She wished she could have picked some strawberries for Jibby, but only grass covered the long, wide plateau. She thought of Sea Biscuit, the pinto, who would have loved to nibble on all the grass. She hoped the mare escaped the Spaniards and could spend the rest of her days free.
How could Spaniards have treated Jibby so cruelly? He was only a boy.
On her trek back to the camp, her mind focused on the boy. His spleen could heal if the injury had not been severe, but judging from his distended stomach and his ashen skin, he needed a blood transfusion.
She wished she had not been deterred from her dream of becoming a doctor. She should have studied harder, taken more courses, and taken the MCATs a second time.
She wanted Jibby to live. She wanted someone in this rotten, miserable century to have a future—to marry, have children, and lead a perfectly dull, normal life. How the entire human race had managed to continue under such appalling conditions was truly a miracle.
Without any warning, a sudden and sharp pain exploded in the back of her head and her mind went black.
Chapter Eighteen
Harlan lifted the toy pony from Jibby’s chest. The boy had drawn his last breath. He had known it would not be long and perhaps it was a blessing the boy would never become a pirate. A man could not count on loyalty among thieves. Gilly had been Harlan’s only true friend—and now he lay dead at the bottom of the ocean. Killed by a bullet to his head from someone he had probably healed.
Pain stabbed at Harlan’s heart. Better to sleep forever than to be a vile, contemptible pirate. He drew the tarp over the boy’s body to cover it and sat down.
He had another grave to dig, but his very bones had grown far too weary to take one more step. He had not found any turtles fit to eat, though he had collected some clams. Plums along the path helped, but fatigue sapped what little strength he obtained from the sweet fruit.
He needed to start a fire and roast their meager supper, but the temptation to lie down and rest for a while overwhelmed him.
Taking the boy with them had been a terrible risk. Those extra minutes nearly cost them their lives but leaving the boy to die with his captors would have been the act of a base and loathsome man. Harlan once believed himself to be a compassionate leader. Lesley had stood her ground and reminded him that some things were worth the price. Could his soul be redeemed? Could he start over again once more? Could he live a simple life and find happiness? Or was happiness reserved for only the lucky, the rich, and the strong?
He satisfied his conscience with the knowledge that Jibby had peace in his last moments on this little island. Lesley had fussed over him nearly as much as a mother would her own child. The small toy in Harlan’s hand warmed as he recalled his own young son, Josiah. Elsbeth had mourned alone when their son died. Perhaps a doctor could not have healed him, but certainly the Widow Vetter with all her spells and charms could not work miracles either.
He thought of Gilly and how much he would miss the old man. He had been a kind and gifted physician. He had not used spells or charms, though he brewed decoctions and healing teas from herbs. Still, the doctor’s experiments had always disturbed Harlan. Though Gilly insisted they were scientific, there appeared to be a sort of magic about them.
But due to the doctor’s experiment, Harlan had Lesley to accompany him on this cursed voyage and for that he was grateful. He had come to care for her. Without her, the struggle to survive would be meaningless.
Harlan stared at the toy pony. It appeared unaccountably worn, as if it had survived through much more than seven years. Lesley said she had found it in her time--three hundred years in the future. He closed his eyes and squeezed the sides of the small wooden toy. A sudden sense of foreboding set his pulse racing. He turned to the western sky to see it filled with the glowing tones of red and violet as the sun sank into the west.
Where was she? While he sometimes had misgiving about her sanity and could barely understand her, he never questioned her courage or her loyalty. She had gone to get water. She should be back by now.
His chest grew tight as worry pressed down upon him. She could have fallen, or gotten lost, or met up with some vile creature far larger than the tiny and invisible germs she feared so much. He wanted her beside him. He forced himself to stand. She had followed the small rivulet, wanting to fill the bucket with the cleanest water she could get. He forced his weary body go after her.
Before he reached twenty paces, the small pony in his hand began to glow, becoming so fiery hot it burned his hand. He dropped it in the sand. At once, a misty form began to take shape. In a panic, he drew out his knife but he did not strike at the swirling miasma as he had last time.
