The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (3 page)

4

“W
hat is it?” I asked. “What did you find?” As fast as I walked it was hard to keep up with Walter. Pru and Marni followed. We took a dirt road that climbed uphill hugging the edge of the sea. The countryside that had been green and blue from my cottage vista was now veiled in a clammy mist, turning everything a dull shade of gray. It was as though a ghostly pall had been cast over the entire land. And with it, the scent of earthy smoke. I thought of Grady and his warnings about the “Grey Man.” Shivering in the chill, I tried to dismiss the notion. The smell of burning turf was surely nothing more than the smoke from the hearth of some neighboring cottage. Still, I ran a pace or two ahead until I was at Walter's side.

“There's an old crumbling church set at the top of a hill. A graveyard beside it. You'll recognize it.”

“From the cards . . .”

“Yes.”

We continued to walk the dirt road along the rocky incline. To the left the land dropped steeply to the sea. From time to time I glanced back to ensure Marni and Pru were still behind us. I remembered that it was along a coast much like this, at home in Maine, where I'd met Marni in the first place—and how she'd been such a part of the sea, as she was even now. She must have felt my gaze, or perhaps she was recalling the same memory. Even from a distance I saw her sea-green eyes, the strong, chiseled face framed in straight silver hair. She nodded, fingering the pendant at her neck, as she did whenever she was pensive. What a sight we must have been—my beautiful, eccentric aunt, one-of-a-kind Marni, Walter, and me, still in our sailing clothes and smelling of ten months at sea.

We trudged on. How much wiser it would have been to draw a bath, wash our rank clothing, set up our beds, and rest.

“It's not far now,” Walter said. “Just beyond the next ridge and to the right.”

The top of a rough, stone building became visible, its peaked roof stark against the white sky.

“Up here,” I shouted, waving wildly to Pru and Marni. Walter and I ran ahead toward the ancient church. Sections of it had crumbled into piles of rubble. The homely structure had a number of small windows placed here or there with little regard for beauty or symmetry. A long, narrow pair of pencil-shaped windows along the back wall was its only decorative element. It was surrounded by a small cemetery, and a variety of headstones jutted crookedly out of the earth, as though the ground around them had quaked and shrugged, casting them this way and that.

A stone wall enclosed the whole of it, with an occasional opening through which visitors could pass. Walter went ahead and I leaned against the wall, waiting for Pru and Marni.

“Look,” Walter called, pointing at the gravestones. “There's no doubt the famous Gracie O'Malley lived on this island. Look at all of them!”

Sure enough, this was the place where generations of O'Malleys were laid to rest, the O'Malley name carved into many a slab—likely all descendants of Granuaile, the pirate queen.

“There're other names here too,” Walter said as Marni and Pru caught up. “O'Gradys and Morans.” He paused. “And then there's this. . . .”

We crowded around him to get a look at one small, nondescript headstone at the back corner of the graveyard. Just two letters in an old-fashioned script:
E.S.

I recognized them—the same inscription as on the king of diamonds stacked in my deck of cards back at the cottage. My great-grandfather's initials.

Pru traced the letters with her finger. “Edward Simmons. It has to be. No small wonder he chose this place—he'd probably viewed it as a shrine to the pirate life and the values—or lack of them—that he lived and died by.”

Suddenly I caught sight of a glass-enclosed placard affixed to the outer wall of the church. As I inched closer I saw a plot map of the graveyard. Something about it seemed familiar. I squinted at the grid, grasping at the slim straws of recognition teasing my memory. “Look at this!” I exclaimed.

Pru leaned closer. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, turning toward me. “This matches the grid I discovered at Grandfather's homestead in Australia! There!” She jabbed her finger at the quadrant labeled J-3. “The spot he'd X'ed. It's all the proof we need.”

Walter grinned. “Now all we have to do is . . .”

Marni interrupted him. “It does appear we've located the grave. And it will involve a bit of clever-ness in order to unearth what we're looking for. But still . . .”

“Still what?” I asked.

“It feels too easy.”

Pru and I exchanged a glance. Every other step in this quest had been riddled with complications. Was it possible our luck was changing?

No sooner did the thought occur to me than a wall of thicker fog pressed in, carrying with it a cold chill.

“There'll be a lot to plan,” Marni said. “We can't very well just march over here with a shovel.”

“No,” Pru said. “We'll need to come at night. Wait until the moon has waned. A starless night. One of us as a lookout.”

“There're supplies we'll need,” Walter added. “Shovels. A cart. Rope for hoisting.”

Despite our good fortune I suddenly felt weary. Anxious. The fog pressed in.

“Let's go back,” I said, and to cover my anxiety, I added, “and make a plan.”

“Good idea,” Pru said. “This fog gets much thicker and it'll be hard to find our way.”

I glanced out to sea and pushed back a wave of panic. Nothing at all was visible. It was like peering into a cloud. Again I was reminded of the day Mother and Father had been lost at sea—to me, the fog was a dire enemy.

