The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (11 page)

“You can have all of it. Annie and I already got what we wanted.” The thought of taking the cards back from Annie crossed my mind, but that would make her want them all the more. I thought of the queen of spades. King of diamonds. I'd need to stress to Annie, again, the importance of handling them with care. She was a child, after all, and could lose them, or let that fool goat eat them. Suddenly I felt an urgency to get to my cabin, to inspect the cards again.

I scooped everything back into the chest. “Keep the box as well,” I said, placing it in his hands. Before he could say another word I hustled him through the door, pushed past him, and turned in the direction of my cabin. I felt his eyes following me and stopped. “I don't think I thanked you.” He stared back at me, his dark eyes penetrating, intense. “Thank you, Walter. Thank you for coming after me.”

“I'd never let you go,” he said. His cheeks reddened. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding. For a moment, his eyes held mine and then he headed out the door.

I was relieved to find my cabin empty, no sign of Annie. Light shone through the porthole in a single ray, dust motes floating lazily through it. Like a spotlight, the beam illuminated a circle on the floor. In the middle of the spot of light sat the rectangular box of cards. The miniature coffin—a replica of the chest around which my ghostly ancestors had sat. Their words swam about me, echoing against the timbers.
Pay attention, Lucy,
my father had said, fingering the cards. And Mother:
There's no rush, not now, except for Lucy to learn what she must.
But what—what was it I was supposed to learn? I wondered. And my grandfather—Father's father:
She's our last hope, this one—she and my Pru.
It must mean Pru is alive, I reasoned.

And finally, Mother's words:
It's all in the cards, dear one.

I knelt and took the cards from the box once more. Spread them across the floor and grouped the face cards. The queen of spades. I held it up to the light, and I swear, her eyes narrowed and her lips curved into a vindictive smile. I quickly turned her facedown on the floor and selected another. The king of hearts. Familiarity made my heart skip a beat. It was my grandfather—Father's father! I recalled the tired wariness around his eyes, as if exhausted from looking over his shoulder. In fact, he was depicted head on, but the pupils of his eyes peered to the left, watching for something sinister to occur.

The others, I didn't recognize. The spades and clubs were a motley crew of villainous-looking characters. The king of spades held a dagger between his teeth and had a black patch over his right eye. His hair hung beneath a filthy hat, his beard was woven into numerous skinny braids. The king of clubs was equally heinous, a woolly Monmouth cap pulled down so that his thick bushy eyebrows seemed to slink beneath it. A large gold earring hung from one ear and a thick golden chain wrapped several times around his neck. He grasped a sword in his right hand, holding it at a diagonal across his chest.

The red family, to which my grandfather and the sly, dapper card player aboard the specter ship belonged, were of another class altogether. Ladies and gentlemen all, at least in mode of dress. Adorned in velvet and ruffles, some in white wigs and waistcoats, the women in upper-crust finery. The queen of hearts and the red jacks all looked cultured and genteel. The queen of diamonds, though, seemed out of place in her fancy gown. She had a bulldog-like face with angry jowls and small, close-set eyes. A tumble of red curls framed her face. Her mouth was turned in a tight, bitter smile.

“Hmmm . . .” I mused. I paired the face cards this way and that, trying to grasp whatever it was I was supposed to understand.

The ship's bell rang eight times, signaling the end of the afternoon watch and the beginning of the first dog watch. Today that was mine. I collected the cards, careful to keep the queen of spades and king of diamonds separated. I placed all the black face cards together, and tucked them in one side of the box, then did the same with the reds.

But when I placed the queen of diamonds atop her matching king, the card bent and curled in half, then flipped out of my hand. She stared at me from the floor, daring me to pick her up.

I hesitated, then, with thumb and index finger, I gingerly plucked and held her before me. Again, I slowly moved the card back toward the box. The closer I got to the case, from which the king of diamonds smirked, the harder it became. It was as though an invisible hand held me back. I watched the queen's tightly pursed mouth flatten into a straight line.

“What is it?” I asked aloud. “What is it about the king of diamonds?”

I almost jumped out of my skin when the queen of diamonds' lips formed a reply.
The rogue ain't any good! Only got what he deserved!

