The Pandora Chronicles - Book 1 (A Scifi Adventure Thriller) (6 page)

Father Rodriguez placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, placating her. “My dear Captain, how do you suppose we found you?”

Finnegan frowned. In the midst of all that had transpired in the last few days, he’d never paused to ask that basic question.
 

Why him?

“It was Duchess Tier,” the priest continued. “She knew where to find you. And she also had the resources to force your hand if she so chose to.”

“How so?” Finnegan asked.

“You know my name is Elizabeth Tier,” Tier said. “But you do not know that my uncle is Lord Ferdinand.”

Finnegan recognized the name. It was the same one on his Letter of Marque—Tier’s uncle was his employer.

“Forcing you to accept us would have been counterproductive,” she continued. “You needed to accept this quest of your own volition. That way you could sincerely embrace our story.”

“She was the one who convinced her uncle to accept our Order on British shores and smuggle me in,” Rodriguez said. “Her powers are quite astounding.”

Tier looked pleased with herself.

“I swear on my faith, Captain, that we meant no deception,” the priest added. “You know all that we do.”

Finnegan nodded. “Can you explain why I see things differently? Or know precisely where and when to strike? Or how I can read the wind and waves?”

“It is your blessing.”

“Yes, but can you help me control it?”

“No, he cannot,” Tier replied, before offering Finnegan a smile. “But I can.”

Chapter 7

Tier, Finnegan found, was quite unlike the pompous and proud aristocrats he loved to loathe.
 

Over the next few weeks, she taught him further how to read, both books and people. In turn, he taught her how to fight properly, and whatever his father passed onto him with regards to navigation and seafaring. They spent countless evenings in each other’s company, discussing everything from the sea to the stars and everything in between: the colonization of the New World; the bearings of the war on pirates, and even philosophical topics like the morality of man.
 

Finnegan began warming up to her, relishing in her company.

Their relationship escalated one night after a storm. It had been a brutal afternoon, but the ship survived, and everyone made merry. Song and drink were aplenty, and the decks of the
Belladonna
were lit up like a large beacon. Finnegan and Tier sat on the stairs below the helm. She was talking about something, but Finnegan had drifted off in his own thoughts.

“What?” she asked, noticing him staring into her eyes.

“My apologies,” he said. “It’s just that I have never met someone as enchanting as you.”

Both of them blushed. “Your presence is soothing,” he continued. “I have never met someone who was like me. We see the world around us in a different way.”

She smiled, and her hand slowly brushed against his. “I, too, have never met anyone as fascinating as you. Thank you for welcoming me, Jack.”

Finnegan was pleased by her use of his first name. “You are most welcome. And it is I who must thank you, Elizabeth.”

Their lips met, and a passionate kiss erupted between them, lasting only a few seconds before they both pulled apart in shock. The rest of the crew had gone silent at their public display of affection.
 

That is, until the first mate let out a whistle.

“Well, it’s about bloody time!”
 

That launched the crew into a frenzy of applause and wolf-whistling. They raised their drinks and partied harder.

“I apologize,” Finnegan whispered.

Tier let out a soft giggle. Then, she gazed in Father Rodriguez’s direction. The priest was the life of the party—he sang, danced and regaled the crew with tales and myths which Finnegan suspected where only partially true.

“I think Father Rodriguez can distract your men for a few more hours,” she suggested with a grin. They kissed again, before sneaking off.
 

It wasn’t a difficult feat to sneak past drunken sailors and into the captain’s quarters. Their instincts overtook them, and as their passion evolved into a physical act, their minds connected and, for the most fleeting of moments, two souls became one.

***

It was hours later in the dead of night when Finnegan sat up in his bed, giving up on sleep. His mind refused to cease functioning, and he decided to spend a few moments of his time writing in his log.

His gaze followed the naked figure in his bed, partially covered in sheets. Her golden hair splayed on the pillow, catching the gentle candlelight fire. He smiled, and his chest fluttered. No woman had ever instilled such feelings within him. He had to force himself to stop staring at her and return to his pen.

The Belladonna’s voyage towards Baja California goes unhindered. Whilst, at first, the crew exhibited reluctance to go into enemy territory, they were elated at the prospect of undiscovered treasure. As with most pirates, one can almost always count on their lust for coin.

My visions have shown me the course ahead: one that goes south along the Atlantic, following our original course as set by the Letter of Marque, and across colder seas at the furthest tip of the New Continent. There we will go back north, along the Spanish conquered south lands in the Pacific. Once we go over the entrance to the Caribbean, we shall come to our destination. I have managed to fool the crew into thinking that our duties include exploring newer routes. They posed no objection, especially when I promised each man double his shares. Their enthusiasm quickly returned, and they made ready. I have faith in the Belladonna: she is among the best of ships and if any vessel can make this voyage, it’s sure to be her.

I have learned so much about my abilities. There is meaning behind everything, as I have been taught by Duchess Elizabeth Tier. Over our conversations we have grown closer, until our attraction could no longer be denied. On this night of merrymaking and conquering of storms, we have finally succumbed to our passions. Never have I felt such emotion—perhaps this, too, is one of our strange abilities.
 

Or perhaps, it is because of them that such emotions emerge. Regardless, I am happy, and determined more than ever to see this voyage to its conclusion.

However, by accepting this mission to El Dorado, we have become pirates. In essence, we are all dead men, completely alone in this vast ocean.

May God truly bless us,

Jack Finnegan,

Captain of the Belladonna,

Pirate and Select.

