The Demon Curse

by Simon Nicholson

  The boat caught the current. The next time Harry looked back, Arthur was gone, and so was the wharf. He concentrated on helping Billie, following her instructions as she guided the boat on. Then he sat back and held up his hand and watched the water gather on it, carefully trying to keep it so still that the droplets didn’t move at all. He glanced back at Billie, who sat in the stern, one hand clutching a rope, the other the boat’s rudder. Both her hands, he noticed, were trembling slightly.

  Ten minutes later, they saw the boathouse, a dark shape in the rain.

  “You can just drop me off, if you like,” Harry whispered. “Wait for me out here on the river. Might be easier if I went alone.”

  “Alone?” Billie’s hands tightened their grip. “I don’t think so, Harry. Who’s going to help you out if something goes wrong, eh?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “This is the Islanders we’re talking about. They’re my friends.” Billie pushed out the rudder. “Come on.”

  The boat curved up to the shore; the prow buried itself silently in the mud. Harry and Billie leaped out and ran along the beach to the rickety steps leading up to the boathouse. Harry stared up at the old, broken-down building and saw that the windows were dark.

  “No one’s in there,” he whispered. “Let’s go in. Maybe there’ll be something inside that’ll tell us who they are, or what they’re doing—”

  Harry stopped. He grabbed Billie’s arm and pulled her back behind the steps. He had seen something further down the beach—several tiny points of red light. Crouched in the shadows, he watched them brighten and fade and brighten again. Tobacco pipes. Keeping a hand on Billie’s arm, he pulled her after him, dodging between the boats that lay along the water’s edge, breathing in odors of fish and tar. One boat was turned over, and they hid behind it, peering around its stern. Harry breathed in the stench of tobacco as he made out the small group of figures gathered around another overturned boat.

  “It’s them, Billie. Right ahead,” Harry whispered.

  Daggerbeard and Yelloweyes stood nearest, sucking on their pipes, with bottles in their fists. Yelloweyes was almost motionless, but Daggerbeard stared about in the gloom. Other men, about five of them, were gathered around, and Harry saw two more hurrying out of the mist. Harry edged forward, trying to hear scraps of conversation, but then Daggerbeard’s stare turned in his direction, and he pushed himself back, angling his arms and legs so that they fit into the darkest shadows, his teeth biting into his lip.

  The hook, glinting in the light. Harry remembered it and Daggerbeard’s stare as he struggled in the dumbwaiter shaft. But he heard the mutterings of conversation continue, and he peered back around the stern to see that Daggerbeard was looking away again, concentrating on his pipe.

  “Come on,” he whispered to Billie.

  They dodged back along the beach, keeping to the shadows. Reaching the boathouse steps, Harry looked back at the glowing pipes again, making sure they hadn’t moved, before leading Billie up the steps. Together, they reached the door at the top. Harry tested the handle, found it was unlocked, and pushed the door open, pulling Billie in after him.

  It was dark inside, but Harry’s eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom. He edged forward. Nets hung on the walls, and he made out spears and jagged harpoons dangling from the rafters, their edges glinting. The smell of fish guts curled up his nose.

  “I was right. Definitely fishermen,” Billie muttered.

  Harry nodded and edged further into the room. He noticed a table on the far side with a small, bulging shape on it.

  It was the sack.

  “Don’t touch it.” Billie reached for him, but Harry only felt the tips of her fingers brush his shoulder, because he was already moving forward. “Maybe it’s a trap, leaving it out like that,” she hissed.

  “Maybe.” Harry crouched over it.

  “Even if it isn’t—careful!” Billie grabbed his shoulder properly. “If it’s something to do with what happened to Mayor Monticelso… Remember what a state he’s in. Taken over by a demonic force!”

  “How else are we going to find out what’s going on?”

  Harry couldn’t help noticing that he was trembling a little. He steadied his hand, moving it smoothly to the sack’s neck. His finger and thumb took hold of the cloth and pulled it. He heard Billie’s breathing, just next to his ear. The sack was slightly open, and he peered in but could see only darkness. He pulled again and then stumbled back as the sack fell open, its contents spilling onto the table.

