Mutiny of the Heart

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Tempted by tainted fruit and emerald eyes.

  To hell with Joelle Quint.

  To hell with it all.

  * * *

  She loved him. Truly. But her heart was breaking for him. His hazelnut eyes filled with hurt and she couldn’t bear to look at him, at what she’d done, at the tatters of what she’d destroyed.

  “Please understand, Valeryn.” Joelle forced herself to meet his pained eyes. He deserved that much. “Please.”

  She pressed her forehead to him and took his face in her palms. “I love you. Always have. For all that we’ve been through, you must have known that. It’s different now. I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”

  “Because you are in love with him.” There was no malice in his voice, no hatred. Just resignation to the truth.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I shall count myself a fortunate man for having once been him.” Valeryn kissed her. She didn’t stop him, didn’t pull away. ’twas bittersweet, forlorn. Though her heart broke further, it was also set free.

  He broke away, unhurried. “I’ll always love you, Jo,” he said.

  “There will always be a place in my heart for you. That will never change, V. Never.”

  “He’s a good man, that one. Strong. Brave. Full of passion. A good match for you,” Valeryn said. “But if he ever hurts you, I’ll hack off his bollocks and shove them down his throat.”

  Joelle smiled. “I know.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Pink and orange swaths of dawn’s awakening brought the drop of Rissa’s anchor on the northern coast of Barbados. The sun’s rays sharpening over the horizon cast the craggy cliffs in bright new light. Crashing waves against the rocks rising from the surf glittered in the sunlight like tiny explosions of glass.

  Joelle’s skin puckered. ’twas more from the excitement fluttering in her stomach than from the cool morning’s breath. She was back.

  She’d been here twice before searching for the map’s secret. Though the island on the map most resembled Barbados, she’d scoured other similar-shaped islands to no avail. But this time, it would be different. She felt it deep within her.

  She had Sloan.

  Her faith in him had no measure. More than once this morning she’d tried to tell him so.

  He’d taken his meal alone in his cabin and, in the company of others, he’d spoken to her only out of polite necessity. He was avoiding her. Why?

  The question gnawed on her otherwise jubilant mood.

  Willie joined her at the railing, sticking a clump of tobacco into his cheek. “Don’t ever get tired of watchin’ the sun break ona beach,” he said. “‘Specially after journeyin’ the sea.”

  “’Tis amazing, for sure,” she agreed.

  “’Tis a good spot Ricker chose.”

  “Ricker?”

  “Aye,” Willie went on. “Said once I saw the plateaus—” he pointed to where the waves rolled over flat shelves of rock several hundred yards up the shore, “—not to sail past ’em. ’twould be too far.”

  What did Sloan know? She’d been out on deck for a glass and hadn’t seen him. He was definitely avoiding her.

  “Any sign of visitors?” she asked. Though Commodore Crowe had ordered immunity for Rissa, Joelle would be remiss if she didn’t consider Watson a continued threat, or, perhaps, going rogue.

  “Nay.” Willie spat over the rail to the water below. “Just a fishing dinghy. Nothin’ more. Thought maybe it was followin’ us.”

  “Oh?”

  “Figured just my imagination after all we been through lately. Prolly just gettin’ an early start.”

  Silent, Joelle nodded. They’d all been on edge and with good reason. Couldn’t trust no one on the way to hell and back.

  “Hope ya find what yer lookin’ for, Capt’n, I do. Put yer soul at ease.”

  She patted his arm, moved by his heartfelt remark. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Sam and Henri emerged from below deck.

  “Don’t you look smart, Henri,” Joelle said.

  He smirked and tightened his red beard bows and smoothed out his clean vest.

  “I’m afraid there is no town nearby to take your leisure,” she added.

  “Huff. I ain’t lookin’ to belly up to a bar. I’m comin’ with ya.”

  Willie snorted and looked to Sam. Sam ever-so-slightly shrugged. Even the giant couldn’t shunt the little man when Henri wanted something.

  “With yer lame leg, you’ll only slow ’em down, ya old crab.” Willie spat over the rail again. “’Sides, doncha have a mop to court?”

  Valeryn, who’d settled down on a nearby barrel to sharpen his gully knife, chuckled. “What was her name? Hattie?”

