“I’m sorry.” Lorcan again.
“No,” the girl answered. “It’s okay, Lorcan. It’s okay. Give me your hand. I’ll take you back to your cabin.”
“I can find my own way back,” he said, his voice un-characteristically proud and angry.
“Wait!”
But the girl’s voice was fainter now. Grace had the sense of movement again. Uneven movement. Hands reaching out. And then a tumble. She felt sick as the sensation of falling took over her body. The ring was too hot to hold now. She gasped and released her hand. Her eyes pulled open.
She lay on the bunk in her small cabin on the pirate ship, breath racing through her. Her thumb and finger felt raw and painful where the Claddagh ring had burned into her. And yet, when she lifted her hand, there was no mark. Nothing at all. She couldn’t understand it.
She knew she had made a journey to the Vampirate ship. Not a journey like Darcy had made to The Diablo. This was more of a vision — like the first time Grace had met the Vampirate captain and her head had been filled with a sudden image of flesh tearing and crimson blood on dark skin. This new vision was more sustained than that though, more linear. It was as if she had been inside Lorcan’s head. She had been able to hear his conversation. She had felt the movements of his arms and feet. She had, she realized now, felt something of his pain. It was something to do with his eyes. As if . . . please, no ...as if he couldn’t see properly.
Now Grace felt ice-cold panic spreading through all the veins in her body as memories flooded back to her, like the returning tide. The morning that Connor had boarded the Vampirate ship, Lorcan had stayed out on deck to protect her. He stayed out even after Darcy struck the Dawning Bell — when all Vampirates were called back inside, out of the light. Light was dangerous to them — extremely dangerous. Only the Vampirate captain himself could venture out into the light. But Lorcan had stayed there, because of her. Was it possible that, in doing so, he had wounded his eyes? Blinded himself even?
What had Lorcan’s note to her said? Something to remember me by. Travel safe. Travel safe! Could Lorcan be sending her a message through the ring? She had to get back to the Vampirate ship. But how?
Just then the cannon sounded. Grace jumped. Cannon fire was the signal to come up to the main deck. Jez’s funeral was about to begin. She was late!
8
BURIAL AT SEA
The first thing that Grace noticed as she stepped out onto deck was how quiet it was. This was all the more unusual, given that the full crew of The Diablo now stood across it. She shut the door carefully and joined the crowd. The pirates opened up their ranks for her. Gratefully, she moved forward until she had a clear view of proceedings.
At the stern of the ship stood Captain Wrathe and Cate. They were at the right of Jez’s coffin, which was draped in the skull and crossbones flag. To the left of the coffin stood Jez’s pallbearers, including Bart and Connor. Grace watched them from the crowd, wondering how Connor was holding up. The last funeral they had attended was their father’s. How long ago that seemed already. Then they had stood together, at the front of the congregation, leaning upon one another for support. She scanned Connor’s face, but he looked distant. Jez’s loss was written all over his features.
The cannon sounded once more and now Captain Wrathe, dressed in funereal black velvet — trimmed with silver — turned to address his crew.
“Pirates of The Diablo, this is a dark morning indeed. But the darkness in the skies above and the waters below are only mirrors to the darkness in our hearts. For today we say good-bye to one of our finest men, Jez Stukeley.
“Jez came to us as a young lad — eight years ago — and from the start he kept us amused with his sharp wit and his love of a good tale.” Molucco smiled. There were a fair few nods and muted chuckles among the ranks of pirates.
“He was one of the most companionable of crew-members,” Molucco continued. “He was never too busy to help out another fellow in need, whether it be with a ship-board chore or in the field of battle. . . .”
Grace winced at the term. Field of battle. He made it sound so noble. It wasn’t.
“And it was here that Jez Stukeley marked himself out, time and time again, as one of our most capable, courageous, and effective men.” Molucco glanced at Cate, who was nodding solemnly. “Yesterday, I’m afraid that my actions placed all of us in mortal danger....”
