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

by D. M. Darroch

  As Ivy hopped excitedly from driftwood log to Angus’ shoulder to trough rim, Angus and the captain built the boat that they hoped would carry them off the island. They planned to build the boat close to the tidal plain so they wouldn’t have to struggle to get it into the water.

  Together, they maneuvered the troughs to rest side by side. They found two large logs of nearly the same length and width. They each took an end.

  “Now, lift!” commanded Captain Hank.

  Angus strained, grunting loudly. His end of the log rose two inches off the ground, then slipped from his hand and thudded back to the beach. If he hadn’t reacted quickly the heavy driftwood would have landed on his foot.

  “What happened?” asked the captain, easing the log back to the beach.

  “I got a splinter,” said Angus, examining the palm of his hand.

  “You don’t drop a heavy log simply because you’ve got a splinter! What kind of man are you?” the captain blustered.

  “I didn’t drop the log because of a splinter!” Angus replied indignantly. “I got a splinter because I dropped the log. And I’m not a man! The log is too heavy for me to lift.”

  The captain was flabbergasted. “Yes, of course,” he muttered sheepishly. “Of course you aren’t yet a man. I’ll drag it over myself.”

  Angus was always so sure of himself. He had planned the escape from the island. The boat design was completely his idea. He was such a capable person that the captain had completely forgotten he was still a boy.

  Angus returned his focus to his injured hand. “Let me see it,” croaked Ivy. “Yikes, that is a big one.” She cocked her head and regarded the splinter with one eye. “Bring it closer. Rest your hand on that rock, right there. I think I can get it.” Ivy opened her beak and promptly bit Angus’ palm.

  “Ouch!” yelled Angus, snatching his hand away and glaring at Ivy. “What did you do that for?”

  “Sorry. I missed. I thought I could grab the splinter,” explained Ivy. “Let me try again.”

  “No way.” Angus hid his hand protectively behind his back while looking distrustfully at the crow.

  “I promise I won’t try to pull it out again with my beak. I’ll scratch it out,” encouraged Ivy.

  “Oh yeah, that sounds a lot better,” said Angus sarcastically.

  “Your hand could get infected if you don’t get the splinter out,” Ivy went on. “It will become red, and hot and swollen, and then the infection will spread to your wrist and your elbow, and before you know it you’ll have gangrene and rotting skin and your whole arm will be yellow and filled with pus.”

  They heard a gagging sound and looked up from their argument to see the decidedly nauseous captain retching on to the beach. “Just let her do it,” he said, wiping his mouth. “The alternative sounds ghastly.”

  Glaring fiercely, Angus warily rested his hand on the rock beside the small crow. He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. He felt some scraping across his palm. “It’s out,” said Ivy. She puffed herself up proudly and fluffed out her feathers. He brought his hand to his face. Except for a tiny hole and a few flakes of skin there was no evidence a splinter had ever been there.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it.” She cawed and flew off into the forest.

  “I could use your help over here,” called Captain Hank, standing beside the troughs. “Think you can help me hoist the logs?”

  “Well, if you rest that end there and push this one up here.” Angus walked over to help.

  Ivy returned to find two logs lashed across the top of the adjoining animal troughs. Angus was sorting through the wind-up toys while Captain Hank fed the campfire. “That looks sturdy.” She nodded toward the boat.

  “Just trying to find a way to attach these stupid things to the stern,” Angus mumbled, growing frustrated. He grabbed a wind-up frog and chucked it at the ocean.

  “Calm down,” soothed Captain Hank, reverently picking up the frog. “Why don’t you step away from it for a while? I’ll warm up a can of chili for lunch. Go take a walk or something.”

  Angus shoved the toys out of his way and stood. He stomped along the beach angrily kicking stones and pebbles and muttering to himself. “Stupid, dumb, boat. Stinking toys. Dumb idea. Stupid, stupid.”

  They could always build oars and paddle through the ocean to the Fearsome Flea. A mast and sail wouldn’t be too hard to construct either. But neither of those solutions was worthy of Angus Clark, Inventor-in-Training. This toy motor thing just had to work.

