Other Islands: Book Three of the Hook & Jill Saga

by Andrea Jones

“Touché,” Nibs conceded.

  “You’re not afraid of men, either?” Tom grinned. “Of losing your subordinates’ respect?”

  “I hold little fear that my men won’t behave, Mr. Tom. They see Pierre-Jean locked in the brig for disobedience. He looked forward to this fête as much as the rest of us, yet there he sits. No one wishes to spoil this opportunity.”

  Nibs gazed across the beach to scrutinize Cecco. “Aye, the crew are the least of our worries.” The wrinkle between his eyebrows sharpened, and he and Tom glanced at one another, then turned to study Jill as they neared her.

  The young men were welcomed at Hook’s pavilion, and took their places among the officers. As bo’sun’s mates, Nibs and Tom were charged with discipline, as was Guillaume, second of Red Lady. In or out of uniform, all three were prepared, this evening, to keep their backs straight and their brains clear.

  The pitch of the merriment rose higher once the People of the Clearing arrived. Lily, Lelaneh, and Red Fawn, escorted by the bronzed and brawny twins, carried armloads of fruits, breads, and drink. The ladies’ attire displayed various gifts of the sailors. They wore their soft native skirts with fringe dangling down their legs, and flowery European shawls were tied provocatively about their hips or flowed from their shoulders. Their bracelets and their new earrings shone mellow like the wakening stars. They smelled of wood smoke, honey, and home. Smiles trailed them, as men turned to admire.

  The Men of the Clearing had tucked their new axes in their belts, and strapped bedrolls onto their backs. Judging by appearances, they’d attempted to tame their bright hair, no doubt in token of their respect for Jill. At the commodore’s pavilion, they paused to set down a handsome rocking chair. “A gift for our mother,” said the first twin.

  “A throne for the Storyteller,” said the second, and they both smiled at her. The chair’s frame was of cedar, still redolent of its zest, and it was overlaid with mesh woven of willow strips, supple enough to require no cushions, yet strong enough to hold her secure while immersed in her tales.

  “It’s perfect,” Jill replied. “The very thing I required for tonight.” With pleasure on her face, she accepted the hands of her sons as they ushered her to her seat of honor. “Your craftsmanship surpasses itself,” she murmured, laying her fingers on the chair’s arms, fondling its smooth, bumpy finish. It creaked companionably, welcoming her weight. “This seat is inspirational. I feel a story brewing already.”

  “We’re eager to hear it,” they said in turns, “Just as eager as we were in the hideout, growing up.”

  “And now that you’re grown, I’m no longer obliged to sweep up your sawdust.”

  They all laughed. Having accepted her gratitude, the Men of the Clearing made their compliments to Hook and the officers, and excused themselves. They stowed their burdens; then, drawn to the roast’s aroma, they soon took the grip of the spit in their own hands. Chef’s galley mate flopped on a cool patch of sand, panting in relief.

  Wittles, the ship’s carpenter, had been busy, too, knocking together some rough wooden tables, now covered in cheery cloths and burdened with serving dishes. The native women laid out their victuals with the feast there, then crowded round Chef. “Such a beautiful boar!” they exclaimed, embracing him soundly.

  His plump face creased into smiles at their attention. Jacquot stared openmouthed, and regretted leaving his post. But, nostalgia or no, Chef did not regret leaving LeCorbeau. The French captain had his virtues, but he’d never admitted females to his amusements. Between Hook and LeCorbeau, Chef thought, vive la différence.

  The pirates kindled the bonfire farther east on the beach, nearer the ships, which were fading to silhouette. The vessels dipped in the swells that rolled landward to lap at the shore. With a clatter, Mr. Noodler dropped an armload of driftwood near the flames. Alf Mason jumped back.

  “Blast your backward hands, Noodler. You’ve shattered my toes.”

  “Apologies, mate,” said Noodler, tipping his tricorn, and Mason waded into the surf to soothe the sting.

  “Fill my tankard, and I’ll forget it.” Mason threw Noodler his cup.

  Kegs and casks formed a line not far from the fire, and so did the men, filling their flasks and relaxing to the rhythm of the revels. Each man kept his eye on the pavilion, and, quiet but curious, exchanged observations with the others. The French crew, too, had bonded enough with the Rogers to share in ship’s gossip.

