by Kevin Hearne
It was full of gold and silver and jewels and entirely bereft of curses or whiny ghosts.
“Ahh, trrrreasurrrre,” Luc boomed. “As I prrrromised ye. Let’s get it to the mainland and divide the spoils into sharrrres.”
Everyone was smiling and laughing, for here was a moment that lived up to their romanticized fantasies of what life as a pirate was like. Even Morgan, who’d been so serious of late, was grinning, and Al thought he heard her mutter, “All right. Maybe my curse isn’t so bad after all.”
Back on the mainland again, Morgan, Qobayne, and Captain Luc took the treasure chest to a fence in Sinuicho, while Al went in search of a Pellican Postale Office. Once he found it, he put the documents Tempest had prepared for him in an official-looking pouch and paid the Super Mega Turbo Important rate to have it delivered as soon as possible to King Gustave in Songlen. Al was sure that if his uncle had done anything at all to vex the king in the past, Gustave would approve Al’s petition to have Proudwood Lighthouse declared a nature preserve for puffins and otters. It would most likely be settled by the time he sailed back there. And then Al would be the Proudwood P’archivist, able to charge docking fees to those who came to visit the park and to put those monies toward preservation efforts as well as toward a small stipend for himself to live on. He’d never have to sell a single Morningwood rod again. He couldn’t wait to toss them all in the sea, in fact, and rebrand the rod grease as an organic puffin unguent.
He was in very high spirits when he returned to the ship and received his share of the treasure. There were plenty of supplies being brought on board, and a few new crew members had been recruited to make the sailing a bit easier. But once everything was stowed and Qobayne announced that they were ready to sail, Captain Luc surprised everyone. He asked for the entire crew to assemble on deck and he spoke to them from atop the ship’s wheel.
“I’ve been a pirrrrate for twenty yearrrs. I’ve pillaged prrrrivateerrrrs up and down the westerrrrn coast and I’ve neverrrr been caught. I’ve done a lot of good forrrr the folks on Cinnamonk Island. I’ve dealt a lot of death to those who’d opprrrress the poorrrr. And now I finally have found someone who can continue that fine trrrradition in my stead. This trrrip has helped a lot of otterrrrs, and we took down the worrrrst capitalist trrrroll I have everrrr seen. And the perrrrson who did most of that worrrrk, who inspirrrred us all, is Morrrrgan. Lads, I’m rrrretirrrring now, and as my last act as yourrrr captain, I am naming Morrrrgan as my rrrreplacement. I give The Pearrrrly Clam to herrrr and wish ye all safe sailing, plentiful plunderrrr, and no hangoverrrrs. She will see that the sharrrres of trrrreasurrrre get paid to the crrrrew waiting on Mack Guyverrrr. Rrrraise a glass of rrrrum to Captain Morrrrgan!”
Al was standing right next to Morgan, and he clapped and cheered along with everyone else as her jaw dropped open. He might have been the only one to hear her mumble, “But what about my PSATs?” If Luc heard the question, he gave no indication. Instead, he trilled a few notes, said, “You be good. Bye-bye,” and took wing into the harbor. He circled the main mast once and then pointed himself northwest and flew away.
“Wow,” Morgan breathed.
Qobayne stepped near and spoke to Morgan. “Ship’s ready to sail on your order, Captain.”
Morgan blinked a couple of times and then nodded. “Thank you, Boatswain.” She turned to Al and said, “Be my first mate for this journey?”
“Aye,” Al said with a grin. “But not forever. I have to return to Proudwood Island, and if you’re going that way I’ll stick with you until then.”
“You’re welcome to sail with me whenever and wherever you’d like. Boatswain, let’s cast off and head back to Mack Guyverr. We have treasure to distribute and merchants to raid. And we need to turn that island into our base of operations. We’re going to own the Chummy Sea.”
Qobayne immediately started shouting orders, and The Pearly Clam began its first voyage under Captain Morgan—but Al sensed that something was missing.
“Captain, what ephithet will you adopt now that you’re making a name for yourself?” he asked her.
Morgan squinted at the horizon as she thought, and then a corner of her mouth quirked up. “Call me,” she said, “the Sober Captain Morgan.”
