Seven Dead Pirates (3 page)

“Straight up the back staircase,” said Mrs. Binchy. “You know where that is?”

Lewis nodded. “But isn’t it closed off?” For as long as he could remember, a rough plywood wall, covered
with pink insulation, had blocked the back stairs.

“Not anymore. I had a fellow come yesterday to bash it open. Up the stairs, turn right, all the way to the last door.”

Lewis hesitated, wanting to ask more, but the housekeeper’s head was already in the oven. Banging noises emerged.

The old staircase creaked as he climbed the steep, narrow steps. His nose tickled in the dry, fusty air, and he fought back a sneeze. Reaching the next floor, he tiptoed down a hall, where he passed several doors. One was open, exposing a rusty bed frame.

The end of the hall was dark. Lewis fumbled with the key, trying not to breathe the stale air. At last, the lock clicked. The door swung open into the tower.

A gust of fresh sea breeze hit him like a blow, ruffling his hair and ballooning his T-shirt away from his body. He stepped forward, surprised, and squinted in the bright sunlight. Eight high walls formed an octagon—almost a circle—around him. Three of them had the tall windows that faced the ocean. The middle window was open, its torn lace curtains tossing in the wind.

Lewis blinked and caught his breath. There was something unusual about this room. Something that made it completely different from the rest of
Shornoway. The wind, of course. The bright light. The blue-and-white wallpaper, with its cheery pattern of stripes and anchors.

But something else, too. Something welcoming. Maybe it was the roundness. No sharp edges or tight corners.

On one side was a short, narrow door, painted red. Lewis walked over and tried it, rattling the knob. Locked.

He moved on to a small brass bed, covered by an old striped mattress. It felt springy when he sat down. He bounced a few times, raising dust. Then he crossed to a chest-high cabinet, painted green, its glass doors crisscrossed with lead. Some of the glass was broken. Lewis peered inside.

Toys! Old ones. The kind you see in museums. He opened the doors, careful not to disturb the broken glass, and checked the top shelf. A striped wooden top. A wind-up bear holding a drum. Dusty tin soldiers. Lewis took three soldiers out and lined them up on top of the cabinet.

The next shelf held old books. Lewis pulled one out at random.
Little Lord Fauntleroy
.

And that’s when he got it. This was a kid’s room. At least, it had been once. He squatted to peer at the next shelf down. Three jars. One was filled with seashells,
another with round white stones. A third held weathered pieces of colored glass.

Shells, stones, glass …

Suddenly, a memory came to him, as clear as if it were happening now. When Lewis was six or seven, he had walked down the cliff path to the ocean, Great-Granddad holding his hand. Treasure hunting, the old man called it.
Let’s see what the sea has brought us, Sonny Boy
. Shells, colored glass, a dead starfish.

Such stories Lewis had heard on those walks! He got a shiver now, remembering. True stories, scary and dazzling. How Great-Granddad had joined the navy during the war. How he’d crossed the Atlantic in a hurricane. How his ship had been hit by a torpedo at night. How he’d been thrown into dark, icy water and come
this close
to drowning.

Lewis glanced at the book in his hand. Opening it to the title page, he read:

Clement? Great-Granddad’s first name was Clement! This had been
his
room. Great-Granddad must have lived here when he was young.

Lewis looked back at the cabinet. One shelf left. The bottom one, thick with cobwebs. Squinting, he could see the outline of a fat bottle, lying on its side.

A wave of excitement surged through him. Gently, he reached in. He carried the bottle to the window, blew away the worst of the cobwebs and held it to the light.

Yes! Something inside. He rubbed the glass with his hand.

There it was, between the streaks. A model of an old-fashioned sailing ship. Three-masted, with tiny yellowing sails.

But the bottle was still dirty. Lewis glanced down at his white T-shirt. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he whipped it off and rubbed it fiercely against the bottle.

