The Pirate's Booty (Inventor-in-Training)

by D. M. Darroch

  And then.

  The giant hairy beast clambered upon his chest and crushed the wind from his lungs. He struggled awake bucking and kicking to escape its death grip. Was it a sea monster, or an ogre from the great beyond? “MMWROWRR!” it snarled. Eyes flashing open, he glimpsed the creature, orange and spitting, inches from his throat. With every ounce of courage he could command he struck out and seized it between his shaking hands.

  He lifted it aloft bellowing in terror and fury. It reached out a razor-sharp claw and gouged at his face, shredding his cheek. He felt the fire of a welt growing and shook the shaggy, writhing brute.

  “Ye may try, but ye shall not vanquish the Booty Poker!” he proclaimed with a roar.

  And then.

  The bedroom light blazed on scorching BP’s eyes. He squinted, unable to focus on the apparition in white that stood before him.

  “Angus! What are you doing? Put Sir Schortle down!” cried Mrs. Clark indignantly. She stood just inside the room, dressed in a white nightgown.

  BP looked at the cat he was throttling. Ears laid flat against its head, it was hissing and scratching him. He only gripped it more tightly.

  “Give him to me!” Mrs. Clark commanded. She strode to him and took the cat. “Oh now, boo boo kitty,” she baby talked. “Did poor little man get scared? What did the big bad boy do to you?” She scratched the animal’s ears and then placed him gently on the floor. The cat flicked its tail, threw BP a disdainful glare, and strode from the room.

  “No one attacks the Booty Poker and lives to tell the tale. I’ll have me due, ye black-hearted fiend!” BP yelled after him.

  “That’s enough, Angus. I don’t know what’s gotten into you today but it’s late and I’m tired. We’ll discuss this in the morning.” Mrs. Clark turned out the light, and left the room.

  BP closed and locked the bedroom door. He shoved a large bureau up against it. Even with these precautions he slept fitfully the rest of the night.

  BP was relieved when the sun finally began poking through the blinds. He’d been awake for hours. He was used to rising early aboard the Fearsome Flea. It was his job to light the cook fire in the ship’s galley for breakfast, even if that consisted merely of watered down coffee and stale bread crusts. After that, he had the first shift in the riggings watching for merchant and navy ships.

  Landlubbers slept the morning away apparently.

  He searched through the bureau drawers for something to wear. After his forced bath the night before, Mrs. Clark had confiscated his clothing wondering aloud how he’d managed to get it so dirty in such a short time. Now he couldn’t believe the riches before his eyes. There must be at least five pairs of jeans here! Shirts in every color of the rainbow lay in neatly folded piles. Another drawer housed socks balled two by two, all white, not a dingy gray one in the lot. The variety was unnerving. He couldn’t decide, so he closed his eyes and grabbed whatever came to hand.

  Once dressed, he shoved the bureau away from the door. The lock clicked open as he turned the door’s knob. He poked his head through and looked down the hallway. No sign of his arch enemy. He set off down the stairs, tiptoeing so as not to awaken the household. As he reached the last stair he heard it.

  “MMWROWRR!”

  BP jumped back. His hand flew to his waist but his dagger was not there. Blimey! He’d forgotten it in the bathroom last night. How was he to face the fiend with no weapon to hand?

  “MMWROWRR!” the animal insisted, and then he saw it. Its eyes glowed wickedly in the shadowy gloom. It was approaching, slowly, steadily.

  “Stay back, ye evil sprite! Come no closer or I shall be forced to defend meself heartily!” BP shouted.

  “Oh Angus, already?” yawned Mrs. Clark, shuffling drowsily down the stairs in shabby mint green slippers. “You’re up early this morning. Why not feed the cat?”

  “Egads, woman! I will not give repast to an evil brute! It nearly was the death of me yester eve!” answered BP.

  To his astonishment, she bent down and scooped up the creature. It closed its eyes and stretched its neck to be scratched. As she rubbed its ears, she cooed, “Good morning, my big big boy. How is my big big boy? Are you a hungry little kitty? Boo boo boo.”

  BP whistled. “This is worse than I thought. The dastardly creature has bewitched her mind.”

