do you want?’ His voice was low and harsh. ‘The Captain was right – you women, you’re never satisfied. I’ve spent too long at sea to live a landlubber’s life. My notion of treasure is different now.’ And he turned on his heel, stopping only to pick up his boots as he strode out the door.
If he’d looked back, just a moment later, he’d have seen the hurt on her face. He’d have seen those stricken eyes, her mouth quivering in bewilderment before setting into a new bitter line. He’d have seen her fling the flask from the desk, then sink to the floor.
She stayed there, huddled, for a long time. When she was empty of tears, she sat up on her knees. Retrieving the flask, she shook it, relieved at the weight of liquid still inside. Then she spied something else on the carpet, just an inch away.
It was a tightly folded piece of paper. She opened it out. At first she thought the drawing was one of Mischief’s sketches, with its remarkable detail. She wondered why he’d thrown away such a masterly drawing.
But then, smoothing down the creases, she saw that the remarkable detail wasn’t an intricate pattern of veins in a leaf, but words.
And she began to read.
Chapter 30
It wasn’t until the caves were in sight that Wicked stopped running. He leant against a tree, his chest heaving. Against his face the late afternoon breeze blew cool and fragrant. Roses … where? Would he always, for every minute of his life, be imagining her?
There was no Doomsday to tell. No loony bird for comfort. He had an overpowering urge to shout her name. ‘Damn and blast,’ he cried instead.
There was nothing for it but to pick up his stride and walk on. But an old anger crept in. ‘Bloomin’ everything!’ he muttered. ‘Bloomin’ village, bloomin’ island, bloomin’ potion, bloomin’ Rascal!’
Aye, Rascal might have brains, and, he had to admit, plenty of pluck, but that bug-eyed boy was a damn fool. Look at all the trouble he’d caused, messing around with dangerous things! Didn’t Horrendo tell the lad to stop? Why hadn’t Rascal listened to the friend who’d sat up nights and knitted mittens for him?
As Wicked tore past, he’d seen the villagers hurrying into the square. People were calling out – ‘No one else missing!’ ‘That smoke smells like boiled cabbage!’ ‘Didn’t I always say that lab was trouble?’ but still there was no sign of Rascal or what he’d been working on.
Wicked marched through the forest, snapping off branches, swiping at leaves. But then, struck by a thought, he stopped. If Rascal was no longer around – if he was gone for good – there’d be no hope for Doomsday, either.
With a stone in his stomach, Wicked descended into the cave. Slowly, he crawled through the dark tunnel. As he neared the last stretch, he went even slower. As long as he didn’t arrive, as long as he didn’t know the answer, he could still ponder the question. Would Doomsday be there, waiting for him?
He knew by the silence. Even before he shone the lamp around the walls, into every hollow and dip, he knew it. How empty the cave was without Doomsday. How empty everything felt. He wouldn’t spend another night here; no, not another minute.
He tracked along the rocks, wading through pools, avoiding sharp shells and barnacles. All he wanted was to make the time pass until first light. He couldn’t wait for this deal to be done, and yet he dreaded it like death.
Down at the shore he took out the envelope from his pouch and shook the dried herb into the empty biscuit tin he’d bought at the tavern. Then he tied it to his belt. He ran his finger over the edges. Airtight, it should hold against the sea. He gave the knot at his belt a final tug and felt his anger ebb away like the tide, leaving a nugget of satisfaction at a decision well made. It was a new feeling. A good feeling.
Soon the precious herb would be in the Captain’s hands. And Treasure would be safe from har
m.
Only a faint blush of rose lit the sea when the jolly-boat glided in. The air was grey with dawn, and the shadows in the rock pools were inky. Out past the furthest finger of land, the boat dropped anchor.
Wicked stood on the point and watched. With every second the sky grew lighter. Pink lifted into lemon into pearly blue. A dark figure stood up in the boat. Wicked narrowed his eyes to slits.
The figure giving the signal was heavy, not tall like the Captain. Unfamiliar. Seated behind him was the silhouette of another. Wicked strained his eyes. This wasn’t the Captain, either.
Wicked swallowed. He’d reckoned on the Captain being there. The jolly-boat belonged to a bigger ship, most likely, manned by the rest of the Captain’s new crew. The old devil hadn’t even bothered to come himself, so sure was he of his willing slave.