  “Frannie,” Sam corrected.

  Henri bristled like an old rooster. “Best you boys hold yer clack. I’m still yer cook, and I’ll have ya sittin’ on the catheads all night long.” He madly shook his cane in warning.

  Joelle held back her giggle as the men each looked at one another, a bit of fear in their eyes. It had been too long since they had all been this relaxed and enjoying the raillery. It felt good.

  “I ain’t seen action off this bucket in some time,” Henri said. “Ya ain’t denyin’ me no more.” He turned a hard eye on Joelle. “Ya hear?”

  “So be it, Henri.” ’Twasn’t as if they’d be in combat. Who knew? Maybe with his keen sense of... Wait. Did Henri have a keen sense of anything these days? Not likely. But ’twas no harm in having him along. “You may come.”

  Sloan finally made his appearance, nodding to the men, but he wore no smile for her on his cleanly shaven face.

  “You have your map?” he asked.

  No greeting, no pleasantries, just a harsh tone and stiff movements. What was Sloan so angry about?

  She nodded, pulling the parchment from her jacket.

  “Let’s see it, then.”

  Valeryn hopped off the barrel and Joelle spread out the map on top.

  Sloan ran his fingers along the outlines of the drawing and looked up at the shore. “See these islands on the map here?”

  “The ones we cannot find,” Joelle stated.

  “Aye. They’re not islands, but rock formations.” He pointed to the right of the coastline. “Those rock formations.”

  A large boulder jutted up from the water. Waves flowed over a cluster of smaller rocks peeking above the surface.

  “Yes, yes,” Joelle said. “I see it now.”

  Ricker repeated the rhyme on the map. “‘Follow the trade winds up the face of Lucia.’ This part of Barbados is in St. Lucy parish. If we break apart the riddle, the face of Lucia would be a cliff in the parish of St. Lucy. A cliff receiving the eastern winds.”

  “The cliff behind the rock formations,” Joelle said excitedly.

  Sloan nodded. For one very fleeting moment, Joelle thought he smiled.

  “So what does the next part mean?” Valeryn asked.

  “‘Be swallowed for her key,’” Sloan recited. “There are many caves hidden within the coastline. My guess is that we are to enter that cave in the cliff to look for a key.”

  “What cave?” Henri said. “Ain’t no cave in those rocks.”

  Valeryn squatted next to the cook. “I think the lad is talking about that cave, there.” He pointed midway up the cliff.

  Henri’s jowls sputtered. “How we gonna get up there?

  “Climb,” Joelle said. She looked to Sloan to verify she was right. He nodded again, but still would not meet her gaze.

  Willie chuckled. “How ya gonna get up there with yer leg. Guess you’ll have to stay on the ship.”

  “Hist, ya weevil. I can climb a ladder can’t I? Tain’t no different.” Henri waved a bony hand in dismissal. “Jack! Jack? Where’s that worthless cabin boy when ya need ’im?”

  Jack popped up from God knew where.

  “Where’s me boots I asked ya to fetch?”

  “Right here, Henri,” Jack said, holding up a pair of worn boots.
r />   Henri snatched the shoes from the boy’s outstretched hand, mumbling his thanks.

  “Oh,” Jack said. “Yer flask of rum is inside. I filled it up again just like ya asked.”

  “Shush, boy!”

  “Thought you’d sworn off liquor,” Valeryn smirked.

  “Sworn off?” Jack asked. “Oh no, Henri wouldn’t never do that, no, sir. Why, just yesterday, we broke open another cask of rum.”

  “Did he?” Willie asked, wiping spittle from his chin.

  “Doncha listen to ’im,” Henri spouted. “He been out ta sea too long. Poor lad don’t know what he’s sayin’.” He shooed Jack away. “Scat! Get back to the galley, boy.”

  Henri had been had, and they had a good laugh over it. Even Sloan let a chuckle slip.

  After gathering a few items, they set off for the shore, beaching the longboat on the strip of sand beside the cliff. Sloan led the way scaling across and up the craggy face. ’Twas’t a terribly difficult climb, but caution was used all the same. One slip would lead to a fall on the rocks jutting from the surf.