  To roam the Island without weapons was madness, and Hook never forbade arms at his merrymakings. Each man kept his steel close to hand. Still, the sailors noted the famed knife tucked in Cecco’s belt, over his scarlet sash, and they witnessed his fingers caressing it. On his biceps, he bore both of the golden armbands he’d once shared with Jill. He was seen to accept the wine that Jill offered in her only white hand. He was not seen to taste it.

  With a flourish, the fiddler concluded a jig, and the concertina oozed into music. The seamen sang along, some cavorting, some clapping, all waiting for the women. When Noodler returned with the tankard, Mason swigged a gulp, then pitched his voice over the noise. “I wish the ladies would finish fawning over Chef. That little dollop of lard is arrogant enough.”

  “With good reason, Alf. I might kiss him myself for a slab of that boar.” Noodler lifted his face to the sea breeze that blew up the beach and swayed the surrounding woods. His gold teeth gleamed as he grinned. “Ah, ’tis good to be anchored on the Island again. Land, ladies, green grass, and vittles. No port in the world be more restful.”

  “Maybe so, but best to take your pleasure quick. I’m keeping a weather eye for sparks, tonight. And I don’t mean from the bonfire.”

  “How’s that?”

  Mason leaned closer and lowered his voice. “There’s embers alight. It won’t take an effort to fan them to flame.”

  Noodler was an able seaman, but not much for metaphor. Seeing his vacant look, Mason explained, “I’m talking of the bad blood between the commodore and the captain.” He jerked his head toward the pavilion, where Jill leaned back in her rocking chair. She watched the festivity, and Captain Cecco watched her.

  Noodler nodded. “A good man is our Cecco.”

  “He deserved his fair fortune. The commodore did right by him, giving him the ship.”

  “Aye, but ’twas a cruel hard blow to lose the lady, so it was.”

  “A test of his temperament,” said Mason. “We’ve yet to see how he’ll weather it.” As the squeezebox wheezed to an end, Mason sealed his mouth with his tankard, but like every man present, he and Noodler kept their eyes wide.

  Commodore Hook offered his arm to raise Red-Handed Jill from her seat, and she took her place between him and Captain Cecco. To their right ranged Nibs, Tom, and Mr. Smee; to their left, Mr. Yulunga and Mr. Guillaume, all coming to attention. Hook signaled to Smee, who hailed the sailors. At the sound of the bo’sun’s roar, the company turned their backs to the bonfire and gravitated toward the tent, forming a throng before the cluster of officers. Expectant grins bloomed on their faces.

  “Belay there, mates!” called Smee, and the crowd quieted. “We’ve a night of carousing ahead, thanks to our commodore. Let’s be raising our glasses, with three cheers for our host. Sing out hearty, now, lads. To himself, to Commodore Hook!”

  The assembly joined in, hoisting their drinks to shout as one man, their voices uniting in low, vibrant chant:

  “Hip, hip…huzzah!

  “Hip, hip…huzzah!

  “Hip, hip…huzzah!”

  The cheer shook underfoot and rumbled round in their chests. They all smiled to hear the echoes rebound from the forest. They drank deeply then, savoring their draughts.

  Cecco, too, drank to the commodore. He was seen now to empty his goblet.

  Next the commodore strode forward, raising his arm, and his cuff fell back to reveal the wicked, gleaming hook. He addressed his guests. “I return thanks to you, men of the Roger, and men of Red Lady. Our first engagement as a fleet met success. I commend y
our quick action. I praise your courage in confronting the enemies who held me captive.”

  Gratified grunts met his words, and nods and winks between seamen. Hook’s sapphire eyes glittered in the light of the torches, reminding his pirates of prizes.

  “Each member of my company earned tonight’s indulgence. As has Captain Cecco, who led you to my rescue.” Hook paid his tribute to Cecco in a bow. With dignity, Cecco inclined his head, accepting the gesture. Then Hook faced forward again, his scarf falling over his shoulder. Flourishing his claw, he saluted his men.

  “My sincere thanks…merci beaucoup…” And, facing Cecco, “Grazie mille.”

  Gleeful, a volley of voices rang out. Cecco was seen solemnly to applaud.

  Hook waited as the crest of enthusiasm broke over him and settled, then said, “But both the Lady and I exult in more than my personal safety. Tonight, we rejoice in accord. Confronted with a ferocious foe, our band stands steadfast. Undaunted, our divergent force fights as one. Let us combine in celebration as we combine in battle. Gentlemen; ladies: I give you ‘unity!’ ” Smiling half-way, he looked sideways at Jill.

