The Fork-Tongue Charmers (19 page)

“C
ome all would-be heroes and join me in song,”
Hendry bellowed.

“And curse the dread outlaws plagued this Isle for so long,”
Rooster sang even louder.

“So take heed me warning, of no favors ask, beware the dread outlaws in shadows and masks!”
they called out together.

The boys continued singing off-key, trying to outdo each other in volume if not tone. They led Rye, Folly, and Quinn along the winding foot trail to the northeast of Waldron's farm.

“What are they singing?” Rye asked Padge, who, as usual, trailed close enough to scrape the heels of Rye's boots.

“It's an old tavern song,” she said, twirling a wildflower between her fingers. “About the Luck Uglies.”

“Your sons and your daughters, in bed safely tuck, hold tight what you cherish for that they shall pluck! In shadows and masks, in shadows and masks . . .”

“They're just trying to hide that they're nervous,” Padge explained. “Old superstitions,” she whispered.

Hendry and Rooster certainly seemed more enthusiastic than when Rye, Folly, and Quinn had met them that morning. Despite his normal good-natured swagger, Hendry had tried once again to talk them out of going to the Wailing Cave. He'd kept his word when they didn't waiver, but warned that he wouldn't take them any farther than the top of the nearest cliff.

“So take heed my warning, of no favors ask, and curse the Luck Uglies in shadows and masks!”

Another boy's voice hummed along quietly.

“Quinn,” Rye said harshly, and elbowed him in the ribs.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “It's a catchy tune.”

Their walk took them to the top of a ridge with sweeping views of High Isle and the numerous Lower Isles stretched out across the sea. Rye noticed that the merchant fleet had grown on the horizon. A third ship
had joined the two she'd seen before, bobbing like enormous black gulls.

“I think you can see all the way to Wick,” Quinn said.

“And Jack-in-Irons' rocks,” Folly added, pointing to the tall rock formations they'd spotted on their first day.

“Those are called the Piles,” Hendry clarified. “Been there as long as anyone can remember.”

“It's funny they say they were built by a giant,” Rye said offhandedly.

“Well, they were,” Hendry replied with a chuckle. “What else would you expect them to say?”

Rye raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever seen a giant?”

“No, of course not. They're extinct.”

“How do you know it was built by a giant, then?” Rye asked.

“That's what my parents told me.”

“Have they ever seen a giant?”

“No.”

“So how do they know?

“Who else could have built them?” Hendry asked.

Rye gave the question some serious thought. “Well, I don't know.”

“So there you have it,” Hendry said, tapping his forefinger to his head with a satisfied smile.

But Hendry's grin soon fell away as they reached the
edge of a bluff overlooking the ocean. Strings of sun-bleached shells hung from two wooden posts erected on either side of a steep, rocky trail that wound down the cliff. The trail ended at the mouth of the Wailing Cave far below.

“Are you sure about this?” Hendry asked her for the third time since they'd started their walk. “That cave is like a bottomless well there's no climbing out of.”

Rye adjusted the coil of rope on her shoulder. “We're just going to take a little peek. We won't go in if it looks dangerous.”

“I can go down with them,” Rooster volunteered. He seemed nervous but excited by the prospect.

“You're staying here,” Hendry said. “You too, Padge. I'm not going to be the one to tell your parents we lost you in that pit.” He turned to Rye, Folly, and Quinn. “We'll wait up here for you. If you're not back by midday, we're going for help.”

Hendry and Rooster each reached out and gave the strands of shells a good shaking. The shells tinkled like delicate glass.

“What's that for?” Folly asked.

“We're asking the Shellycoats to be kind to you on your journey,” Hendry explained.

Padge rolled her eyes at Rye and shook her head in exasperation.

The three friends moved carefully but quickly down the cliff's narrow path. The tides seemed angry as they stared into the mouth of the enormous cavern. They stood in a small tract of crushed shells above the reach of the tide, but the spray of crashing waves on the nearby rocks still managed to splatter their faces. The Wailing Cave groaned and called to them from deep inside its gullet.

Rye looked up to where Hendry watched them from the cliff high above and signaled that they'd reached the bottom of the trail.

Rye, Folly, and Quinn had agreed that they would only take a look from the entrance—just a peek to see if they could find a clue as to who, if anyone, had been leaving stones for Rye. They wouldn't go inside unless it seemed absolutely safe. That's why they'd brought the long lengths of ship rope—in the unlikely chance the cave looked benign.

“So you really think
this
looks safe?” Quinn was saying, as he tied one end around his wrist.

“It can't be any worse than the Spoke,” Rye said.

“Folly and I have never been in the Spoke,” Quinn pointed out.

“Right. Well, it's cozy actually. Much like a rabbit's warren,” she fibbed. “Now, we each have a lantern, and we're tied together so no one gets lost.”

Rye tied an end of the rope around her own wrist and threw the rest of the coil over her shoulder. She had gotten the idea from the Pull. Each of them had their own length of rope so that they could move in different directions, but they'd always remain joined at the center so they couldn't be separated.

“Great,” Quinn said. “And what if someone falls into a bottomless pit?”

Both Quinn and Folly were looking at Rye. She scowled at them.

“Then you pull her up,” she said.

