The Phantom (2 page)

As the strange ship closed in on us, it grew in both size and menace. I gazed through a spyglass my father had given me before leaving home. I found the mast and followed it upward to the top, where a flag rippled and shimmered like a mirage. I steadied my hand, squinted, then saw what looked like the shape of a spider web on the flag. My young friend had told me that the spider web was flown on the ships of the meanest and deadliest of the pirates, the ones who never spared the crew.

“Quick, Kit, get below deck!” my father shouted. “Into the cargo hold. Hide yourself among the woolens.”

“I want to be up here.
Please.
”

But such fury seized my father’s face that I scampered below like a terrified rat. I opened a hole in one of the bundles where I could hide. But before crawling inside, I had to find out what was happening on deck.

I crept slowly up the ladder, then nudged the hatch upward a couple of inches. I heard pounding feet trampling the deck, the firing of muskets, shouts, and horrid cries. I smelled gunpowder and saw one of the crew collapse to the deck, blood pouring from his chest.

My heart pounded as I lowered the hatch again. The Bangallan pirates had easily caught the ship. Our meager supply of firearms and skeleton crew were no match for the seasoned pirates. It seemed there was nothing I could do. But I didn’t want to be a kid anymore. I wanted to help. I desperately needed to help.

I pushed against the hatch, but suddenly it was flung open. A scar-faced pirate stood above me, swinging a notched saber. Just as he slashed downward, a musket fired and the pirate toppled over. His sword fell harmlessly into the hold.

“I told you to hide!” my father shouted.

I wanted to weep in shame, to curl up into a small, tight ball and roll away. But just then, another pirate rushed forward, his face and clothing splattered with blood.

“Look out!” I screamed.

My father spun, but it was too late. A glint of sunlight from the pirate’s bloodied saber flashed in my eyes, and then my father, the captain, fell to the deck, cut down by the blade.

“No! No!” I yelled, and started to scramble through the hatch. But it slammed down on my head and I tumbled into the hold and landed on a bundle of woolen goods. I started to climb the ladder again to avenge my father’s death, but halfway up, I heard his voice so clearly it was as if he were standing next to me.

“Kit, follow my orders. Do it now!”

I froze, one foot halfway between two rungs, and looked around the dark cargo hold, but could see no one. Was it my imagination?

“Hurry, Kit!” the voice said.

I scrambled down the ladder and crawled into my hiding place. And there I waited, terrified, trembling. The wet smell of the wool seeped into my nostrils; the darkness crowded around me like a gang of thieves.

For the longest time, I heard screams, shouts, boots pounding the deck of the ship. Then, for an even longer time, there was a thick, horrifying stillness—the silence of the grave. I didn’t move, barely breathed. The stink of the damp wool nearly choked me. My arms itched, my throat closed up, every muscle in my body shrieked for movement, flight, freedom, fresh air. I blacked out—seconds, minutes, it was impossible to tell—and when I came to, I was no longer alone in the hold.

TWO

T
he pirates pawed through the bales of woolen goods in the hold, their angry voices muted by the wool packed tightly around me. Even if I could have heard their words, I wouldn’t have understood them. But I knew they were arguing, and it was probably about what they should do with the bales.

I considered crawling out, showing myself, surrendering. It probably meant certain death, but what difference did it make? I’d failed my father; he had died because of me, because I had failed to obey him. I deserved to die, too. The only thing I hoped was that my death would be quick and painless.

But something kept me from giving up. It was like a silent command from an invisible presence.
Dad? Are you here?
I mouthed the words silently. I wanted some sort of confirmation of what had happened earlier.

No answer.

Dad, please say something, talk to me like before, please, please . . .

Silence.

What was the use? A wave of utter desolation crashed over me. If I stayed where I was, I would die of hunger or thirst. I started to crawl out, but as soon as I pushed my head to the edge of the bale, I saw a clear image of my father standing in front of me and his voice flowed through me, as clear and warm as liquid. “Wait, Kit! Get back inside.”

