“Well, we weren’t.”
“I’ll tell you anyway.”
“Please do.”
“Not that I need to, you understand.”
“We understand.”
“You’ll be aware that my crew of this joyous bark has been severely depleted by events of late?”
“Of course.”
“The Shadeblaze requires a full complement if she’s to return to her former ways of buccaneering and ocean roving.” Rustbane seemed to be getting into his narrative swing, despite or perhaps because of the grog. “Accordingly, it is my plan to sail with this skeletal crew only as far as Hangman’s Haven, then pick up, by bribery, coercion or just plain brute force, another forty or fifty cully boys of suitable skills and criminal temperament.”
“That may be your intention,” said Sylvester very carefully, “but it’s not in fact what’s going to happen.”
Rustbane sighed histrionically and struck a pose with his fist on his waist. “Oh no, not another mutiny, so soon after the last. I don’t think my nerves could take it, dearie.”
“Not a mutiny,” said Sylvester.
The gray fox clapped. “Oh, good. So, what makes you think I’m going to obey your … requests? Come on, Sylvester. Do tell.”
“You’re going to do what I say because I know where the real treasure of the Zindars is hidden.”
Jasper and Viola stared at Sylvester as if he’d gone crazy, or betrayed them or both. Despite all previous evidence to the contrary, he knew what he was doing. This was the new, Zindar-influenced Sylvester. He’d never thought as clearly as this in his life before. It was like bathing in cool spring water.
Rustbane froze, instantly sober. “But what about that huge edifice in the cave?”
“That was just the second prize, the runner-up award.”
“Then it’s back to the island we go, and this time we’re not leaving it ’til – by jingo! – Cap’n Terrigan Rustbane has the treasure of the Zindars trickling between his clammy little paws. Only” – there was a long silence, broken only by the slapping of wavelets against the Shadeblaze’s timbers – “how do I know I can trust you?”
“What makes you think that you can’t?”
“Let me see now,” said Rustbane, beginning to pace up and down on the deck, his chin in his paw. “There’s the fact that you been long enough among pirates not to know truth if it came up and bit you in the leg. That’s just for starters. Then there’s the fact you might be thinking if you hoodwink ol’ Terrigan Rustbane, genial son o’ a gun as he is, you might be able to leave him in the lurch somehow. I didn’t get to where I am in the world by not suspecting each and everyone, you know. It’s the pirate way, see?”
“I believes Sylvester.” It was Daphne who’d spoken. “Even though he is a bit of an ar—”
“Mo–om!”
Rustbane nodded. Clearly, he was more inclined to take Mrs. Pickleberry’s word for it than he was just about anyone else’s. Put that another way: He was less disinclined to take Mrs. Pickleberry’s word for it. She had, after all, masterminded the scheme that had saved his life. And she’d sacrificed Elvira for his sake.
“So, you think I should trust him?”
“I feels it in me waters, yes.”
The gray fox returned his gaze to Sylvester. “And where might the treasure be?”
Sylvester inclined his head with a smile. “We’ve been through all this before.”
“Threats of torture?”
“Yes.”
“Threats to kill your girlfriend? What was it dear Jeopord used to call her? Little Miss Droppydrawers?”
Sylvester refused to rise to the insult. “Yes, you tried those too.”
“Threats to hold my breath and scream?”
“No.”
“Should I try it now?”
“Not unless you actually want to hold your breath and scream, I wouldn’t.”
Rustbane twisted his mouth vexedly. “We seem to be at an impasse.”
“We do indeed.”
“Supposing, just supposing, I was to entertain for one minute the conceivability of concurring with your wishes by way of bargaining for the location of Throatsplitter Adamite’s treasure. Just supposing this – and it ain’t no more than a fairy tale we’re entertaining here, you understand – what exactly is it you’d be a-wanting me to do rather than head for Hangman’s Haven as fast as the Shadeblaze’s somewhat decrepit sails would permit?”
“Take us home to Foxglove.”
The fox appeared baffled. “Foxglove?”
“The home of the lemmings. Where you seized us.”
“Oh, that Foxglove! When you’re as experienced a traveler as me too many of the places you’ve been tend to blur into one, as you’ll understand. Daffy little place. Has a big library. An even bigger temple. A mayor and a high priest you’d rather flush down the jakes than say a how-d’ye-do to. I remember it. A nice spot to settle down if you want to watch your brain cells atrophy, I’d say.”
Again, Sylvester kept his temper in check. This was his home town the fox was slandering. He’s just trying to needle you. Don’t let him get away with it. He could see Mrs. Pickleberry was coming to the boil and he gestured to Jasper that he should try to calm Three Pins down.
“That’s it,” said Sylvester. “Foxglove.”
“What in tarnation’s name d’ye think would induce me ever to go back to such a tedious little hole?”
“You want the treasure, the chest of the Zindars.”
“There’s that.” The fox let out his breath in a long gust. “There surely is that.”
“Once we’re all safely in Foxglove, I’ll tell you where it is.”
