The Dagger X (The Dagger Chronicles) (36 page)

Nelson tensed his finger against the trigger, his eye trained on the wide-leafed plant far down in the gorge. He did not want to miss. Likely Nanny would hear the shot, or someone who did hear would tell her about it, and Nelson would have to explain himself. He wanted the trouble to be worthwhile.

Nelson took a deep breath and let it out slowly, noting the beat of his heart and how it made the end of the muzzle pulse up and down. He would shoot between the beats, when the barrel settled to total stillness. He pressed the flesh of his finger against the trigger.

Suddenly the leaf rocked, as if by a gentle wind that reached down into the deep gorge.

Nelson squeezed.

An instant before he did so Chock-ti kicked out a foot and whacked the barrel of the musket. The shot careened against the cliff face just across the gorge, kicking up a cloud of dust and raining a shower of pebbles down into the gap.

“Are you a stupid man?” Nelson said, leaping to his feet, mad enough to throw fists. But Chock-ti stared down into the gorge, pointing. Nelson turned.

Standing under the broad leaf was a small boy with some sort of animal perched on his shoulder. The boy squinted up at them. A man—a black man—appeared suddenly too and pulled the boy to cover behind the bend of rock.

“Are you shooting at me?” the little voice called up at them, his voice barely loud enough to reach them.

“No, no!” Chock-ti shouted down. “This boy can’t hit a mountain with his gun!”

“I shoot you next,” Nelson muttered, but gave Chock-ti
a playful punch. He sighed deeply, thankful for Chock-ti’s keen eyes and quick reflexes. “Nanny been talking about a boy,” he said.

Chock-ti nodded. Nanny conferred with her magic deck of cards each day, and for a week now she had been talking about a white boy who would come.

“That must be the boy,” Chock-ti said.

The tiny voice from the gorge came again. “You sure you ain’t shooting at me? Or my monkey or Dumaka, neither?” The little boy poked his head around the corner and back again quickly.

“We not going to shoot you! Any of you!” Nelson said. “I promise.”

Duck stepped out into full view now, Julius in his arms.

“Are you the manure people?” the boy said. “We’re looking for the manure people.”

Nelson grinned. “Not me, but this one here,” he said, pointing to Chock-ti, “he is manure all the way to his toes.” Chock-ti glared.

“Is there somebody up there named Nanny?” the boy said. Nelson and Chock-ti looked at each other, shaking their heads in disbelief. The old lady was right!

“She is some kind of witch, that Nanny,” said Nelson.

Chock-ti cupped a hand to his cheek.

“Keep walking!” he called down to them. “We meet you down there.”

The little boy smiled, and the young man waved up at them.

“W
hat troubles you?” Van said. He had handed off the cutlass to Akin and lagged behind for the others to pass him until Kitto drew near. Van’s shirt was soaked through, as was Kitto’s, although the sun had yet to reach its zenith. Kitto stalked past Van, then whirled.

“Do you remember your parents, Van?” Kitto said. “Your mum or dad?” Van drew back in surprise.

“Not so much,” he said warily.

“What if you could?” Kitto pressed. “Or what if you discovered they were people you could never respect? That they repulsed you, even.”

“Why you asking a thing like that?” Van said. Their eyes locked, each pair afire with a touch of anger.

“Would it change you?”

Silence surrounded them for several seconds before Van answered.

“Would it
change
me?”

“How would it change you?”

Van considered. The anger drained from him as he
stared at the trodden leaves beneath his feet.
Could Kitto know what I know?

At last he answered.

“I believe in what I am doing,” he said. “I believe in you and your mum and Duck, wherever he is. And I believe that . . . just maybe . . . all this could help my sister someday. So, no . . .” He lifted his head and met Kitto’s gaze. “Not a whit would it change me. My parents delivered me here, but what I do here on rests on my own shoulders.”

Kitto nodded, and not it was his turn to stare down at the mat of hewn palm leaves below.

Does it not matter where I am from?
he asked himself.
Can a boy—can a man—stand apart from those who brought him into the world?

“Now, why you asking me all this?” Van snapped.

Kitto turned away and began to walk on.

“Nothing,” he said. Van stepped in behind him.

“You are not any good at lying, Kitto,” Van said. “You have hardly said two words since you awoke. What, are you jealous seeing your mum carrying Bucket?”

Twenty yards ahead they could see Sarah trudging along the rough-hewn path behind X, Bucket’s little feet poking out to one side.

“Of course not.” Kitto spoke the truth. Bucket was magical for Sarah. Kitto could see that. Somehow the pain of Sarah’s anxiety over Duck was lessened when she cared for the baby. “Bucket is a blessing for her. I would never want it different.”

“What then?”

“I do not want to speak of it.”

“Perhaps that is why you should.” Van knew what it was like to carry the burden of a secret.

“I saw something X has,” Kitto said. “I . . .” He stopped, fearful of saying it aloud, that somehow when he did so it would become more real. “I keep learning things about myself, and they keep getting more and more nasty,” Kitto said. Behind him the sounds of Van’s footsteps ceased. Kitto turned.

“Did X tell you then?” Van said. Kitto felt a tingle of goose bumps rise up the back of his neck.

“Did X tell me what?” Kitto said. Van stared back at him, then looked down with something like guilt written on his face.

“Do you know about it?” Kitto said. “How could you know of it?”

Van dragged a toe against a root. “Before we reached Falmouth, I overheard the captain. Your uncle, I mean. He was speaking with Peterson. They did not know I was there.”

