The Merlin Effect (11 page)

Out of danger.
Those final moments on board the
Skimmer
were so compressed, so cloudy. She could only remember the storm, and Terry starting to reach for her—then letting her fall. Yet there was something else, something about her father, that nagged at the edges of her memory. She knew it was important. But what could it be? All she could recall was the vague feeling that something had gone awry. That he was in trouble.

She shook her head, pushing aside such worries. In not very long he and Isabella would surface in the submersible and make their way back to camp, with or without any help from Terry, with or without some evidence of the sunken
ship.
At least the weather is calmer
, she told herself.
The fog may be thick, but that storm seems to be over.

Haltingly, she forced herself to rise. Dizziness swept through her again, and she placed both palms on the sand for support. Her right hand brushed against a hard object. Seeing the shiny glint again, she closed her fingers around it and pulled.

For an instant the sand held firmly, as though unwilling to part with its prize. Then, with a slurping noise, the object came free, leaving behind a little tomb that filled swiftly with water. She wiped off the wet sand, then held the object before her.

She blinked in surprise. It was a finely wrought comb, carved from white ivory. Upon its back, embellished in gold, shone the face of a woman. With the hint of a smile and sad, loving eyes, she looked almost sublime.
The Virgin Mary? Isabella might know.

Mystified but exhilarated, she twirled the comb in the luminous mist. Then she slipped it into one of the pockets of her wet jeans. Though her back ached and her knees trembled, she rose once again and cautiously stepped forward. Her feet sank into the soft sand.

But for the undulating mist, nothing stirred. This island seemed totally uninhabited. Not even a solitary crab scurried over the ground. She felt utterly alone.

Cupping her hands, she called into the mist. “Hello! Can anybody hear me?”

No response. She tried again with the same result. It might be ages before anyone found her in fog like this. She could barely see beyond the water’s edge. She kicked a clump of sand, wishing it were the face of a certain young geologist.

She rolled up the sleeves of her blue cotton shirt. The
humid mist felt warm, like the inside of a kiln.
Strange it’s so hot on such a cloudy day.
She trudged into the fog, leaving a string of gray footprints behind.

A new sound knifed the air. Kate halted, listening. Beyond the continuous humming, a distant scream wavered. Slowly it deepened into a mournful wailing, a wailing she had heard before. Louder it swelled, until joined by other voices, creaking and whistling like winds of pain. Soon it seemed that the sea had found a voice of its own, raised in unending sorrow.

Whales. They were out there, somewhere beyond the fog.
So sad, beyond what words can explain.
That was how Isabella had described their songs.

Then, as she walked, the mist before her shifted, darkened. At first she thought it was nothing more than the same swirling vapors, restless as ever, playing tricks with her vision. But as she watched, the fog seemed to pull apart, to separate, unveiling a hulking form just ahead on the beach.

She stepped backward. The shape grew more distinct, gathering in fullness as the clouds dissipated. She caught her breath, staring in disbelief.

M
ist swirled around the hull of the old wooden ship, draping the ragged sails like layers of translucent silk. It rested, tilted to one side, in the sand. The mizzenmast leaned precariously toward the bow, pointing directly at Kate. The mainmast still towered above her head, though it ended abruptly in a tangle of rigging.

Cautiously, she moved closer, examining the red-painted hull carefully. One section near the rudder had been smashed apart, exposing a dark cavern at the base of the hull where barrels and crates of many sizes and shapes rested, together with heaps of ballast stones. Dozens of round clay jars hung overhead, lashed to the rigging. Cannons, tapered in the muzzle, protruded from notches. Numerous rope ladders ascended to the sails, covering even the captain’s quarters above the stern, giving the impression that the whole ship lay covered with cobwebs.

Approaching the hull, she spied an enormous anchor, planted on the beach. Cast in the shape of a pointed fishhook with double barbs, it looked massive, unmovable. Kate bent
to touch the heavy black chain, twisted into knots and curls. She tried to lift one of the links from the sand. It was impossible.

Straightening herself, she surveyed the wreck. It looked eerily like the phantom ship on the computer screen. Yet she knew that was the one thing it could not possibly be. So how did it get here? And when? Her heart told her one thing, her head another.