He waited while his body chilled, despite the warm air surrounding him. The coiling ether remained translucent and yet molded itself into the gentle curves of a woman.
Elsbeth appeared before him, not as solid flesh but as a wraith—a filmy creature whose hazy substance could be blown away by the wind. He could not move. Like a frozen sculpture made of ice he stared numbly at the woman who had given him a son.
But his son had been taken from him and Elsbeth had believed him dead.
A spark of anger ignited as he remembered that she had moved in with another man in his absence. In her last days, she had taken to chanting spells and concocting potions she had learned from the Widow Vetter.
The charms did not save her from death.
He now stared at a face that no longer bore the ravages of her final illness. She appeared young and healthy, like the young woman who had captured his fancy and agreed to marry him despite his poverty.
Reaching out to him with vaporous arms, she pleaded, “Free me.”
“F—f—free?” His lips could barely move.
“I am bound by my curse and your anger.”
“Bound—”
“Your words are chains on my spirit.”
“My words ... are useless.”
“Your words are my chains. Free me.”
“How can I free you?”
“Forgive me.”
He furrowed his brow and glared at her. “You called upon the power of the Devil.”
“I called upon the spirits of light. You imprisoned me in darkness.” Her hands went to her face and she wailed. “Josiah waits for me all these long years.”
Harlan’s blood pooled in his feet. He stumbled backward and leaned against the tree for support. “Is he safe?”
“He lives in the light. I am as you see me, a creature of darkness and mist. Let me go. Take back your bitter oath.”
“I—I don’t remember ... I was filled with grief and...fear...”
“You swore to the Devil and he has ruled your life ever since...and mine.”
Harlan could barely breathe. “It was not I who crushed leaves, brewed potions, and twirled in the moonlight—”
“Plants heal.”
“But you chanted ....”
“I prayed ....”
Harlan slid to the foot of a tree, unable to hold himself up anymore. “You lived with another man.”
“He saved me from the constable’s depravity.”
The world tilted and spun as dizziness took hold of his mind. “What am I to say?”
“Forgive me. Pray for me and for yourself. Beg the spirits of light to forgive you and purge the anger from your soul.”
“Yes. Yes. I will pray. Haunt me no more. I forgive you.”
“And I, forgive you.”
A sudden radiance as luminous as the sun blinded him and he slipped into the world of oblivion.
* * * *
Lesley fought to rise above each wave of misery but pain defeated her. Unable to move or even cry, she lay in darkness somewhere between this world and the next. A deep stillness surrounded her. The loneliness haunted her.
Where was Harlan? She had come to rely on him. He had saved her from the Moody, the rogue wave, the hurricane, and the Spaniards. Was she in that black cave again? She thought they had escape
d it, but it could be her mind was playing tricks on her.
Without warning, Elsbeth appeared wearing her quaint, long dress. Smiling and with radiant with light streaming from behind her, she raised her hands. He has forgiven me and I have forgiven him. The chains of anger are broken.
At first, Lesley’s heart leaped with joy at the sight of the woman, but her happiness faded quickly. In her dreams, she had been Elsbeth—but now she realized they were separate beings—separate souls. A different pain, one of loss and grief, ripped through her.
I am free, but I could not have done it without you for you brought the charm. Now I shall be with Josiah again. Thank you. Elsbeth turned and Lesley knew she would be left alone in her suffering.
Do not leave me. Lesley thought the words, but Elsbeth heard them for she faced her once more.
You have been freed as well. Elsbeth explained. You can go back.
How?
With the charm, of course.
But Harlan has it.
Elsbeth nodded and smiled. He loves you. Suddenly she disintegrated into billions of sparkling silver particles, like a storm of metallic glitter, but Lesley remained a prisoner in the deepest shadows, all alone.
Gradually, the darkness lifted. From somewhere in the distance, she became aware of voices and the smell of food on a wood fire, but her stomach clenched uneasily.