  Billie had stopped breathing. Harry realized that he wasn’t breathing either, and he forced himself to suck in air. He leaned forward, inspecting what lay there.

  A bushel of dried branches crowded with blackened seeds. Three withered, coiled-up snakeskins. Five hawks’ feathers tied with a cord.

  “That’s impossible,” Billie spluttered. “The Islanders…that’s what they use for their magic…their good magic… We saw them use it just now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Harry reached forward and touched the feathers. His fingers moved across, brushing against the seeds, the snakeskins, and back to the feathers again. Work it out. He closed his eyes, saw the objects hanging in the darkness, and moved them about in his mind, as if they were the pieces of some kind of puzzle…

  “Harry!”

  His eyes flicked open. Billie was staring at him in alarm. He heard the voices and the tread of boots up the steps. He saw the handle of the boathouse door, turning.

  Harry grabbed the sack and scooped the objects back into it, positioning it on the table just where it had been. He whirled around, checking for another way out, but there wasn’t time.

  The door was already opening. Boots thudded and voices muttered as Daggerbeard and Yelloweyes led the men in.

  Chapter 11

  The nets stank of fish. River water dripped from them as they hung on the boathouse wall, and Harry, hidden behind them, flinched as a trickle snaked down his face. He felt Billie flinch too and grabbed her arm, steadying her. Even that slight move, he noticed, made the nets sway, their wetness catching the light. He peered out through the foul-smelling strands and listened to the fishermen.

  “We’re all here then.”

  “Six o’clock, just like you said.”

  “Tell us what’s going on. Tell us quick…”

  There were about twenty of them, tugging wooden stools into a circle. They sat down, delving into tobacco pouches and drinking from their bottles. A couple of men crouched over an iron brazier, and soon flames crept up from it, throwing light around the circle of faces, every one of them staring toward Daggerbeard and Yelloweyes, who were sitting by an upturned boat hull. The faces were suspicious, and Harry heard mutterings, snarls. But they fell silent as Daggerbeard rose and walked toward the sack on the table.

  The brazier’s flames brightened as he lurched past. Shadows of his bulk slanted around the boathouse. He reached for the sack and emptied it. Feathers, snakeskins, and seeds spilled onto the table. Daggerbeard pointed at the items.

  “The demon curse. Don’t you worry; it’ll do for its victims.” His voice growled through a thin smile. “The Islanders, I mean.”

  Harry narrowed his eyes, and he saw Billie doing the same. His hand tightened on her arm. The fishermen were still motionless, but Daggerbeard’s shadows hurtled around the room as he strode around the circle.

  “We’ll free this town of them. Every last one of them!” Daggerbeard growled.

  “About time! Filthy folk with their dangerous ways!” Yelloweyes glared at the sack’s contents. “Who knows if that stuff of theirs summons demons or not? But once we’ve done the job, once we’ve tucked it under the floorboards just where Monticelso’s sleeping, once we’ve sent a little note to the New Orleans police telling them where to look, that little sack’ll whisk up demons of one kind, just you se
e!”

  “There’ll be rioting in the streets! The Islanders’ll be forced to run. No one’ll have a doubt they’re behind the demon curse, and they’ll be gone. And we know what happens then, don’t we?” Daggerbeard swung around. “It’ll be ours! Fisherman’s Point!”

  Fisherman’s Point. The words echoed around the boathouse. Harry listened to every lingering trace of them, and with each echo, the business became clearer to him. So that’s what’s going on—these men want the Islanders’ land. Huddled behind the net, he watched the fishermen, who had scowls on their faces and were snarling at Daggerbeard and his friend.

  “That’s all very well, but when, eh?”

  “Three days ago, you asked for our money. What’s happened since?”

  “Nothing, that’s what! You tried this plan of yours, and you failed!”

  “Now you’re asking for more money—”

  “Sure we are!” Daggerbeard bellowed. “It’s turned out more difficult than we thought, every bit of it! Right from the very start—pickpocketing the keys from one of the city hall servants. Any of you quick enough to do that? First we had to find out where they hung out and smoked their pipes, near that alleyway. Then there was the snatching itself.” From his jacket, he took out a length of fishing line, a tiny hook dangling from it. His burly hand performed a complicated move, flicking the hook away and reeling it back in again. “Used my fisherman’s skills. Walked past him, dropped the hook into his pocket, and the keys just flew into my hand.”