They entered the mouth of the cavern once their ropes were safely knotted. Inside, the cave's height expanded ever higher upward, the basalt pillars stacked atop each other and forming an intricate maze of patterns. Rye had never been inside a beehive, but she imagined this is what one's honeycomb passageways might look like. The waves rolled in from the sea, creating a frothy cauldron before flowing down a narrowing channel and disappearing deeper into the belly of the cave.

They stood in awed silence. Rye stared up at the twisted ceiling high above them until her neck ached. The cave was both beautiful and haunting. She could feel the echoes of its sad melody deep in her bones.

“Come on,” Rye whispered finally, and they made
their way along the cave wall over a path of stubby but dry pillars.

As they wound their way deeper, the ceiling sloped lower and the waters calmed. The current now branched into several azure-colored channels, each flowing into a narrower tunnel.

“Which should we try first?” Folly asked.

“How about you take the one with the sharks, Rye can take the one with the sea hag, and I'll stay right here,” Quinn said.

“Quinn's right,” Rye said. “It would be best if we all take a different tunnel. Just for a short distance, to see what we find and then report back. That way, if anyone runs into trouble, the others will be able to help.”

“That's not
exactly
what I had in mind,” Quinn muttered.

“All right,” Folly said, “this will be our signal if there's trouble, if anyone falls down, or gets their foot stuck in a crack, or . . . whatever. Three quick but firm tugs.” She demonstrated. “Does everyone understand the signal?”

Folly and Quinn were staring at Rye again. She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, three pulls. I understand.”

“Good,” Folly said. “So which do we start with?”

“I'll go down that one,” Rye said, pointing to a tunnel where the water reflected off the cave walls.

She didn't know why, but that one seemed to draw her in with an unspoken pull.

Rye was careful to keep her rope taut as she worked her way through the snaking tunnel, a task easier said than done. The coil twisted around her and chafed her side. She tried to readjust it but almost set it ablaze with her lantern. As she followed the flowing channel, she was mindful that the echo of the waves grew fainter the deeper she traveled. She could now hear each splash of her boots in the briny puddles. Ahead, she spotted the tunnel's end. It shimmered from another light source. There was something down there.

Rye took a deep breath, hurried forward, and snagged the rope under her heels. It sent her sprawling on the rocks.

“Pigshanks,” she cursed under her breath.

She limped to her feet and pulled the coil of rope off her shoulder, dropping it into a pile in frustration. Rye set her lantern down and rubbed her scraped shins through the new holes in her leggings.

Something on the ground caught her eye—a damp rock at her foot. She reached down and picked it up, feeling its glasslike texture between her fingers. In the light of her lantern it was as dark as midnight under a Black Moon.

She stooped and pressed her lantern closer to the ground. She dug into her pocket and retrieved the stone from the sill. There were other similar ones, a scattering at first, but increasing in number as she followed them closer to the light source at the far end of the tunnel. Rye was so intent on examining the stones she didn't notice the first tug on her wrist.

Creeping along, she picked up more of the strange stones as she went. They were all smooth and dense, just like the ones that had been left for her in her shoe, her coat, and on the windowsill.

Finally, she found herself at the mouth of a hollowed-out grotto. Sunlight beamed down from the crevice in the ceiling high above. The light reflected off a mirrorlike pool of turquoise water and cast the whole space in an otherworldly glow. No person was there to meet her, but the grotto's walls were covered in rambling, black markings of those who'd been there before.

Two more tugs caught Rye's attention, but she ignored them. She looked more closely. The marks were simple drawings and hand-scratched words—some more legible than others.

And, in a different hand:

They were messages. Perhaps the last messages of the sons of Pest who'd come here?

Another three tugs pulled at her wrist. Urgent, desperate.

She squinted at one more, and could feel the writer's fear in his desperate scrawl.

Rye's arm jolted with such force that it nearly dragged her to the ground. She looked down. The rope was now taut, pulling her like a fish being reeled in on a line.

Realizing that Folly or Quinn must be in trouble, she ran back through the tunnel as fast as she could. She found her friends at the main chamber of Wailing Cave, both of them flush with excitement.

“Why didn't you come?” Quinn said. “We thought something had happened to you.”

“I found more stones,” Rye started to explain.

Quinn glanced around at the rock walls and looked at her like she was wearing pants on her head. “I can't say I'm entirely surprised by your discovery . . .”

“They led to a grotto—”

“I heard something,” Folly interrupted.

“She really did,” Quinn confirmed. “I checked. There's something at the end of that tunnel.” He pointed to one Folly had explored.

“What is it?” Rye asked.

“Don't know, but it's making quite a racket,” Folly said.

“Could be a person,” Quinn added.

“Or maybe it's a Shellycoat,” Folly suggested.

Together, they cautiously worked their way down the tunnel Folly had taken earlier. As they approached a curve in the wall, Rye heard the noise Folly and Quinn had mentioned. A groaning—but not the echo of the waves. It wasn't a happy sound. Rye sniffed the air. Smoke.

Then came another noise from the other side of bend.

A sneeze.

Rye raised an eyebrow at Folly and Quinn. Carefully,
they peeked their heads around the corner.

They found no sea monster, Shellycoat, or hag.

Instead, huddled over a sorry excuse for a fire on the cave floor, was a bedraggled, one-eyed smuggler, rubbing his aching knee.

“Dent!” Rye yelled, and rushed out to meet him.

The startled Captain caught his breath in fright before brightening in relief.

“Children! What luck you've found me. It seems fate still smiles brightly on the old Captain.”