“So my uncle knew too?” Kitto said, feeling his heat rise, and he welcomed it. Anger was easier to feel than fear. “Of course he did! He would had to have known!” Kitto turned back in the direction of the others, now some fifty yards ahead.

“Stop!” he shouted. From the sash belt about his waist he withdrew the dagger his father had given him.
His father?

Kitto ran forward awkwardly, stumbling and shouting for Exquemelin to halt.

“Kitto, wait!” Van called from behind him, but Kitto charged blindly on. The ground went fuzzy on him, but he did not bother to wipe away the tears. He rushed toward Sarah and Ontoquas, who stood staring at him in shock and dismay.

“Kitto, what is wrong?” Sarah said. She thrust Bucket into Ontoquas’s arms and reached to take him by the shoulders. Kitto reeled back from her touch.

“Did . . . did you know?” Kitto said to her.

Sarah shook her head, bewildered. “Whatever do you mean? Did I know what?”

“Did you know!” Kitto screamed. “All this time, did you know?” Sarah turned toward Exquemelin, who watched with grim aspect several yards ahead, sweat dripping from his nose. Akin looked on with the cutlass slung over his shoulder.

“Did you?” Kitto said again. Sarah raised her hands.

“I have kept nothing from you, Kitto! I keep nothing from you. What
is
it you are asking of me?” The acute pain in Sarah’s face made Kitto feel a pang of shame. He turned to Exquemelin, and strode forward to him.

“You knew,” Kitto said softly, holding out the dagger like an accusing finger.

X removed his hat and hung it on a cleaved branch. He wiped the arm of his shirt against his brow.

“If I knew, you will stab me with this thing?” He shrugged. “
Ja, ja,
I knew,” he said. “Anyone close to
Morgan knew.” He looked past Kitto’s shoulder to send a menacing look to Van. “And it was not for you to tell him!”

“I didn’t!” Van said.

“You fell asleep among your papers last night,” Kitto said. “I looked through them.” Kitto lowered the dagger and held out his other hand. “Give it to me. It belongs to me more than it does you.”

Sarah stepped over to them. “What on earth is going on here? What is it that you have, sir?” she demanded.

Exquemelin wiped sweat away from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and gave out a sigh. Draped over his shoulders were two leather satchels. He fumbled with the latches. In a moment he had transferred some of the materials from one to the other, then handed one satchel over to Kitto by its strap.

Kitto opened the hasp and withdrew the single sheet of paper inside. He held it out to Sarah, who snatched it up and began to pore over its contents.

“I do not understand,” she said. “What is the import of this?” She looked up at Kitto, still mystified.

“Look at the date,” Kitto said.

Sarah returned to the top of the page. “Twenty-two November, the year 1665. I still don’t see . . .”

“What happened about ten months after that date?” Kitto waited until he saw the realization hit her. Sarah lowered the page, and turned a look of great empathy on Kitto.

“Oh, Kitto! Is this . . . is this your mother? I did
not know her name was Carter. Oh, Kitto.” Sarah covered her mouth with her hand, aghast.

Kitto probed her expression, looking for the slightest hint of guile, while also knowing Sarah was never capable of such.

“You never knew? Father never told you?”

Sarah shook her head slowly. “Never.” She reached forward and took Kitto’s face in her hands. “You were
his
son, Kitto. That is the only way he ever thought of you.”

Kitto pulled from her hand the piece of paper still pinched between her fingers.

“Apparently not,” he said bitterly. “I am the son of Henry Morgan,” he said. “Henry Morgan is my father. And my ruin. And now I am going to seek him out.”

E
ventually the party had continued to hike, at Kitto’s insistence. There was little more to say. Exquemelin apologized to Kitto for keeping the information from him. He had not realized at first that Kitto did not already know. Surely William would have told him! When he came to realize that Kitto did not know the truth of his parentage, he did not believe he was the person to break such news.

Kitto’s rage had quieted, but it was replaced by an unsettling fear. He trudged on through the jungle trying to grapple with it.

Henry Morgan is my father? And my mother married that villain? Who am I, then?

Who am I?

The party hiked on in stony silence a few miles until they stumbled across a pleasant creek from which they drank deeply. Kitto kept his distance from the others, his head a swirl of conflicting thoughts and uncertainties. X blundered off into the brush beyond the far bank of the creek after sniffing the air,
and in a moment he was hailing them all jubilantly.

“
Ja, ja, ja!
This is it! I have found it!” He burst through a brace of thick leaves, the gold tooth shimmering in his grin.

“What’s that?” Van said.

Exquemelin pointed with the machete. “The path!” he said. “We are not far now. If we hurry, we can make it to the camp before nightfall.” He turned toward the wood and raised a hand to his cheek. “I am coming to you, my sweet Nanny!” X howled out into the jungle.

Onward they trudged, the way much easier now that they did not need to clear a path as they went. The trail itself was quite narrow and nearly swallowed up in undergrowth in places, but X practically galloped along it, never once concerned that he might lose his way. He rushed ahead and then waited impatiently at a turn or the top of a rise for the others, tugging savagely at the beads of his beard. The rest of the party struggled to keep up.

After several miles Sarah insisted that they take a break. Bucket needed to eat something and his undergarments needed cleaning. X relented, chewing on his finger as Sarah knelt in the stream that the path had crossed several times over the last few miles. Bucket gummed at a piece of biscuit soaked in water and some coconut, reaching out to the food Ontoquas held before him in cupped hands.