  “But that’s not all we got! Information too—we eavesdropped on them, hiding in the alleyway,” Yelloweyes added. “That’s how we learned when the mayor would be taken out of his bedroom for his treatment, leaving us time to do the work. Clever, eh? And then there’s the charms, getting hold of the charms! The Islanders weren’t going to just hand us some, were they?” Yelloweyes jabbed a finger at the items on the table, then reached into his pocket and drew out a leather-bound book. “Mayor Monticelso’s own book, all about those filthy Islanders and their ways! All about their magic too! Wouldn’t have been any good to you though—most of you can’t even read.”

  “And you wouldn’t have had the guts for what we did next either: going around pretty much every apothecary and Chinese medicine shop in town, shaking them down, searching for the exact items we needed!” Daggerbeard snatched up the snakeskin. “Particular skins, particular feathers, particular seeds—we’ve got pretty much the exact stuff. And who’s to say, brought all together, that this junk doesn’t have some kind of magical power? Brave enough to lay your hands on it, are you? It didn’t have nothing to do with Mayor Monticelso, but who knows what else it can do?”

  He thrust the snakeskin at the fishermen, who scrambled back with their stools. They were reeling, and Harry felt like reeling too, even though his back was firmly against the wall. Mayor Monticelso’s book, detailing the Islanders’ rituals. Robbing apothecary and medicine shops all around New Orleans. The new pieces of information danced in his head, and he felt his face grow hot against the stinking net as he remembered the words that had raced from his lips earlier that day. Of course they’re behind it… He thought of how certain he had been that the two men, with their mysterious sack, were responsible for the mayor’s terrible state.

  They’re nothing to do with it. They’re just using the situation for their own grubby ends.

  “Twenty years we’ve been waiting for this moment.” Daggerbeard tossed the snakeskin at Yelloweyes, who caught it and dropped it back onto the table. “Us here, we’ve always felt the same about the Islanders, and maybe others have too. But not pretty much all of New Orleans, like it is now.”

  “That Oscar Dupont, he’s doing a fine job.” Yelloweyes shuffled from the table, brushing his hands on his coat. “Whipped up an angry crowd…”

  “It’ll be even angrier soon,” Daggerbeard continued. “They just need leading on. Some bait, something to catch their eyes.” He jerked a thumb back toward the snakeskin, feathers, and seeds. “And that’s what we’ve got. Just need to put it where we need it, that’s all.”

  “We’ll go back. We know the way in now—it’ll be even easier!” Yelloweyes was taking his turn to circle. “Who can blame us for deciding to go back later, when we were disturbed? If we’d been caught, we two might have been the ones to get the blame for the demon curse then, not the Islanders—any of you thought of that? But we’ll finish the job, don’t you worry! We’ll plant it all under the floorboards, like we said.”

  “It’ll sit there, an undiscovered clue.” Daggerbeard grinned. “But it’ll be discovered soon enough. Maybe the police will get that little note, or maybe it’ll be Oscar Dupont—haven’t decided yet.” His grin widened. “One way or another, our little sack of stuff will see the light again and then…”

  “Fisherman’s Point will be ours.” Yelloweyes slapped a fist into a palm. “As for Mayor Monticelso, gripped by a demon curse—who knows who’s responsible for that…and who cares!”

  Harry’s face grew even hotter. The damp strands of net, warmed by his blushing skin, released their stench even more freely. Wrong, so wrong. He stared through the net at the items on the table. Exactly the same as the ones in the ritual, he thought. The fishermen had worked with care. Unlike me. He remembered looking down at that table just a few minutes before, startled and amazed, trying to move the bits and pieces about in his mind: sluggish, slow, fumbling. So wrong…

  “Fisherman’s Point—the best bit of fisherman’s land in New Orleans or anywhere near it!” Daggerbeard bellowed at the fishermen.