  As he walked along, one thing became abundantly clear. He had to go to the bathroom. He headed into the cover of the trees. He hiked into the brush where he was sure he would not be seen by a certain curious crow. He relieved himself and fumbled with his pants. As he was about to zip he was startled by a loud “CAW! CAW!” overhead. He stumbled forward and braced himself against a cedar tree. He looked angrily up, saw a brazen crow peering down at him, and sighed with relief when he realized it was just a crow, not Ivy.

  He rubbed his hands together and was dismayed to find that they were sticky with sap from the tree. He hated tree sap! You could never get it off. No matter how much soap and hot water you used it remained on your hands for days. Just one more annoyance to deal with. His mood completely soured, he hiked back out of the forest.

  “Lunch is ready!” called the captain.

  Angus walked back to the campfire. He ran his hands distractedly through his hair and groaned. Now he had tree sap in his hair! If his mother could see him now he could just imagine what she would say. And as he considered how much it would hurt to try to get a comb through his unruly hair, it dawned on him.

  “That’s it! Tree sap! We’ll make glue from tree sap!”

  Captain Hank grinned, watching Angus dance back and forth gleefully singing, “Tree sap, tree sap!”

  “Angus, I’m so glad you’ve figured it out,” droned the crow. “I never had any doubt in your ability to solve the problem. But for the sake of all of us, won’t you please, please, zip up your fly?”

  Angus tugged at his zipper and frantically spun in circles. “I need something to collect the tree sap.” Before the captain had time to react, Angus snatched the pot off the fire and dumped its contents on to the beach.

  “No!” yelled Captain Hank, but Angus had already set off sprinting to the forest. Ivy flew ahead of him rapidly scanning the trees for scarring.

  “Caw! Caw! Caw!” she announced, landing on a dead bough. “Try here!” She pointed her beak at a tree with a fresh wound.

  Angus took the screwdriver from around his neck and poked it into the tree’s injury unplugging the clogged sap. “It’s going too slowly!”

  “Here, use this,” said the captain, having followed them to the forest. He handed Angus his army knife. He knew that he wouldn’t be eating his lunch until the boy had satisfied his curiosity.

  Angus reached back and grabbed the tool. He flicked through each utensil on the knife, probing until he found one that satisfied him. He selected a corkscrew and drilled it into the tree as deep as it would go, unscrewed it, and drilled again. “It’s not working!”

  “Let me try,” suggested the captain and Angus grudgingly complied. The captain selected a simple blade and patiently carved into the tree. After several minutes, sap began to flow sluggishly. The captain stepped back, crossed his arms, and admired his work.

  “That’s no faster!” said Angus.

  “It’s not about speed,” said the captain. “It’s about quantity.” He strode back towards the beach.

  “What?” Ivy and Angus said in unison.

  “We need more containers,” the captain shouted back. “We have to drill into more trees.”

  After the friends had collected enough sap in multiple containers to fill the captain’s pot, Angus was ready to make glue. The captain noticed the daylight was beginning to wane. Angus didn’t want to wait another day to find out whether or not his glue would work, so Captain Hank hike
d back to East Beach to collect supplies for sleeping at West Beach. While Angus waited for him to return, he stoked the fire and nestled the pot of sap amidst the hot coals. He squatted down and began to stir the sap slowly with a long, thin stick. The sap bubbled and sputtered.

  His right arm rapidly grew tired. He alternated hands but his left arm fatigued even sooner. He switched back and forth between hands. When he thought he couldn’t possibly stir anymore, he held the stick with both hands. He could feel blisters beginning to swell up along his palms. He needed a break, just a little one. He sat back from the fire, stretched his arms and aching back, and decided to cool his hands in the water lapping at the shore.

  The icy water felt delicious on his raw palms. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the slow numbing sensation.

  “CRAAAK!” His eyes flew open and he spun around at the horrific noise. A small black crow lay by the side of the fire, feathers steaming and scorched, molten sap running down its motionless body.

  “Ivy!” Angus shrieked and raced to her.

  He had left the sap cooking unattended over the fire. It was jumping and popping in the pot. It must have gotten too hot and exploded. Exploded all over Ivy. He grabbed the pot handle and pulled it off the coals, burning his fingertips. Then he tenderly picked up the little black body. Its neck hung limp in his hand. Its eyes were glazed and gray, a sharp contrast to the bright, intelligent, black eyes he was used to seeing. The small chest lay still.

