Jim Morgan and the Pirates of the Black Skull (8 page)

“Rare stuff that is, young master Morgan,” Philus said. His voice grew low and urgent. “Won’t bother telling you what it is or from whence I got it. You’d hardly believe me if I did, and I’m not sure you really want to know. All you need to know is this: one administration of a potion made from this elixir, and you are guaranteed to turn the tables on your foes.”

Jim closed his eyes. The hot fire crackled behind him. The warm bottle sent waves of heat up his arm. He pictured himself holding
Bartholomew Cromier at sword point - the very way the pale captain had once held him, back in his father’s study so long ago. In Jim’s mind, Bartholomew’s father, Count Cromier, was there too, on his knees and begging for mercy. Jim imagined locking them up with Aunt Margarita, sorrowful misery dripping from their faces. Jim’s friends would then cheer him on as he rebuilt Morgan Manor with the reclaimed wealth of pirate treasure.

“Yes,” Jim said, his voice hungry. “This is what I need.”

“Indeed it is, Master Morgan. Now, how much would something like that be worth to you, my boy?”

Jim’s shoulders slumped. The glorious fantasy burning a hole in his mind evaporated like smoke off a match. The fact that all Jim had ever owned was now burned to a blackened crisp rolled over him like a wave. He had nothing, not a farthing to his name. Now even this one chance to set it all straight, to get even with the Cromiers, was about to slip through his fingers.

“I don’t have any money. I can’t afford it, sir.” Jim held the bottle out to Philus, his chin drooping toward his chest. But the old man grabbed both Jim’s hand and the bottle and held them tight together. For a small man, his grasp was uncannily strong.

“Easy, lad,” Philus said. He clucked his tongue and shook his head, the smile still fixed upon his face. “Empty pockets and broken hearts often walk hand in hand, don’t they? But I told you I was here to ease your ills, did I not? I’m here to help you, not rob you, my boy. Yet nothing worth anything in this life is free, is it? However, being the reasonable merchant I am, I would be willing to come to a trade for a single dose of revenge. Surely you have a little something to trade for this golden opportunity.”

“I have nothing,” Jim said. A lump formed in his throat. Philus chuckled slowly, though, and let his sly smile stretch a bit further.

“Trust an old salesman, Jim Morgan. Nobody has nothing. We’ve all got something we can trade. It just depends on how badly we want whatever it is that we want. Now, think hard! Are you absolutely sure have you nothing to trade?” For a brief second - Jim could not even
be entirely sure he saw it - Philus’s eyes flicked down to his coat. As though an invisible hand had dropped a rock in his pocket, Jim remembered the square shape that jabbed him in the side every now and again.

His father’s box.

A sudden hope surged through Jim’s mind. All his fantasies of plunging those wretched Cromiers into prison and restoring the house of Morgan roared back to possibility. Without thinking, Jim pulled the box from his pocket. Handing the bottle of Revenge back to Philus, he flipped open the box and looked inside.

The letter, the moonwater, and the necklace all lay within, safe and sound. One by one Jim considered them all.

The letter, lying folded beneath the vial of moonwater, had turned out to be more than just a letter. It held a secret from Jim’s father – possibly even a map to buried treasure. Jim could never part with it. Of course, in order to read whatever was hidden upon the letter he would need the vial of moonwater lying on top of it. But, just peeking out from under one edge of the tattered parchment, a coil of fine silver chain glimmered in the firelight – Jim’s mother’s necklace.

Swallowing so hard it hurt, Jim withdrew the necklace. He closed the lid behind it with a soft tap and put the box back in his pocket. The shell charm dangled at the end of the chain, spinning slowly before Jim’s eyes. Philus Philonius let out a low whistle at the sight of it.

“Well, I say, Master Morgan, that is a lovely necklace, indeed. Fairly small, not much silver really, but quite, quite lovely.”

“It was my mother’s,” Jim said, his eyes fixed on the silver shell, all but glowing in the moonlight. A pair of strong, invisible bands squeezed Jim’s chest.
Don’t do it,
a voice whispered in his mind. The voice could have belonged to Lacey, or Phineus, or even Jim’s father.