  BP shoveled cereal into his mouth, his eyes glued to the cat’s every movement. It crunched its kibble, lapped gingerly at its water, and then began cleaning its paws. It stretched and yawned revealing its sharp teeth.

  “Don’t ye try to threaten me! The Booty Poker is not so easily thwarted!” crowed BP through a mouthful of cornflakes.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, dear,” mumbled Mrs. Clark, head buried in her coffee cup. “Did you pack your book bag last night? Are you all ready to go?”

  BP looked daggers at the cat as it strolled from the kitchen and then turned his attention to the sleepy, disheveled woman across the table.

  “I’ll be headin’ back to the ship once I’ve finished me meal. I thank ye kindly fer the grub,” he answered.

  “Is he still talking pirate?” asked Mr. Clark. He walked to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup.

  Mrs. Clark sighed. “Angus, your father and I love it that you’ve got such a great imagination. But you need to focus right now. The bus will be here shortly. Make sure everything is in your bag, comb your hair, and brush your teeth.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.” BP saluted, stood, grabbed the bag resting beside the door, and left the room.

  Mr. and Mrs. Clark stared at each other.

  “That’s never happened before first time I asked,” said Mrs. Clark.

  “Logical consequences,” said Mr. Clark. “I told you it would work.”

  BP was eager to get back to the Fearsome Flea. The grub here was delicious, the bed warm and dry, and he might even look forward to another bath, but he could not spend another night with that fiend. How kind of his parents to arrange a bus to bring him back to the dock. That would save his feet from the long trudge.

  He ran the comb through his hair once and stuck it into the bag. He picked up the toothbrush and toothpaste, considered them, and put them into the bag without brushing. He looked around the bathroom for his dagger but it wasn’t there. Probably gone the way of his old clothing, confiscated by Mrs. Clark. No matter. He’d get another one soon enough. He went into his parents’ bedroom, rifled through Mrs. Clark’s jewelry box, and selected two gold loop earrings and two diamond studs. He dropped them into the bottom of his bag. He hurried to his bedroom, pulled the golden salt shaker from under the bed where he’d hidden it, and stashed that in the bag as well.

  He ran down the stairs, and threw open the door. “Thanks fer everthin’!” he yelled as he ran down the driveway to the waiting bus.

  “Angus! You’re not wearing shoes!” Mrs. Clark shuffled out behind him clutching his sneakers in one hand and her coffee cup in the other.

  She waved goodbye as the bus drove away. She first noticed his neglected schoolbooks beside the door an hour later.

  Chapter Nine: At West Beach

  The aroma of coffee tickled Angus’ nose. He stretched luxuriantly and groaned. The incessant sound of waves reminded him that he needed to get up and empty his bladder. Eyes still shut against the morning, he leaned over to turn off his sound machine. The white noise helped him sleep through the night. He promptly rolled off on to the ground.

  “Oof!” he grunted and opened his eyes. He had landed softly on the sand floor. He saw the cedar bough ceiling above his head. In his dreamless sleep, he had completely forgotten that he was no longer safely in his bedroom at home but marooned on a forested beach with a gentleman pirate and a talking crow-girl.

  He got to his feet wrapping the woolen blanket tightly around his body against the morning chill and stumbled sleepily out of the hut into the foggy day. Captain Hank looked up cheerfully from the campfire where he was preparing breakfast.

  �
��Good morning! How did you sleep?” asked the captain.

  Angus yawned. “Great. Thanks. You?”

  “Best I’ve slept since I landed here,” responded the captain. “Nice to have company. This island can get pretty lonely.”

  Angus smiled. He missed his parents but was thankful he’d had Captain Hank for a bunkmate and not one of the stinky pirates aboard the Fearsome Flea. In that regard, walking the plank had turned out to be a stroke of good luck. He settled down on one of the logs around the campfire.

  “What’s for breakfast?” he asked.

  “I’m making grilled crab with flatbread,” announced the captain happily. “Coffee?”

  Angus nodded. The captain handed him a chipped metal mug. Angus wrapped his hands around it, warming them. He bent his face over the mug and felt the steam tickle his nose. He’d never tried coffee before. It was a drink reserved for adults at his house. He sipped the warm brew eagerly and gagged on the bitter brown liquid.