“You’re sure you want to go back to Foxglove, lad?”
Startled by the sudden new tack the skipper had taken, Sylvester didn’t reply immediately. “Whyever shouldn’t I? Why do you ask the question?”
“Because it’s going home. Going back. It’s the longest voyage of them all, you know, the one that takes you back to where you started.”
For a moment, Sylvester could have believed the gray fox was speaking out of genuine concern for him. Did he want to go back to the placid tranquility of Foxglove? Sylvester had discovered what roistering life on the high seas was like. He’d come within a hairsbreadth of his death more times than he could rightly remember and, though each hair-raisingly close brush with death had terrified him to his very core, he had to admit that each time it had also been fun. Perhaps not right then, but afterwards, looking back on the thrill of survival against the odds. Could he really give up the zest of adventure, the spice of not knowing each morning if you’d live to see the sunset, for the sake of the measured serenity, the small enclosed world, of Foxglove?
Could Viola?
Sylvester glanced at her. He could see the same questions racing through her head, the same indecision.
He raised an eyebrow to her. What d’you think?
She opened her paws. No one can ever take away from us the adventures we’ve had, but the escapades have to stop sometime. Better while we’re still alive than … later. Now it’s time, maybe, that we were looking forward to a different sort of adventure.
He pursed his lips, agreeing with her. They’d still have a few weeks of voyaging on the Shadeblaze before they got home, after all, and who knew what might happen during that time. After all, there was work to be done at home in Foxglove, not least exposing the truth about Mayor Hairbell and High Priest Spurge, and about the Great Exodus. And Lhaeminguas. That last was going to be the most difficult of all. The folk of Foxglove, staid and traditional as they were, weren’t going to be too keen on the notion of giving up Lhaeminguas.
As he turned back to Rustbane, Sylvester felt this might be one of the hardest things he would ever had to say.
“Yes. We want to go
back to Foxglove.”
“And you want me to take you?”
“Yes.”
“With the barest of skeleton crews?”
“Yes. You can manage. You have four lemming volunteers to supplement your pirates, after all.”
“And a mouse,” Rasco pointed out.
“And a mouse,” Sylvester said.
“You’re all five of you lubbers,” objected Rustbane.
“Ahem,” said Mrs. Pickleberry.
“Except one,” said Rustbane hastily.
Rustbane pretended to be considering the proposition, although Sylvester could see by the gleam in those greenish-yellow eyes that the wily buccaneer had already made up his mind.
“Once I’ve landed you there safe and sound you promise you’ll tell me where I might find the chest of the Zindars, do you?”
“I’ve already told you as much.”
“Your word on it.”
“You know you have my word on it.”
“Or I’ll put a black spot on you.”
“Tremble, tremble. You already have. Don’t you remember?”
“I wasn’t counting you rotten lot. Or any man-jack among my crew who’d remain secretly loyal to me. Though there are some among the people aboard the ship right now that I’d reckon are just bending with the way the wind’s blowing, and’d stab me in the back again as soon as look at me. Them – them – them’ll discover the full horrific meaning of the black spot when it’s applied by Cap’n Terrigan Rustbane, you can take my word they will.”
Viola shuddered. “Why always with the cruelty, Rustbane? It’s easy to make people fear you. It’s harder, but worth it, to earn their respect instead.”
Rustbane ignored her. Abruptly, he stuck out his paw to Sylvester. “Cap’n Terrigan Rustbane must be going soft in his dotage but, all right, you got yourself a deal, young Sylvester. Shake on it.”
Slightly warily, Sylvester shook.
With a final squeeze of Sylvester’s paw, Rustbane turned away.
“Turn her prow toward daybreak,” he bellowed to any of the crew who might still be awake. “Until then, me hearties, catch yerselves some sleep if you can. Your skipper’s Terrigan Rustbane again, and stab me if each new day’s not going to be the best you ever had in your lives!”
21 A Sound Like a Thundercrack
The voyage home was far less eventful than the outward journey had been, which was lucky because everyone aboard the Shadeblaze had to work from dawn until dusk, and then straight on through until dawn again, just to keep the big old ship sailing on her course. Sylvester and Viola learned the old pirate trick of catching sleep a few moments at a time while engaged in the task to hand. Several times a day, Bladderbulge would appear bearing food, and Sylvester and Viola ate it where they stood. The only break they ever got from the relentless toil was when nature forced them to visit the jakes.
One advantage of the jakes aboard the Shadeblaze.
You visited them as rarely as you possibly could.
This is the life! thought Sylvester less and less frequently as the voyage wore on. A thousand times or more he cursed himself for refusing to let Cap’n Rustbane do what he wanted and stop off at Hangman’s Haven to pick up more crew. But Sylvester knew in his heart of hearts what would have happened then. With his ship full of pirates, Rustbane would have felt less compelled to take the lemmings home. The hunt for Cap’n Adamite’s treasure would have been put off for another day, and that other day might be a long time in coming, what with all the excitement of buccaneering with a full complement again.