“Not much silver, really,” Philus repeated. He leaned his little face so close to the necklace that his nose nearly tapped the shell. His fingers were reaching for it, though they never touched the charm. “But for you, my boy – for you it would be just enough - just enough to take a crack at those who have taken everything from you. It would
be just enough for a chance to reverse your fortunes. You have only to say the word.”

Jim stared at the necklace. His insides churned and he felt as though he would be sick. It seemed as though his arm wanted to shove the necklace back into his pocket and his legs wanted to run away. But in Jim’s mind, all he could see was a world put right – a world with the Cromiers locked up like animals and Morgan Manor built anew, a proper home for Jim and all his friends. He could build a room, Jim told himself, a whole wing of the new house to honor his father and his mother. Surely that would make up for the cost of this one necklace, would it not?

Jim slowly extended his arm and offered the necklace to Philus. At the last moment he nearly yanked the necklace back and ran away, but Philus pushed the bottle of warm Revenge into Jim’s other hand. Jim felt the heat in one palm and the cool metal in the other.

He let go of the cold silver chain.

“Aha!” Philus announced with a whoop. “Then it is done! A well-struck bargain my boy, and I do believe you came away with the better end of the deal, I do say, I do say. But now, to prepare your concoction!”

Philus leapt from the step, flute to his lips. A rollicking, raucous tune, wild and dangerous, spilled into the night. All by itself the fire whipped into a burning whirlpool of orange and yellow tongues, so bright and so hot that Jim covered his face with his arm and fell back on his seat in the sand. When he dared to look again, he found a black cauldron, perhaps summoned from the dark night itself, hovering above the fire. Water steamed within, frothing and bubbling over the sides.

Philus danced around the cauldron, his fingers flying over the twin-piped flute. Even when the old man stole the enchanted instrument into some hidden pocket, the melody continued to thrum in Jim’s ears, like wind through the trees. From other unseen pockets the tiny man withdrew the potion’s ingredients, chanting their names as he dropped them into his magic brew.

“Three drops of venom, squeezed from a scorpion’s sting!”

“Four yellow petals, torn from Birdsfoot Trefoil!”

“Two black feathers, fallen from Nemesis’s wings!”

“And one rose, cut from Brutus’s garden!”

Every item dipped into the cauldron’s depths sparked the enchanted tincture with thick smoke and flashing color. First came a sickly yellow, then a fiery orange. After that was a bruised purple, and lastly an emerald green. The colors dazzled Jim’s eyes. They were not quite natural colors in the potion, nor quite earthly scents upon the smoke. This was real magic. Jim knew it in his gut and felt it in his bones. It was as real as the Pirate Vault of Treasures or the Amulet of Portunes, both of which Jim had faced during his time in London.

“Now boy, the final touch to bend all the others toward your noble purpose.” Philus danced over to Jim, wrapping his small, strong fingers around Jim’s wrist. Pulling Jim over to the cauldron, Philus unstopped the vial and drew Jim’s hand over the boiling concoction. The heat burned against Jim’s skin and he wanted to snatch his hand away. But Philus was stronger than his small frame belied. He held Jim’s arm firmly in place and carefully, oh so carefully, let slip one perfectly measured drop from the bottle of Revenge into the cauldron’s brew.

The moment the liquid splashed into the potion, smoke and magic erupted in a column of red fire. The explosion threw Jim back from the cauldron and into the sand, his eyes closed tight with fear. When Jim found the courage to open them again, all was calm once more. The fire had died to a lazy burn, the smoke had drifted off in a strong sea breeze, and the potion in the cauldron had settled into a bubbling simmer, glowing a dim, blood red. The faint scent of burnt honey hung in the air.

Philus produced a pair of long, wooden tongs and reached into the red brew. He swirled the mixture with the tongs once, twice, and then on the third, delicately squeezed the tongs shut and withdrew what remained of the rose cut from Brutus’s garden. The red petals, still full and blossomed and curled, had turned to ashy gray, and the stem to solid black. On one side, just beneath the color-drained flower,
protruding and glistening with potion, sat a single curved thorn. Philus held the rose stem toward Jim from between the tongs.

“Here, my boy, take it. Take it if you will, but do be careful! Mind the thorn.” Jim reached out with a trembling hand and took the rose stem from Philus, pinching it between two fingers below the wicked sticker. “Now, listen to me close, lad, and listen well, for I will say these words only once. This potion will grant you but one chance to strike revenge against your foes and reverse your fortunes. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jim said. The rose stem was hot in his hand from the fire. It stung his fingers, but he refused to drop it into the sand.

