Pirate Curse-Wave Walkers book 1

by Kai Meyer

  “We’ll set them down on land somewhere,” said Bannon thoughtfully, as he walked to the railing. No enemy ships in sight anywhere.

  Jolly looked over at the sinking Maddy. She still lay slanting out of the water. The current had driven the galleon thirty or forty yards away from the wreck, and the distance was increasing every minute.

  Cristobal came back to the captain.

  “And?” Bannon asked. “What did he say?”

  “That they were prisoners. All sentenced to death. They were promised their freedom if they came aboard this ship and did everything possible to defend it.”

  “Only forty men? A ship like this? That’s laughable.”

  “Whoever hatched this business must have figured that none of these fellows would survive. They obviously have only one thing in common: They were all cannoneers at some time or other. They weren’t chosen to fight hand to hand—they were supposed to polish us off from a distance.” The steersman rubbed his stubbly chin. “And there’s something else. Obviously another ship towed them here. They were never under full sail—”

  A loud flapping drowned out his words as the pirates unfurled the sails in the rigging. The mighty bundles of cloth unrolled within seconds.

  “No!” Bannon gasped.

  Jolly saw what he meant, and at the same moment she heard it, too.

  Out of the sails fell jugs—large, brown jugs, which shattered into thousands of pieces as they hit the deck. There must have been two or three dozen, breaking all over the deck with a hollow popping sound. Some fell into the middle of the screaming group of prisoners; another hit Trevino, the cook, on the head and knocked him out.

  The broken jugs held something that at first glance looked like dark wool, a tangle of thick yarn—until the tangle unraveled on its own and divided into hundreds of smaller balls, which swarmed in all directions on scraggly legs.

  “Spiders!” someone screeched; then another took up the cry: “Spiders … the jugs are full of spiders!”

  Bannon bellowed orders, but no one heard them in the panic that had broken out on the ship. The prisoners screamed at the top of their lungs as a true eruption of spider bodies shot up among them. The pirates jumped around on deck, some trying to stamp on the creatures, but they quickly gave up when they saw how hopeless a task it was. Ten, then twenty were crawling all over the body of the senseless cook; others sought their way up boots and trousers, along the rigging and the railing. The creatures might be just as panicked and confused as the men aboard, but they were faster and—above all—irritated.

  Jolly pulled herself up into the shrouds. Her hands were wet with sweat and her breath was coming in gasps. Everywhere the pirates were bellowing and stamping and shaking themselves. Cristobal knocked several animals off his body at once, but he overlooked an especially fat spider that crouched on his neck. He screamed when she bit him.

  At first Bannon struck at the spiders with his saber, then with his bare hands. He was trying to follow Jolly aloft, but then he was bitten too, several times at once, and the pain made him let go of the rope. With a curse he crashed back down onto the deck.

  “Those dogs!” he bellowed. His voice faded as the spider venom numbed him. “Jolly … the figurehead … remember the … figure—”

  He collapsed. Jolly stared at the lifeless figure beneath her, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Damn it—she had to do something, had to help Bannon and the others somehow. Desperately, she looked around for a weapon and knew at once that nothing would help. No one could master the overwhelming odds of the spiders.

  Jolly knew exactly what Bannon had intended to say to her.

  From her elevated position she had a good view of the wreck of the Maddy. The figurehead was sticking up like an outstretched finger, pointing the way.

  Jolly brushed off the nearest spiders and jumped over to the railing, where she came to a wavering stand. Spiders were now everywhere, a seething black carpet that covered the deck and all the men aboard. Most men were no longer moving; some had vanished almost completely under the hairy, scrambling bodies. A few still up on the masts were calling for help, but a whole crowd of the eight-legged creatures was already nearing them.

  Jolly looked around at Bannon one last time, then she jumped overboard. It was more a fall than a jump. She might just as well have fallen onto a stone floor when she hit the surface of the water without sinking into it. Lucky not to have broken all her bones, she rolled over, was wildly tossed around by a few waves, and finally got onto her feet.

