The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (4 page)

6

B
y the time I awoke I'd slept half the day away, roused finally by the bustling sounds enlivening the cottage. The others had, apparently three times already, heated, filled, and emptied the large metal tub dragged in front of the fire, each having taken their turn luxuriating in the soapy warmth that stripped away the grime accumulated from months at sea.

“You're next, Lucy!” Pru called. “No need to be shy—Walter's gone off exploring, and Marni and I've bolted the door.”

I sat up, extended my arms overhead, and yawned, stretching my back like a satisfied cat. The sun streamed across my bed. Fragrant steam rose from the tub, its lavender scent beckoning.

I gasped as I slipped one foot and then the other into the bath, the shock of the hot water turning my feet and legs lobster red. I dropped my bedclothes and slowly lowered myself. “Ahhhh . . . ,” I sighed, sinking in up to my chin. I ran the thick bar of soap along my arms and legs, scrubbing away the layers of salt, sea, and sweat. Oh, how clean and tender my skin felt, the tingling joy of it!

Pru smiled. “Lovely, isn't it?” There was a knock on the door and I drew myself lower into the water.

“It's me,” Walter announced, “but I'm not coming in. Just delivering one last bucket of hot water for Lucy.”

With that I took a deep breath and submerged myself, running the soap through my tangled locks. When I came up for air, Pru helped me rinse and pull the comb through my hair until it squeaked. She held a thick towel out for me and I wrapped myself in its welcoming warmth. Clean clothes had been laid out on my bed—a long A-line skirt and white tailored shirt, a thick leather belt, and a pair of lace-up boots. I looked at Pru and she smiled. “They were mine—thought you might like them,” she said. “Try them on!”

After toweling my hair and pinning it up, I slipped into the outfit. Immediately, the sleek, fitted cut of the clothing made me feel so much more mature and worldly. Womanly, like my aunt. Confident.

Marni looked my way approvingly as she set a tray of tea and scones on the table. “That bath washed away the girlishness to reveal quite a stunning young woman.” Even Pugsley wagged his tail and sniffed at my boots, as though greeting a brand-new person.

I blushed with pleasure as I joined them at table. Over breakfast Pru and Marni decided it would do us all well to take a day to relax and adjust before we began our quest in earnest. I, however, had other ideas. I wiped the crumbs from my face, dabbed the jam at the corner of my mouth, and finished the last of my tea. I tucked my flute and spyglass into my leather bag and went to have a look around the island, making certain I paid close attention to the shoreline, should the ominous fog roll in again. Pugsley trotted along behind me, nose to the ground. This time I headed in the opposite direction, back toward the bluffs behind the dock area, where the boxy fortress of Gracie O'Malley stood overlooking the harbor. As Pugsley and I navigated the path, Rosie came bounding across a field to join us, leaving her sheep behind without a backward glance. The two dogs ran circles around one another, tails wagging wildly.

I lifted the edge of my skirt as I traipsed through the tall, wet grass surrounding the castle to a high point just behind it. There I found a spot to sit that would allow me to see our ship anchored offshore. The sight of her familiar silhouette against the brilliant blue sky and water bolstered my confidence. When I brought Father's spyglass to my eye, our ship jumped into view. As though the
Lucy P. Simmons
sensed my mood, her bell began to clang, and in response, the flute in my satchel hummed. I lowered the spyglass and took up the flute. How long had it been since I'd played Mary Maude Lee's song—the one that provided the clues about the curse? And wasn't it appropriate, after all, to play the ballad of one pirate queen at the castle of another?

I brought the flute to my lips and sounded the first phrase. Pugsley and Rosie tipped their heads and joined in with a strident
ah-oooooh
.

As the last strain sounded, a faint puff of colorful glitter rose from the flute and followed the melody out to sea. I lowered the instrument and watched the magical mist—it was just as enthralling as it had been before, back in Maine, and throughout our voyage to Australia. Enthralling, but concerning, as it had always signaled trouble of some kind. The beguiling cloud drew my eye across the harbor toward the
Lucy P. Simmons
. I stood, hand above my brow, and peered at the glimmering swirl of energy now encircling our ship. Pugsley growled, a low rumbling in his throat, the hair along his back bristling. Rosie pawed my leg and whined.

