Seven Dead Pirates (2 page)

Lewis didn’t say anything, but he for one was glad Great-Granddad still lived at home. Even if it was wrecked and shabby, even if it smelled funny, it was better than visiting a hospital. And after all, Shornoway
had
been a grand mansion once, a long time ago when it was first built. Even now, with most of the rooms closed off, you could still feel
something
as you walked down the halls. A cool, prickly pulse of long-gone excitement. Sometimes it was so strong it made the hair on Lewis’s arms stand up.

And sitting now in the back seat, Lewis wondered, as he’d wondered since he’d first heard them, about Great-Granddad’s whispered words.

Libertalia
. Had he gotten it wrong? No. He was sure that was what the old man had said. But what did it mean? And why did he say “you”? With such insistence, as if giving Lewis an order?

It probably
was
just nonsense, as his mother had said. All the same, Lewis decided to look up
libertalia
when he got home.

He fell asleep instead. His father led him, dozy, into the house.

The next morning, when his mother woke him to say that Great-Granddad had died in the night, Lewis was struck by an ache so powerful it took his breath away. It was like a fist clenching in his chest—and it surprised him. After all, they had been expecting this for a long time. Waiting, even.

He reminded himself that Great-Granddad was extremely old. He told himself that it couldn’t be much fun, lying on your back that way, staring at the ceiling, while other people gobbled up your chocolate-marshmallow cake.

Still, the ache remained.

Then he remembered.
Libertalia. You!

“Did he say anything?” asked Lewis. “You know. Before …”

“He died peacefully in his sleep, Lewis. He hasn’t said anything sensible in weeks.”

As the door closed behind her, Lewis shook his head. His mother was wrong. Great-Granddad
had
spoken. To him, Lewis. To him, alone!

At that, the tension in his chest eased. Lewis would
never have said it out loud, but the thing he suddenly felt was … proud. Of all the people in the whole world, Great-Granddad had chosen
him
to say his last words to.

And he knew suddenly, with a pounding in his heart, that those words had not been nonsense. They couldn’t be. Not the last words of a man who had lived so long and done so much. The very last words! They had to mean
something
.

Libertalia. You!

H
e asked his parents the next day. What does it mean?
Libertalia
. Neither of them knew. His father checked a dictionary, but it wasn’t listed.

“Sounds like the name of a rock-and-roll band,” said Mr. Dearborn. “Heh, heh. Why don’t we look on my computer?”

They did a search, but the results were confusing. There was a game called Libertalia, and there was also a long-ago place called Libertalia that may or may not have been real.

“A pirate haven,” said Mr. Dearborn, reading aloud. “It was mentioned in a book written in 1724 called
A General History of the Pyrates
. Supposed to be … 
let’s see … a kind of perfect society. A place where pirates could live as equals, in peace and harmony. Heh, heh. Funny idea, that. Pirates living in harmony? Says here that this Libertalia was on Madagascar. That’s an island, Lewis, just off Africa.”

“I know,” said Lewis. “So what do you think, Dad? Did Libertalia really exist?”

Mr. Dearborn shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He leaned forward to squint at the computer screen. “No proof of any kind. Just a legend. Good bit of fun, though! I remember, I used to play pirates when I was your age.”

No, thought Lewis. Not when you were
my
age. Nobody plays pirates when they’re almost twelve.

But he nodded and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

Lewis’s parents were ancient as parents go, so Mr. Dearborn had not been twelve for a
very
long time. He’d forgotten what it was like. He had also become a historian, which meant that he didn’t believe anything that didn’t come out of a book or museum.

As Lewis wandered away, he was more confused than ever.
Libertalia
. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He repeated the strange word to himself, like a chant, through Great-Granddad’s funeral. Which turned out to be nothing like he’d expected. For one
thing, hardly anyone came. Aside from his family and Mrs. Binchy, there were just four people there, all old. Two women, one man and one he-wasn’t-sure. Nobody cried except Mrs. Binchy, who snuffled noisily into a ratty tissue. Lewis wondered if
he
was supposed to cry. He couldn’t. Not if he’d tried. The service seemed to be about a stranger—some guy who had once been chairman of the Library Building Committee.

“What?” whispered Lewis’s mother. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” said Lewis.
Libertalia
. He must have been saying it out loud.

“Yes, you did. You were mumbling again.”

Lewis pressed his lips together.

“Stop mumbling,” said his mother.

The next morning, when his parents went to see Great-Granddad’s lawyer about the will, Lewis asked to go along. Maybe there’d be a clue, something to explain those last words.

The lawyer’s name—Mr. Lister—might have made Lewis laugh if he hadn’t coughed hard instead. He recognized Mr. Lister as one of the old people from the funeral. A tiny man, he looked even smaller sitting behind his huge desk, surrounded by dusty files. He read the will aloud in a sandpaper voice. Lewis didn’t
pay much attention until he heard his mother gasp.

“Surely you can’t be serious!”

“Yes, indeed,” rasped the lawyer. “Those are the terms of the will, Mrs. Dearborn. You inherit everything—the house known as Shornoway, all the property including the beachfront and all the furnishings. But your grandfather
did
, as I say, place a condition. Before you can inherit, your family—meaning yourself, Mr. Dearborn and young Lewis here—must live in the house called Shornoway for a period of at least six months.”

Mrs. Dearborn’s broad, pale face went as white as paper. “
Live
in Shornoway? That crumbling horror? Have you
seen
Shornoway?”

