by Ben Zackheim
I checked the town records for documentation on the sewers, but they weren't very good. So I figure I'll do a public service and draw up a thorough map. It'll be handy for everyone. Besides, it will let me practice my map making skills.
I close the steel door behind me. I don't want anyone to see it open and then freak out. My flashlight's beam bounces off the brick walls, casting long shadows across the floor, which is home to a knee-deep flow of water runoff. Even though these tunnels don't carry human refuse anymore, I expected it to reek, but the musty odor isn't unpleasant. I mean, I wouldn't want my bedroom to smell like this, but I think I can handle it for thirty minutes.
I reach a fork in the tunnel after walking twenty-seven long steps. I make a mark on my graph paper. Today, we'll do the path on the right.
Uh-oh.
Not good. Stay calm, Shirley.
Something just ran past my foot.
There's a rat in my flashlight's beam. Its red eyes flare and it screeches at the sight of me. Most people don't know this, but rats hate water, so I kick a puddle and douse it. It scampers up a ledge and disappears in a crack in the wall.
I shake off the creepies and make much, much, much more noise as I walk. I'm not down here to study local vermin, after all.
After about sixty more long strides, I stop and make another mark on my paper. Just ahead of me, there's a hook in the wall. Maybe meant for a torch? No, can't be. The gasses that can build up in a sewer would make that really dangerous.
I pull gently on the hook and it starts to come out of the wall. I must have broken...
Wait.
The hook slides out all the way and I see that it's attached to a very fine chain. It feels like I'm pulling on a cord on the back of a talking doll. I release the hook.
It crawls up the wall and slips back into place.
Call me crazy, but that seems weird. What is this thing?
Chapter Two: Captain Jack Stringer
My head clears after I leave the tunnel. The air is pretty thick down there. I didn't realize how foggy I'd become until I set off for school.
As I walk up Bridge Street, that hook is making my brain itch, which usually means I'm onto something. But what? I mean, it was probably just used to secure gear or tools when they were building the sewers. Right?
***
After third period, I go straight to the Scriptorium, my name for the school library. I see a book sitting on my shelf. Ms. Conway, the librarian, likes to set books aside for individual students when she finds out what they like. She made the principal fund a whole wall of shelves so that everyone has their own nook.
I kick back on the most comfortable chair in the whole state and open the book. Treasures of Massachusetts is an ancient thing, written and illustrated by a lady named Meredith Savile, published in 1923 by Doubleday, Page & Co. Dusty leather jacket, musty old pages, and beautiful illustrations of treasures that are supposed to be hiding in my part of the world.
Ms. Conway knows me really well.
I love secrets. I love adventure. And I love pirates! I can't help it. It's the nerd in me. I mean, I wouldn't love them if they were running up the streets, swinging swords and stealing bikes, but I love the idea of them.
Life at sea.
Sword fights.
Walking the plank.
Gold.
I'm really into this one drawing of a treasure chest, straight out of a pirate movie. The chest is open and loot is pouring out. The story captures my attention, too:
The Englishman, Jack Stringer, was a little-known captain of a small pirate ship from 1752-1758. That all changed on a foggy summer morning. Captain Stringer and his Dutch crew of six ex-military sailors accidentally grounded their boat on a pristine beach somewhere on the Carolina coast. The fog draped over the trees and filled the crew with a sense of dread. Stringer, unable to convince them to come along, stepped into the haze alone, lantern held high.
What happened next is unknown to this day. The crew of pirates claimed they heard the high-pitched song of whales, filled with sorrow, then, horrifically, anger. A single gunshot, likely from Stringer's flintlock pistol, echoed down the beach. The men were so scared of the noises that they didn't move.
They spotted a dark figure stumble from the mist. Fearing a ghost, or worse, they scrambled to push the boat offshore.
"Stop, fools!"
It was Captain Stringer. He pulled a small chest behind him. The men helped him lug it on board and, upon hearing the piercing wails grow closer, shoved off the sands of the unknown beach for good.