I returned the flute to my bag and gazed again into Father's spyglass. It brought the
Lucy P. Simmons
into clear view, the ship now fully encased in a sheath of colorful vapor. Two other ships appeared along the horizon, both familiar. One nearly transparent, more like a mirage with a shimmering aura around it—the specter ship that had shadowed us throughout our first voyage. And then, just to the right, the unmistakable silhouette of the black ship—the one I'd first seen in Boston that had pursued us nearly all the way to Australia. The ship on which the scrappy pirate and our former mate Quaide had sailed. I'd thought, or rather hoped, we were done with the black ship and its evil mariners—after the storm that had nearly destroyed the
Lucy P.
My prayer had been that the black ship had really sunk, once and for all. It had been blessedly absent throughout our sail from Australia to Ireland. And now, here it was again. All my senses suddenly piqued—I could swear the energy coursing through me lifted every hair on my head.

I stayed glued to the spot on which I stood, spyglass fixed on the unfolding scene. Both ships approached ours, the specter ship from the left, the black ship from the right. A small crew of ragged men worked the deck of the black ship. Aboard the phantom ship, bow to stern, a ghostly company of characters shone, their movements fluid, and difficult to make out, given the transparent nature of their bodies. Should I run back to the cottage and summon our group? The
Lucy P. Simmons
was unmanned and without protection, except for the colorful charged vapor. Would she be boarded? Pirated away? I nibbled the inside of my cheek. Once again the flute vibrated and hummed in my rucksack, initiating another rush of glittering mist that cascaded across the shore and billowed above the water until it, too, wafted around the
Lucy P.

A movement in the water caught my eye. At first I thought it was a nimble seal, drawn by the spectacle of the dazzling force traveling across the sea. I turned the spyglass in the direction of the far-off swimmer, magnifying the image.

It was Marni, moving swiftly through the harbor with long, sure strokes. She paused finally, head and shoulders bobbing as she tread water, her face turned toward our ship, hair flowing out behind her in a silky stream of liquid silver. What in the world was she doing out there? It was as though she belonged to the sea, or the sea to her. I followed her gaze, and gasped.

The black ship had pulled alongside the
Lucy P
. A number of ropes were being tossed from their vessel to ours. One scruffy man swung across like a monkey, grasping our anchor line and shimmying upward until he could throw a leg over the side. He seemed oblivious to both the shimmering aura surrounding the
Lucy P.
and the nearby specter ship, or perhaps he was undaunted by them both. Once aboard, he secured the lines, and perhaps a dozen of his mates streamed across like water rats.

Marni continued to swim closer to the black ship, disappearing underwater from time to time, remaining submerged for longer than seemed humanly possible. I held my breath each time she dived under, waiting for her to resurface, gasping for air before I spotted her again even farther out.

There was a sound behind me on the path and I spun around. Grady with Miss Oonagh, his arm linked through hers. The old woman moved in an agitated, jerky gait, her strange gray eyes darting frantically.

“Spirits all about, I tell ye! It's in the air, it 'tis! Trouble brewin'!” She stopped suddenly and lifted her face as though sniffing the air to pick up a scent. Her eyes closed, the line between her brows deepening.

Grady peered out to sea, his face ashen. “Almost cain't believe me own eyes,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “More devilishness. That ship and its mates shoulda been fish food by now. Fodder at the bottom o' the sea. And here they be again. Those cusses are boardin' our ship, though there ain't much left to steal. Perhaps the specter ship'll pertect her.”

Oonagh silenced him with a raised hand. “Is there a merrow about?” she rasped.

“Merrow?” I whispered. Miss Oonagh opened her eyes and squinted out over the waves.

“A siren,” Grady said. “A mermaid.” His eyes scanned the ocean. There was no sign of Marni.

“Lookie there,” Grady said. “They're leavin' the
Lucy P
.!”

It was true. Apparently not finding what they were looking for, the men retreated back across to their own ship. Hands empty, they shook their heads, pointed toward land.

I focused the spyglass more carefully, watched the specter ship hover protectively behind the
Lucy P. Simmons
, while the black ship collected her crew of marauders. The colorful mist began to dissipate, and for a brief moment the water around the ship glowed, until the effervescence slowly sunk to the depths of the sea. But where was Marni? The water where she had been was still, no sign of her at all.