Wicked looked back at the island. Such a morning, the air like crystal. Perhaps it would be his last.
He remembered racing down to the mangroves on mornings like this. The sky had streamed bright above the treetops. If he’d stretched high enough, he could have touched it. So many wonders he’d seen from those trees. Flowers and birds and the currents in the river. But back then, his mother had always been there to tell. He hadn’t heard her voice in a long time.
He drew in a lungful of air. No use thinking about that now. Or her, or Horrendo or Rascal or Doomsday.
A shout came roiling out from across the water. The figure in the boat lifted his arm high, beckoning with an angry jerk of his fist.
It was time to go. It was like dying.
Oh, but just a moment more.
Remember the way the braid fell down her back? The light in her eyes?
No, it hurt too much.
Wicked took off, sprinting down to the sand.
He stripped off his jacket and shirt. His hands trembled. Crushed, he heard the Captain whisper. Wicked stood bare to the waist, swaying on the shore. He looked at the ragged bundle of belongings. Something was missing.
Idiot – he’d forgotten his loot! He gave a wild laugh. Not a gold coin to his name.
There was still time.
No. None of that mattered anymore. He’d lost the only treasure he’d ever wanted. He smiled grimly. A first-class pirate indeed. How the Captain would laugh.
He waded into the shallows. As the water rose up to his chest he dived under and began to swim. He remembered the first time he’d done this, and the joy. At least he’d had that. He ducked under the next wave, grateful for the cool slide of water on his skin, the breeze fresh on his face as he surfaced.
As he neared the jolly-boat, the seated man sprang up clumsily, and the boat rocked wildly.
‘Sit down, you fathead!’ the heavy man shouted at the other. ‘You want to tip us over? The Captain said you were dumb. Thicker than a wooden plank. No wonder ’e named me First Mate and you Box-Brain.’
Treading water in the boat’s shadow, Wicked caught Box-Brain’s mortified smirk. He knew how the man felt. Not like a man anymore. That was what the Captain did to you.
Wicked’s breath quickened. These men were dangerous. They had nothing left to lose. And that sort were the worst.
The First Mate put out his hand to haul Wicked up. The side was steep and Wicked clambered in, sprawling on his back. A boot clamped his chest. The man stared down at him, a mean smile on his lips, a callused thumb resting idly on the sword at his side.
‘Have you got what the Captain ordered?’ he growled.
‘Let me up and I’ll tell you,’ he gasped.
‘Don’t do it,’ said Box-Brain. ‘He’ll take a swing at you.’
‘I’d listen to a jellyfish before I listened to you,’ spat the First Mate, and took his foot off Wicked’s chest.
Wicked considered giving the man a good kick to the belly to topple him. But a better idea was forming. If you always do what you always did, you will always get what you always got.
As he sat up, the First Mate grabbed his hands behind his back.
‘Where’s the goods then?’ the man said.
‘Told the Captain I’d hand it over myself.’
‘Well, he ain’t ’ere.’
‘Where is he then?’
The First Mate waved at the horizon. ‘Waitin’ back at the ship with the rest of the crew. Think he’d bother to come himself?’
‘So you’re doin’ his dirty work?’
The First Mate snorted. ‘I’m carryin’ out a very important job. Them plants is gunna make us rich. The Captain wouldn’t want just anyone to help ’im. I’m his First Mate, see.’
Wicked grunted. ‘An’ I was his special look-out. I climbed those ratlines like magic. He valued me above other men, kept the best fish for my dinner, gave me the pick of the loot.’
‘Oh aye, an’ I’m yer fairy godmother.’
‘It’s the truth I’m telling you. An’ now I’m just a slave doing his master’s bidding. See how quick he changes favour?’
Wicked twisted around to face the man. ‘On Devil Island there’s pirates doing an honest day’s work and getting paid for it. There’s delicious food and friends and music and women. It’s a life for a man. Why would you choose to be the Captain’s slave when you could be free?’
There was a small silence. Wicked felt the sweaty hold around his wrists loosen.
‘Them pirates you’re talkin’ about,’ the First Mate began. ‘Were they once the Captain’s men?’
‘Aye,’ said Wicked, straightening. ‘An’ they united against him.’
There was an awed hush.
‘Wouldn’t you rather be like them,’ Wicked went on slyly, ‘living the good life?’
