Minerva's Voyage (11 page)
There was something about the Isle of Devils that seemed to make every man the enemy of every other, although true it is that Scratcher and Proule, even if partners of a sort, had made a fine start on their quarrels before they even set foot on land. It had happened to them. It had happened to Boors and Winters, who went at it hammer and tongs. I crossed my fingers, hoping it wouldn't happen to Fence and me. In any event, Proule threw one last threat at Scratcher and left. Scratcher took out his knife and waved it at Proule's retreating back. Then he fell headlong onto the floor, missing his own knife blade by an inch at most, and started to snore.
The next time I managed to escape I met up with Fence, whose master was more lenient about his comings and goings. In the spinney I had him count off the emblem verse in fives. His tongue tip hung a little out of his mouth in concentration. When he'd done, I began to solve the cipher.
“A crown,” I said triumphantly. “That's how it begins.”
“A crown? Is this a
royal
secret?” His eyes were round as apples.
“Perchance. That would be in accord with the words of the verse themselves.” The ship's dog had lolloped up to us wagging his tail cautiously. His tongue hung out a bit too. I shoved him away. He whined a bit but returned.
“What comes next?” Fence was patting him.
“Stop that, Fence, for mercy's sake, or the beast will never go elsewhere.”
Fence gave him a last pat. “I don't mind if he doesn't.
Don't forget, he trapped that pig for all of us. Shoo, Tem
pest,” he went on, without any conviction.
“Tempest”?
“That's what I've named him: Tempest, in honour of the storm. He had no name except âDog' before.” The animal lolled against him, before trotting over to a nearby tree and cocking a leg.
“Hmm. I guess he can't give away our cipher.” I turned back to the verse. “This is harder than Oldham's stupid les
sons.” I rotated the page a couple of times. “At.”
“Aye?”
“This would be much easier if I had a slate to write things down on,” I grumbled.
“Use the sand, like you did before.”
I scribbled in the dirt with a rather thorny stick, while Fence fidgeted and sucked the tip of his thumb, as was his wont. “The end,” I said finally, after wrestling with the let
ters, especially the secretary hand. I was very tired.
“The end? But we've hardly begun. Don't give up now.”
I sighed. “No, “the end” is part of the message: âThe crown at the endâ¦.”
“The end of what? The end of what?”
“Shh. Let me take another look.” I stared and scrib
bled in the sand, stared and scribbled some more. The sun rose high in the sky and beat down on us between the leaves. The words jumped up on down on the page. I began to sweat.
“âOf the path.' Yes, true it is, âThe crown at the end of the path.' That's the whole message,” I crowed, victorious at last. This was exciting. I had actually solved something. I imagined a great glittering crown on a beautiful pathway bordered by flowers. I waited for Fence to offer his congratulations.
“The path? What path?”
Elation drained out of me. “Well, how the hell should I know? We're in the right place, Devil's Island, according to the other emblem, so we'll have to look for it. Perhaps it even begins in the woods here. But we can't look today. I'm too tired. Scratcher kept me up all night, yammering and fighting with his henchman.” That reminded me. I still hadn't told Fence about Proule and Mary.
I lay down on the spinney floor and shut my eyes. Even so, I could still see light and dark, light and dark, shimmering across my eyelids as the sun patchworked through the canopy of the trees. And that blasted dog Tempest had lain down next to me. I could feel his hot breath against my side and hear little panting noises and grunts, but was too exhausted to do anything about it. I opened one eye, saw a black floppy ear standing straight up in the air and a white one pointing straight down. It gave the beast a quizzical expression, as if he were saying, “What's this knave about to do to me now?” I was about to do nothing. I couldn't even imagine lifting my hand to push him away, but I didn't need to. In a single blink he had gone, chasing after a lizard. I shut my eye again. And slept.
“Put the verse away and shut the chest,” I commanded when I awoke, as if Fence were my servant, in the same way that I was Scratcher's. “Cover it with earth. Commit the message to memory, as I will, and wipe out what's on the dirt. And then I have something to tell you about Proule.”
“Proule?”
I opened both eyes. “Hell's Bells, Fence, stop repeating everything I say or I'll go completely barmy. Yes, Proule. And Mary, his old enemy. And others.” That was a huge puzzle too. And one about to burst open like an overripe plum, suggested the small wicked voice in my ear.
Plums. I rubbed a new mosquite bite as I thought about them. I'd pilfered plenty off the barrows in Plymouth in the past. And now I'd had no supper, nor no breakfast either, and there wasn't a barrow nor shop in sight. I could almost taste the soft sweetness of the absent plums, though I remem
bered the pain when one got stuck on the way down when it wasn't ripe enough. Ouch. But now even an unripe plum was out of the question, though I was starved and ready to put up with anything.
When Fence had finished his tasks, I scrambled up and we went to look for molluscs in the confusion of rocks and sea at the shore. The tide was coming in, spraying the rocks, and we paddled our toes in the eddies. I told Fence what I'd seen and heard the day before, and his forehead creased. “A conspiracy?”
“It's possible.” I shrugged. I liked to think that much of my devilry had been washed clean away by the roar and whine of the sea storm. But now, true it is, having seen Proule and Mary and the others in the woods, I wanted a stake in any wickedness that might occur. My heart beat faster, my brain urged it, though I tried hard not to admit my interest even to myself. And I shouldn't even mention wickedness to Fence, I realized, who was still young, and straight and clean as an arrow. Or at least, so I liked to think. I said no more on the subject.
After eating a snail-like creature or two, which slunk down my gullet and comforted my belly, I commenced looking for the emblem path with Fence, who wouldn't leave off nagging. We searched the rest of the day in the woods, our legs sorely prickled by thorns and sharp grass. The wind was still. The sun slanted through the trees and spider webs, its brilliant yellow slats spearing the ground at intervals as if to guide us. The tide finished coming in, and started going out. But we found nothing. Mayhap the path was overgrown. Or mayhap it had never been there in the first place. It was a bafflement.