A firm grip on my arm drew me from my musings. Miss Oonagh bent so that her face was directly in front of mine. Her hawkish eyes were open so wide I could see the white around her irises. “There's no time to waste,” she hissed. “Do what ye must, the sooner the better!”

Grady stepped between us. “Ye never told me what exactly it is ye're seekin'.” He paused. “But whatever it is, if ye need my help, ye know ye got it.”

I nodded. It had taken almost two years to gain his respect. “Thank you, Grady.” And we surely would need all the help we could get. “Perhaps after you get your mam home you could keep watch on that ship—let us know if anyone comes ashore.”

“Ye got me word,” he said, tipping his cap.

I nodded, and ran back toward the cottage. I didn't notice Seamus until I came right up upon him. He stepped off the path, bowed, and waved me along. “Lookin' lovely, miss,” he called after me, “even better than yesterday, if that's possible! In quite the hurry then, are ye?”

“Yes,” I called over my shoulder, “in a great rush.”

“Yer friend came along ahead of ye, drippin' wet she was, and all wrapped in a blanket. Curious friends ye got, if I must say.”

I stopped for a moment. “You saw Marni heading back to the cottage?” A wave of relief swept over me. It
was
curious. But it was something I couldn't bring myself to ask about—I knew she wouldn't welcome the question.

“Indeed. Water's awfully cold fer most. She's an odd one, she is.”

“Thank you, Seamus. I must hurry!” I turned on my heel and dashed up the hill, feeling his gaze follow me. I needed to tell the others what I'd seen. What Miss Oonagh had said. Without delay we'd have to gather what we needed. Tonight was the night to unearth the grave and find out, finally, what secrets it held.

7

I
t seemed the sun would never set. We counted the hours, our collection of shovels, crowbar, buckets, rope, and a tarp stowed in the back of the cart, a pair of mules standing in wait. Eight o'clock, nine o'clock, nine thirty. Finally the sky along the horizon became awash with a lavender band that spread, tinting the sky first cobalt, then navy, and finally to the deepest purplish black. The moon shone, but a front of smoke-gray clouds inched across the heavens—with any luck they would float before the moon, providing us the cover of darkness we sorely needed. Grady and Seamus stood at the ready beside the O'Malley castle, prepared to warn us with three blasts of a whistle if there was any more activity around the black ship.

“Are you all dressed warmly enough?” Pru asked. “Summer evenings here are cooler than you'd expect.” Clustered before the window, clad in our darkest denim, we nodded. Marni was particularly quiet, fingering the locket at her throat. I thought about the time aboard ship when that locket had broken free from its chain—how she'd come undone over it, frantic, until I recovered it. Its hinges open, revealing an intricate weave of blond hair—her son's hair, the boy who was lost to her all those years ago.

“It's time,” Marni said. “We can't wait any longer. As Miss Oonagh told you, there's not a minute to waste. They'll likely come ashore tonight.” As if in response the formation of clouds churned and stretched, one finger of dark vapor tickling the golden sphere of the moon.

“Let's go!” Walter said. We eyed one another, reasserting our resolve.

“Yes,” Pru and I said together.

We silently slipped outside and made our way around the back, Pugsley at our heels. He would serve as a most effective lookout. The mules snorted and stamped their feet, impatient from their lengthy vigil. Walter took the reins and led the beasts along the path, the rest of us following behind the cart like mourners in a funeral procession. How apt a comparison—after all, if we were successful we might be returning with a coffin full of treasure. We'd already prepared a secret place in the cottage to camouflage the evidence until we could figure out a way to transport the booty back to the
Lucy P. Simmons
.

We moved quietly, the only sounds being the creak of the wheels of the cart and the gentle thump of hooves along the dirt road. Here and there we passed a cottage, lamps snuffed, windows darkened, the inhabitants tucked in for the night. As we walked our eyes darted skyward—the clouds had spread like spilled milk, puddling here and there across the surface of the moon. Pru and I exchanged a glance. We would need to make haste.

Up the hill, around the bend, along the shore we went, until finally the roofline of the church appeared. My heart quickened as the ancient abbey and the walls surrounding the adjacent graveyard came into view. The clouds filtered the moonlight, and the shadows of the tombstones stretched and retreated in a haunting game of hide-and-seek. Pugsley ran ahead, nose to the ground. Together, Marni, Pru, and I walked ahead to join Walter. “Take the cart around to the right,” Marni whispered, “just beyond the break in the wall.” We immediately saw the wisdom of that—the cart would be hidden from view in the unlikely case of anyone walking up the road, but close enough to Great-grandfather's grave to make the transfer of whatever we found swift and easy.