  Silvery triangles slid toward her, encircled her. Jolly had had to deal with sharks more than once and knew that they only saw the outlines of the soles of her feet on the surface and didn’t recognize them as worthwhile prey. Jolly forced herself not to think of the men who’d leaped overboard in fear of the spiders. They’d certainly not had as much luck as she. Hurriedly she ran over the water toward the Maddy in great leaps. This time she was running against the current, her breathing wild, her heart hammering in her chest, but finally she saw the pirate ship in front of her—or rather, what remained of it.

  Behind Jolly the Spanish galleon rose against the darkening sky. From afar it looked as if the wood itself had come alive. The dark surface moved, covered with swarming life, which cast shifting shadows.

  The water was bubbling around the Maddy. Jolly had trouble avoiding the white crests. Sea foam wasn’t to be trusted; sometimes the surface beneath it receded a little and sucked at your feet like quicksand, and then you had to be careful to pull them right out again before the water consolidated around you and held you fast.

  She was able to grab the edge of the red railing and pull herself up with it. As soon as the superstructure at the stern and the inner spaces of the xebec were filled with water, the Skinny Maddy would go under like a stone. Not even a polliwog like Jolly would manage to escape from the deadly vortex in time.

  Jolly had to be faster. Even faster.

  With a gasp she swung herself over the railing onto the deck, lost her footing on the wet incline for a moment, and slipped back a few yards. She felt wildly around her and got hold of a rope, intending to support herself—but the rope gave and fell beside her on the deck. Jolly slipped farther, feetfirst, and now she came dangerously near the bubbling, swirling water. At the last moment she slithered across one of the grating-covered hatches to the hold and hooked her hands and feet into it. From here it was still fifteen feet to the thundering water, but the ship was sinking inexorably farther. In less than a minute, the grating would be under water. By then, Jolly had to be away from here, had to have reached the figurehead, the only place that now offered any safety.

  Of course, she could have tried to flee across the open sea. But the walk over the rocking, wavy ocean was ten times as exhausting as the same stretch on land, and Jolly hadn’t seen any island on the horizon. At some point she would collapse in the middle of the ocean from exhaustion—and then she would look just as appetizing to the sharks as any swimmer or large fish. And even if the sharks had no appetite, which was unlikely, she’d die of thirst out there anyway.

  She had to get to the figurehead. It was her only hope.

  A powerful shuddering went through the ship; then, with a groan from its very innards, it settled more steeply. With every degree of angle the Maddy upended, it became more difficult to climb up the deck.

  Now Jolly became aware of something else. At first she saw it only at the edge of her field of vision and then, when she looked more carefully, with merciless certainty.

  Among the bubbling and fountains of foam at the foot of the deck, there was a silhouette moving in the water. A form, approaching human, but with long, skinny limbs, skin that shimmered with rainbow colors like oil, and an ugly face that consisted only of a maw and half a dozen razor-sharp rows of teeth. Jolly saw the jaws of the creature snapping open and shut angrily, threatening to bite in the foam and the waves.

  A kobalin! A living kobalin! It had been a long time since
Jolly had seen one, maybe two or three years, and then it had been a young one, which the pirates had killed in the water with a few well-placed shots.

  But this kobalin was fully grown, and he was rampaging down there in expectation of his catch as if he hadn’t had anything between his teeth for months. The sounds of the battle must have lured him. Kobalins loved carrion, especially human carrion, and there were stories of shipwrecked crews that had been torn up and eaten within minutes by a handful of kobalins.

  Jolly felt as though her entire body were numb. It wasn’t enough that she’d lost the captain and all her friends, that she was about to be dragged to the bottom by a shipwreck, that her strength was gradually disappearing—no, of course one of those monsters had to turn up.