Chapter 8

The course Finnegan plotted led the
Belladonna
to one of the scattered islands on the Pacific peninsula, jutting from the mainland.
 

After two excruciating months of freezing weather and unexplored lands, the crew was happy to sail familiar waters once more, even if they were more likely to encounter enemy ships.

Finnegan’s heightened perception and navigational abilities led him on a covert route and, perhaps by some divine intervention, neither enemy nor storm affronted the
Belladonna
.

They ended up on a small island, long ago abandoned by colonial settlers. Nature saw to that, as it plagued the island with frequent floods and vicious hurricanes.

The jungle hindered the crew’s journey and they were forced to hack a clear path with their swords in order to keep up with Tier and Finnegan—like two possessed souls, the couple took the vanguard and weaved in between the vegetation, like a breeze. They knew that their destiny lay ahead, and some universal force seemed to pull them towards it.

“Perhaps it would be a good idea to wait for the rest of the crew.” Father Rodriguez was only a few feet behind them, huffing profusely and waving mosquitoes away. He’d been led by Tier most of the way, and his portly physique made him less spry than the blonde duchess.
 

Finnegan slowed down and craned his neck, looking for his crew. He could hear curses being murmured undertone from his men and smiled. Cursing meant they were still all right.

But beneath it all he heard—no,
felt
—something else. As if there were more people hiding in the woods, men that were not part of his crew. He tried searching for signs of foul play, but saw nothing. Was he imagining things?

Then, Tier tapped his shoulder urgently.

“We’re being watched,” she whispered.

No sooner had she finished her warning than an arrow shot past Finnegan and buried itself inside a sailor’s leg.

Finnegan drew his sword and suddenly came face to face with a man dressed in rags, who was thrusting a pike at him. War broke out as savages assaulted the crew. Spears and arrows met cutlasses and pistols, and while they had the advantage in weaponry, the savages could hide well amongst the trees, hindering the effectiveness of pistols.

Finnegan’s main concern was Tier’s protection, and he leapt in front of her.
 

Standing well away from the skirmish was a man coated in paint, feathers, and beads of all sorts. From the way the painted man issued orders, Finnegan could guessed he was the tribe’s leader.

“Wait,” Father Rodriguez yelled.
 

He grabbed Tier’s hat and pulled it off, letting her golden hair cascade past her shoulders. He yelled something in an unknown language and shoved Tier past him in plain sight. Finnegan leapt after him, trying to protect her from any attacks. At the same time, the chief yelled in a frenzy and all the tribesmen backed away in utter fear.

“What’s going on?” Finnegan asked as he glared at the retreating savages.

“They worship gold,” Rodriguez explained. “They revere everyone who is fair. Play along.”

The chief approached them cautiously and began exchanging words with the priest.

“What language is it?” Finnegan whispered in Tier’s direction.

She frowned in concentration. “Portuguese, I think,” she replied.

“Do you understand what they are saying?”

“Yes. And so can you,” she said with a look of significance.

He allowed himself to listen, truly listen, at their conversation. He took in every minuscule detail of every sound. It wasn’t that he could understand the language, but he could surmise what they were talking about.

“Welcome, outsiders,” the chief was saying. “As thanks for bringing our deity to us, we shall welcome you. Come fill your bellies and warm your hearts. Tonight, we shall celebrate and release our deity from her mortal bonds.” He gazed reverently at Duchess Elizabeth Tier. “Tonight, she dies so that a god may be reborn.”

Tier’s eyes widened in fear and Finnegan flicked his blade at the chief’s direction.

“Over my dead body,” he challenged.
 

Despite the language barrier, the chief seemed to have no problem comprehending Finnegan’s message.

“Do not stand in the way of our tribe and our gods,” he said. “You are not one of us. You are nothing.”

Finnegan’s mind ran with possibilities. He could strike the man down, but that would incur further bloodshed and possibly injure Tier. That was simply not acceptable.

No, the solution had to be of a more diplomatic nature.

His mind made quick calculations, and he swung his saber. Tier remained motionless as the blade nearly lopped her head off.

“Have your wits left you?” she yelled.

Finnegan ignored her and bent over, picking up a lock of golden hair. He threw it at the chief’s feet.

“I have defiled your god,” he said. “May I issue a challenge now?”

He waited for the priest to properly translate.

The chief’s face contorted in wrath. “And why shall I not have you killed now in retribution?”

“If you win, you may kill me and my crew. And you are free to do whatever it is you wish with your so-called deity,” Finnegan replied. “If, however, I am the victor, you must provide us with what we require to make our journey.”

There was a long, tense moment before anyone spoke.

Finally, the chief nodded. “Very well. You will follow me. We must still thank you for bringing our deity to us. I suggest you enjoy the feast tonight, outsider, for it will be your last.”

They walked through thick vegetation for another hour, before emerging at an organized camp of tents, and buildings constructed from felled logs. The Chief’s savage men surrounded Finnegan’s crew the entire time, but they kept a respectful distance, unsure whether the foreigners were gods or conquerors. For now that uncertainty worked to Finnegan’s advantage.
 

At the centre of the village was a wide, open area, surrounded by primitive wooden fences and posts, where men with bows and arrows stood guard. Scattered on the outskirts of the compound were even more tents, these ones much larger, with stalls not too far from where they were set up. Children played at the entrance of the jungle, while women worked skins and threads in to cloths, jewelry or primitive leather armor for the men. They displayed their work inside the stalls, and occasionally an elder woman would walk by to inspect the goods.