  The men hollered their approval. Appearing pleased, Jill smiled and kissed her scarlet hand to the commodore. Turning, she curtsied to Cecco. Smee waved to the players, and the fifer piped up with a ditty. The whistle was joined by fiddles, and next by the drums, and as music burst forth, the party started in earnest.

  Formally, Hook shook Cecco’s hand, then Smee’s and then Yulunga’s. Jill followed suit, saving Cecco for last. He clasped her hand, looking grateful to do so although she offered her left, and not her marked and more meaningful hand. And then, as the men observed under cover of their revels, he appeared startled, for as the melody swelled, Jill pulled him to the sand to lead the dancing. In a daze he followed her, while Hook reached out for Lily. And, suddenly, Captain Cecco was seen to be smiling.

  The chef smiled, too. Although he was vain, he was not a man who denied his mistakes. As the moon appeared low on the eastern seascape, distorted as it waned from the full, he watched the royalty dance, and he learned that his appraisal was mistaken.

  His captain’s appetite had never waned. Like the fleet before the foe, it stood steadfast.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Knowing Red-Handed Jill, Mrs. Hanover should have prepared to find her imprint on this Island. But until today, she didn’t realize how thoroughly the lady left her mark. Mrs. Hanover encountered evidence of Jill’s presence— even her adolescent presence— everywhere. Aboard ship, Mrs. Hanover was subservient to Jill. Ashore she was subject to Wendy. The lady’s dominance reinforced Mrs. Hanover’s resolve to limit the time she must spend here. No matter what Mr. Yulunga commanded for tonight, Mrs. Hanover had designed her own exploit.

  Preparing her plan for action, Mrs. Hanover showed only obedience this afternoon. She now stood before the hut she’d been told was the Wendy House. Approaching the door with her bundle under her arm, she peered around the Clearing. The little shack’s chimney puffed out the red smoke that rose to the sky, a perpetual portent sending various messages to various beholders. Mrs. Hanover had not made up her mind as to its meanings. This smoke signal was one of the mysteries of the Island. In some way, she felt, it promised satisfaction.

  Rowan, Lightly, and the children could be heard laughing and splashing as they washed at the nearby brook. Weary from assisting with the little ones’ games, Mrs. Hanover set her envy aside and entered the Wendy House, to lie down on a cot. For a moment she was tempted to make use of the china tea set. On a second look, though, she realized that the sugar bowl was missing, and, closing her eyes to Wendy’s relics, she soon dozed off. The wind sighed through the leaves that formed the walls, and when afternoon waned outside the viney window, she rose refreshed and aflutter with excitement for this evening’s escapade.

  She shook out her skirts. Smiling, she calculated by the slant of the light that the time to shed this dress drew near. She re-rolled her bundle, making sure it was ready, then brushed her brown hair and twisted it into a knot, pinning it in place. Touching her one golden earring, she checked the strength of its catch. She couldn’t afford to lose her only ornament in the woods. She knew Yulunga. Tonight’s play might cost her its mate.

  The trees dwarfed her when she emerged, their massive limbs catching the breeze. In the treetops, a patch of plumage caught her eye where the sentinel parrot stood guard. But the toys and games had been tidied, and no one else was about. She pricked her ears as, from within the larger structure, childish voices rose above the birdsong. She followed them.

  The oaken doorway stood open for her, and Mrs. Hanover slipped into the home and stole up the stairs. Peeping into the nursery, she discovered Rowan and Lightly sitting cross-legged on the floor, each with an infant on his arm and a youngster on his lap. While Lightly narrated a bedtime story— attributed to Wendy, of course— Mrs. Hanover entered and surveyed the room. Before too long, she would have to fashion her own nursery, of sorts, but she very much doubted it would feel quite like this one.

  It contained a curious combination: native rugs and blankets on the beds, the walls, and the floor, shot through with bold colors. European drapes to dress the window, a brocade of deep green, like the surrounding forest. The window itself as large as a door, open to admit the fragrance of the garden. A tiny fireplace. A cradleboard. A pendulum clock on the mantelpiece, with pinecones and acorns; dolls made of cornhusks; a wooden ship. The furnishings soaked up the sound, and softened Lightly’s voice. No echoes rang in this room, to make one feel cold. Through its mix of cultures, the one constant of this nursery was coziness.