  She began to climb up again, more carefully this time. First up to the hatch cover, then up to a rope, and then from there—finally!—back to the railing. The sound of the kobalins jaws snapping at her back overwhelmed even the groaning of the wreck and the booming of the sea. The beast was lurking down there, its teeth bared, hardly able to wait for Jolly to finally lose her grip.

  Kobalins were afraid to leave the water. Only the bravest among them sometimes stretched a head or a claw above the surface; most preferred to look for their food underwater. That the one down there was extending his arms toward Jolly—even if he couldn’t reach her—was unusual. That he once even raised his torso above the raging waters was extraordinary.

  Jolly climbed farther and reached the figurehead. Bannon had explained the mechanism to her more than once, on quiet nights when she and he were the only ones awake. At that time he’d let her in on the best-kept secret on the Maddy.

  The figurehead with its grim Titan face was hollow and had room for one adult human being. Watertight packets inside it contained provisions for several days. By means of two bolts, the figurehead could be loosened from the hull of the ship and would become a perfect lifeboat for its occupant. Concealed weights ensured that it would always turn face upward; there one could open a hatch to let in fresh air.

  The kobalin let out a gruesome cry as one of the masts broke and crashed down on him with its full weight. Out of the corner of her eye, Jolly saw the mast plunge straight into the monster’s gaping mouth and ram the creature down into the deep with it.

  She snorted grimly, but she had no strength left to exult. With a last effort of will, she opened the hidden hatch cover at the back of the figurehead, laboriously made her way inside hand over hand, and pulled the hatch closed behind her. Leather upholstery covered the crack. For a fraction of a second, she felt as if she’d been enclosed in a coffin alive. Panic cut off her air. She’d rather go down with the Maddy than be trapped inside here. But then reason got the upper hand.

  The wreck settled steeper and steeper; the final plunge to the bottom of the sea might begin at any moment.

  Jolly pulled the two bolts out of their fastenings. They slid out easily, as if Bannon had recently oiled them. There was a shattering noise, and for a long moment Jolly believed that the Maddy was breaking up. But no—the figurehead had loosened from the hull. She didn’t even notice the free fall into the water, just the landing, which struck the wooden outer shell like a hundred hammer blows. There was a roaring in Jolly’s ears, and she was on the verge of fainting. Then the figurehead was seized by the waves. A deafening screeching sounded out of the depths, perhaps the dying kobalin or perhaps the sinking Maddy. Jolly could only hope that she was already far enough away from the wreck that the suction of the sinking ship wouldn’t take her to the bottom with it.

  It was pitch-black inside the figurehead. The air smelled musty. Jolly didn’t dare open the little air hatch for fear the boiling sea would enter and fill the cavity with water.

  A dull thud sounded as something banged against the figurehead from underneath. Sharks! They took the drifting shape for an especially fat catch. Jolly wasn’t sure the wood would withstand the heavy pressure of teeth if one of them really bit into it.

  Something stroked her face in the darkness.

  She cried out. In the first moment she thought it was a finger. But that was foolishness. The distance between the tip of her nose and the wooden wall of the cavity wasn’t more than twelve inches. She was alone, of course.

  Or maybe … not entirely alone.

  A spider was enclosed in the figurehead with her! It must have crawled inside Jolly’s shoulder bag on board the galleon.

  Now it was crawling freely around her body.

  Jolly began to kick in the narrow tube, hammering against the wood with her hands and feet, before she got her panic enough under control to be able to form some clear thoughts.

  Lie utterly still. Be utterly quiet.

  And listen!

  Jolly held her breath. Goose bumps spread over her entire body like armor, but that still wasn’t any protection from the venomous bite of the spider. She listened to her own heart beating, not faintly, not softly, but so loudly that she thought it must burst her chest at any moment.

  Still, there was a sound. Barely audible. Like fingertips drumming gently on a hollow surface.

  The spider was scrambling over the wood somewhere underneath her.

  Jolly bit her lower lip to keep from making a sound. If she could only see something! A tiny shimmer of light would be enough, perhaps. But she didn’t dare lift a hand to open the air vent over her face for fear of really irritating the spider.