Filthy Lucre—no longer the Clean Pirate Luc—spiraled down into Sullenne after a long flight north and asked for directions to the Sullenne Sanctuary for Sulky Critters. The first ten people he asked in the portside market either didn’t want to answer him or didn’t know. The eleventh person offered him a cracker, and the twelfth gave him a clue.
“I don’t know exactly where it is,” a fishwife said, “but I hear there’s a heckin’ lot of mooin’ on the northeast side of town outside the walls.”
His wings aching and protesting, Luc flapped over most of the city until he found another, smaller market on the northeast side where he could ask around again. Getting directions from a local was much easier, and he could indeed hear a heckin’ lot of mooin’, and soon he was circling over a fenced paddock full of a wide assortment of creatures that did not normally associate with one another. There were chickens and turtles, raccoons and beavers, cows and camels, and even a Morningwood moose cow with a baby mooselet at her knees. All of these creatures and more were bunched around a figure wearing overalls and carrying a bag of feed, politely waiting their turn to be fed. Or else they were just listening to him talk, for he was talking to them all in the most soothing, friendly voice.
This was the man he’d flown so far to find.
Luc lighted on a fence post and listened in for a while as the man told everyone about his sister, who was still afraid of chickens even though she was dead. The chickens puffed up in pride at this, and the other animals made soft snorts and chitters of amusement. Luc squawked in delight as well, for this man, Morvin, did not even realize that the reason animals liked him so much was that he had a magical gift. They could all understand him.
Morvin’s eyes shifted in Luc’s direction when he heard the squawk.
“Hello there,” he said. “Don’t I recognize you? Aren’t you the parrot who came into Dinny’s to recruit a pirate crew?”
“I am,” Luc confirmed.
“Your name was Luc, right? Did you find your treasure?”
“We did. And yourrrr chum, Morrrrgan, is now Captain Morrrrgan. I’ve rrrretired and given my ship to herrrr.”
Morvin’s face split into a smile. “No kiddin’? That’s great news.”
“I see you have also achieved yourrrr ambition.”
“I sure did! This is the best heckin’ job I’ve ever had. Turns out there’s nothing I like so much as animals that don’t belong to Lord Toby, an’ they seem to dig me as well. These sulky critters ain’t so sulky anymore. Boss likes me because of that and bought me like six pairs of overalls, so I can actually wear clean ones sometimes! Why, these here have hardly any stains at all! I’m feelin’ pretty posh about it, but I hope I ain’t braggin’ too much.”
“Not in the least.”
The chickens clucked impatiently at him, and Morvin withdrew a handful of corn from the bag and scattered it on the ground for them to peck at.
“So how come you’re back here?” he asked Luc. “Is there something you wanted? Are you feelin’ heckin’ sulky?”
“Not at all. Actually, I’d like perrrrmission to come aboarrrrd, Morrrrvin. I’ve been thinking that you might be the finest perrrrch in all the land. I can tell ye tales of Pell. I can thrrrrill and delight and frrrrighten ye out of yourrrr socks. I can even pay the bills. But mostly I want peace, Morrrrvin. I want peace and I think you have plenty of it to sharrrre.”
“Well, you can have it if you want it, Luc. I got me a special runnin’ right now on peace for the low, low price of free.” He tapped his shoulder, inviting Luc to perch on it, and the red-and-yellow ex-pirate, terror of the western seas, a wanted bird in most eve
ry earldom, flew eagerly to the indicated spot.
“Ahhh,” he sighed, gently squeezing his talons into Morvin’s muscled shoulder. “It’s as fine as I rrrrememberrrr. So what do ye have planned today, lad?”
“Well, after feedin’ all the animals here and swappin’ stories with ’em, I was fixin’ to try this new restaurant in town that is supposed to have taters you can dress up yourself, as fancy or as plain as you want ’em, no fuss, no judgment. Imagine that, Luc—they just let you have taters your own way! Lotta people think Borix is boring, but I’m gonna have to quietly disagree, because a tater buffet is the most excitin’ thing I ever heard tell of! Why, they’re even s’posed to have a tub of invigorated ham jam just sittin’ there—a whole heckin’ tub, can you believe it? What a time to be alive! So I was thinkin’ a starchy repast would suit me darned proper, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ finer than a deluxe tater. That sound okay to you?”