Once safely away, the pirates pulled open the chest and revealed a most astonishing sight. Jewelry. Gold and silver coins. Loose gems of such dazzling colors that their glow lit up the mist like a rainbow. The few trinkets that fell to the wooden deck would have made each man, and his distant offspring, wealthy forever.
No one could get the story of what happened on the beach from Captain Stringer's lips. He vowed never to speak of it, and kept his word. In fact, Stringer never spoke a word again. For the treasure he pulled from the shore was indeed priceless. But it was also cursed.
"What're you reading?"
Marie's voice breaks the spell that the tale has on me. She sits down in the cushy chair across from mine.
"Book about treasures," I mumble, wanting to dive back in to see what happened next.
Marie leans her head back. I don't think she even heard my answer. "I'll never get this math stuff."
"You'll get it," I answer, trying not to be grumpy. I actually feel like telling her she should stop wasting time complaining and spend it studying instead. Probably not a good idea.
She frowns at me. "You really want to tell me to be quiet and study so you can go back to your book, right?"
Marie amazes me sometimes. When she knows someone or something, she understands completely. It's one of the reasons I admire her. It's also why I'm not worried about her problems with math. Once she gets it, she will so get it.
"Precisely," I say.
"Fine. I guess you're right. It's just so awful to leave class every single day feeling even more confused."
I close the book. She needs my attention.
"Kate could tutor you."
"She'd tell me 2+2 = 2. Kate hates me."
Kate is a Sophomore who has a crush on Wylie, my other best friend. Kate thinks Marie has a thing for Wylie, too, which is true. But Marie is not about to let anything happen. That would mess up our trio. Still, sometimes I wish they'd just be honest with each other. What can I say? In my experience, the truth is always best.
Speak of the devil. Wylie comes out of nowhere and plops in a third chair. "You two look like something the Catwoman dragged in." He loves comics and he shows it. Every chance he gets.
"Did you craft that joke during math class?" Marie teases.
"Yup," he says, flipping open a textbook with an X-Men comic hidden inside. But before he starts reading, he spots my book.
"What Massachusetts treasures?" He leans forward and stretches his neck to get a look at the page I'm on.
"Apparently, there are a lot of them around here."
I go back to reading.
For the treasure he pulled from the shore was priceless.
But it was also cursed.
I feel the heavy silence. My friends are glaring at me.
"What?"
"Are you going to give us this theory of yours, or are we going to have to tell your mother about the map you're making of the town's sewage system?"
"That's the thing," I say. "I found something while I was exploring this morning."
"Get out," Wylie says, raising his voice to unacceptable levels. Ms. Conway, the librarian, shushes us. He whispers, "You found a treasure?"
"No." I pull out my notebook and flip to the sketch of the tunnels that I made earlier. "I found a hook."
Marie and Wylie glance at each other, then at me.
"Oooookay," Marie says.
"I'm following my gut. Li
ke you always tell me I should." It's true. Marie is big on intuition. She thinks it's as valuable as logic. I disagree. To me, logic is everything and everything is logic. It's just a matter of looking at the right things from the right angles. Still, when something bugs me, but it's nothing obvious, I have to believe that it's intuition telling me... something.
"The hook pulls out of the wall on a small chain. Grinds back into place. Weird."
"Probably just something they used to secure gear when they were building the tunnel," Marie says. I smile at her, proud. "Why are you looking at me like that, Shirley Link?"
"You're right. Still..." I start to go into my deep-thought place. The one that makes my face wrinkle up and scares puppies away. I can't help it. A hook has me curious. But why?
"There she goes," says Wylie, teasing me.
"Still," I continue. Then I break one of my own rules. I come to a conclusion without an itsy-bitsy, teeny-tiny shred of evidence. "I think it's hiding something."
"We are so going with you after school," Wylie beams.
"You are so not going with me, ever. It's risky enough going alone. No way could three of us get in there without being seen."