“Oh my, yes.” Mr. Lister broke into a wheezing chuckle. “But Mr. Douglas had strong feelings about the property, and I imagine he hoped … well, in any case, the will is clear. And quite in order.”

“In order” meant there was nothing to be done. Mrs. Dearborn argued for half an hour, just to make sure. If the Dearborn family wanted to inherit Shornoway, they would have to go
live
there. If they refused, the property would go to the Benevolent Association for Sailors Lost at Sea.

“There’s just one other small bequest in the will,” said Mr. Lister. “For Lewis.”

Everyone stared at Lewis. He sank deeper into his big leather chair.

The lawyer read aloud. “To my great-grandson, Lewis, I leave my ship in a bottle. He will find it in the tower room of Shornoway. The key is in Mrs. Binchy’s possession.”

There was a long silence.

“That’s
it
?” said Mrs. Dearborn.

The lawyer nodded.

“A ship in a bottle? A
bottle
? Lewis! Do you know anything about this?”

Lewis shook his head.

“However that may be,” said Mr. Lister, “that is Mr. Douglas’s entire will. Please let me know what you decide.”

Mrs. Dearborn was not happy as they left the lawyer’s office. For days, she was in what Lewis’s father called “a state.” Even though the Dearborns’ house was nothing special—in fact, it was pretty much identical to every other house on Maplegrove Crescent—she hated to be forced to move. And the list of things she disliked about Shornoway grew longer every hour. The damp. The dirt. The rot. The drafts. The mold. The spiders. The mice. And worst of all, the stairs, which would be “utterly impossible,” she said, for her arthritic knees.

Mr. Dearborn did his best to soothe her. He pointed out that Lewis could stay in his same school. He reminded her that oceanfront property was worth quite a lot of money. And six months wasn’t, after all, such a long time.

“It might not be so bad,” he said. “Perhaps we could even use a change?”

The look Mrs. Dearborn gave him after
that
remark sent him scurrying to his study.

In the end, she decided to do it—move the family to Shornoway. And then everything happened quickly. A FOR RENT sign appeared on the lawn of Lewis’s house. Moving men were hired, and the Dearborn family was thrown into packing.

Nobody asked Lewis how
he
felt about moving. If they had, he would have had trouble answering. He had always liked visiting Shornoway, and there was that strange something about the house that he couldn’t explain—that tingle of excitement in the air. Unlike his mother, he didn’t mind the mouse droppings or the spiders. And he loved the beach.

But it would be, as his father said, a change. Lewis wasn’t sure how he felt about a change as big as Shornoway. He had enough to deal with right now. Summer was almost over. In less than two weeks, school would begin.

The moment that thought entered his brain, he shut it out. He reminded himself not to think about
that
.

Not yet.

Not until he had to.

T
he Dearborns drove to Shornoway ahead of the moving van. As they crunched down the gravel driveway, Lewis leaned forward to catch a first glimpse.

It was a house to feel sorry for, he thought, like an old beggar lady who used to be beautiful. It stood tall against the bright summer sky, but the white paint was peeling badly, and gray wood showed beneath. Two windows were boarded over, while others gaped blindly between sagging shutters. Thistles choked the knee-high grass.

The car stopped. Lewis looked up. There! The tower room, where his ship in a bottle would be. The room faced the sea, so Lewis could see only the back of it
from here. But he’d gazed up so often from the beach that he knew exactly what it looked like—round, with three tall windows and a pointed roof. Like a castle tower! As for the inside … well, he’d never actually
been
inside the tower. The top floor of Shornoway, too expensive to heat, had been shut off for years.

The front door banged open. Out burst Mrs. Binchy, red-faced and clutching a broom.

“Here already? Just let me get a few of these cobwebs.” She whacked her broom enthusiastically into a dusty corner. “There now! Come in. Sorry for my appearance, Mrs. Dearborn. I meant to change. Where does the time go?”

The housekeeper brushed at a sagging skirt that might have been blue once, but was now a dishwater gray. Her T-shirt read PROPERTY OF ALCATRAZ, and her oversized slippers had been inherited, Lewis knew, from her dead husband, Fred.

“I do my best,” she said, leading the way into the parlor, “but this place has seen better days …”

Of course, the Dearborns had been to Shornoway many times before, but always as visitors. It was a shock, Lewis realized, to come here to
live
, especially for someone as particular as his mother. Mrs. Dearborn limped slowly across the cracked linoleum, leaning
on the cane she needed for her knee problem. Glancing around at the wallpaper—pink tulips, stained with yellow-brown streaks—she let out a derisive snort. Her gaze fixed on Great-Granddad’s favorite chair, an oversized monstrosity the color of crusted gravy. Stuffing sprouted like toadstools through a dozen holes. Slowly, her eyes closed.

“Perhaps a few flowers?” said Mrs. Binchy.

“Mrs. Binchy, thank you,” said Lewis’s father. “We’ll … er, manage.”

“I’ll see what I can do about that oven then. It’s on the fritz again.”

Lewis followed her to the kitchen. “Mrs. Binchy? Great-Granddad left me something in his will. He—”

“The ship!” said Mrs. Binchy. “Yes, dear, I heard. You’ll want the key to the tower room. Now where did it get to?”

She shifted a dripping jam pot on the counter. “Ah. Here!”

Lewis stared. The key was like a key in a fairy tale—long and thin with interesting, complicated bits at the end.