Rockfleet (The Pirate Queen Book 0)

by Jennifer Rose McMahon

  Closing myself off from the rest of the world had always been my best defense from facing it. Worked like a charm, I thought. No one to question me, nobody to need me, no chance of letting anyone else down. I preferred it that way.

  But if these crazy visions were coming back, forget it. I couldn’t face them. Not again. Especially alone. Without Mom.

  No way.

  Not a chance.

  “Maeve Grace….” My grandmother’s sing-songy voice called to me from the porch. “Time fer dinner. Fetch some extra tomatoes on yer way up, dear.”

  Lost in her backyard in my own roaming thoughts again, feeling safer since my earlier “episode” at the cemetery, her voice snapped me back to my present job: filling the wooden salad bowl for dinner. My drawn-out sigh was louder than necessary.

  The house would be full of Irish visitors in no time, gathering with my grandfather to watch Ireland play Italy in the World Cup. Michael O’Brien might come with his uncle, Paddy. Blush burned my cheeks just thinking about him and I threw myself back into the vegetable patch.

  Searching for more tomatoes seemed way better than a loud soccer match laced with Irish swearing, and definitely better than making an idiot of myself in front of my life-long crush, which was what I managed to do any time Michael was near. I poked around behind the St. Brendan statue, moving the dense greenery in search of anything worthy.

  “Are yeh comin’, loov?” Gram’s voice sounded like a distant echo from the porch high above.

  In a knee-jerk response to her call, I tripped on some zucchini vines and landed at the base of the St. Brendan statue in the middle of the garden, my face nearly hitting it.

  “Jesus!” The accusation rang clear in my voice. I blamed him for a lot more than nearly breaking my face on one of his anointed ones.

  A handmade shelter enclosed the three-foot whitewashed statue of Brendan on three sides. From the back, I couldn’t see the religious icon but knew its every feature by heart: peaceful, bearded face, robe-like clothing, cross in one hand, gesturing to the open expanses with the other. Always mocking me.

  He was Brendan the Navigator. A courageous mariner, in search of paradise or the Garden of Eden. My grandmother’s bedtime stories retold St. Brendan’s Voyage, his epic travel to the promised land, a million times, engraving his fearless curiosity onto my soul.

  White paint peeled down in delicate rolls from the outer back wall of Brendan’s enclosure, moving my eyes toward its stony base. And there, in the statue’s foundation, was a hidden metal door the size of the long side of a shoebox, with countless coats of paint, rusty hinges, and a small, aged padlock.

  My eyes widened. How could a little door be here all this time and I never noticed? I cupped my palm around the lock to inspect its tiny designs: Irish artwork, Celtic-type swirls and knots pulled me in, whispering their secrets too quietly for me to hear.

  I closed in for a better look, pressing the overgrowth out of my way, drawn to the mystery that only a secret door in an Irish garden could create. A faint burning returned to the skin on my chest, reminding me of my strange injury from the cemetery, heightening my senses.

  The pressure of a comforting hand rested on my shoulder, nudging me closer. I turned to ask Gram what it could be and gasped for air when I saw no one there. My eyes darted back and forth, finding only green around me. I snapped back to the secret door without blinking, ignoring the sting of my drying eyes. Strange sounds filled my mind, lonely, haunting sounds of tin whistles lost on the wind, maybe coming from inside the statue.

  I reached for the lock again and rubbed the Celtic carvings with my thumb. The metal door was sealed by the paint of countless years. I pushed my fingernails into the top line of the seal, moving along the length, trying to break through—

  “There yeh are!” My grandmother’s voice pierced through my soul.

  I flew back from the statue and landed in the zucchinis. “Jeez, Gram!”

  “Didn’t mean ta startle yeh, dear. Go on, now. What’s keepin’ ya?”

  Gram positioned herself between the statue and me, blocking my view of the secret door. I pushed left and then right, trying to get another glimpse of it, desperate to confirm it wasn’t my imagination. But somehow, Gram was able to block it no matter how I squirmed.

  “Gram, behind you, in the St. Brendan statue….” I started, dying to show it to her. “What is that?” I tilted my head for a better look, reaching around with my curious fingers.