"Then I'll go by myself," Wylie says, getting huffy.
"There are rats."
"Okay, never mind." Wylie throws his legs over one of the chair's armrests and settles in to read his comic book.
Marie gawks, stunned.
"You're just going to let it go? Just like that?" she asks him. Wylie is not known for giving up. If he wants to do something, he's like a dog who has a good grip on a rope with his teeth. He'd rather get pulled off the ground and twirled in circles until he passes out than give up.
"Just like that," Wylie says matter-of-factly.
"He's scared of rats," I explain.
"That's not true. I'm scared of rat's teeth."
"Well, I'm going with her tomorrow morning," Marie announces. "You shouldn't be down there alone, Shirley. What if something happened to you?" Marie has her Huffy Face on. She's right, of course. I need to stop trying to do everything by myself. It gets me into trouble.
"Fine," I say, opening my book. "Six AM at my house. Now, do you mind if I finish reading?"
The school bell rings. Fourth period. Wonderful. I guess I'll see what happened to Captain Stringer when I get home.
Chapter Three: Mrs. Smiley Isn't Smiling
Wylie and I walk down Main Street. He lives in the opposite direction, but he likes to take me to my front door sometimes. He seems to enjoy worrying about me a lot.
"Look at that," he says. He points to Mrs. Smiley's Victorian house. It's beautiful but run down. The paint is peeling, the front porch sits at an angle, and a couple of windows are broken. "What a mess."
"Mrs. Smiley is having a hard time keeping it up."
Wylie frowns. "Yeah. It's been falling apart for awhile now. Pretty much since her husband died."
Everyone knows the sad story of Francine Smiley. She was married to Frank Smiley for fifty years. Frank was known for his ability to fix anything with a plug. And he was loved for his willingness to help anyone, anytime, in any way he could. The whole town seemed quieter when he was killed in a car crash outside Boston. He'd traveled there to see Copellia, a favorite ballet of his. Everyone thought Mrs. Smiley would be taken care of, but it turns out her husband was kind and cultured, but not very good with money. He left her penniless.
Wylie likes her a lot. When he was first adopted by the Jay family, Mrs. Smiley was kind enough to give him some outdoor jobs. That way, people in the neighborhood could get to know him. Also, she makes awesome lemonade. His favorite food.
We spot her working in the back garden. Her long white hair tries to stay put in a bun, but strands of it flow out in a hundred directions. Her overalls and large t-shirt are so stained in mud I can't tell what their original colors were.
She sees us and waves for us to join her. We pass a yard sign with the handwritten words:
Yard Sale This Saturday
Lots Of Treasure
"Wylie, look at you!" she says. "You grow more handsome every time I see you. Hello, Shirley! Not getting into any trouble, I hope." She winks at me.
"No, ma'am."
"She's trying though," Wylie says, nudging an elbow into my arm. Wow, he's strong. "You working on the asparagus?"
"I am. Need to have everything in order for this weekend." Her kind smile fades but she tries to bring it back.
Wylie frowns. "What's this weekend?"
"Oh, bank stuff. Almost time to say goodbye to this old place."
"You're moving out?"
"Have to pay the bills and it's hard to do when all your money is tied up in an old Victorian. So, the more I can pretty her up, the more she'll sell for, and the nicer my retirement home will be." She smiles and winks again. But I can tell she doesn't want to leave her home. "Can you help me with weeding tomorrow morning, Wiley?"
"Sure, Mrs. S," he says.
Then she sees the book in my hand.
"Oh, my. Where did you get that book?"
"The school library. Have you read it?"
"I have. I gave mine away years ago, though."
"It's fun to read so far."
Mrs. Smiley just stares at it, as if it's a snake in my hand. Kind of creepy, actually.
"Well, okay, we're off then. Bye, Mrs. Smiley," I say.
Wylie and I turn to go, but I don't think she heard me. When I look over my shoulder, she's still staring at the book. I wonder why she's so freaked out.
"It's real, you know," she says from behind us, barely loud enough to hear.