  “No! Ivy! No!” Angus sobbed, tears coursing down his cheeks. He gathered the little crow to his chest, and held it against his heart, as if its beating could make hers begin again, like a jumper cable between two car engines. His vision clouded by tears, he looked down at her body. “My fault. All my fault. I’m so sorry, Ivy. So terribly sorry. My wonderful friend. Ivy.” He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her feathery head.

  Chapter Twelve: Chef’s Surprise

  BP strutted into the cafeteria with Billy. By slyly copying off of Ivy’s paper, he had dispatched the math test quickly. He had purposely dropped his paper when Ms. Evergood came around to collect them. When she bent over to pick it up off the floor, he had raised his pencil to strike. Ivy had grabbed his wrist and mouthed “No!”, and he had missed his opportunity.

  The next period had introduced him to a mustachioed man with glasses named Mr. Stevenson who’d asked the class to write their impressions of a one-legged pirate named Long John Silver. BP had neither met nor heard of that particular scallywag, so he scrawled down his memory of Shep’s brother Jake, who’d lost his finger in a small explosion while he was cleaning the cannon. BP had been swabbing the deck at the time and remembered the burst of fire, and the detached digit flying through the air and landing on the deck with a splat. Jake had screamed “Me finger! Me finger!” BP had bent down to retrieve the bloody digit but a seagull dove out of the riggings, grabbed the severed member in its bill, and flew off. The finger was never seen again, and Jake was dubbed Mr. Stumpy. Mr. Stevenson had given him an odd look when he’d read the paper.

  Then had come art class, and BP had put his deck-swabbing skills to good use. He was still a little wobbly on land, and when the floor started to sway, he grabbed his easel to steady himself. The easel toppled to the side, struck Billy’s easel standing beside his, which struck Ivy’s standing next to that, and so on, like a row of dominoes. His classmates stared at him shocked, scowling, and paint-spattered. Because he alone was not drenched with paint, it fell to him to mop the floor while the others went to wash.

  And now he was ready to eat.

  “I’m starved!” he crowed. “Take me to the grub!”

  “Aye, aye, matey,” answered Billy. He held up his lunch box. “I’ll grab us a table while you get your meal.”

  BP followed the children who were standing in line waiting for a warm meal. He craned his neck forward to see what was being served. One woman in a hairnet sliced pepperoni and cheese pizzas and divided them up among the eagerly waiting students. Another hair-netted woman stared straight ahead with a bored expression on her face. She clutched a ladle and stirred a large, steaming cook pot. The students kept their distance from her like pirates avoiding the Fearsome Flea’s head on cleaning day.

  BP recognized the freckle-faced boy from art class and stood behind him in the lunch line.

  “What’s she got in there?” he asked, pointing to the large cauldron.

  “Chef’s Surprise.” The boy made a vomiting noise. “They take everything left over from the week before and mix it together. It’s disgusting.”

  BP watched anxiously as another pizza was brought out and cut into slices. He was nearing the front of the line but there were still at least ten students in front of him.

  “This is the last one, kids,” called the pizza lady as she sliced into the pizza. The line began to pulse as the children realized that many of them would be left to eat the dubious Chef’s Surprise.

  BP counted: One student, two students, how many slices of pizza were left? From his count, the freckle-faced boy would get the last piece! He wasn’t that big. BP reasoned it was worth a try to fight him for it. He muscled his way in front of him.

  “Hey! You cut the line!” protested the boy, shoving him.

  “Did not!” said BP, shoving back.

  “Did too!” said the boy, punching BP in the arm.

  “No fighting!” A shrill voice rebuked them. The boys left off pushing each other and turned to see Ivy marching determinedly toward them. “What are we? Animals?”

  “It’s my turn next. It’s my slice!” the boy appealed to Ivy.

  “There’s no way I’ll be eatin’ from that cauldron of filth!” argued BP.