We managed to find the dirt road, and painstakingly began to retrace our steps. It took all my concentration, eyes glued to my feet, to make certain I wouldn't trip and fall.

Suddenly I felt utterly alone—I had no sense of Walter beside me, or of Marni and Pru behind. “Marni? Aunt Pru? Where are you? Walter?” My voice bounced back and dissipated in the fog. An eerie silence enveloped us. My hands groped before me. Walter, I silently cried. Aunt Pru? Marni? A distant voice answered, pleading from some unreachable place
. Plant your feet firmly, darling. Don't move a muscle! Resist! You must!

I knew that voice. Mother? My knees felt suddenly weak. Then, a sudden pressure on my arm.

There now, that's my girl. Steady! Steady! Inch your way back.

Father . . . Somehow, their voices empowered me to reinhabit myself, or at least regain some level of control.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
As always, the warning bell of the
Lucy P. Simmons
roused me, and, with great difficulty, I riveted myself to the spot on which I stood. Slowly, slowly I edged my feet back. As I did, a warm breeze curlicued through the fog, and floating on the welcome stream of air was the faintest hint of colorful glittering mist—the same that had transformed my home back in Maine and had swirled about the ship when the situation was most dire. As it wafted about me I felt the life force surge once again inside my veins, and at the same time the oppressive fog and acrid smoky vapor began to lift.

Exhausted, I sat down and closed my eyes. I was roused by a snuffling sound and a tugging at my sleeve.

“Pugsley!”

I gasped. My little dog was desperately trying to pull me back from the edge of a precipice where I was sprawled, just inches from where the cliff dropped into the sea. Not daring to get up, I scootched myself from the rim of the bluff on my backside, until I was far enough away to safely stand.

“Pugsley,” I cried, “I don't see Walter, or Pru. Marni.” Deeply shaken, my eyes scanned the cresting whitecaps, terrified that I might spy a rag doll of a body being cast about. Pugsley tipped his head, sniffed into the wind, and took off. Squinting, I followed him with my eyes and spied three rumpled forms farther up along the headland. I ran until they came clearly into view—Marni, Pru, and Walter, taken aback, but seemingly unharmed. The waves crashed below in a steady rhythm, and visions of our bodies being tossed against the rocky crag stole my breath away—the Simmons family curse, of course, once again nearly claiming me for the sea. I felt the familiar steely resolve rise in me. I wouldn't let Mother and Father down. No. I'd figure out how to find the treasure my great-grandfather had stolen, and somehow satisfy the conditions the wicked Mary Maude Lee had set forth. Then I'd make a pilgrimage back to Maine, to the place our home had once stood—this in memory of Mother and Father.

“Thank God, you're safe!” Pru threw her arms about me, and in a moment we four were locked in a single embrace, Pugsley yapping in circles around us.

“Do you realize how close . . . ?” Walter began.

Marni silenced him with a slight wave of her hand. “Close, perhaps, but safe nevertheless. This Irish fog is unpredictably dangerous.”

“I told ye, didn't I, but not a one of ye's took me serious!” We turned to find Grady on the path, Rosie wagging her tail beside him. “I heard the Grey Man's steps, felt him suckin' the air outta the fog like he does. And I seen the bunch of ye fools settin' out, payin' no heed whatever. And now that ye seen 'is devilish handiwork firsthand ye won't be so quick to discredit me!” As if in response, the sound of the surf pounded against the rocks below. Grady jutted out his whiskery chin. “Could've taken ye's fer a swim, he coulda—last swim ye'd ever take, I daresay.”

“I'd assert,” Marni said, “after all the time you've spent aboard ship as our first mate, braving raging seas and roiling oceans—all of that has earned our respect. You do yourself credit, and we're grateful. Whether fog or the Grey Man, next time we'll pay you more heed.”

“Hmph,” he grunted. “Then ye's won't give me no lip about followin' me back to the cottage.”

“We were just . . . ,” Walter began. Grady silenced him with a sharp look.

“Plenty a time fer whatever yer schemin'. Been here but an afternoon 'n' already ye git yerselves in trouble. Fact is, it's me mam's summoned ye's back.”

“What for?” Pru asked.

Grady had already turned on his heel. A brisk wind snatched his words and tossed them back at us. “A message. Says she has a message from the beyond.”

5

A
deep fatigue grabbed hold of me as we walked back toward the cottage. The day had felt never ending. Finally, the sun was dropping, the sky hanging over the sea striped in brilliant shades of blue, orange, and lavender, turning the distant hills to gold. Grady saw me stifle a yawn. “Dang fools fer settin' out at this hour. Almost nine o'clock now. I'm ready t' turn in meself.”

Seamus sat outside Miss Oonagh's cottage whittling a chunk of wood in the dusky light. He handled the knife nimbly, a whorl of shavings curling from the blade. He looked up. “'Fraid the moment's passed. Hope ye didn't rush much.”