I did as the voice instructed, pushing myself down deeper into the bale. But through a narrow opening, I could see three pirates, their backs to me. One of them was still talking, but now in a calmer tone of voice. I sensed that a decision had been made. After that, everything grew quiet. Relief flooded through me. I could swallow again, breathe again.

Maybe they’d decided to just forget about the bales of wool. That was fine with me. I tried to imagine what might happen next. Would they sink the ship? I doubted it. The vessel was less than a year old; it made sense that they would take it as part of their booty. Hopefully they’d sail it away to sell or trade in a foreign market.

Somehow I would survive, I knew I would. I had to. Instantly I began plotting my escape. I would sneak out of the bale during the night, find food and water, then sneak back in here. That was about the best I could expect. What I dreaded was the thought that the ship might be taken to the pirates’ hideout. If that was the case, my chances of escape were not very good. Even if I got away, I probably wouldn’t survive. I’d heard that Bangalla was filled with wild beasts and that if the natives didn’t kill you, then the animals would. What chance did a young boy have?

As I pondered these alternatives, several men entered the cargo hold. From the grunts and groans, it sounded as if they were lifting the bales and carrying them up to the deck. I had no idea whether that was good news or bad.

Finally the bale where I was hiding rocked back and forth, then was turned on its side. Muttering and an angry flurry of words followed. I didn’t have to understand their language to recognize the words as curses.

Suddenly the bale was lifted and carried slowly out of the cargo hold and up to the deck. Despite the stink of the wool, I could smell the sea air, the dizzying sweetness of it, the promise of all it held. I nearly wept with relief.

The bale was dropped and struck the deck with a hard thud that jarred me to the bone. I waited to see what would happen next, but after a few minutes curiosity overcame caution. I worked my way toward the outside of the bale until I saw light. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, then saw a crooked line of bales. Two men were moving down the line tossing one bale after another from the merchant ship onto the pirates’ vessel. It looked like I was going to be taking another voyage.

The men were getting closer, so I ducked back inside the bale. I curled up in a ball and waited. Moments later, the bale was rocked from side to side and I heard the same curses again. Then I was swinging in the air, back and forth, like a corpse hanging from a gallows. The bale was tossed; I was airborne.

I tensed, expecting to feel the impact against the deck at any moment. But I kept dropping, tumbling, rolling through the air. The bale missed the deck and splashed into the sea.

I bobbed on the ocean inside my cocoon, drifting with the waves. I waited for the pirates to retrieve the bale, but the minutes collapsed into each other, flattening into a thin line that seemed to go on forever. My awareness shrank until there was only the bobbing of the bale, the smell of the sea, and the waiting.

I realized then that they weren’t coming after it. Maybe I was free of the pirates, but I was still lost at sea, and in serious trouble.

Most of the bale was wrapped with heavy cloth coated with a waterproof lacquer, but water was still seeping into the wool, and slowly, a bit at a time, the bale was sinking.

I worked my way toward the opening. The constant rocking and the thickness of the damp wool made it difficult to move. I was having a hard time breathing, too, as the air pockets closed around me and strands of the wool were sucked into my mouth and nose with every breath.

I started to panic and clawed madly at the wool, twisting and turning my body until I gulped at fresh air. A salty wave splashed in my face. I coughed, rubbed my hands over my face, and dropped my head back, scanning the vast, empty sky.

It was late afternoon, the wind had picked up and white caps topped the swells. I worked my way out of the bale and climbed onto it. There was no sign of the
Miranda,
my father’s ship, or the pirate vessel. The day washed into evening, then night. My throat was parched, stars pulsed in the heavens, I became delirious, and I drifted. At some point, I raised my head and saw a fire burning in the distance between the star-speckled sky and the black waters. For a moment, I didn’t understand how a fire could be burning on the water. Then I remembered what the boy on the island had said. The spider-web pirates always killed the crew and destroyed the ships, and I knew it was the
Miranda
burning.

My heart seized up on me then, and I began to cry, to shout, to pray. Then exhaustion swallowed me.