We stop. "Excuse me?" I ask.
"The treasure," she whispers. "It's real." Her eyes are locked on the book and all the color has left her face.
"Which..." I start. But she pops out of her trance and runs up her stairs.
As she nears the top, she turns and says feebly, "Phone..."
I don't hear a phone ringing. I watch her disappear into the house.
"What was that all about?" Wylie asks.
"I have no idea." I hold up the book and flip through the pages as we start walking again. At a glance, I don't see anything about Shelburne Falls. I feel like running home to pore over it.
What could make Mrs. Smiley so scared of a book?
Wylie and I walk in silence until we reach my house.
"I can't believe she's leaving her home," Wylie says, simply. "Anyways. See you tomorrow. Careful of the rat teeth."
"Bye," I say as I watch him wander off. Poor Wylie.
I run inside, full sprint.
Chapter Four: Captain Peter Lock
Iflip the book open as I walk up the stairs to my room. The story I'd started earlier continues...
None could get the tale of what happened on the beach from Captain Stringer's lips. He vowed never to speak of it, and kept to his word. In fact, Stringer never spoke a word again. For the treasure he pulled from the shore was priceless. But it was also cursed.
Stringer did not choose his muteness. He would not speak because he could not. The moment he cashed in the first gold bullion coin from the treasure, his throat tightened. It was so constricted that he had a hard time breathing and eating for the remainder of his short life.
But that is not all he suffered. Upon his return to England, his miserable existence, while rich in fortune, was cursed with an almost complete lack of love. Stringer became isolated from his friends and family. It was said that he was unable or unwilling to allow them to be close as they once were. Only one man, Peter Lock, remained with Stringer until the end of his life. Upon the captain's death, Lock was identified by social circles as executor of the estate. Most people, jealous of his powers, assumed he would horde the fortune and keep it for himself, but he did precisely what Stringer asked of him. He hid the cursed treasure where it would never again be found.
This tale could be considered a tall one, if it were not for one fact: every crew member from Stringer's ship died l
ong, painful, and isolated deaths. And each and every one of these men asked Peter Lock to protect the world from their dangerous fortunes.
Wow. If that last part is true, then it definitely means the pirates, at least, believed in the curse.
Peter Lock. Why does that name sound so familiar?
"Shirley! Dinner!" Mom calls from downstairs.
I'm about to close the book when I notice some handwriting on the last page of the Stringer story. In tiny letters, at the bottom of the page.
One word, with a question mark.
Link?
***
"What's the project you're working on?" Dad asks, his mouth half-filled with hamburger.
"Hmm?"
"Your note on the butter tray. You said you're working on a project." I tap a finger on the book cover.
"Oh. Just working on my mapping skills. Hey, do either of you know the name Peter Lock?"
"Did you notice that?" Mom asks.
Dad smiles. "I did, yes."
"What?"
"You changed the subject," Dad says.
"Very well, too."
"I didn't." It's true. I really asked about Peter Lock because the name is bugging me like crazy. Mom can tell when I fib, like she has a lie detector built into her nose or something.
She lets it go and smiles. "Well, Peter Lock was the name of an ancestor of your father's, back in the 18th century I think. Is that the one you're talking about?"
Okay, I didn't see that coming.
"Maybe. Was he a lawyer?" If Lock was given such trust by Stringer, then it was likely he was a lawyer of some kind.
They both shake their heads, no.
Bummer.
"He was a sailor." Dad says.
Bingo! Not a bummer!
"He was a bigwig in the British navy. Stationed in the Caribbean somewhere."
That puts him in the right place at the right time. Pirates worked the entire coast of the Americas, from the Caribbean all the way north to Nova Scotia. Most of them were former sailors of the British or Dutch navies, men who preferred the life of a pirate, which tended to be more profitable and more democratic. Every crew member got his share of loot and was generally treated better than navy troops. For instance, if the men didn't like the job a captain was doing, they could vote him out and install a new captain.