‘We could ask you the same question an’ all,’ Box-Brain suddenly piped up. ‘Seems you were free as a bird back on that island. So what are ye doin’ here then?’
Wicked’s face darkened. ‘I was stupid. Chose the wrong path and can’t change it now. But you can. Think about it. You could be filling your bellies with fish pie, dancin’ the hornpipe, sleepin’ in a duck-feathered bed.’
‘We been pirates all our lives,’ mused the First Mate. ‘We seen our fair share of devilish Captains, but I ’ave to say this one …’
‘Is the worst,’ said Box-Brain. ‘I wish I hadn’t signed up as his swab. But now, well, ye wouldn’t wanna cross him.’
‘Aye,’ agreed the First Mate. ‘There’s somethin’ …’ He stopped, turning to Wicked with a frown. ‘Why are ye tellin’ us all this then?’
Wicked shrugged. ‘Maybe I feel like givin’ a bit of friendly advice. Or maybe I think we could overthrow the Captain. If we band together, we might have a chance. And the people of Devil Island would reward you.’
The First Mate guffawed. ‘An’ I believe in leprechauns!’
‘I told you,’ Wicked went on. ‘It’s happened before. Mutiny. Just think of those pirates back on Devil Island – all happy as larks.’
The First Mate gazed beyond the boat to the shore where a frill of waves sparkled in the morning light. His eyes had a faraway look as he imagined tucking into a dish of fish pie, a soft bed that didn’t sag beneath him.
Wicked held his breath.
And then, the First Mate blinked. His eyes widened with surprise, just for a second, but Wicked followed the man’s narrowed gaze. And what he saw turned his bowels to water.
There, past the rocky inlet and deep caves, standing straight-backed on the cliffs of Devil Island, was the distinct figure of the Captain.
Chapter 31
Without another word, Wicked turned and dived overboard.
… what you treasure most…
He took stroke after stroke without a breath. He swam faster than he ever had in his life. He didn’t wonder what the Captain was doing on the island or why the treacherous devil had changed their plan. He just knew he had to be stopped.
As Wicked ran dripping from the water, through broken barnacles and spiky rocks, his feet felt nothing. Only his heart pounded inside him, his thoughts thrumming t
o the beat, no, no, no!
He raced into his cave and entered the tunnel. Feeling his way in the dark, his breathing was loud in the close, damp silence. As the path rose and forked, he ran headfirst into a wall and stumbled to the ground, reeling, stars gathering behind his eyes. But he didn’t stop.
He climbed up and out onto the headland. His left eye was filled with blood but even when he’d cleared it, he couldn’t see the Captain. Desperately he traced the descent from the cliff, the sloping scrubland beneath it.
There. Striding through the bushes, the dark, mean figure.
Wicked hurtled down, falling, rolling. ‘Captain!’ he shouted. ‘Wait!’
The Captain didn’t stop. He was near enough to hear, Wicked was certain, but his step didn’t falter as he took the turn to the right, the path that led to the village.
‘Captain, I’ve got what you want! Why didn’t you wait for me? Come back and we’ll haul anchor!’
The Captain’s pace slowed. He swung around to face Wicked. ‘You giving me orders again, lad? That won’t get you very far. Not with the ruler of the Cannonball Seas.’
‘But I have the herb!’
‘There are things more valuable.’
His tone had turned mild, almost conversational. ‘The hearts and minds of men, Wicked. That’s what I want. That’s where the power comes from.’ He opened his arms wide, taking in the island, the sea. ‘A willing slave yields twice as much.’
‘But we had a deal. I gave you my word and you …’
‘Haven’t you learnt anything, boy? Promises,’ the Captain spat the word as if it were dirty. ‘I told you not to believe in them.’ He stared hard at Wicked across the distance. ‘And I told you not to speak to anyone. Have you obeyed me?’
Wicked said nothing.
The Captain smiled. ‘I thought so.’ He turned back to face the path.
‘Where are you going? What do you want?’
Over his shoulder the Captain called, ‘I demand loyal service for the long term, Wicked. I’m making sure you oblige. I’ve put a lot of effort into your education but I see your mind is weak and still unformed.’ He stopped, and turned to face Wicked. ‘Your … attachment to that girl needs to be severed.’
Wicked's Way Page 20