  “Oh, nothing.” Gram swatted with her dishtowel, stopping my hand from further exploration. I pulled back, feeling like a small child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Another one of yer grandfather’s projects, ’tis all, his handiwork, sure. Prob’ly keeps some old tools in there or whatnot.”

  My chin pulled in as I scowled at her. Did she think I was dumb? Her efforts at distracting me from the secret door were useless. I was going to find out what was in there. My eyes were drawn back to it. What could be in there?

  “Come on now. Stop yer dilly-dallying and daydreamin’. Time to come in. Scooch.” She swatted at me again with her dishtowel. God. That was really annoying.

  Could she actually be hiding something from me?

  Walking up the rolling lawn toward the porch stairs, I looked back at the statue. Its head was tipped a little—maybe it always had been—but now it was more obvious. It knew something. I had discovered its secret and now its gentle face was encouraging me to do something about it. Daring me even. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as we held eye contact.

  “Come along now, loov,” Gram said.

  Climbing the high stairs, I was paralyzed with the need for answers. Real answers. Not just the ones you’re given as a child, hollow and flat, that let the adults avoid or move on, but real, concrete answers…about Mom, about my grandparents, about Ireland. Lots more about Ireland. Why was it always shrouded with mystery and secrets in my family? No one ever wanted to talk about it, but it was who we were. It didn’t make sense, all the silence.

  “Are you ever going to really tell me why you and Joey left Ireland?” I’d asked a million times before but was never satisfied with the simple or unfinished answer, like I was always “too young” to be told.

  Gram’s pace slowed on the stairs and she turned to look at me. Her eyes were usually soft and bright, but today, hidden behind her veil of gray strands, they looked steely and guarded.

  “Nothin’ ta tell, Maeve. You’re always lookin’ for some grand story.”

  Did she think I was still ten? I waited for more, not budging.

  “There was nothing left fer me at home. Twelve siblings, tiny cottage, no jobs. I had ta go and, sure, I met yer grandfather around that time and he was in a great hurry t’ get to America.”

  Same story as every time. I was sick of all the pleasantries. Just be honest for once and tell me what really happened. Say what you mean.

  She played with her necklace, the one she loyally wore everyday no matter the outfit, and rolled the heavy, vintage charm around in her fingers. The Celtic swirls and mythical beasts danced on it.

  “Ah, there’s nothin’ left there fer me now,” she said, clearing her throat to dispel the tightness in her voice.

  “What about Joey?” His name rolled off my lips the way ‘Grampy’ or ‘Pop Pop’ would for any other grandchild.

  “Never.” The word came out of her like a shot, smacking me upside the head, and she was quick to soften her reply. “I mean, yer grandfather won’t go back now either, dear. Been hiding for too long. He’s too old. ’Tis a shame, really.”

  “Hiding?” My head cocked to one side.

  “Hmm?” Gram reached for her necklace and looked away.

  “You said, ‘He’s been hiding’. From what?” My tight gaze bored into her back.

  “I’m just sayin’ he’s lost touch with home, is all.” She stuck her head in the fridge, looking for nothing.

  My grandfather used terms like “fled” and “escaped” when he talked
about his journey to America at eighteen. He would tell stories, after a bit of whiskey, of struggles for land and wealth, for country and clan. I had faded memories of his fairy tales and legends—battles among clashing chieftains, castles, and ships.

  Visitors began to arrive for the soccer match and a symphony of brogues livened up the living room. “Uncle” Paddy, one of Joey’s closest friends, filled the space with welcomes, his booming voice bringing a smile to my face. Then I heard Michael. My heart stopped. He was greeting Joey, talking stats about the match and cheering some sports chant, making my grandfather laugh.

  I pictured his fitted Irish soccer jacket, the lucky one he wore for every game, and his friendly smile. I’d had a crush on him since kindergarten. Butterflies tickled my stomach, but I snapped back to Gram, looking for a distracting kitchen job so I wouldn’t have to go out there.