“Whoa,” Walter cooed, patting our mules on the muzzle and handing them each a carrot. We unloaded our gear from the cart and, shovels in hand, tiptoed toward the grave.

“Wait!” Pru whispered. She stopped short, holding us back with splayed arms. “What's that?”

There was something on the ground at the foot of the grave. A crouched, hunkered-down, indiscriminate shape. Whatever it was, it was alive; there was no doubt about it. I could sense it turn our way, could see the glint of a pair of eyes in the dark. Before I could stop him, Pugsley darted forward.

“Pugsley, no!” I shouted, and immediately clamped my hand over my mouth, as though doing so could take back the sound. The beastly thing guarding the grave rose. Walter grabbed my arm, preventing me from bolting after Pugsley. Suddenly there was a chorus of barking, enough to wake the dead. For a fleeting moment a moonbeam broke through the clouds, illuminating the scene.

“It's Rosie,” Walter said, releasing his stranglehold on my arm. We ran forward and the little collie met us halfway, tongue lolling, turning from us to the grave, and back. It was as though she'd been waiting for us.

“Hurry,” Pru said. “We've probably already awakened half the farmers along the hillside!” Within seconds we flanked the gravesite, Pru at Great-grandfather's head, me at his feet, and Walter and Marni on each side. Rosie pushed her way between us and dug furiously with her front paws, throwing a shower of dirt into the air. Pugsley began to whine and pant, circling around and around, pawing the ground.

“Get back, Rosie!” Pru commanded. “Down! Pugsley, you too!” Rosie whined and began digging again, until Walter took her by the collar and pulled her out of the way. Reluctantly she lay down but continued to inch forward. Pugsley harrumphed and flopped down beside her.

Finally, the dogs under control, we prepared to dig, placing the pointed edge of our shovels into the earth, our feet along the blades, giving them a good push to get started. Strange how easily the ground gave way.

“This isn't right,” Walter whispered. He dropped to his knees and I did the same, both of us patting the ground with open palms. Where yesterday there had been sod, there now was only soil. I leaned forward in the darkness and my hand plunged at least six inches through the loosely packed earth. Rosie whined pitifully.

“It's already been disturbed,” Walter said. Pru gasped and a sound something like “no” escaped her lips.

“Keep going,” Marni urged. “I feel we should keep at it.” Rosie barked, as though approving the idea. We began to dig, furiously. We dived onto our bellies, scooping up huge armfuls of earth, then Walter and I lowered ourselves into the hole. We began again in earnest, Marni and Pru keeping watch above us, Rosie and Pugsley whimpering at the edge of the pit. I felt the tip of my shovel hit something solid, confirmed by the sound of Walter's spade connecting with wood.

“Dig along the side of it,” Walter whispered. “We'll need a place to stand for leverage.” Walter and I knelt on top of the coffin and hollowed out a space beside it, just wide enough to plant our feet in. Once we were positioned, Pru lowered the crowbar and helped us angle it into the crevice between the lid and the top of the casket then paused. “Are you sure you don't want me to do this?” she asked. “What we find inside might not be pretty.”

“It's been three generations,” Walter replied. “Worst we could find would be an old bag of bones.”

It was true. I felt no emotional attachment whatsoever. Pru nodded. I'm sure she felt the same way.

As we prepared to leverage the bar and push, the clouds drifted from the moon, and the hole was flooded with light. Rosie lifted her snout and howled, and for a moment I thought she might jump right into the hole. “Now!” Walter cried. Together, we thrust our weight onto the iron bar.

The lid flew back and a ravaged figure sprang up, like a deadly jack-in-the-box, wild sunken eyes flashing, its skeletal head shining in the moonlight. The ghoul's mouth was tied with a gag, its gangly arms bound at the wrists. There was screaming, besides my own, and the zombie joined in with a strangled “AAARRRRGH . . .” Walter and I frantically tried to climb out, sending torrents of soil over the three of us. The dogs ran around the edge, barking and panting, tongues lolling.

