The Ship of Lost Souls 1 (2 page)

“Oh.”

“Hm. Pronouns. Tricky things.” Ah. A ladder. Even better. It seemed to reach up to the rooftop of the building on her left.

“Er. I . . .” The merchant now looked thoroughly confused.

“Right. Think about that for a while.” With a few swift motions, Scarlet squirmed out of the man's grasp, stomped on his right foot, booted his left shin, and made a dive for the ladder as he keeled over, swearing. She scaled the rungs like a monkey, pulled herself up onto the roof, then ran to another edge so she could look down on the alley where she'd last seen Jem and his uncle.

They'd disappeared and so had the two mysterious shadows. Scarlet ran farther along the edge of the roof and saw several figures ducking down another lane. Two of them seemed to be struggling, accompanied by the unmistakable clang of pirate cutlasses.

“Scurvy!” Scarlet cried, for now it was too late to help them. If only she'd been quicker or more aware of that blasted merchant's whereabouts.
Jem must be terrified,
she thought. He was, after all, only a child, unused to the dangers of . . .

Scarlet paused for a moment, then snapped her fingers and laughed out loud. A child in need of help. Right here on the islands. She couldn't have planned it better herself! It was exactly what her crew needed.

But now she was wasting precious seconds. She scanned the scene below her until she found the pirates and their prey and watched until she was fairly certain she knew which ship was theirs. Then she drew a breath and ran straight to the edge of the rooftop. She leaped across the gap to the next building, which she knew had a rain gutter, for she'd shimmied up and down it before during port raids. She put two fingers to her lips and let out one shrill blast, then another. The signal. Her crew would meet her at the ship, hopefully right away. There was no time to lose.

CHAPTER TWO

Jem Fitzgerald couldn't decide whether to stay calm or give in to the fear that swelled in his stomach. Sitting curled up on the floor of the cabin, chin resting on his knees, he watched the man pace before him and pondered his options. Master Davis from the King's Cross School for Boys would say, “Fear means you aren't being logical—a failing for any eleven-year-old boy.” Master Davis had all the answers.

No fear then, Jem decided. He breathed in slowly, and the salty air that had seeped through the walls of the ship teased his nostrils.

Beside him, Uncle Finn grunted, “Quit staring, Jem,” and shifted his egg-shaped body on the ship's creaking floorboards. “Or you'll be caught like that when they kill us both. Frozen for eternity with eyes like a giant flounder.” He huffed and repositioned his weight like a restless hen.

The man before them stopped pacing and raised a furry eyebrow at Jem and his uncle. His fingers, yellow and thick as pipes, edged toward the cutlass that hung on his hip and hovered there a moment. Jem's eyes zeroed in on the man's middle finger—sliced off at the knuckle—then he forced himself to look at something else so he wouldn't be caught staring. Uncle Finn probably had a point. Jem had always been taught that it wasn't polite to stare, and he imagined this applied even to crusty-looking kidnappers. He dragged his gaze to the wall of the cabin, where a rat had evidently been at work, chewing a ragged hole in the baseboards. The man spat a neat gob near Jem's feet and continued pacing.

With a sigh, Uncle Finn closed his eyes and tapped his bald head against the wall behind him. Thin trails of sweat dripped down his cheeks and neck, pooling on the collar of his shirt. He hadn't stopped sweating since the moment they'd been pounced on in a Port Aberhard alley. Jem wanted to ask his uncle a hundred questions about this ship they'd been forced onto, the men who'd brought them here, and how best to untie the knots in the rope that bound their hands and ankles, but Uncle Finn had been losing patience with all his questions lately. So Jem followed his uncle's lead and closed his eyes to keep himself from staring.

He cracked one eye open a moment later, just to see if the scene before him had disappeared. It hadn't. Black boots crossed the floorboards with a firm, measured knock, pirouetted on one heel, then returned to the other side of the cabin. Jem opened both eyes and gazed up at the man's broad face, his angular teeth, and the wooden toothpick clamped between them. He wore a faded, gray shirt and a red head scarf that looked painfully tight. Jem's temples pulsed just looking at it.
Could this man be the real thing?
he wondered. He did a quick inventory. Tall black boots, check. Awful teeth, check. Severed knuckle—that got extra points. But could he really be a genuine, authentic—

“What're ye lookin' at?”

Jem hadn't noticed the man had come to a halt in front of him.

“Jem,” Uncle Finn murmured, sounding exasperated. To himself, he added, “Serves me right, really. I should have known better than to bring—”

“Shut up, ye,” their captor snarled. Uncle Finn's mouth formed a small O, then snapped shut.

“Haven't ye ever . . .” The man squatted before Jem and pressed his face so close that in the dim lamplight Jem could count the pores on his jaundiced skin. His breath smelled sour and vaguely familiar. Rotten eggs? Cream left to clot in the sun? “Haven't ye ever seen a pirate before?”