When I opened my eyes again, the sun had risen and my thirst was so great I began to see streams and rivers and lakes, fresh water molded and shaped by unseen hands into towns and cities that shimmered and danced in the light like living things.

In my lucid moments, I estimated that it was either midmorning or midafternoon. At some point during the night, I must have crawled between the rope holding the bale together and the wool. I couldn’t recall doing it, but it was the only reason I was still alive. But I wouldn’t last much longer. I needed water. I craned my head and saw palm trees and a beach. I was washing ashore. I was going to make it! But as I got closer to the beach, I was caught in the surf. A huge wave broke over me. The bale flipped over and over, and when it stopped tumbling, I was under it. I struggled wildly to free myself. I couldn’t drown here, not so close to shore, so close to surviving. Then the bale rolled over again, and I gasped for air. Instantly another wave lifted me and slammed me down against the sand. Over and over, the surf pounded against the bale, spinning it around and around, battering and shredding it.

Dazed and barely able to breathe, I passed out and drifted in the backwash of my mind in a calm, pleasant place where there were no Bangallan pirates, no raging seas, a place where my father was still alive, still with me, and all was well.

When I woke up, I found myself caked in soggy wool and sand. I could hear the surf, but I couldn’t feel it or see it. Slowly I pulled away the clumps of wool and rolled over. The surf slapped against my legs, which had grown numb with exhaustion.

I lifted my head and looked out to sea. The sun was setting. Its fiery glow on the water reminded me of the burning ship.

The memory of my father’s death came back to me as I clawed my way up the beach, tiny bits of sand lodging beneath my nails like slivers of glass. Why was I still alive, while the others were dead? I wished I had gone with them. I closed my eyes and a shudder ripped through my body. I was lost, cold, and thirsty. I wouldn’t last much longer.

Something caught my attention. Everything around me was quiet, but I knew I wasn’t alone. My eyes fluttered open to moonlight and shadows moving over the sand. Several pairs of bare feet soon encircled me. I was afraid to raise my eyes, but I did. I followed those brown toes to their ankles, their calves, their thighs, all the way to the strange, hard faces of spear-bearing natives bent over me.

One of the natives waved a stick in front of my face. Impaled on the end of it was a human skull.

I shut my eyes, too exhausted and weak to fight or struggle. I had somehow survived the pirates and the sea only to be captured by cannibals.

THREE

I
raised up on my hands and knees, but I was so weak I dropped back onto my belly. A muscular man grabbed me by the arm and jerked me into the air as though I weighed no more than a twig. Moments later I was being carried quickly and soundlessly through the jungle along an invisible trail.

Shafts of moonlight created eerie, shifting shadows that quickly revealed and concealed hints of the jungle’s exotic mysteries. And these shadows were alive with animal sounds. Every time a branch scratched my back or arms, I thought a leopard was clawing me.

Sometimes the jungle was so dense there was no light at all, and I felt strange, disconnected from my body, bumping along through all the darkness like a piece of driftwood. I wondered if this was how the Bangallas felt when they left their bodies. I lost consciousness for a while and sank deeply into some other place. When I came to, we were entering a thatched village. Yes, I was terrified. But I was also filled with incredible wonder. Ever since we’d left home, I had dreamed of getting a close look at primitive jungle dwellers like those my father had seen on his voyage with Columbus. But then again, I didn’t want to be the main course of their next meal, either.

I was deposited on the hard-packed ground in the center of the circle of huts. One of the men left half a coconut shell filled with water by my side. I drank deeply, my eyes darting about, watching the two men who guarded me while the rest disappeared into the huts.

Shadowy figures rippled through the moonlit night. Some stopped and stared at me; others acted as if I weren’t even there. After a time, an old man appeared and crouched down a few feet away. He stared hard at me, muttered something under his breath, then signaled for the men to carry me into a hut.

The hut smelled as damp and as lush as the jungle. The old man gave me a cup of brown water that tasted like cold tea and a plate of stringy dried fish. After I ate, he motioned for me to lie down on a bedding of dried grasses. Even though my future was uncertain, I fell asleep with ease.