  Somehow she had to get rid of the thing.

  She breathed in and out very slowly, then held her breath again, grew as stiff as if she were a piece of wood herself. She had to lure the spider into a sense of security; she mustn’t under any circumstances induce it to attack.

  And then, when she knew exactly where the thing was—

  Something pinched her on the back of her right hand.

  Jolly let out a wild cry and smashed her hand against the inner wall with all her might. The spider’s body was harder than she expected, the bristles stabbed like needles, but Jolly struck again, and again, and again. The twitching legs clutched around her hand like fingers; she felt their pressure, then their slackening.

  Sickened, she shook her arm until the lifeless spider slid off.

  It no longer mattered. Too late.

  The spider had bitten her.

  Jolly felt her consciousness fading. The blackness inside the drifting figurehead grew in solidity, robbed her of breath, seemed to flow oily and cold into her nose, into her eyes, into her mouth.

  I’m going to die, she thought with astonished matter-of-factness.

  Once more she raised her hand. Her fingers found the sliding cover above her face and pulled it aside with her last strength.

  The blue of the sky over her stabbed her pupils like steel blades. Salty air flowed into the hollow cavity.

  Breathe, her mind said.

  Now breathe, damn it!

  The sky paled, then the light, then the entire world. The spider venom pulsed through her veins and pressed every thought out through her pores.

  Jolly’s consciousness drifted away like flotsam on a nightdark ocean.

  Flotsam

  The boy sat on a rock above the bay, which opened out in front of him like a window onto the sea. Whenever his father released him from his duties on the farm, he came up here to dream: of the sea and a life on the great proud ships he saw on the horizon from time to time.

  Munk’s hand lay on the rusty cannon barrel, in whose mouth a pair of birds had nested the year before. He’d waited until the little ones flew away, then carefully removed the nest. He didn’t know how you worked a cannon, but he thought it was a good idea for it to be ready for use at any time. His parents, tobacco farmers and the only settlers on the tiny island, knew nothing of the rusted gun above the bay. The cannon was Munk’s secret. Just like this place, this refuge in the rocks with a view over the bay and the turquoise blue Caribbean Sea.

  He’d often hoped to see pirates from up here, the proud sloops and briganti
nes of the freebooters who filled the Caribbean with more fear and horror than any other place in the world’s oceans. He wished ardently to discover, just once, one of their black flags on the horizon, with its symbol of the skull and crossed bones or sabers, the gleam of gold shining from their hatches and bathing their sails in the light of an eternal sunrise.

  Daydreams, his mother said. Silly nonsense, his father said. And both had warned him several times not to even think of making one of the passing ships aware of the island with smoke or some other signal.

  Munk laughed at his parents’ worries. As much as he might fantasize about pirates and adventurous privateering expeditions, he’d never go so far as to summon one of the ships. Who was he, anyway? Only a boy with a few odd talents. They’d never take anyone like him aboard. He couldn’t duel, only read, couldn’t shoot, and had only a few useless magic tricks to make up for it. If pirates ever really were to turn up on the island, he’d certainly be the first one they made walk the plank.

  Useless, that was the word he hated so. His father had called him that once when he was angry over one of Munk’s mishaps on the farm. And he was certainly right. Munk would never become a proper tobacco farmer, that much was certain. He was lost in his daydreams much too often, thinking about everything else under the sun except the harvest and the care of the young plants. And he had nothing at all to do with the haggling, which his father managed so well when traders came to the island now and then.

  Munk sighed and blinked in the afternoon sun. The cannon base was so rotten that he chose not to sit on it anymore for fear the wood might collapse. He’d often wondered who̵d placed it here. In his heart he was convinced that thirty or forty years before, in the era of the first buccaneers and the privateering of Henry Morgan, the island had been a secret hideout for pirates. Perhaps they’d waited up here for the Spaniards or, better yet, buried their treasure somewhere in the jungle thickets.