Jem stared into the dark tunnel between the man's front teeth, willed the jitters in his stomach to stop, and cocked his head to one side. “No,” he said.

Of course he had never seen a pirate before. Nor had he, until two months ago, ever set foot on a ship that could cross one of the world's largest oceans. He'd never been in the presence of seamen with muscles like coiled rope or felt the toss of thirty-foot waves or the need to chuck overboard into roiling black water. So how could he know if he was, in fact, in the presence of a real buccaneer, a Jack-tar, a chantey-singing sea swab? Or if they even existed?

What would Master Davis think? Jem concentrated until he could hear his schoolmaster's voice: “Pirates? Nothing but a figment of the imagination, Jem. And we all know what imagination is: illogical.”

“No,” Jem repeated, transferring his stare from the man's teeth to his tarnished cutlass. “You're not really a pirate, are you?”

“Jem, for God's sake,” Uncle Finn said. “Now would be an excellent time to stop asking questions.” He turned to the man. “I'm sorry. Has to know everything, this one. Children these days. Question, question, question. It's all they do, really . . .” Uncle Finn's voice trailed off. The pirate shook his head, then rose and continued pacing.

Jem thought about defending himself and his right to find out exactly what was going on, but he decided now wasn't the time. Uncle Finn had no reason to get so irritated, though. He couldn't exactly tow his nephew across the ocean to find some peculiar treasure tucked away on one of four dozen tropical islands that lay scattered like puzzle pieces in a monstrous, blue bathtub and not expect a question or two, now could he?

Although, to be fair, Uncle Finn had explained a lot throughout their journey. Often, in fact, it had been hard to shut him up. Some nights he kept Jem awake studying maps and warning him of the dangers that awaited them in the tropics—stingrays, panthers, pirates with missing digits, even some disgruntled spirits that haunted the islands. Or so he said. More often, though, Uncle Finn kept him awake to memorize the Latin names of all the plants they'd encounter. Uncle Finn adored botany, but so far he hadn't been able to pass on the obsession to his nephew, who found the subject dead boring.

Still, Jem did owe his uncle some thanks, having convinced his parents to let him trade another year at the King's Cross School for Boys for a chance to explore the world. The decision had come as a surprise. A shock, really. He and Uncle Finn had never been particularly close. In fact, Jem barely knew the man, aside from what he'd learned when the great explorer descended on his family's house every few years to regale them with his tales from the tropics—the snakes he'd wrestled, the diseases he'd outwitted.

Jem hadn't even seen Uncle Finn in two years—not since his parents had enrolled him, despite his loudest protests and most exaggerated sighs, at the King's Cross School for Boys. He actually hadn't been home since. Not long after school began, Jem's father inherited an estate and moved his wife and their servants to another county, too far away for Jem to visit, even on holidays.

So when Uncle Finn turned up at the King's Cross to announce that he was whisking his nephew off on the adventure of a lifetime, Jem's wasn't the only jaw that dropped. Master Davis took one look at the aging explorer and shook his head in alarm. The somber schoolmaster had taken Jem under his wing from day one, when he confiscated Jem's favorite adventure novel (“
Lost in the Wild
? Stuff and nonsense, Jem.”) and replaced it with his own beloved book (“
The Thinking Man's Guide to a Life Without Surprises
. Now there's a book!”).

Master Davis had no imagination and a fierce, almost allergic aversion to adventure, but he meant well. He taught Jem that life at the King's Cross wasn't torturous, but “character-building,” and that someday all the unpleasantness—being away from one's family, having one's favorite books seized—would make him a strong and practical man. “The end justifies the means” was one of Master Davis's favorite sayings, meaning the way in which a goal was achieved was less important than the actual achievement. Over the years Jem came to find his guidance sound and reassuring.

Uncle Finn, however, didn't see the schoolmaster's appeal. He waved off Master Davis's protests as if he were shooing away a fruit fly and produced a handwritten note from Jem's parents stating that they hoped the trip would inspire Jem to become a scientist himself. (This, Jem knew, was his mother's doing. The woman worshipped her brother Finn with such devotion that she'd row across the Atlantic herself if he suggested it.)

Uncle Finn had surveyed the drab, gray walls of the King's Cross courtyard and shuddered. “High time we got you out of this tomb, Jem. Not exactly conducive to learning, is it?”

“Don't worry, Master Davis,” he called out to the schoolmaster, whose ears were burning a fierce shade of crimson, “I promise you that no sharks or boa constrictors will harm my nephew on his adventure. In six months time I'll return him back here, and he can continue to slowly die of boredom.”