  “Uggh!” He spat out the offensive coffee. It landed in the campfire with a sizzle. He wiped his tongue vigorously up and down his hand trying to remove the taste from his mouth.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the astonished captain. He took the mug from Angus’ hand and gulped it quickly. He looked questioningly at Angus.

  “It’s so … yucky!” said Angus lacking adequate words.

  “This is a lovely Sumatran, certified organic, fair trade French roast!” said the shocked pirate.

  “It’s yucky,” repeated Angus.

  “Several water-tight, shrink-wrapped packages of this washed up in a crate last year. This is my last package! It is an exquisite roast,” said the captain.

  “It’s yucky,” Angus persisted.

  Captain Hank glared at him and poured himself another cup from the small pot resting beside the campfire.

  “I hope you’ll have more manners when it comes time to try the crab,” he said coldly. “Perhaps you’d like to wash up before we dine?”

  Angus shambled off to the water’s edge to throw some water on his face and attempt to matt down the hair he knew was sticking up all over his head. He was starting to understand why the crew of the Fearsome Flea had marooned Captain Hank on this island. When he returned to the campfire the small black crow was standing in the sand eagerly breaking crab into small, bite-sized pieces.

  “Caw!” she said in greeting and refocused her energies on her breakfast.

  Captain Hank’s eyes scanned Angus and, apparently approving of what they saw, he handed a dish of crab to the boy. Angus tucked in enthusiastically and immediately yelped.

  “Careful. It’s hot,” said the captain casually.

  Angus scowled at him and blew on each piece warily before continuing his meal. The bread was warm and flat, and he used it to scoop up the succulent crab. Within ten minutes, the three hungry friends had devoured every bit of breakfast the captain had prepared. Angus felt warm, satisfied, and rested, and was ready to face the day.

  “The fastest route is through the center of the island. Those aren’t the best shoes for the job, though.” Captain Hank was packing up a sack with provisions. The three friends had decided to hike to the other side of the island and retrieve the tidal booty.

  Angus glanced at his flip-flops. He was sure to twist an ankle hiking through the forest in them. He took one off and examined the bottom of his foot. Walking barefoot would be worse. Captain Hank was wearing boots, definitely a good choice of footwear if you were marooned on an uninhabited island.

  “Wait! I’ve got an idea!” announced Angus, and he scurried off to the hut.

  He dug through Captain Hank’s supply corner, which was remarkably similar to Angus’ garage lab table and plastic bins. He pulled out a chunk of white Styrofoam, some rags, fishing net, and two slabs of cedar bark. He laid each flip-flop on top of the Styrofoam and traced a line around them with the tip of his screwdriver. He removed the flip-flops and forced the screwdriver up and down along the outline until he had cut the foam into the shape and size of his shoes.

  He placed each piece of cut Styrofoam on top of the cedar bark. Next, he put his flip-flops back on, stood on top of the Styrofoam-bark, and wrapped the fishing net around the layers, lashing the makeshift shoes to his ankles. He shoved rags under the fishing net where it abraded his skin.

  Once the shoes were fastened snugly, he took a few steps to try them out. They weren’t exactly attractive, but they were springy and solid, and an improvement over flip-flops. He marched back to his friends.

  Sitting on the limb of a cedar tree, the little black crow was the first to see him. “Caw-caw-caw-ha-caw,” she chuckled. Louder and louder she laughed, “Caw-CAW-HA-CAW.” Then the hiccups started, “CAW-CAW-HIC-CAW-CAW-HIC.” Her sides puffed in and out as she tried to catch her breath. She began gasping for air in between hiccups. “CAW-HIC-wheeze-CAW-HIC-wheeze.” Without warning, the gleeful Ivy fell out of the tree with a tiny thud. A black feather floated silently up.

  Angus ignored her, and walked to Captain Hank. The captain glanced at Angus’ feet and grunted.

  “Well then,” he said, furtively shoving the yellow toy duck into the sack before hoisting it to his back. “Ready?”