Then her face softened.
Too bad the rest of ye has paid fer it too!

I whispered, “What do you mean?” For a second I saw her actually lean forward off the card, pointing at me with a short, stubby finger.

Beware! Ye could be next! You or yer auntie Pru! But remember—shhhh! Not a word to anyone!

She faded back into her likeness. It floated, as though lifted by the chilly gust that suddenly swept through the cabin, and wafted its way back into the case, inserting itself into the deck far beneath the king of diamonds.

I slammed the lid closed, shoved the box into my bunk beneath the covers, and ran for the door.

T
he morning of my thirteenth birthday I awoke early and peered out the porthole. The dawn was breaking bloodred over the port side of our ship. I slipped my flute into my pocket and tiptoed from the cabin, careful not to disturb Annie, still snoring softly in her bunk. I'd find a peaceful spot and accompany the sunrise with a melody or two.

I'd been counting off the days at sea, in anticipation, and finally, it was here. Thirteen, I thought as I padded quietly through the hall toward the companionway. It felt like a magical number as I rolled it over my tongue. I loved the way it first pursed my lips, then spread them into the beginning of a smile. Three times in a row I whispered the number, savoring the sensation.

I paused at the chart room. What if thirteen
was
a magical number? Feeling charmed, I went inside, moved to the corner, and knelt before Father's safe. Heart pounding, I took the knob in my fingers and turned it carefully right, through the thirties, forties, past zero, climbing through the single digits, then ten, eleven, twelve . . .

Thirteen.

I waited for a click, or some other sign that I was on to something.

Nothing.

Perhaps, I reasoned, it required a combination of trust, insight, and newfound confidence that comes with the age. Or maybe, I thought hopefully, as a birthday gift from beyond, my hand would be supernaturally or otherwise guided. Aunt Pru, I thought, send me some insight! With an open mind, I closed my eyes and spun the dial left until my intuition prompted me to stop, then right, this last revolution undertaken with the care and precision of a surgeon. I would surely feel the mechanism lock into place.

Slowly, slowly, I turned the dial with tense sweaty fingers. Even more carefully as I approached one complete revolution.

Again, nothing.

Disappointed, I sat back on my heels. Shook my head. Then I stood. I would not, I told myself, let this cast a shadow on my day. I was thirteen. More mature. Well on my way to finding my aunt. Able to weather many things that would have upset me when I was younger and less experienced.

With that I scaled the steps and headed to the poop deck. A peculiar morning it was, the sky a steely gray, with a furling scarlet ribbon of light blazing across the horizon. Off the port side, I spied a distant ship, square-rigged and under full sail, its sharp, black silhouette curiously devilish against the flaming skyline. Even the rhythm of our ship traversing the waves was unusual, adding to the strangeness of the day, her rolling, forward-and-back motion clipped and uneven.

Quaide was at the helm, Georgie beside him. “Hands on the wheel and steady on, mate!” Quaide said, thumping Georgie on the back.

“Steady on!” Georgie repeated, placing his small hands beside Quaide's paws. Grady was on watch. The deck was still slick and glistening from the many canvas buckets of salt water Grady had hauled over the side to wash down her timbers. As I walked past, he scarcely looked up from tightening the halyards and renipping the buntlines. Ever since I'd gone overboard he'd avoided me. Wouldn't meet my eyes.

“Mornin', Grady,” I called.

He mumbled, gesturing toward the sea with his chin, “Red sky at morning . . .” That much I was able to make out. But, of course, I knew the rest of the saying:
Sailors take warning.

As if in response the mizzen topsail thrashed and thwacked, the spanker gaff snapped. A chill rippled along my back, my arms. I pulled my shirtsleeves down over my knuckles and thrust my hands deep in my pockets. A sudden blast of wind whipped the hair from my face. I felt the curls rise around my head and fly in all directions. Grady chanced a wary glance at me, then away. He shook his head, reciting some mumbo jumbo:

“
The Gorgon winged, with snakes for hair
—

hated of mortal man
—

Medusa, born of the sea . . .
”

More superstitious nonsense, I thought, reaching up and harnessing my wild locks. I shivered. Coffee . . . a mug of steaming java would do me good. Heading for the galley, I pulled open the door to the companionway. An unexpected gust flung it from my hand, throwing it back against the wall with a bang. I grabbed hold, and secured it by slipping the heavy brass hook into the eye attached to the outer wall. The wind whistled through the portal like steam from a teakettle. A feeling of unease crept over me. But it was my birthday. I was thirteen. I wouldn't let a little unsettled weather thwart my special day.