Peering inside again, he began to shiver—partly, of course, because of the cool breeze on his bare skin. But
some
goosebumps, there was no question, were coming from excitement at the sight of a tiny sailor, perched in a crow’s nest at the top of the main mast, so small Lewis wouldn’t have noticed him except for his startlingly red jacket. The sailor was holding up his right arm. He seemed to be
waving
at Lewis!

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Lewis scrambled to pull on his T-shirt.

“Ah, here you are. Your mother’s been looking for you.” Mr. Dearborn stepped inside. “Well,
this
room’s in better shape than the rest. Not much used, I suppose. What’ve you got there?”

Lewis held up the bottle.

“Is that it? Granddad’s ship?”

He joined Lewis at the window just as a gust of wind lifted the lace curtain. It draped itself over Mr. Dearborn’s bald head like a bridal veil. Lewis hid a smile.

Mr. Dearborn brushed away the curtain, then caught his breath. “Gosh! Will you look at that?” Leaning both hands on the windowsill, he gazed at the Atlantic Ocean. “Quite a view, Lewis. I bet if you had binoculars, you could see Portugal out this window. Heh, heh. France and England. Maybe Africa, too.”

Lewis knew this was silly, but he scanned the horizon all the same. Those places
were
out there. His chest swelled with sea air—and something he couldn’t name—as he took in the enormous expanse of open sky, and beneath it, the waves rolling in from …

Everywhere!

In that moment, he knew what he wanted. Desperately.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have this room?”

It wasn’t just the view. It was something much stronger, and more than a little strange. Lewis had never been in this room before. But he felt as if he
belonged
here, as he had never belonged anywhere in his life.

Mr. Dearborn cleared his throat. “Your mother’s already picked a room for you, Lewis. Downstairs. I suppose you can ask, though.”

Slow footsteps sounded in the hall, punctuated by cane clicks. A moment later, Mrs. Dearborn’s frame—large and sturdy, firmly encased in a beige pantsuit—filled the doorway. It’s no use, thought Lewis, she’ll never agree. It was amazing she had climbed up here at all.

Lewis wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to have
young
parents. The kind who wore jeans.

“Charlotte, look,” said his father. “Lewis found his ship.”

Lewis held it up.

His mother let out a sigh. “Lewis, it’s filthy.
You’re
filthy! Look at your hands. And what have you done to your shirt?” She beckoned him to come and began brushing at the smears.

“But …” Lewis looked at his father pleadingly.

If his father understood, he didn’t speak.

Lewis screwed up his courage. “Mom? I was wondering … I’d like … I mean, I’d
really
like to have this room. For me. To be my bedroom.”

Mrs. Dearborn frowned. “This room? But that’s ridiculous. It’s miles from anywhere.”

“I don’t mind.” Lewis was shocked to hear himself arguing. He almost never argued with his mother. But here he was, continuing. “I
like
to be by myself. I’ll clean it and fix it up. I like this room because it’s so …” He thought quickly. “Round!”

Mr. Dearborn chuckled. “That’s true, Charlotte. It
is
much rounder than the other rooms. Lots of space, too. Lewis could spread out here. Invite his friends home.” He smiled cheerfully, having never noticed, apparently, that Lewis didn’t invite friends home.

“Gerald, please,” said Mrs. Dearborn. “What if he has one of his night terrors?”

“I haven’t had nightmares for years,” protested Lewis. Would she bring up the bed-wetting, too? He hadn’t done
that
since he was five!

Mr. Dearborn cleared his throat. “Well, of course, it’s up to you. But he
is
getting older, isn’t he? Quite a young man, really, and—”

“He’s
not
a man,” said Lewis’s mother firmly. “He’s an eleven-year-old boy.”

In the silence that followed, there was the soft
chuk
of something hitting the floor. All three Dearborns turned to look. A toy soldier had fallen off the cabinet.

Mrs. Dearborn sucked in her breath. “Oh!” she said. “Lewis, bring it to me, please.”

He ran to obey.