  Ivy shrugged her shoulders at the two squabbling boys and said, “Looks like you’re both having Chef’s Surprise today.” They spun around and watched the next child in line, who had been waiting patiently while they quarreled, walk off with the last pizza slice.

  Lunch was beyond repulsive, and this from a pirate who was used to eating lumpy oat bits and watered down salmon stock. The Chef’s Surprise was chunky and glutinous. There were specks of something black, and a slimy green seaweed-like vegetable spread throughout. BP closed his eyes, took a nibble and tried to swallow, but the texture alone made him gag. He glared at Ivy sitting across the room with several girls complacently chewing a carrot. If she hadn’t distracted him, he might have been able to snatch that last piece of pizza.

  Billy looked sympathetically at him. “Dude, that is really gross. You can’t possibly eat that. Here, have some of my sandwich.”

  “Mate, that is right kind of ye,” said BP taking a bite of the bologna and American cheese Billy offered. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Ye’ve always been a good mate to me, and I willna forget it. I’ll stand beside ye in battle any day.”

  Billy looked embarrassed. “Dude, it’s just a sandwich. Here, have some chips.”

  BP savored the salty crispness of the fried potatoes.

  “Hey, Angus.” BP looked up and narrowed his eyes at Ivy who hovered over him. “How’s your lunch?”

  “What do ye think?” he growled.

  “I just wanted you to know, so you’re not surprised when you get your math grade,” said Ivy.

  “Know what?” asked BP crunching a chip.

  “I saw you copying off of me, so I wrote down all the wrong answers. That means, you flunked your math test,” she said.

  BP shrugged. He didn’t care. He was a pirate. He’d be going back to the Fearsome Flea where no one did math. But Billy was shocked.

  “But then you got them all wrong too, Ivy,” said Billy.

  “I told Ms. Evergood, and she let me fix it right after class,” said Ivy. “I’m surprised at you Angus. You knew that math backwards and forwards. Why did you cheat?”

  “I told ye! My name’s BP, not Angus, and I’ve need of a good dagger, a bit of plunder, and a warm meal, not math!” said BP.

  “Whatever. Stick with your silly pirate story. I
just wanted you to know,” sighed Ivy walking back to her table.

  “Angus, I mean Booty Poker, this is not good dude, not good at all,” Billy shook his head solemnly.

  “It doesna matter, One Eye. We’ll be aboard the Fearsome Flea before the day is out,” responded BP cheerfully. “No need for math on the high seas.”

  “Dude, this is a fun game and all, but get real. Your mom is gonna freak out when she sees that grade. Worse if Ms. Evergood tells her you cheated. You really shouldn’t have copied off Ivy. You are gonna be grounded until you’re twenty,” said Billy.

  BP laughed and looked uncomprehendingly at Billy. “You’ve run a good rig on me One-Eye. But enough of the joke. Let’s get to the dock.” He poked around in his bag until he found Mrs. Clark’s earrings. He poked a hoop through each ear lobe, and tightened the diamond studs in the two remaining holes.

  Billy stared at him. “Wow, you are really taking this pirate thing far. Does your mom know you’re wearing her jewelry?”

  Just then, the freckle-faced boy walked past the table carrying his bowl of Chef’s Surprise. He moved to one side to let a girl pass and jostled BP’s hand causing him to tug painfully on his ear.

  “Watch yerself, ye bilge rat!” snarled BP pushing him away.

  “Who you calling a bilge rat, line cutter?” the boy responded, pushing back. The bowl dropped out of his hand and bits of the glutinous mass spilled on BP’s leg.

  BP looked down at the Chef’s Surprise staining his pant leg. It was revolting. He didn’t know how landlubbers got even, but he sure knew how pirates did. He reached into his own bowl, pulled out a particularly nasty glob of cold seaweed, and hurled it in the boy’s general direction. Unfortunately, he missed.

  “Hey!” yelled a short boy munching on an apple at the next table as he wiped the mess from his glasses. He picked up his neighbor’s glass of milk and lobbed it toward BP. The milk splashed down the front of a girl walking to the garbage with her tray. She shrieked and dumped the remnants of her lunch on a large boy at another table, who up until that moment had been belching the alphabet. He hooted happily and threw handfuls of Chef’s Surprise in every direction.