The ocean was beginning to roar. Rain spat and then, with little warning, poured from clouds. Lightning rent the welkin as ants ran for cover and we ran for home. Just before we reached the settlement we caught sight of three shadowy forms half hidden by a large rock. They stood very close to each other, close enough to be telling a secret.
“Is that Admiral Winters?” I asked, sodden from head to foot.
“Looks to be him. And Proule. Who's the other?”
Jagged lightning lit the three figures, followed by an earsplitting stroke of thunder. “Why, Fence, good fellow, don't you see?” I blinked hard, trying to clear my eyes of rain. “A ragged red skirt, hair longer than the admiral's. There stands Mary Finney, bold as brass. That witch gets into everything.”
“At least there's three of them so they can't be a-lying down together,” Fence said seriously, wiping his face.
“True it is.” I laughed, but wondered what Mary wanted with Winters and Proule. No answer occurred to me, unless she was eager to tittle-tattle about a fourth person, perhaps Scratcher. Or me. At that moment she passed us by, hurrying back to the cabins, her hair plastered to her head and neck. The two men had disappeared.
“What you looking at, stupid?” she asked.
“Not you, Mary, Mary Fish-Finney. Not you.”
“You just remember that, toad spawn. You ain't seen no one.” She had been with Proule, that vicious beast, and Winters, the real power of the settlement in spite of that title going to Boors, so she was confident. Whatever she'd been doing with them, she was safe. Fence and I waited for a moment before following the same trail back.
I finally reached Scratcher's and shoved several baked eggs, leftover from lunch, down my throat. I peeled and ate so fast that one got stuck, and I had to choke it back up. Afterwards I slid into my habitual corner, still too drenched and chilled to sleep. Mary, Winters, Proule, I whispered to myself over and over again as I tried to rub myself warm. Fish Fin, Winter Nights, Cat Pee. And occasionally, as I finally began to nod off, xxyyx, yyxxy. Scratcher, Heaven be praised, was in a drunken stupor, crying and mumbling about his lost chest and his lost treasure. If he only knewâ¦.
There was much alarmed talk. The admiral had disappeared several days before. So had Proule. So had Salt-fish Mary, though no one took much notice of that. Others were missing from the settlement too, including the men I'd seen in the spinney speaking to Proule. And though I'd searched everywhere, I couldn't find Peter Fence. That was most alarming of all. He had melted into thin air. I knew he wouldn't leave me, not willingly anyhow. I was all he had in the way of comfort in the world. He must have been forcibly taken. Or worse, drowned.
Boors was more demented than usual. With Fence doing a disappearing act, he had no one to swat flies for him. He slapped his legs and arms continuously while calling for the boy in a quavering voice. Within a day he'd lost both his nightcap and his umbrella. Piggsley, who had made a fly swatter out of twigs, was obliged to help him out. Others were more concerned with practical matters.
“With the admiral and half the crew gone,” said an exhausted-looking colonist, “how will we ever reach Jamestown?” Half the crew was a bit of an exaggeration, but at least we got his point. Now we had only the lunatic Boors to lead us. And Boors would be incapable of stepping out of a wooden bucket on his own, never mind anything else.
“I have to get to Virginia,” yelled Scratcher, as the news sunk into his sotted brain. “I'm to be secretary.”
No one was listening to him. He wasn't secretary yet. They were arguing with one another about what was best to be done.
“We should go out and search for 'em,” said a mariner.
“We should stay put and let them get on with it. More food for us,” said another, rubbing his belly.
“Why must we leave here?” asked a small girl in a small voice. “I don't want to go back on the sea.”
“There's enough food to keep us all full. I'm for staying on this island forever,” said one of the colonists.
“I'm to be secretary of the colony, I say,” Scratcher screeched, his face purple.
“There won't be enough food. Not come winter.”
“Rot, there's plenty of food for all,” replied another voyager, ignoring Scratcher altogether. He glared around as if daring someone to contradict him.
Scratcher screeched again, like a drunken monkey. The wind was beginning to rise and there was a scent of rain and wine.
“Little Lettis has said true. We're likely better off here on Devil's Island than goin' awa' over to Virginia, anyway, which Winters will make us do if he comes hither again.”
“Right,” agreed someone else, pulling his tatty cape around him. “God knows what awaits us on the seas, never mind Jamestown.”
A young woman began to cry. “I hate this Isle of Devils.”
“Me too,” whined a little boy with a dead crab in his hand.
“I heard tell the admiral was building a pinnace. Perhaps they be already gone. My intended be in Jamestown. Now I never will see him again.”
The pilot arrived. “Who's missing in addition to the admiral?”
“Michael Angel, for oneâ¦.”
“No, I've just seen him.”
“Mortimer Proule is gone.”
“Who cares? We're better off without the old sod.”
“Secretary of the colonyâ¦.” moaned Scratcher.
“Shut up!” yelled the pilot. Scratcher shut up.
Other voices were rising and vanishing into the wind, and people were shoving one another. It was beginning to pour with rain, cold and hard, as it had done all this week. They would never come to agreement. They would never do anything. They had, in fact, forgotten they were talking about Winters and were fighting with each other over nothing of importance at all.
I felt desolate and lonely but wasn't about to give up. Creeping into our hut behind Scratcher, who had finally given up his claims of grace and favour, at least for the moment, I thought, as I warmed my bones somewhat, about what I might or could accomplish in the light of this new mystery. Not in the interests of wickedness, for once, but of friendship. I missed my boy Fence. The next afternoon, with the wintry sun streaming through the trees, I was back in the spinney searching for clues.