Grace’s ears pricked up. She hadn’t been expecting such frankness from the captain, but perhaps she had underestimated him.
“I regret this, deeply. Let me assure each of you that I have been searching my soul and that I shall continue to search it when the events of this day are complete. But whatever the circumstance, brave, honorable Mister Stukeley came to our aid. He threw himself into the fire so that we might be saved. He fought a fine fight, full of flair and determination. He might well have prospered.” Again Cate nodded. “But fate has taken Mister Stukeley from us . . .”
Grace wondered at that. Where did you draw the line in the sand between fate and your own actions? Was it simply Jez’s destiny to die on that other deck, or was it Molucco’s actions which had led him there?
“We find ourselves at a terrible loss, knowing that no more shall we be entertained by his wisecracks, and no more shall we be able to depend upon one of our most able.” Molucco raised a large handkerchief to his eyes and wiped away the tears that were welling there. “Bravest, dearest comrades, I know you all have your own memories of Mister Stukeley. And now, I’d ask you to spend a minute or two remembering him as you would wish to.”
Silence fell once more about the deck. The only sounds were the churning waters beneath and the flapping of the sails in the wind. Grace looked up to the crow’s nest, thinking back to the very first time she had met Jez.
It was the day after she had joined the ship. As excited as she had been to be reunited with Connor, she had felt disorientated by leaving the Vampirate ship — and her friends there — so precipitously. She had gone up to the deck of The Diablo, just as she had sometimes made for the deck of the Vampirate ship. She had stood at the deck rail alone — until Jez had joined her, bringing two hot mugs of tea with him. They had sat chatting — or rather, he had talked to her, nonstop. She couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said but he had been kind and warm and funny. Just as he always was. She remembered how at that moment she had felt she could make a home for herself on The Diablo.
Remembering this brought tears to her eyes. She fished in the pocket of her coat and found a lacy handkerchief. Wiping her eyes, she glanced over at Connor. He smiled back at her faintly. He was trying to be strong, she knew. But she saw there were tears in his eyes too. Devoid, as always, of a handkerchief, Connor simply lifted his hand and brushed the tears away.
“Well, then,” Molucco said softly, bringing the spell of silence to a close. “We come to the next part of our proceedings. Jez’s longtime comrade — and great friend — Bartholomew Pearce, will now say for us the Pirate’s Prayer. Bartholomew...”
Molucco turned. Bart stepped slowly forward, clutching a piece of paper in his hand. He lifted his eyes to the assembled and began to speak.
Mother Ocean, Father Sky,
Send this pirate to his rest.
He was one among the best —
Set his spirit free to fly.
Brother Sun and Sister Moon,
Bathe him in your balmy light.
Now no longer need he fight —
The one you called back far too soon.
Lightning, thunder, wind, and rain,
Let his cutlass blunt and rust,
As his body turns to dust —
Free from every mortal pain.
Spring tide, neap tide, morning, night,
All you things that frame our days,
Carve him out a resting place —
Wherever will his cares be light.
Creek and harbor, gulf and reef
Waters shallow, waters deep,
Gran
t him now eternal sleep —
And anchor us who reel with grief.
Bart hadn’t had to look once at the piece of paper in his hands. Grace guessed that it was an old poem, but the way Bart spoke it, each word seemed fresh and potent.
There had even been a temporary lull in the wind, as if the elements themselves were paying heed to the pirate’s pleas for his lost comrade.
Now, Bart turned and signalled to Connor and the four other pirates beside them. The six men, all wearing black armbands, arranged themselves around Jez’s coffin. On a quiet count, they lifted it as one and walked slowly and somberly to the prow of the ship. The skull and cross-bones flapped in the breeze.
They held the coffin aloft for a moment and then let it drop down into the waters below. It met them with a terrible thud. Grace’s heart wrenched at the sound. But the noise was soon overwhelmed by a volley of cannon fire, during which Bart, Connor and their fellows resumed their positions.
At the close of the cannon fire, Molucco Wrathe turned to his crew.