She cradled the toy in her hands. “I
know
these soldiers. When I was little, and my parents brought me here to visit Granddad—Grandmother was alive then, too, of course—I sometimes played in this room. I’d forgotten.” As she stared at the tiny figure, her gaze softened.

Lewis suddenly knew that this moment—now!—was his only chance. “Can I stay here, Mom? Please? It’s the kid’s room, right? For the kid in the family?”

She didn’t speak.

Mr. Dearborn sniffed the air. “Smells fresh up here. You
did
say, Charlotte, that the downstairs bedroom smells of mold. Not good for Lewis’s lungs, I suppose—mold.”

Mrs. Dearborn blinked. The dreamy look was gone, replaced by worry. Lewis knew what she was thinking. Mold. His asthma! Of course, he didn’t actually
have
asthma—the doctor had said so, flat out. But his mother continued to insist that he
did
have it, along
with a lot of other things he didn’t have. Anemia. Tonsillitis. Food allergies.

He waited, shifting from foot to foot, as she sniffed the fresh air. How lucky that the window had been open when he arrived!

“All right,” she said finally. “We’ll give it a try. Mind you, it’s only temporary. We’ll work something else out for winter.”

Lewis nodded so hard, he felt dizzy. Was he really going to be allowed to
live
here?

His mother was dusting him off again. “Change your shirt, Lewis. Now. Before the moving men come.”

Lewis had
seen
the moving men. They were sweaty and overweight, and their T-shirts were disgusting. But he nodded again, barely able to contain his glee.

As he followed his parents out, he looked around one last time. Then he reached for the doorknob.

And that’s when he saw it. A series of letters, small and rough, carved into the middle section of the door, probably with a penknife. The kind of letters a boy might carve into his bedroom door, knowing they would get him into trouble. When Lewis saw what the letters spelled, he gasped.

LIBERTALIA

L
ewis practically danced down the back stairs.

He couldn’t believe it. The
room
was Libertalia! Great-Granddad had sent him to the tower room so that he would see it and love it and want it for his own. And that’s what had happened. The
room
was Great-Granddad’s real gift.

As for why he had called it Libertalia? Well, who could say? Maybe Great-Granddad had played pirate games there when he was little. Maybe it was like calling your room the Jolly Roger.

The first thing Lewis did was clean it. He began by sweeping the floor. Then, using hot soapy water, he scrubbed the doors, the windows and the dusty
furniture. His dad had offered to clear the broken glass in the green cabinet, so he left that alone. But on
top
of the cabinet, he placed his ship in a bottle, now spotless and gleaming. It looked great beside the tin soldiers.

While he was cleaning, the moving men arrived, carrying his desk, bed and dresser. They tried to take the old brass bed away, but Lewis begged to keep it.

“I’ll use it as a couch!” he said.

He unpacked his clothes and his other belongings. He set up his onyx chess set, a gift from his father, on top of the dresser. Mr. Dearborn loved chess and had been excited to teach Lewis the game, especially when it became clear that Lewis had a knack for it. Lewis wasn’t good enough to beat his father yet, but he thought he might be getting close.

And finally, he traded his desk chair—orange plastic and too small for a sixth-grader—for a white wicker chair he found down the hall. It was old, of course, but he didn’t mind that.

With the extra furniture, the tower was more crowded, but that only made it more appealing. There was nothing about this room that wasn’t perfect! No old-house smells. No strangeness. Even though no one had lived there for years, it had a comfortable, lived-in feeling.

And even in the heat of noon, the air stayed fresh and cool. It was that middle window. No matter how often Lewis shut it, it popped open again. Not that he minded—he liked to stand in front of it and stare out and just breathe. The air through that window was the best he’d ever tasted.

That night, Lewis slept in Libertalia for the first time. The moon was almost full; it cast a pale glow through the tall windows. He could hear the ocean as clearly as if it were inside the room, and after a while, he noticed that he was breathing in rhythm with the crashing of the waves. In his dreams, he floated. Weightless.