  Gram readied her cast-iron skillet for the steaks. The smell of boiling spuds and the hot, garlic-laced pan filled every inch of the kitchen. As I leaned in against the fridge, my shoulder flinched off its surface as if I’d been tazed.

  “Wait. When did you tape my acceptance letter to the fridge?”

  I specifically remembered burying it at the bottom of the papers on my desk. But now, the Boston College letterhead was staring out at me, waiting for a reply. Or, worse, a commitment.

  Thoughts of my looming college plans made me feel like I was going to puke. My grandmother had been so brave in her journey to America, and here I was, squeamish at the thought of going away to the college down the road.

  “I haven’t made a final decision, you know.” My insecurities flooded to the surface. It was obvious to everyone I would be attending BC. Both my parents were alums.

  “Nonsense, dear! Yeh’re headed off to university, for pity’s sake, not the war. Ya just have the nervous jitters.” She looked at me sideways. “Sure, when I was yer age, I was on a ship to the States, eighteen years old, with only a dream in me pocket.”

  Uncle Paddy wandered into the kitchen and Gram was quick to move her attention to him.

  “How’re me girls?” he asked as he hugged us, planting a kiss on Gram’s head. I looked past him to see if Michael was on his heels, but no sign of him. My breath steadied itself.

  “Ach, lassie.” He looked at me. “You’ve grown. Not a kid anymore; sure, those big green eyes of yours would hold any lad hostage. Git out there and say hello to Michael. You’ll bewitch ’im completely.” His smile was wide and his eyes twinkled. “It’s that Norwegian beauty. Ya got that from yer da’.”

  Noting the look of disappointment in my curled lip and crunched nose, Paddy turned to Gram, looking for more Jameson whiskey.

  “Though you’re Irish in every way, young lass.” He patted my shoulder with his heavy hand, trying to take back his earlier suggestion that I could be Norwegian in any way.

  Too late. I’d already heard the message—I wasn’t Irish enough.

  “Sure, ya should send her off to the Ol’ Country, Kate. It’d be good fer her. Stop with the shelterin’. You’ve kept her hidden long enough,” he said over his shoulder as he moved back toward the match with his whiskey and more glasses. He gave a final shout: “Time she found out who she really is. Where she came from. No?”

  Gram eyeballed him with a look that could kill. Her eyes spelled each letter of shut your mouth, you drunken fool.

  Paddy turned to me like a reprimanded puppy and said, “Forgive me, lass, for me big mouth. Yer special though. Destined for greatness. They just don’t want ya to know it yet,” followed by a wink. He turned back toward the living room and shouted, “Hey Michael, Maeve’s in the kitchen waitin’ ya.”

  Gram went after him with her dish rag, like chasing a fox out of a hen house. He ran for the hills.

  My knees turned to liquid as I prayed Michael wouldn’t listen to him. I froze, wondering.

  Paddy’s words made me burst with a million more questions for Gram and I turned to her, wide-eyed, ready for information. But she was closed off tight with her back to me, humming an Irish ballad, a little too loud. The kind that always made me cry.

  Paddy’s comment played over in my mind—how I didn’t look Irish. I already knew that but it hit me like a bus anyway. My family looked Irish: strong hands, broad shoulders, twinkling eyes. But I looked more like my dad, and what’s ironic about that is he left us when I was a baby. I didn’t even know him.

  What I did know was that I didn’t fit in here. Surrounded by the Irish all my life and still I was different and awkward.

  It was weird because when Mom died I didn’t fit in at school anymore either. I had just turned thirteen when it happened, so I guess you could say it stole part of my childhood, like I grew up that day. My friends and the other kids around me noticed too. They were still worried about how many likes they got on social media, who they were going to semi with, and if they had the latest phone app. It was all white noise to me. I didn’t fit from that point on. I didn’t even want to.

  And now, I wasn’t even fitting in with my own kind. Always hiding in the garden, the kitchen, the cemetery. I was more comfortable alone.

  “Hey, Maeve.”

  I turned like I’d been electrocuted. Michael’s smile melted me into muteness.

  “Heard you were headed to BC. Go Eagles.” The artificial lack of enthusiasm in his tone made me chuckle. He leaned against the door jamb, looking at me with a familiar fondness.