Grady glared at him. “What're ye sayin'?”

“Miss Oonagh. She's . . . well . . . she's gone off again, she has. Sorry to say.”

“We'll see fer ourselves, thank ye,” Grady growled. “Be off with ye now.” Grumbling, he pushed the cottage door open. “Thinks he knows everythin' . . .” Seamus stood to leave. “T'morrow's another day, it 'tis!” He caught my eye and winked. Walter put his hand on the small of my back and shepherded me inside.

It was hard to make out the huddled form of Miss Oonagh slumped in the chair beside what was left of the fire sputtering in the hearth, casting strange dancing shadows against the walls.

“Mam,” Grady said, “I'm back with 'em, I am.” He gently shook her arm. “Mam . . .”

With a loud snuffling sound the old woman lifted her head. Her mouth was slack, and she blinked slowly several times, giving her the look of an ancient lizard. Her eyes lacked the spark they'd held earlier, the strange, sharp intelligence replaced by a dull stare.

Grady knelt before her. “What was it ye had to tell 'em? They're here now. I brought 'em, jest like I promised.” This was a tender tone I'd never heard coming from Grady before.

Oonagh licked her lips and swiped her mouth with the back of her forearm. She sat up a little straighter, and her hand went to her hair, patting and smoothing some imagined fancy coif. “Daniel,” she said, a playful smile curling her lips. “You've come a-courtin'. Me father wouldn't approve.”

The color drained from Grady's face. “It's me, Mam—Grady. Yer son.”

Oonagh tipped her head, one hand cupping her cheek. “Don't be such a tease,” she cooed. In her other hand she held a charred piece of tinder that slipped from her fingers to the floor. Her eyes closed and in an instant she was snoring quietly.

Grady gaped at her, and with his mouth hanging open the resemblance between them was arresting. Marni stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It happens to the old ones,” she said consolingly. “Daniel must have been someone she loved, for she saw him in your eyes.”

Grady bit his lower lip, a frown screwing up his face. “Daniel was me da. Me father. Never forgave me fer makin' a life at sea.”

“Oh no,” Marni whispered. “Miss Oonagh saw a kindred spirit in you—you and your da as one and the same. That's because when we cross to the other side all the things of life are forgiven.”

If it was true, I wondered, how could there be such a thing as a family curse? The room suddenly grew darker, the sky through the windows now a deep navy blue. Grady knelt beside the fire, grabbed the poker, and jabbed at the smoldering turf, sending up a spray of angry sparks.

“Well,” Walter said, “we should go. . . .”

Suddenly Grady sat back on his heels. “Lookie here,” he said. He pointed the poker at the floor beside the hearth where the blackened kindling his mother had held had dropped. “Look!” He stood, quickly lit the lantern on the mantel, and bent it so that its light shone a buttery circle on the floor.

We leaned in, peering at the spot. On a smooth piece of stone was a primitive drawing that looked like a sun, with five uneven rays. “What is it?” Walter asked. “What does it mean?”

“A message,” Grady said. “She musta written it there while I was gone for ye's.” Pru had already pulled a pencil and small journal from her pocket and, peering intently, copied the primitive-looking symbol.

 

 

Marni squinted, her fingers drawing the pendant along the chain at her throat, a strange faraway look in her eye. “Yes,” she whispered. “It means something, I'm sure. Something important.”

Pru closed her notebook and slid it and her pencil into her back pocket. “Let's sleep on it. Tomorrow we can consider it, fresh.” The gentle snuffling of Miss Oonagh's slumber reminded us all how exhausted we were. We bid our good nights, trudged back to our own cottage, and, with due haste, made up our beds.

I lay in the shadows listening to the sound of Marni's even breathing, a shaft of moonlight cutting through the window. “Aunt Pru?” I whispered.

“Yes . . .” Her voice, blurry and edged with sleep, caressed me in the darkness.

“Do you think it's true? What Marni said to Grady? About all things being forgiven . . .”

She sighed. “Once we cross to the other side?” Then silence. I thought perhaps she'd dropped off to sleep, but then she continued in a whisper. “I'm wondering the same thing myself.” We were both quiet, and all we could hear was the sound of the waves in the distance, taunting us. “Maybe,” she murmured, “in order to forgive, a wrong has to be acknowledged. Maybe we have to ask to be forgiven. . . .”

“But we didn't do anything. . . . It was Great-grandfather . . .”

“I don't know. . . . Maybe Mary Maude Lee needs someone to be sorry, to understand how she was cheated.”

“It's not fair,” I whispered.

“Most of life isn't,” Pru ventured, her words soft as velvet. “Fair, that is.”

Like an undertow, the murkiness of sleep began to pull me down, and amidst thoughts of curses and hurt, vengeance and forgiveness, I sunk into an uneasy but much needed sleep.