“This has been a sad day, my friends, but there are two halves to mourning a death — first, the sadness and then, the celebration of a fine life. Tonight, we shall direct ourselves to Ma Kettle’s Tavern to drink a toast or two to Mister Stukeley.”
There were sounds of approval across the deck — and although they were more muted than usual, the noise was a sign that things would soon return to normal about The Diablo. It seemed terribly sudden to Grace, but perhaps this was just the way things had to be aboard a pirate ship.
“And now,” said the captain, “go about your business. Let no man say that The Diablo isn’t the finest pirate ship on all the seas.”
Connor stood with Bart on one side and Grace on the other. He needed them now, more than ever. He had always known that the life of a pirate could be brief. His first night aboard ship, Bart had told him, “I’ll be lucky to see my thirtieth birthday.” Connor had registered the words, but only now did he really understand how true they were. The Three Buccaneers were supposed to have been invincible. Jez was only twenty-three — far too young to die. But, thought Connor, when you sign up to be a pirate, you accept that you are never too young to die. He was only fourteen, but he could just as easily lose his own life during the next battle. He couldn’t risk leaving Grace all alone in the world. He’d have to smarten up and stop day-dreaming. And he’d have to watch Captain Wrathe a little more carefully, too. He couldn’t shake the feeling that, in spite of the captain’s fine eulogy, Jez Stukeley had died a needless death.
9
THE GIFT
Sunset. After a day of rough, squally weather, the surf is good tonight. The lone surfer is out again, pitching himself against the waves. Every night, he grows stronger — every night, more proficient. And every night, in spite of himself, more lonely. Yes, he can admit this now. He is not made to be alone. It is life — and death — that have contrived to separate him from others. But he is not one to be dictated to by the fates. Just now, he might be dependent on the ebb and flow of the tide, but soon he will start to direct the flow of events. This time of waiting will be over.
The moon is on the rise, shooting golden darts across the dark water. He is careful to avoid the light, steering the board toward the dark places in between. Now he is fighting both the pull of the tide and the moon’s flaming arrows but, muscle-bound as he is, he is holding his own against them both. His footing is firm as he shifts the board from left to right, feeling the energy of the waves beneath him, propelling him toward another empty cove.
As he cruises into the shallow water, there are rocks to negotiate. He jumps down from the board, the water scarcely higher than his ankles now. He pulls the board from the water, before it comes to grief on the waiting rocks, and walks the last remaining feet onto dry land. As always, the moment he emerges from the water, his clothes and flesh are bone dry.
The cove is as rocky above the water as it is beneath. He rests the surfboard lightly against a jagged boulder and climbs up to a ledge. There, comfortably cloaked in the darkness, he can safely survey the scene.
A ship enters his vision in the distance. The sight of it makes him wistful, thinking of ships he has left behind. But there will be other ships in his future. And, this time, he will be the captain. No more will he do another’s bidding. This is his destiny — of that he is certain.
The ship sails across his line of vision, torches flaming about it. They light up the skull and crossbones flag. A pirate ship — hardly uncommon in these waters. Yet the ship looks familiar to him. He closes his eyes, shutting out the light to think more clearly. In the darkness, he sees the girl. The strange girl who escaped from him. Grace. That was her name. Why is he seeing her — an insignificant girl to whom he once told his story? He crushes the mental picture of her — as if it were an insect that dared to land on his palm, and opens his eyes.
The ship has sailed past, but now something much closer takes his attention. Something which bumps against the rocks in the shallow water below. Something which is pummelled by the white horses, bobbing in and out of the shards of moonlight. He leans forward. His vision cuts through the dark shadows and he sees the wooden box brought to him on the tide. He decides to take a closer look at the gift the ocean has delivered to him.
Leaping down from his ledge, he strides back into the water, his feet deftly avoiding the jagged rocks beneath. The box is within his reach now, buffeted between twin rocks, like a football kicked back and forth between them. His large hands find the edges of it. It is bigger than it seemed from above, and as long as a man. To others, it would be impossibly unwieldy, but to him it is manageable. He frees it from the dueling rocks and lifts the coffin — for that is what it is — out of the water, carrying it effortlessly to the sanctuary of the small stretch of beach.