Luc felt his eye close halfway in contentment, his spirit already salved by this gentle man of modest taterly ambitions. “It sounds perrrrfect.”
The squawking pink speck stood out from the dark clouds like a lone boiled shrimp on a black tile floor, and the Sober Captain Morgan put a foot on a pile of rope and squinted.
“Does that bird sound familiar to you?” she asked Qobayne.
“No, Captain,” he answered. “But most birds is just feather footballs filled with squawks and slops, one at either end.”
They both got misty for a moment. “Not all birds,” she replied, and he bowed his head in understanding. Although she’d heard Luc had found his sought-after perch and was busy organizing a rescued avian a cappella group with her old friend Morvin, she missed her erstwhile mentor almost constantly.
The flamingo, for a flamingo it was, landed on the ship in an ungainly heap of tangled pink legs and thrashed around like two umbrellas fighting as the crew gathered around it. An Official Postale Collar around its long neck held a rolled scroll addressed to Captain Morgan of The Soggy Biscuit—for they’d had to rename the ship yet again—and when she unrolled it, she smiled broadly.
Your presence is requested at the MMA Foundry
On Mack Guyverr
For a Grande Ribbon-Cutting Ceremony
To Celebrate our Winninge of the
Pell’s Best Balls Awarde
(Cannonball Category)
Tea, Biscuits, and Complimentary Cannonballs Wille Be Served.
P.S. Do not forget the ding-gull berries.
The date given was a week away, giving them just enough time to get there, if the winds were fair.
When Morgan looked up, Qobayne and the rest of her crew were already grinning.
“We’re going, right?” the boatswain asked. It had been a couple of years since they’d taken over the MMA and it was their home base now, but they hadn’t been home in four months.
“You bet your Bundt we are,” she said. “All hands on deck! We sail east!”
They did indeed find fair winds and calm seas, although there was a small and pathetic squabble with some Ebuk pirates off the coast of Big Potatoe Island. Like all pirates from the foul demesne of Ebuk on that island, they were a cowardly and self-righteous lot, and Morgan’s crew sliced through them like a hot knife in ham jam as the pirates shouted at the tops of their lungs about how their doings were fair and hurt no one. Despite their protestations, Morgan found plenty of loot in their hold and happily added it to her ship’s rightful bounty, reminding them in no uncertain terms that piracy was not a victimless crime, and she vastly preferred it when Ebuk pirates received their just punishment.
But that petty routing aside, the trip was balmy. When the mail flamingo refused to leave the ship and wouldn’t stop nuzzling Otto with its huge, ungainly beak, Morgan began to suspect that it was indeed, against all possible reason, Tempest’s long-lost Mingo. Milly Dread took to throwing shrimp at it to make it shut up, but she threw the shrimp in a loving sort of way.
They knew well how to obtain the dreaded ding-gull berries without dying too much, and Morgan’s eyes filled with tears as she heard the beasts’ chiming songs. They left a tasteful bouquet of flowers on the beach in Brawny Billy’s memory and took to washing the ship’s prow with the foul juice of the sticky berries. Soon they sailed into the strange vortex surrounding Mack Guyverr, breathing a universal sigh of relief as the magic lifted to reveal the now-gorgeous island hiding within. The factory, once as gray and blocky as a large and particularly unattractive toad, had been repainted white and given those orange, slopey clay roof tiles that made everything feel like a party. The docks were in good repair, and the dockworkers who met the ship were clean and polite and wore flower crowns; not a single Maul Security guard was in sight.
“We have an invitation,” Morgan called down to a somewhat familiar man in a red shirt, who held the sort of clipboard that suggested he was very important, or at least thought he was.
“We’ve been expecting you, of course, Captain,” the man called back. “Do you not remember me?”
“Well, of course I remember you…buddy!”
“It’s Hayu, actually. Formerly of the POPO. Budee works in accounting, with Tsup and Hye.”
Morgan smiled brightly to cover the gaffe. “Of course. So good to see you, Hayu. So everything is working out for you here?”
The gangplank was ready, so Morgan walked down to the dock, resplendent in her captain’s finery, with a velvet coat, frothy jabot, and a stolen admiral’s hat that was big enough for an otter to hide inside, which Otto generally did.