  Angus nodded and the two set off with the bruised but still snickering Ivy in their wake.

  Captain Hank and Angus picked their way through the forest and brush. Ivy swooped from tree to tree disappearing now and then to forage for food. Occasionally, the captain would warn Angus to avoid a patch of stinging nettles or to watch his footing over some loose rocks. They stopped once for Angus to readjust his shoes. Neither Angus nor the captain sought conversation. Each was deep in his own thoughts.

  The captain was thinking of his mother. His memories of her were softened by time and sweetened by his imagination. She floated in his head like a beautiful, feminine angel. Her face clouded in his mind and was replaced by Maniacal Marge’s sneering countenance. He unconsciously clenched his fists as he dreamed up ways to get even with her. He had to get back on his ship. HIS ship, not hers. She had stolen it out from under him, and he would get it back and deal with her. His gait quickened as he grew angrier and angrier.

  Next to the silently seething captain, Angus was springing along in his self-made shoes. He loved being out of doors. He did his best thinking in nature. He was feeling quite proud of himself for having made these shoes. And speaking of things to be proud of, how about his Insectivore Incinerator? He couldn’t believe it actually worked! He had to retrieve it and fiddle around with it some more to get it just right. Before he could do that though, he would have to get it back from Marge. He planned to design and build a boat to get back to the Fearsome Flea.

  A perfectly shaped walking stick caught his eye and he was quick to grab it. He walked along digging it into the ground as he went, sometimes whacking it against a tree to hear the satisfying thunk, sometimes wielding it in two hands like a broadsword. He swung it to and fro about his head.

  “Caw! Hey, watch it!” complained Ivy, who had narrowly avoided being swatted as she flew over Angus’ head.

  “Sorry,” he said reflexively and continued thinking about his boat design. He felt a solution at the edge of his mind. There was something there, just hovering, waiting for him to grasp it. He stopped a moment and bit his bottom lip, considering.

  The shapeless fuzz in his brain began to take form. It molded itself into an idea. Suddenly, he knew just what he had to do. “That’s it!” he yelled, and raced to the captain. “I’ve figured it out! How much farther until we get to the beach …” He broke off as he glimpsed the blue-gray of the ocean through the trees. “Quick! Follow me!” He ran off ahead, eager to put his plan into action.

  Ivy flapped madly behind him, infected by his excitement. Angus broke through the trees and halted on the ocean-side beach. There was more debris on this side than on the beach facing the sound. Flotsam and jetsam were strewn as far as the eye could see.

  “Where is it?” he asked.
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br />   “Where is what?” asked Ivy.

  “The box of wind-up toys!” Angus spun around frantically scanning the beach.

  Ivy flew ahead. “This way.”

  Angus chased the crow, stumbling over stones as he went. One of his thick cedar-plank shoes became wedged between two rocks, and he landed hard on his right knee.

  “Ow!” he yelped, grabbing his knee and rocking back and forth as hot tears sprang to his eyes. He would not cry; he would not cry! Oh, the pain was overwhelming. He felt like laughing and crying at the same time.

  Captain Hank appeared at his side and laid his hand gently on Angus’ shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked. He reached a hand down and hauled Angus to his feet. Angus grimaced as he rested his weight on the injured leg.

  “I think so,” he grunted, fingering the tender spot. “It hurts and tickles at the same time.”

  “Funny bone,” squawked the crow. “Best thing is to keep moving. The minute you sit down and rest it will tense up. It will feel better in a bit. Probably swell up though.”

  Captain Hank and Angus both looked at her.

  “What? I was a human once. Wait right here. I saw some comfrey someplace …” Ivy glided off toward the forest edge. They watched her slowly circle a patch of weeds and then dive to the ground like a hawk. She flew back to them gripping some leaves in her beak. She fluttered down to Angus’ shoulder and placed the leaves in his outstretched hand. “You have to grind these up and wrap them around your knee. It would work better if you made a poultice but that would take more time.”

  “What will it do?” asked Angus.

  “It will help with the bruising,” she answered.

  Angus and Captain Hank were unconvinced.

  “I told you I was good with potions, remember?” asked Ivy. “Trust me.”