Her gaze fell to the shaft of the anchor. Some sort of symbol marked it, raised from the iron in bold relief. She threw aside the broken plank that partially covered the spot. There, before her, was a rough circle and within it,
the letter R.

She glanced upward into the churning mist, lit so eerily from above.
No way. It can’t be.

Using her sleeve, she wiped the salty dew from her face. Hesitantly, she approached the gaping hole in the hull, stepping over ballast stones, splintered timbers, and shards of pottery. She spied a capstan, the rotating wooden drum sailors used to raise anchor before the invention of the mechanical winch, lying on its side on the sand. Next to it sat the top half of a huge earthenware vessel, the kind used centuries ago to store water for long ocean voyages.

Only a few shafts of light entered the hold, leaving most of it in shadows. She paused at the opening, letting her eyes adjust. An odd smell, spicy and potent, wafted from somewhere nearby.

She kicked aside a small bundle at her feet, which clanged against the floor. Curious, she peeled back the dusty cloth to find that it covered an ornamented pitcher. As she held it up to a shaft of light, it shone brightly, and she realized it was made of solid gold, intricately carved with images of a shepherd tending his flock. A fearsome face was carved into the
spout. Once in a museum she had seen a gold ewer like this, raised from a wreck in the Caribbean, never dreaming she might hold one in her hands one day. Carefully, she placed it on a wooden crate and moved deeper into the hold.

Boxes, bundles and chests crammed the odd-cornered room. The air smelled damp, musty, with a hint of the strange spicy aroma. Wedged together along the walls, hung from the ceiling, piled on the floor, they seemed too numerous to count. Spying one chest that had been split apart, she drew nearer. From it she pulled a delicate silk cloth of azure blue embroidered with threads of silver that glittered like Himalayan rivers.

Stepping over a pile of ballast, she noticed a group of rectangular stones visible through a hole in the floorboards. She stooped to look more closely. The stones gleamed only dully, but there could be no mistake. Gold. Gold ingots. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of them. Right under her feet.

Then something flashed by her sneaker. Kate knew what it was before she touched it, before her hand curled around its rough-hewn edge. Lifting it to the light, the silver object glistened.
A piece of eight.

She hefted the old coin, surprised at how heavy it felt. On one side she saw a Hapsburg shield, displaying the mint mark next to the denomination, a Roman numeral VIII. On the other side, a bold cross. Within its quarters, she could make out two standing lions and two castles. Much of the inscription was illegible, but the words
Carlos I, Rex
were plain to see. As was the date: 1547.

She squeezed the coin in her hand, as hard as she could, feeling it gouge into her fingers. This had to be a dream. Had to be.

Carefully, she placed the coin in one of her pockets. She spied a thin wooden ladder tied to a trunklike column that
appeared to be the bottom of the mainmast. Her heart racing, she ascended the ladder, rung by rung, passing through two more decks as full of shadows and cargo as the hold.

Her head bumped into a trapdoor. Heavy though it was, she managed to raise it by pushing with her shoulder. The door fell open with a clunk. She climbed through the hold to find herself standing on the main deck of the ship. Cannons, six to each side, lined the wall. Beside one rested a case of black iron balls.

Kate drew nearer and, with effort, lifted one of the cannonballs. She remembered reading, in one of her father’s reference books about galleons, a vivid account of warfare at sea. She imagined sailors heating cannonballs to red hot before firing them at enemy ships, hoping to set fire to wooden decks or blow up powder magazines. Then she spotted another case, this one containing bar shot for ripping sails and rigging. Next to it lay a rammer, a wad hook, a powder ladle, and other tools of cannonry. All this equipment lay idle, useless against whatever force had grounded the ship.

The spicy smell, much stronger than before, tickled her nose. It seemed to emanate from the captain’s quarters. Cautiously, she approached. Before lifting the door’s polished brass latch, she glanced skyward, through the web of rigging, luminous in the mist.