A fog clouded her mind. Jumbled and confused thoughts circled in her head repeating questions with no answers over and over. What had happened? Had her migraines returned? Where was she? Where was Harlan? Was she at home? Was she lost? What had happened? She thought she had seen Elsbeth. Had that been a dream?
She could not rouse herself, though she did try. After a mighty struggle, she opened her eyes for a moment but the world spun round and round. Bright sunshine pierced her brain with an excruciating ache. She shut her eyes and forced herself to focus her thoughts. She remembered drinking water. Yes, she had to get water for Jibby ... but then ....
Icy cold water hit her. She would have screamed but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“Git up.”
She recognized the voice of Aloysius Meeker immediately and fear curled along her spine. She fought to clear her vision, but her only solution was to close one eye. Peering about her, she discovered she lay on the sand, next to a rock, under a dazzling blue sky with her hands tied behind her back.
“Ye’ve been laying around ‘ere long enough. ‘e didn’t hit ye that ‘ard.”
“Who?” Her voice came out as a bare whisper
“Cookie. Says e’s still mad at ye for stealing ‘is eggs.” Aloysius’s evil laugh chilled her despite the warm temperature of the air. “On yer feet now. The captain wants to see ye.”
The captain?
Dizziness assailed her. “My ankle ....”
“Ain’t none of ‘em crutches ‘ere.”
“ ... a board ...”
Aloysius muttered under his breath, but he went to the water’s edge and picked up a piece of driftwood. “’Ere.” He threw it down beside her.
“My hands.”
Aloysius swore using an assortment of nasty, descriptive sailor’s slang. but he did untie her.
Rubbing her hands to try and get the circulation back into them, she pushed herself up to sit and nearly passed out again.
“Water ....”
“Yer more trouble than yer worth.” Aloysius tramped off again and came back with a bottle.
She hesitated as she stared at the grimy bottle and the cloudy liquid inside it.
“It ain’t rum.” Aloysius spat out.
She took it and drank. The horrible brackish flavor made her gag, but the liquid did help her to speak. “Th-thanks.”
“Git going.”
Despite her attempt to use the makeshift crutch, she could not walk. She had no sense of balance and remained lightheaded due to the stabbing pain in her head.
Sitting on the sand, she reached up to touch the back of her skull. Sticky blood lay matted in her hair. Probing her wound, she knew she needed stitches but Dr. Gilroy lay dead at the bottom of the ocean.
Rage filled up the empty well inside her.
Aloysius lifted her and dragged her along. He smelled marginally better than he had on any previous encounters.
“Did you take a bath?” She asked.
He glared at her. “I git a soaking prying mussels off the rocks.”
“It’s quite an improvement.” She did not hide the venom in her voice.
He dropped her at the entrance of an improvised structure built of driftwood with a marsh grass roof. A flap of canvas served as a door.
“Cap’n, ‘ere’s yer prisoner.” Aloysius called.
“Drag her in.”
Dread dampened her fury. She had known someone would find out she wasn’t a lad at some point. She recognized the voice inside as that of the former quartermaster, Mr. Hooper.
Aloysius hauled her into the small enclosure, plopped her on the sand and left.
“Sterford’s wench. How delightful.” Smiling, the new self-appointed captain raked her up and down with a lecherous gaze. Violated by his lewd stare, nausea rose in her throat. She had no doubt he could more than match Moody in cruelty.
He sat on a small barrel beside a table made of wooden branches tied together with vines. “You are quite an artist. I have a drawing of yours. I thought perhaps you could explain it.” He drew out a paper from his pocket. There were some wavery lines from where the ink had gotten wet, but Lesley recognized the flag she had drawn—Moody’s pirate flag.
A cold chill went through her. Had she screwed up the history of the world? Would Hooper adopt the flag and take on Moody’s identity? Her head spun.
“I did not draw that,” she lied.
“You did and you will tell me more about it--later.” He folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. “But first, where’s Sterford?”
A spark of hope ignited in her breast. Harlan must still alive. Maybe even now he might be searching for her. “I have no idea.”
He leveled a pistol at her. “Where?”