  “We’ve always deserved that land. Since always!” Yelloweyes snapped. “Not right that they have it. Decent land deserves decent folk living on it. Perfect for building jetties, as we all know. Catches the currents leading down to the sea too…”

  “And the best thing about our plan is there’s no one’ll want it after the Islanders have gone.” Daggerbeard gathered up the items on the table, scooping them back into the sack. “Who’s going to set foot on it, with all the rumors of evil magic?”

  “We’ll buy it off the city for next to nothing.” Yelloweyes chuckled. “Any of us with a few dollars to spare, we’ll be able to grab Fisherman’s Point, hut by hut.”

  “We’ll double our jetties! Our gutting houses and boat-building huts too!” Daggerbeard fumbled after one of the snakeskins, which was rolling away.

  “Let the Islanders tie their boats to whatever far-off bit of the Mississippi they get driven to,” Yelloweyes continued. “And if they get driven back to the island they came from, all that time ago, why, then they can tie their boats up there too.”

  “The demon curse. It’ll work like”—Daggerbeard laughed—“like magic.”

  He scooped the last few items into the sack. But he fumbled again, and one of the hawk’s feathers fluttered off the table, catching a warm current of air from the brazier. Daggerbeard snatched at it, but it spiraled upward and looped the loop. Harry saw it and flinched, tightening his grip on Billie’s arm.

  It was heading straight for them. It had left behind the current of air, but it was still journeying on, circling, looping. Daggerbeard was watching it, his eyes following its path, as if those curls and loops reminded him of the cleverness of his plan.

  The hawk’s feather landed on the netting. It nestled in the strands, just in front of Harry’s face, and Daggerbeard wasn’t staring at the feather anymore.

  He was staring at them.

  Chapter 12

  “Don’t let them get away!”

  The fishermen’s fists plunged into the nets. Harry tried to break free, but the crisscrossing strings drew tight, snaring his hands and feet. Burly arms worked quickly, hoisting the nets into the air, and Harry was upside down, his body tangled with Billie’s. He saw the spears and harpoons hanging from the rafters, the brazier’s light dancing on their edges. He struggled harder and then felt himself fall.
He and Billie, still tangled in the nets, thudded onto the floor in front of Daggerbeard’s boots.

  “Who are they?” Daggerbeard spluttered.

  There was a hook in his hand; Harry recognized it, the exact pattern of its jagged tip. It hovered over him as Yelloweyes pulled expertly at the net, making the crisscross strands slide away. Harry and Billie sprawled on the floor, and the fishermen gathered around, looking down at their catch.

  “Get off us! Let us go!” Billie cried.

  A burly fist pushed her back down, and the hook hovered closer. Harry's heart pounded. His eyes fixed on the brazier. It was burning quite fiercely, its flames leaping over its edge. Think of something. He looked back at the fishermen. In among them, Yelloweyes jabbed a finger down at Billie.

  “Who cares who they are? Spies, that’s what they are, and that’s all that matters.” Spit flew. “If they’ve heard… So much for our plan.”

  “Good riddance to it! Fisherman’s Point belongs to the Islanders, you remember that!” Billie tried to lurch up again but thudded back onto the floor.

  “Steady now,” Daggerbeard muttered at Yelloweyes. His fist stayed gripped around the hook. “They’re kids.”

  “And?”

  “So no one’s going to believe them, are they?”

  “What makes you so sure? Maybe they will, maybe they won’t!” Yelloweyes’s nose wrinkled. “This girl, what’s she doing speaking out for the Islanders? Maybe she knows ’em. Maybe she’ll go and tell ’em too. Then the filthy folk’ll be ready for what we spring on them, able to explain it away and…”

  “Don’t you talk about them like that! Don’t you dare—”

  A heavy hand slammed over her mouth, choking off the words. Harry felt the fishermen’s hands grip him too, but he realized his left foot was free. Just a few inches away from it, the table stood with the sack on it. The sack, into which Daggerbeard had stuffed the snakeskins, the seeds, and all but one of the feathers. It lay there, its neck half-tied, its contents safe. The same contents that produced, even just a few of them, that smoke. Harry studied the sack and then checked the brazier again, several yards away across the boathouse, its flames waiting. His boot swiveled, practicing a move, and he slid it slowly across, hooking its toe around one of the wooden legs.