  Sloan hoisted himself through the opening that wasn’t much wider than a cabin door, and certainly not as tall. Joelle took his proffered hand and let him help her inside. Valeryn followed. Henri, the manikin, slowly taking a foothold, inching his way up, groused and grumbled curses between his teeth biting into his cane. Behind him, Sam must have grown weary of Henri’s tedious ascent. He shoved Henri up the rest of the way and into the cave.

  As Henri berated Sam, Joelle turned. The wind buffered at her back and she scanned the cave. Once Sam moved from the opening, the damp walls glistened in the sunlight. Though the cave wasn’t large, the ceiling rose high above. Any one of the jagged nooks carved into the walls could hide a key.

  She ran her hands over the rough stone, into crooks and over serrated edges.

  “Help me look for it,” she said. “Check every crevice. Look under every pebble.”

  They had been searching for a half glass and still no key. Where can it be? Joelle began to wonder if there was a key at all.

  “Maybe we need to go deeper,” Valeryn said, pointing to a small tunnel.

  “Let’s make sure we don’t overlook anything in here before we move on,” Sloan replied. “I feel certain the key is in here. But if I’m wrong...”

  “We don’t want to double back,” Valeryn agreed.

  “Up there.” Sam pointed to a small ledge at the back of the cave near the ceiling.

  “It’s too high to reach,” Joelle said.

  Henri toddled to Sam. “Lift me up.” Sam bent and Henri climbed onto his shoulders. “Not high ’nough.”

  Using the wall for balance, Henri eased to stand on Sam’s broad shoulders. He ran his hands over the ledge. Tiny pebbles and dust rained down upon Sam. Sam swayed and sneezed.

  “Be still, ya big gorilla!”

  “Get off me ear!”

  “Wait,” he hollered. “I feel somethin’.” He stretched as far as he could go, slapping at the ridge.

  Joelle’s heart stuttered.

  Henri clenched something in his fist and cautiously sat down on Sam’s shoulders. Sam deposited him on the ground. The little man uncurled his stubby fingers. The key!

  Joelle couldn’t contain her squeal. She gingerly picked up the simple iron key for all to see. Like a child proudly showing off a new toy, she giggled. Well, it sounded more of a crazed cackle. Nonetheless, her friends smiled. Even Sloan.

  The riddle was real. The key, real. What lay at the end of the map?

  “What now?” Henri corked his flask and wiped his wiry chin of the dribble from his hasty drink.

  “We see where the tunnel leads us.” Sloan got down on his hands and knees and disappeared through the shaft. “Hand me the knapsack.”

  Joelle tossed the sack into the dark tunnel. A moment later, an orange glow flickered to life inside.

  “Definitely the way,” he called. “There’s an inscription on the wall.”

  One by one, they crawled into the tunnel lit by Sloan’s torch. For Sam, it was a tight squeeze. For Henri, the tar hardly had to duck.

  As she waited for Sam to jiggle in, Joelle ran her hand over the arrow etched into the stone. Her father had been here. He’d chiseled that arrow—for her. Her buoyancy gave way to melancholy. What secrets did he have? What dangers had he faced that he’d had to abandon her? Why did she hurt now, after all these years? Maybe she’d never stopped hurting and now, being so close, the hurt had risen to the surface.

  Sloan put his hand on her shoulder. “We need to keep moving.”

  Aye. Already the humid air had thinned.

  Hardly a whisper was spoken as they traversed underground, hunching over at times when the ceiling was too low. Except for Henri, who seemed to walk taller. She slipped once, on the slick, soft loam carpeting the damp floor. Her arms flung out to catch herself and the jolt to her muscles sparked pain anew in her almost-healed arm. They’d been rambling through the confining space a little more than half glass. Not long enough to justify the panic creeping up within Joelle. She found it harder and harder to draw a breath. ’twas like breathing through wet wool. And the stench of Sloan’s burning torch was cloying.

  The tunnel finally opened up to a cavern. Wet spindles of stone jutted from the ceiling above as well as from the floor. Joelle rushed forward to drink from a small pool at its center. The refreshing cool water brought her back to her senses.

  Sloan bent beside her, splashing his face and scrubbing before taking a sip and crossing to the other side of the cave where the tunnel resumed.