He sets it on the sand and, unsure of his next move, looks for somewhere to sit and think. Then he realizes that the coffin itself will make the perfect seat so he eases himself down on it and looks out to sea once more. Beneath his weight, the tender wood begins to crack and splinter. Quickly, he jumps up, surveying the damage he has done.
The coffin is not in a good way. Wherever it has come from, its journey through the water has not been smooth. More than one rock has lashed out at it, judging by the marks around its sides. In one corner, there is a hole and he brings an eye to this now, looking down into the darkness within.
It’s hard to see much. Some seawater has got inside — not yet enough to weigh it down but enough to confuse his vision. He leans away again, contemplating breaking off a bit more wood. Snap. The timber breaks like a bar of chocolate in his fingers and now he has a clear view inside. His eyes come face to face with a boot. It is a sailor’s boot, still laced tight. It is not, after you stare at it for five minutes, the most interesting of sights.
If only the other end of the coffin had been broken, he thinks, looking up. But the other end is still intact. After another minute in the water, the wood would almost certainly have cracked there too. Because really, if you just reached out your finger and pressed with any kind of strength, you could crack this wood, without even really trying and . . .
Snap. The feeble wood has broken in his thick hands and a nail buckles. He leans forward. Now he is looking down on part of a face — on an eye that is shut tight, long wet eyelashes resting on the linen-white pillow of a cheek.
Of course, he wants to see more and since the wood is broken anyway, there’s no harm in prying it loose so he can see the whole of the face. Now he can see that it is a young man, his features fully at rest. The mouth is lifted in a small, frozen smile as if he is dreaming. What might he be dreaming? If only he could speak again, you might ask him this question — and a fair few others besides.
Thoughts are rushing in now, as fast and as furious as the tide. His hands reach out and make short work of the rest of the lid, until broken shards of wood are piled on the sand like discarded orange peel. Now the coffin is open to the el
ements. And there lies the young mariner, cooled by the night air again, as once he was in life.
This is not just a gift. It is a sign. A sign that the tide is turning in his favor — that his plan is the right, true one. He smiles to himself, his gold teeth revealed once more.
There are things the surfer knows — things, at least, that he has been told, if he can only remember them. Things he wishes now he had paid more heed to. Gestures and incantations that — if he can only focus and squeeze them back to the forefront of his memory — might just yield a result. He looks down at the man before him. From his garb alone, you can tell he was a pirate, even were his hands not folded about a cutlass and even if the skull and bones flag was not tied around his wrist.
If only he could remember the right procedures. He scratches his shaven head. He must try to remember. He owes it to this pirate now. Now that he has invaded his rest, he owes it to him to try. He closes his eyes, shutting out all distractions as he scours the dark passageways of his memory for the right words.
He is transported back to a shadowy, smoke-filled den, where incense once pervaded his senses. Now, he is back in that darkness. Once more, cedar and sandalwood lull his mind. He sees again that other face through the gloom, teaching him the ritual. The words are coming back to him. He is not speaking them, only hearing them, letting the other one tell him now as he told him before.
He feels a growing pressure about his hand. He cannot yet open his eyes, for the ritual is not complete. But the flesh of his hand is being compressed on all sides. As if ...no...as if ... yes — as if another hand is clinging onto his.
At last he opens his eyes. And, yes, his hand is stretched down to the coffin and, sure enough, a hand has risen out of the darkness and taken his own, much fleshier, hand. And now they pulse together as if they share one heartbeat.
He looks down at the figure in the coffin, searching for other signs of life. He thinks he sees something stirring somewhere beneath the mask of the sleeping face, but he cannot be sure it is not simply his own imaginings. He thinks he senses life — or whatever you might call this — beginning to flood the muscles of the dead pirate’s limbs.
Vampirates: Tide of Terror Page 6