Pru grabbed my hands and yanked, but the weakened walls of the grave continued to collapse. The ghoul moaned and writhed. Walter and I fought for a foot- or handhold. But the earth crumbled, and with it our hope of escape. Walter grabbed me around the waist and shoved me toward the surface. A vice grip on my wrists. Up, up, until I felt the ground beneath my belly. Somehow Walter shimmied up beside me. Marni and Pru dragged us back from the rim. In an instant Walter was on his feet, wielding a shovel over his head, eyes blazing, nostrils flared. He inched toward the gaping grave, in which the phantom man twitched about. Rosie sprang toward Walter, teeth bared, hair bristling along her back. Walter took aim, adjusted his swing . . .

“Wait!” Marni yelled.

“AAAARGH!” The half-dead remains of my great-grandfather convulsed, eyes popping, straining against his bonds, chest heaving. His nearly transparent deadly white skin glowed in the moonlight. Marni and he locked eyes. The moment stretched on and on.

Finally Marni commanded in a quiet, steely tone, “Take hold of him, Prudence. Lucy, Walter—we have to get him out of there.”

The goblin nodded furiously and made another garbled sound. “ERRRRRGH!”

“What?!” Aunt Pru exclaimed, her eyes fixed on the ghoul. I knew what she was thinking. What evil powers did he possess, and how would touching his corrupted body endanger us?

“If he was going to harm us,” Marni reasoned, “he would have already done so. We can't just let our imaginations run wild. Walter, get in there and help him out. Lucy, hop in and assist Walter.”

Pru, Walter, and I stood, dumbfounded.

“We don't have all night,” Marni muttered, and before we could stop her she slid into the grave, wove her fingers into a stirrup, and nodded to the ghoul. He wobbled over and attempted, unsuccessfully, to raise a foot.

“All right,” Walter said, dropping the shovel, and lowered himself back into the grave. “I can handle this,” he said, as if to convince himself, taking his place beside Marni.

“Wait,” Pru said. “I'll get the rope. Wrap it beneath his arms and we can pull.” She disappeared, and in a moment a length of rope dangled into the hole like a long, black snake. Walter grabbed the end and the ghoul cooperated, raising his bound arms before him. Walter ran the rope around his thin torso.

“Here,” Walter called up to me. “Grab the other end.”

I gingerly extended thumb and index finger and attempted to pluck the rope from Walter's hand, avoiding all contact with the ghoul.

“Just take it!” Walter commanded. Again the ghoul nodded encouragement. Pru and I grasped the rope.

“Okay, on the count of three,” Marni said. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

We hoisted him into a standing position—a spooky scarecrow figure, so thin his clothing hung as though there might not be any body inside at all. Maybe all that was left of him was a disembodied head and long matchstick arms. The moonbeams highlighted a map of bluish veins just beneath the skin covering his skull. A meager tuft of white hair blew over the dome of his head.

“Heave!” Walter cried. Pru and I threw our whole bodies into the effort. I imagined his mummified body coming apart against the pressure of the rope. Between our nerves and our overexertion the almost weightless body flew up out of the grave with great force, knocking us both to the ground. I recoiled as his stone-cold, skeletal legs flailed against mine. Pru and I scrambled aside while he thrashed about on the ground like a fish on a line. Walter and Marni climbed out of the pit and I was vaguely aware of them hustling our catch to his feet. It was only then that I thought about the treasure.

Breathless, I crawled toward the edge of the grave and slowly lowered myself back in. Was it possible that the half-dead spirit of my great-grandfather had lain in his grave all these years protecting his loot? That he'd managed to scare off whoever had unearthed the grave before? Ignoring the hushed voices overhead, I dropped to my knees. Hands placed firmly on either side of the coffin, I leaned forward. Blinked.

Aside from a sprinkling of dirt the coffin was empty.

The treasure was gone.

For several moments I stared into the empty receptacle, a hollow feeling in my gut. As I took hold of the lid to close the casket, the clouds danced away from the moon, and once again the grave was bathed in light. Otherwise I might not have noticed the words carved into the hinged cover:

 

To Edward, Darling Husband, Liar, and Cheat,

 

To death do us part, or so I thought,

Did you really believe you wouldn't be caught?

That I'd give up with a big boo hoo?

Now I'm a rich woman and the joke is on you!