  The fire wasn’t kindled this temperate evening, but Lightly and Rowan had lit the nightlights. Burning on shelves in the corners, one light shone for each child, little seashells that glowed golden. Mrs. Hanover was drawn to examine one. As she moved closer, she inhaled its scent, like baked apples. For a brief space of time, she was transported to a flagstone kitchen in England, long ago, as the cook pulled scones from the oven. She remembered how the sweet, flakey taste stung her tongue. Like other young ones brought here from that world, Mrs. Hanover felt a pang of homesickness, and then she forgot it.

  Lightly ended his tale to happy hoots from the children, and he looked up at Mrs. Hanover. “There you are, just in time to tuck in our sleepyheads. Can you give us a lullaby?”

  The sense of well-being abandoned Mrs. Hanover. She had no notion of tucking in children. As for lullabies, she couldn’t recall one, nor did she feel she could sing if she did. After years of silence at her father’s command, she could only just manage to speak. Song was beyond her capabilities.

  “No,” she blurted. But these young men had treated her civilly today, and, not wishing to alert their suspicions, she felt she should make up for her inability. “But I’ll lay the babies in their cribs.” She lifted Lily’s redheaded daughter from Rowan’s lap and looked around again, and her face showed a growing confusion. The two bigger children climbed onto cots, like the little bed in which Mrs. Hanover had slept as a very young girl. But no cradle could she find.

  The men chuckled at her bewilderment, and Lightly pointed to a basket on the floor. Mrs. Hanover had mistaken it for a hamper. As he showed her how to swaddle the baby tight in her wrappings, Lightly explained, “The cradle basket began with Wendy. She made shift with very few resources in our hideout under the ground. We had only the one big bed, you see, and we all tossed and turned through the nights. Michael was so small, Wendy appointed him to be the baby. She judged that placing him above the fray was the most careful course.” He waited while Mrs. Hanover arranged Rowan’s sister in the basket, then helped her swaddle the littlest boy-child, too.

  “When the twins built this grown-up house here in the Clearing, the only crib they could remember was Wendy’s invention. And so the tradition continues.” Lightly nestled the boy beside the girl, and, employing a system of ropes and pulleys attached to the rafters, he raised the basket to suspend it wel
l above the floor. Giving the cradle a nudge, he started it rocking. He turned to see Mrs. Hanover’s astonishment. Smiling, he reassured her, “The twins have refined the design, of course. It’s perfectly safe.”

  Mrs. Hanover blinked. Safety was not a condition she connected with childhood. The Wendy, after all, had not been her mother.

  Amid drowsy babbles, the men settled the youngsters in their cots and drew up the blankets. In the end, Rowan lulled the little ones to slumber himself, his chiseled features easing as he chanted. His song was one Lily used to sing to him in their tepee. Being familiar to these children, the melody was comforting, and soon their breathing steadied.

  Mrs. Hanover leaned by the window as she listened to Rowan’s croon. Little stars twinkled, as if chatting to one another in a language of light. Even ears as sharp as hers couldn’t catch their voices. She understood, though, that time was short, and she roused herself. She must make her escape before the lullabies ended, before night blacked her path.

  “Good evening,” she whispered to Lightly, and signed her intention to retire. She slipped down the stairs and out the front door. Her bare feet scurried through the dew, and she flung herself into the hut. Stripping down to her shift, she tossed her dress on Wendy’s cot, and snatched up the bundle.

  A twinge of excitement plucked her insides. Almost trembling, she closed the door, and she fled. The clement air met her skin. A feeling of freedom dashed with her. She was released from clothing; unbound from duty, she dared to assert her own will. This rushing was almost as titillating as what she was rushing to meet.

  In her flight toward a pirate ship, she couldn’t know that, once, Wendy played this same game.

  Filled with eagerness, Mrs. Hanover moved so swiftly that the sentinel parrot, unsure of himself, gave only the briefest of screeches. The Wendy House, where she was thought to be sleeping, stood silent in her wake. Rosy smoke surged, urgent, from its chimney, signaling to any beholder, this time, a single, simple message. Upon reading it, Wendy in her day would have flown into action. With the ladies away, though, no one witnessed its warning. Not one caught its mark of alarm.