  “Um, yeah, well, I don’t know yet.” I looked at Gram, annoyed about the acceptance letter and now about her telling people. “I guess.” I looked down at my phone on the table and pressed the button, hoping some message would appear and whisk me away.

  Silence.

  “Had you pegged more for a UMass Amherst girl, no? The Zoo?” He laughed, knowing that was the furthest thing from the truth. He didn’t seem to care though.

  Stuck, as usual, I was blank without any form of witty comeback. The more I tried to come up with one, the more I froze.

  “Yeah, BC. That’s the one for me.” I did not just make a rhyme! Is it possible to die by choking yourself? I envisioned reaching for my own neck.

  Michael grinned, probably to be polite. “Well, keep in touch. I’ll be workin’ with Paddy as his apprentice. Stoneworking, you know. You’ll have to keep me up on the college stuff.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I smiled and reached for my phone again. What was wrong with me? He went back to the living room. I blew it. Again!

  I dropped my face into my hands trying to erase the previous moment. I snuck a peek through my fingers at Gram and then pulled my face up.

  “I should go. To Ireland.”

  It was like an epiphany. Paddy was right. And he had said something about me finding out where I came from and who I was, like he knew part of the story that was always kept from me. And Gram seemed fixed to keep it that way.

  Gram’s lined face awakened as she considered my interest in going to Ireland. Then her eyes squinted, closing the topic, and she paused for a second. Her spatula hovered over the pan and she opened her mouth as if she was going to say something. But then she stopped.

  Gram was scared.

  Once the house settled after the match, I found myself in the kitchen again with Gram as I reluctantly helped with the cleanup. I preferred the torture of cleaning my own room. At least I could sweep everything under the bed in there.

  “Gram, seriously. What would you think of me going to Ireland?” I pressed her to re-engage as I sat down with my cup of tea, drying the “special occasion” silverware.

  Then a sudden sense of urgency flowed through my veins, a chill that hit my marrow. I dropped the serving spoon from my hand onto the table with a loud clang.

  Gram blurred out into streaks of color blending into the kitchen. I froze with my eyes bulging and my heart racing.

  The wind was coming.

  Terror filled me in an instant, reminding me of its occupation of my soul.

  I grabbed the wooden legs of my k
itchen chair and held on for dear life. Wind, screams, fear—it was coming but I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t strong enough. My mother wasn’t here this time to help me and—

  The wind surrounded me before I had time to draw in a full breath of air. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips together to block the violent assault. The gusts burst into my ears and up my nose, filling every space in my skull, whirling around in my head, searching for the source of my being.

  The urge to look for my mother held more power than my good judgment. I snuck one eye open, hoping for a glimpse of her beautiful face. Maybe she was still trapped there, in the wind, but all around me a vast emptiness swirled with mist and angry gusts.

  Wetness clung to my skin as I stumbled forward into the void, shivering through the darkness and confusion. Alarm rose, widening my eyes as thoughts of death swirled around me. My heart pounded with such force I thought it would burst out of my chest. Gram’s words of Mom’s “heart condition” echoed in my thoughts. My shoulders rounded in as pain surged out of each spastic beat.

  I raised my head to gasp for air as a rolling grassy slope appeared. It was like an Irish countryside, so familiar that a wave of relief blanketed my erratic heart. But only for a split second.

  A massive rock flew up in front of me then, like a wall, nearly smashing me. I slapped my hands on it, annoyed as it blocked my view and my movement, and maybe a chance to see my mother.

  Cold mist and salty spray pelted my face again in harsh slaps as I pushed through the blasts and the thick scent of marine life.

  A bone-chilling sensation shuddered up my spine, warning me I wasn’t alone and definitely not welcome. My eyes darted around, trapped in my rigid body, searching for my age-old stalker.

  I fought the primal urge to run, risking my safety for a possible second of contact with my mother, when from deep within my subconscious a sound began to rise unlike anything I had ever heard or had even known existed in this world. It was a heavy, guttural moan, one of loss and sorrow, and my hair stood on end.