The excruciating pain in her head made the bullet seem like a good idea.
“How long was I out?” she asked.
He cocked the trigger. “Answer.”
She considered the fact that they had all gone through the same hurricane. More than likely, his gunpowder had been thoroughly doused.
“How long?” Fury glittered in his eyes, but when she did not answer he lowered the pistol. “You lay in a stupor all night. It is now noon.”
She nodded. “Well ... by now ... Captain Sterford should be halfway to New Providence.”
Hooper narrowed his eyes. “Why would he leave you here?”
“He wasn’t alone. Time and tide wait for no man—as I am sure you know—and when I did not show up at the appointed hour they undoubtedly sailed away.”
“Who is with him?”
“Jibby, and ... um ... gee ... you know that sailor with all the tattoos ....”
He drew the knife from his boot and held it against her throat. “You lie.”
Cold steel dug into her skin and warm blood trickled down.
“I am telling the truth about Jibby. We rescued him from the Spaniards.”
He removed the blade. “What Spaniards?”
She pressed her fingers against the wound to stop the flow of blood. “After the storm, we landed on another island. It had just one mountain on it. One side of the mountain was vertical rock. Maybe you’ve seen it.”
He shook his head.
Despite the misery in her head, she wondered why Hooper wanted Harlan. Was it because Harlan’s navigational skills were respected. Maybe the new captain wanted to get off this island and did not have a clue which way to go.
No. More than likely, he wanted to kill Harlan. After all, he already attempted it once and had not succeeded. Revenge factored in as a big part of the pirate creed.
With a clarity that surprised he
r considering her current state, she remembered the old story of Scheherazade. For one thousand and one nights the doomed virgin told stories to prevent her execution. Lesley launched into an embellished version of their adventure with the Spaniards in hopes that Harlan could find and rescue her before Hooper became bored.
“Enough.” He growled after five minutes had passed. “First, I shall have you. Then I shall use you for bait.”
Despite the tropical warmth surrounding her, Lesley went numb.
Chapter Nineteen
Harlan woke to the sounds of vultures feasting on Jibby’s rotting flesh. Two of the vultures stood nearby assessing him as if he would be the next delicacy. He jumped up, but rising so quickly left him swaying like a drunkard. The vultures hissed as he clung to the trunk of the tree he had fallen against when he saw Elsbeth.
Had he truly seen her? Had that been a dream? Or a nightmare?
The vultures advanced toward him again. He picked up a rock and threw it, but missed in his addled state. Still, the threatening birds moved away, eyeing him with malice.
He glanced upward and saw the sun at its apex in the clear sky. Had he been in a stupor all night and all morning? A cold sweat broke out on his brow and sickness roiled in his belly.
Where was Lesley? He had meant to search for her when the ghostly form of Elsbeth had come to haunt him. He looked around and saw the small wooden pony on the sand near his feet. Yes, she had come to him and had begged for his forgiveness and an end to the anger he had harbored toward her all these years.
He wiped the icy sweat from his face. No, he did not hate her anymore. In fact, since Lesley had come into his life, he had stopped harboring the bitter animosity for Elsbeth that had caused him to live such a reckless existence.
He did not want to be a pirate anymore. He no longer cared to steal the riches of others by force. He did not care if he lived out the rest of his days as a poor man if only he had Lesley by his side.
He bent down and touched the toy. It held nothing more than the warmth of the air surrounding it. Stuffing it into his pocket, he staggered along following the trail of the rivulet and leaving the vultures to their grisly task.
Snatching more plums when he came upon them, he fortified his body and his head cleared. With his faculties now focused and alert, he discovered Lesley’s footprints since her crutch left neat indentations in the soil. The trail led him upward along a gradual incline which soon widened out onto a flat, grassy plateau. The rivulet had cut a small gash through the wide plain and at one point it tumbled down over a fall of rocks. It should have been a beautiful spot, but his breath caught in his throat when he saw the crutch and bucket on the grass along with a pool of dried blood. Larger footprints led away from the scene.
Pirate's Wraith, The Page 21