The notion that learning could take place far from a classroom suddenly filled Jem with hope and excitement, feelings that Master Davis squelched with a sharp frown. Immediately after Uncle Finn left to book their voyage, the schoolmaster began to advise Jem on how to build character while in the tropics.

“Keep your head about you, Jem,” he'd say. “View everything with caution and healthy skepticism, and don't let yourself get caught up in all the”—he wrinkled his nose disdainfully—“excitement.”

And so he continued right up until the day Jem left.

Jem was fairly certain Master Davis would faint if he knew how much excitement Jem had seen lately. After two months sailing across the Atlantic on the
Lady Eleanor
, they'd docked in Port Aberhard, the largest port town in the islands. There they'd found a boarding house where they'd hoped to spend a day or two readjusting to
terra firma
, as Uncle Finn called it, before hiring a boat to sail them to the island sketched on Uncle Finn's map. But they'd barely been on land for two hours when these so-called pirates descended on them as they left the tavern after dinner. It happened so quickly Jem still wondered if it were all a dream.

Light filled the cabin as the door swung open with a squeal, and a small, spectacled pirate sauntered in wearing an oversized blue coat that brushed his knees. He was followed by another man who was wrestling with Uncle Finn's massive, leather-bound trunk.

The small pirate walked, with strides far too long for someone his size, to the corner where Jem and Uncle Finn sat. He peered down at them over a thin, rodentlike nose and twitched his upper lip. His clothes were at least two sizes too big, but he looked determined to fill them, as if certain that, despite his age, he might still grow an inch. Or four.
Not exactly pirate material,
Jem thought.

“Finnaeus Bliss,” the man said. He glanced quickly at Jem, twitched his lip again, then focused on Uncle Finn. “I am, as I'm sure you know, the Dread Pirate Captain Wallace Hammerstein-Jones of the
Dark Ranger
.” He paused, as if expecting fanfare or at least cries of recognition, but only an uncomfortable silence greeted him. Jem thought he saw the pacing pirate, who'd since stopped pacing, roll his eyes. But he couldn't be sure. The other man, tall with gargantuan shoulders, hummed a little tune to fill the void. The Dread Pirate Captain Wallace Hammerstein-Jones flared his nostrils at the man to silence him.

“It seems,” the captain continued, “that you have some information we might find useful.”

Uncle Finn said nothing, but he held the man's gaze.

“We've heard all about you, Bliss. You know these parts like an Islander. You know what lives and dies here. And I think you know where a certain treasure is hidden. Why else would you have returned?”

Uncle Finn stayed quiet, but the streams of sweat on his face now flowed like small rivers.

The Dread Pirate Captain Wallace Hammerstein-Jones crouched down, eyes wide and lip twitching uncontrollably. “Is it a map? Don't lie to me, Bliss. I know you have some tool to show you the way.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Captain,” Uncle Finn said. Aside from the distinct waver in his uncle's voice, Jem thought him very brave. Like a hero in one of the adventure stories Jem used to read before Master Davis banned them. Except rounder. And with less hair. Yes, he decided, if Uncle Finn was willing to defy this man, then there was no reason to be scared.

The Dread Pirate, whose name Jem decided to shorten to Captain Wallace, pursed his lips and straightened to his full, unimposing height. “Fine. Oh, that's just fine. We'll find it ourselves.” He snapped his fingers at the two men behind him. “The trunk.”

“Right here,” the man with the shoulders said, looking proud.

“Then open it,” the captain said testily.

“But be careful!” Uncle Finn hastened to add. “There are breakables in there.”

Captain Wallace smirked, but the massive man promised he'd be gentle.

“I'm Thomas, by the way,” he added, waving a hand the size of a dinner plate.

“And I'm Iron Morgan,” their first captor piped up, “but you can call me Pete.” Iron “Pete” Morgan had suddenly dropped his pirate brogue and sounded much less bloodthirsty than he had a moment before. He squatted next to Jem and offered a calloused hand. “Sorry about my tone back then.” He pointed to his head scarf. “Got a splitting headache.” Now Jem knew there was nothing to fear. Real pirates wouldn't make pleasant conversation.

“What is this, a garden party?” Captain Wallace sneered. “Open that trunk.”

Pete broke the locks, and Thomas began to pluck items out of the box. “A spyglass.” He held the tube up to his eye.

“Lots of books.” Pete fished out a stack.

“Other than the cap'n, Pete's the only pirate on board who can read,” Thomas said, sounding like a proud parent. He peered over Pete's shoulder and asked, “What does that one say?”

“
A Natural History of Island Sym
 . . .
Symbioses, Part One
by Finnaeus Bliss.”

“That's ye.” Thomas looked up at Uncle Finn. “Ye wrote a book?”

“Years ago, yes.” Uncle Finn sounded pleased.

“That's right impressive—”