The door swung open. She had to stoop to pass through it, entering a room much less cluttered than the hold. Much lighter as well, thanks to a glassless window at the stern. The air practically vibrated with the spicy aroma. An elaborate tapestry, depicting a Chinese harbor, hung from one wall. A thin bed, blankets rolled in a mound, lay beside a polished desk made from exotic woods. On the desk sat a quill pen, a jar of black ink, a bronze astrolabe and a sextant for navigation, a double-handled gold cup etched with rows of snakes
biting their tails, a candle holder wrought of gleaming jade, and one slender volume bound in red leather.

She touched the book’s flaking leather cover. It was old, very old. As old as the piece of eight. As old as the ship named…

Shaking her head, she moved further into the chamber. The floorboards, dotted with small stones the size of date pits, creaked underfoot. She ran her finger along the desk’s smooth rim.
The captain’s quarters.
Noticing a roll of papers leaning against the desk, she unfurled it, finding a collection of intricate maps. She studied them one by one, turning each of them sideways and upside down. Yet she could not recognize any of the images or decipher any of the script.

Baffled, she tossed the roll onto a bulky pile of brown rags stuffed in the corner. The spicy smell struck her again, and she turned to a black cooking pot resting on an upturned barrel by the rags. Leaning over the pot, she saw it contained a thick brown liquid. She sniffed. Cinnamon. Ginger. Clove. And something else, subtle and mysterious.

Just then, she felt an odd sensation. As if something, somewhere were watching her. She straightened up, scanned the chamber. Nothing stirred. But for the omnipresent mist circling outside the window, she discerned no motion, no life at all.

Yet…she could not shake that feeling.

She took a deep breath, but her heart continued to beat rapidly. Turning back to the desk, she decided to examine the ancient volume. Maybe it held some clue to all this. She reached to touch it.

Something rustled behind her. She whirled around, then froze.

The pile of rags was moving.

S
lowly, a wrinkled hand emerged from the rags. Another hand followed, then a grizzly gray beard, a hawklike nose, and two coal black eyes beneath wild, scraggly brows.

Both hands lifted high into the air, as the dark eyes regarded Kate solemnly, without emotion. At that instant the beard parted, revealing a wide mouth holding very few teeth, while those it held hung blackened and askew.

Kate started to back away, fearing the old man beneath the rags was preparing to pounce on her. Then he released a bizarre, bellowing noise, one that sounded something like an antique car horn.

He’s yawning
, she realized in amazement. Anxiety swiftly gave way to curiosity. She watched the man stretch his arms, scratch his bedraggled hair, and pull vigorously on his beard, all the while continuing to yawn.

At length, he ceased. “Drat this infernal heat,” he muttered in a rolling, hefty accent. “Makes a man sleepy. A nap’s a luxury, I say, but not necessarily for the living.” He struggled to stand while reaching for a delicate porcelain dish piled high with some sort of shriveled fruit.

Suddenly he jolted, almost dropping the dish. “My goodness! A guest.” Recovering his composure, he extended the dish to Kate. Almost casually, he asked, “Care for a date?”

“Uhh, no thanks,” she replied uncertainly.

The old man popped a date in his mouth. “Delicious,” he pronounced, spitting the pit onto the floor. “Fresh as could be.” A sudden anguish filled his face. “Have we been introduced? I’ve quite forgotten.”

Tentatively, Kate extended her hand. “I’m…I’m Kate. Kate Gordon.”

The hawklike nose twitched. “Gordon. A Scotswoman, eh?”

“Well, my grandfather came—”

“Delighted,” he continued, scratching savagely behind one ear. “Cursed sea lice! Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You were saying where in Scotland you hail from.”

“Oh, not me. No.”

“A new province, I take it.
O’Naughtmeno.
Fine alliteration. Declared your independence already, have you?”

“No, no. I mean—”

“To learn who I am, I know.” The old man scratched again, shaking his unruly hair. Then, to Kate’s surprise, he crumpled into a kneeling position, took her hand, and gave it an awkward kiss. “Geoffrey of Bardsey, at your service.”

Before she could reply, he let out a piteous groan.
“Ehhh!
Now I’ve done it.”

“Done what?”

“The knee. Old riding mishap. From before I gave up horses—and most everything else, mind you—to become a monk. Would you mind terribly…
ehhh
, helping me,
ehhh
, up?”