I made my way to the galley, following the scent of the aromatic brew. My stomach growled. Surely Rasjohnny would have some porridge on the stove, and maybe he'd fry me a couple of eggs. This I wanted to quietly enjoy before the rest straggled in for breakfast.

The door to the galley was closed. Perhaps caused by the uncommon rocking of the ship, I reasoned. I placed my hand on the door.

“No, wait!”

I turned. Javan took hold of my arm.

Reading the alarm in his amber eyes, I asked, “What's the matter with you?”

“Not da time to go in dere, no, no,” he said, vigorously shaking his head.

“Don't be silly! I'm—”

“Just you be waitin' a little tiny—”

“Javan! I'm hungry!” I shoved his hand away and pushed open the door. Stopped short.

Javan whispered, “Shhhh! Don't be interruptin' him now, missy, stay back!”

Scores of candles set all about the room licked the darkness. Caught by the draft, their flames stretched and dipped in unison like crazed dancers, casting long distorted shadows raving across the ceiling, walls, and floor. In the middle of this, Rasjohnny knelt, keening forward and back, eyes closed, mouth pulled in a tight line. Sweat streamed down his face. A hollow, tuneless hum emanated from his lips. His hands flew, pummeling a small drum, a steady pulse of thrumming that raised the hair on the back of my neck.

“Is he all ri—”

“SHHH!” Javan insisted, his eyes flashing, waving both hands desperately in front of my face. “He's callin' out da
Loa—
da spirits.”

I took a step closer, Javan blocking the way. “Please, Miss Lucy, me 'n' you, we go on outta here now, come on!”

My eyes took in a wooden trestle tray of food—dried fruit and fish, and bundles of herbs tied with black string—set to one side of a black canvas mat decorated in geometric shapes of brightly colored crosses and stars. The candlelight caused the images to tremble on the dark field in a foreboding way.

“By the power of the saints, I knew it!” Grady's voice was high and strained. He gripped the edges of the doorframe with white-knuckled fingers, his eyes flashing. “Black magic! That's what yer up to! Knew it the minute this a-cursed day wrestled the night into dawn. Upsettin' the sea and sky itself! Saint Erasmus, save us,” he implored, peering skyward. “And lookie!” he exclaimed, pointing a bent arthritic finger at me. “See! In the middle of it, there ye be, missy—I shoulda known as much! All makes sense now, your divin' into the deep. Possessed, I tell ye! The devil's handiwork!”

Heart racing, I followed Grady's gaze. In the center of the mat was a small figure, a doll, about the size of the palm of my hand. It had a flat face crudely carved from wood, sightless eyes of horizontally set cowrie shells. The mouth—a gaping hole—suggested a perpetual silent scream. Hair of dried sea grass streamed wildly from its head, and a makeshift dress woven of the same material covered its body. I gasped. Despite the primitive rendering, I knew from the feeling in my gut who this figure was supposed to be. It was me.

“Nothin' to be a-scared at, miss—no, nothin'!” Javan cried, his words tumbling like waves in a squall. “Don't pay Grady no mind! He don' know 'bout deez dings, he—”

“Cease this devilishness, I tell ye!” Grady roared. “B'fer we all sink to the bottom of the sea and straight to hell!”

Javan pleaded, “Calm down, Grady—you's changin' da flow! Stop!” Grady ignored him, lunged forward, knocked over the tray of food, and viciously kicked the doll from the mat. As his foot connected with her wooden torso a powerful pain caught me in the ribs and I doubled over. Then—an aching lump rose on my forehead as the doll hit the wall.

Rasjohnny slowly emerged from his daze. He stopped drumming. Slumped forward like a scarecrow. His voice went still. I screamed when, in unison, the candles all blew out, my voice lost in the sudden howling of wind and roar of waves. We pitched violently, everything in the room sliding to one side. The ship's bell began to toll relentlessly.