“There is but one ingredient that yet remains to spark the spell: a single drop of your blood. You must wait for your enemies to be close, boy. Even if it means waiting until fortune, fate, and foes have you under their boot. You must hold your enemies in your gaze when you ignite the spell. That is of paramount importance! Hold them in your gaze, boy! Then prick your finger with the thorn. Do not prick lightly! You must dab the thorn in blood. Do this and the road of time will lead you inevitably to your revenge. Do you understand?

“Yes,” Jim said. He could hardly wait for the chance to put this magic to work and undo those horrible murderers and thieves.

“Good,” said Philus. “Then be on with you. It has gotten late and you should be home. Doing magic has drained me of my strength and soured my mood. I must rest and regain my vigor.”

Jim took a good, long look at the old man, and found that he indeed seemed to have aged some years in but the last few moments. All but ignoring Jim, Philus Philonius trudged to his wagon and dropped down on the little step. He withdrew his flute once more and began to play that same sad song he’d been playing when Jim had first stumbled upon him.

“Thank you, Mr. Philonius,” Jim said. But the old man’s eyes were now closed and Jim’s words fell on deaf ears. So Jim pulled his box from his pocket and gently set the blackened rose stem on top of his father’s letter for safekeeping. Then he strode off down the beach, the
flute song playing softly as he went. Jim had gone but a few paces, when a last pang of guilt or regret struck him. He thought back to his silver necklace. He turned about to ask Philus to at least take good care of it for him, as it was special, or perhaps to hold it for him to buy back once he’d regained his fortune. But when Jim spun around, the wagon, the fire, and the little man were gone. Only the song lingered in the air for a few more lonely notes before it too faded away.

Jim took a deep breath, knowing now for certain that what was done was done. There was no turning back. As he made his way down the shore, the moon shining on the restless ocean waves, his thoughts dwelt on his forthcoming chance at justice. He thought on the rose stem in his father’s box, which felt heavier in his pocket than it ever had before.

Hot-blooded dreams of revenge bubbled over in Jim’s mind nearly the entire, long walk down the beach. It was only when the stables came in view that a small sting pricked Jim’s heart, like a bothersome splinter in his thumb. There would be no way he could properly explain the rose to his friends just yet. The Ratts would probably love the idea of vengeance, Jim thought, but MacGuffy and Lacey would most certainly disapprove, especially of his trading away his mother’s necklace.

So Jim concocted a slight bending of the truth as he stepped from the sand onto the grassy hill leading up to the stables. He came up with a story about how he lost the necklace while running down the beach, and how he failed to find it in the dark no matter how hard he searched. He loathed the idea of lying outright, but there was no other way. Jim had just formulated the right words when he pushed open the stable doors.

Lacey, MacGuffy, and the Ratts all sat on the dirt floor in a half circle about an old lantern. Jim knew from the looks on their faces that he was in for a rough reception. MacGuffy furiously squinted his one good eye beneath a furrowed brow, tears glistened on Lacey’s cheeks, and not one roguish smile stretched across a Ratt Brother’s face. Jim
sighed deeply. He expected his friends to be none too pleased with him for running off the way he did, but he hardly thought it would be this harsh.

“I’m sorry,” Jim began. “I know I shouldn’t have run off like that. I just needed to get away for a few moments. But I’m back now and there’s no need to worry.”

“Oh, but we were worried, young Morgan,” a voice replied – but this voice belonged to none of Jim’s friends sitting on the floor. It came from a shadow on the wall. “We are so, so glad, that you have finally returned. In fact, you’re just in time.” Jim’s heart froze in his chest. His arms and legs turned to stone. He knew that voice. It often times echoed in the depths of his worst memories from the night he lost his father.

From behind the stable, in the farthest corner of the room, the owner of the voice stepped into the lamplight. His black coat and black hat oozed from the shadows. A crimson wig fell in long curls about a pale face and a purple scar ran the length of his left cheek. Jim trembled where he stood. An anguished cry froze in his throat.

Count Cromier had returned to finish what he started. He had returned to kill Jim Morgan.

EIGHT