“Everything is well, and we’re treated fairly, with no ghosts, which is better than most of us ever expected from life. Please go right on up to the factory. We’ll keep watch. They’re waiting for you.”
Morgan gave a bow, thanked him, and led her crew up the dock, enjoying the certainty that the island’s privacy would keep her ship and booty safe. She noticed a few other craft tied up and bobbing gently, but hers was the largest ship, if not the fanciest or schmanciest. A cunning cutter called the RNS Really Nice Boot looked both fast and beautifully made, its prow painted gold, and Morgan longed to get her hands on the sleek wheel and see how the quick little ship could maneuver in open water.
The walk up to the factory had once been a rough run up a polluted road with life and death on the line, but now it was an enchanting stroll up a white-sand trail with young palm trees flourishing along either side. The factory’s new front door was crafted of gorgeously polished wood with forged-iron fittings, and it read MMA: MACHINERY AND MUNITIONS FOR ANARCHY. Before Morgan could knock, the door flew open, and she was looking directly at a fanny pack.
“Morgan!” Vic bugled, more than a little equine in his excitement. “You came!”
Swole arms embraced her, and her face was crushed against fur as she got a view up his MMA crop top. Surprised but pleased, she returned the hug with an enthusiastic “Mmphrph!”
Pulling away, she gazed up into the face of a Vic she’d never seen before—smiling, open, genuine, unafraid.
“You look well,” she said.
“I am well! Feng’s new lunchtime yoga program and juice bar have helped me focus on my well-being. Did you know coconut is good for pretty much anything?” He ran a hand through his glistening, wavy mullet. “Even my hair! Even constipation! Even hoof oil! But how are you?”
“Not as good as someone who’s harnessed the power of the coconut, but well enough. Business is good. We routed another foul enclave of Ebuk pirates on the way here and have a hold full of booty.”
“Ah, booty,” another voice said. “One of my favorite words.”
Thinking it familiar, Morgan peered behind Vic to see who had spoken.
“Oh, my gosh! Al!” The elf hurried forward for a warm embrace, and Morgan soon realized that she hadn’t gotten her requisite number of daily hugs since she became captain of The Soggy
Biscuit and had to maintain decorum. Al smelled of patchouli and musk, and his red hair had grown long enough to cover the tips of his not-quite-as-pointed-as-he’d-prefer ears. He wore long brown robes, or maybe the robes were a different color but were uniformly coated in brown hair lightly dusted with white and black feathers. He was followed by a circus of puffins.
“Sounds like life is good on the high seas,” Al said, helpfully skipping over the how-are-you stage of catching up.
“It is. And how’s the lighthouse?”
Al smiled, serene, and showed just a glimmer of elven wisdom. “You must stop by more often. Proudwood Park and Krazy Kritter Sanctuary is flourishing, and King Thorndwall is apoplectic with rage that I’m not capitalizing on it by selling otter grease and puffin sandwiches to the visitors. He told me recently that my father actually was a human farmer, but it wasn’t quite the insult he’d hoped, as I kind of love farming puffins. And the Sn’archivist regularly sends me postcards, colleague to colleague. The latest one said simply mange patties.”
“And you’re officially the Proudwood Park’s P’archivist?”
“The one and only P’archivist, yeah. I’ve never been happier.”
Morgan’s smile was stretching her face to the point of minor discomfort. “I’m really glad it all worked out. Tempest’s legal contract must’ve been aces, if it swayed the king.”
“Well, to be fair, y’all,” a man’s baritone voice said, “the king doesn’t require much swaying. His balance isn’t actually that great.”
The new voice yet again came from behind the smiling Vic, and Morgan peered around him to find a man she’d never seen before outside posters and stamps: Goode King Gustave. He was a little unsteady as he sidled forward, almost as if he hadn’t made friends with his sea legs yet, but he wobbled past the centaur and into the open space before the factory’s front door, where all the pirates were milling about, curious but pretty ready for something to watch other than tearful reunitings. Morgan had never seen a king before, but she had imagined them as having regal bearing, wearing something that wasn’t brown, and picking their nose a good bit less.