  “Not much further,” he said.

  “I bloody hope so,” Henri muttered.

  “How do you know?” Valeryn joined Sloan by the tunnel entrance.

  “It smells musty, earthy,” Sloan answered. “Plant-like.”

  Valeryn leaned into the darkness. “Then let’s tumble up.”

  “Shh!” Henri whispered. “Did ya hear that?”

  Everyone stilled, straining to listen into the silence.

  “What did you hear?” Joelle asked.

  “Not sure. Thought I heard somethin’ earlier, too. Like a shufflin’.”

  Moments passed without a sound. Joelle concentrated on the stillness of the cave for anything that might indicate something was amiss. The flutter of the burning torch’s flame was the only noise heard.

  Valeryn finally spoke up. “You’re hearin’ things, you ol’ goat.”

  “Let’s push on.” Sloan bowed into the tunnel.

  “T’is place give me t’e jimjams,” Sam mumbled.

  Joelle couldn’t agree more.

  Sloan was right. Ten minutes later, the flame of his torch fluttered on a breeze. Soon, shafts of light reached through the murkiness. An old, rotten log blocked their exit out of the tunnel. Sam shoved it out of the way and they pushed through overgrown shrubs. The sunny wood was alive with sounds—birds, insects, leaves rustling in the winds.

  “Which way now?” Valeryn asked, slowly spinning and inspecting trees. “I don’t see an arrow.”

  “This way,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  She pointed to the small melon-sized stones strategically placed several yards apart. “My father left a trail.” Joelle caught Sloan’s approving smile again.

  Again, he said nothing.

  They followed the path until it opened to a sunlit field of flitting butterflies and white wildflowers. At the far end of the field stood a single building, a church. And there in front of them was a graveyard.

  “’Tis an odd place for the map to lead us,” Valeryn said.

  Joelle agreed. What kind of bounty could she hope to find here? What was it that her father had left for her?

  They fanned out across the cemetery, slowly weaving through the tombstones and wooden crosses.

  Henri whipped off his hat and swiped sweat from his brow. “Are ya sure we’re in the right place, Ricker?”

  “Aye.” Sloan squatted
in front of a headstone. “There could be no other.”

  “We’re in the right place.” Joelle’s words were distant. The only clear sounds were the wind flowing through the grasses and the beating of her heart. Colors lost their vibrancy, the sun lost its heat. The world around her faded away into gray shades and movements. Her mouth grew dry and her eyes wet.

  She didn’t know what she should’ve expected to find at the end of the map, but it wasn’t this...

  Joelle kneeled down and placed her hand on the gravestone before her. Quinn Donovan. Father. Beside him, Riva Donovan and Donal Donovan. 1707. The date of Riva and Donal’s passing. The year they had come to the Caribbean. Was it disease or something more sinister that took their lives? She traced her fingers over the wings of a cherub on Donal’s stone. A sadness settled in her already bleeding heart for the infant brother she never knew.

  A fourth grave lay beside Donal’s. Amid the leaf scrollwork on the tombstone was an unusual indentation. On impulse, she dug out the emerald she’d held onto all these years. The sunlight glinted off the gem as she fit it perfectly into the indentation.

  “The place of emeralds.” Sloan’s voice filtered through her haze. He understood. ’twas her Irish kindred.

  Joelle sat back on her heels. Her eyes clouded with tears.

  This was better than any treasure.

  This was her family’s resting place.

  She looked up, passed her gaze over the small cemetery. Ancient trees, colorful bushes surrounded the sacred place. Birds warbled and the breezes sifting through carried the fragrance of the wildflowers. What a lovely place to rest.

  “I don’t understand,” Henri whispered as much as a gruff man could.

  “I don’t either,” Valeryn said. “Who is Roisin Donovan?”

  Joelle hadn’t heard the name in ages. How strange ’twas to hear it now.

  “My father,” she said, “when he whisked us from Ireland, he changed my name. Joelle is my French grandmother’s name. My mother’s mother. Quint, well, ’tis a variation of my father’s name.”

  “Why?” Valeryn asked.

  “To protect me. From what, I do not know,” she sighed.

  Henri pointed to Joelle’s grave. “But if yer here, who’s there?”