Sylvester was beginning to think Rustbane might have been right, that the voyage home really was always the longest of them all.
Every few days there’d be that cry from Rasco in the crow’s nest, “land ahoy!”
Eventually, Sylvester could barely be bothered to raise his head to look. They never actually put in to shore, anyway. There was no need. With so few people aboard, the Shadeblaze’s supplies were more than enough for the while. And Rustbane was keen to get the journey over with, keen not just to get his paws on the treasure of the Zindars but also to get back to what he regarded as his proper business, pirating.
“Land ahoy!” yelled Rasco as Sylvester was stooping to wind some rope on a capstan.
Thrills ’n’ spills, thought Sylvester wearily. The rope seemed to be getting heavier and rougher with each new minute that passed.
There was a touch on his shoulder.
He looked up.
Cap’n Terrigan Rustbane was beaming at him as cordially as a pirate could beam.
“Here, take this.”
Rustbane was holding out the ship’s brass telescope.
“Wha—” blurted Sylvester.
“I think you’ll want to have a look. Here, take it, I say.”
His paws numb from the rope, Sylvester had to concentrate hard not to fumble as he accepted the instrument. Raising it to his eye was an even tougher task.
He couldn’t see anything but gray. Maybe a little bit of blue as well but, if so, it was a blue-gray.
“Not that way,” said Rustbane gently. “You’re looking straight out to sea.”
He took Sylvester by the shoulders and turned him around.
“Now do you see?”
And Sylvester did.
The first thing he saw was the Mighty Enormous Cliff. His pulse beating faster and faster, he slowly raised the telescope, watching the rocks and fissures of the Mighty Enormous Cliff swim past his gaze. Past the top of the cliff he could see the darkness of Mugwort Forest spreading out like a stain across the low hills in which Foxglove nestled. And there, just to the right, he could see some of the rooftops of his home town. There was the library where he’d spent so much of his life reading about exploits that now seemed positively dreary beside the adventures he’d had. And there, Sylvester’s mouth puckered, was the temple, the seat of his enemies’ power.
“Home,” he said, at once realizing the stupidity of what he’d just said.
“Of course it’s your home!” cried Rustbane, clapping him on the back. “Did you doubt for one instant the navigatory skills of Cap’n Terrigan Rustbane?”
“Er, no, but—”
“Did you doubt the word of Cap’n Terrigan Rustbane? Hm?”
“Of course not, but—”
“But what, Sylvester, my old boyo?”
“I think I need to sleep.”
Sylvester crumpled at the knees.
And slept. Right there on the deck.
Rustbane let him.
✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.
“Wake up, Sylvester!”
His eyelids seemed to have a coating of glue inside them, but somehow he managed to force them open. He saw a gray sky, out of focus.
“Wha—”
“Wake up!”
“Viola?”
“Who else?”
For a split second he’d thought it was her mother shaking him into unwelcome consciousness. He didn’t say so.
“What time is it?”
“Morning. Cap’n Rustbane set the Shadeblaze to anchor when dusk fell. You’ve been sleeping here on deck all night.”
He could believe it. One side of Sylvester felt fine and well rested. The other side felt … flattened. He must have been so exhausted he hadn’t moved at all on the hard wood beneath him.
Sylvester sat up, shivering in the early-morning chill.
“We’re home,” he said stupidly.
“Not yet.” Viola pointed. “We still have to climb the Mighty Enormous Cliff.”
Sylvester felt his blood run cold. “Why aren’t we just rowing over to the beach? That’s how we got on the Shadeblaze when we left Foxglove.”
“Apparently the wind is blowing from the east today and the surf is too rough for us to land on the beac
h. The only area calm enough to approach is at the base of the cliff,” replied Viola.
Sylvester gaped at the sheer stony wall. It seemed somehow even more intimidating than it had last night. Different seams of rock in different colors of gray and brown wove in and around each other. The stones jutting out from the face were angular and lethal-looking. Some appeared ready to go crashing down into the waves at the cliff’s foot if disturbed by even so much as a fly landing on them.
“Climb it?” repeated Sylvester after a while.
“Can you think of any other way up?”
“Lemmings aren’t very good at climbing, you know,” he began, then realized what he was saying. “Oh, of course, you do know.”
“I used to,” she said with a little laugh. “Nowadays, I’m not so sure. I’ve seen what adventure can do to a lemming. We’re all of us – you, me, Mom, your father – much more than any of the lemmings we were when we’d never left Foxglove.”
“Still—”
“Still what, Sylvester Lemmington? You getting an attack of cold feet before you’ve even given it a try?”
“Well, yes, as it happens.”
She frowned, folding her forepaws in front of her. The watery sunlight seemed to give her an aura. “You remember what you discovered when we were escaping from The Monkey’s Curse back in Hangman’s Haven, Sylvester?”
How could he ever forget?
“I was able to run faster than any lemming has ever run before.”
“Well, possibly,” she allowed. “Certainly it was far faster than any of us had ever known a lemming could run. Whatever the case, that ability has always been inside you, Sylvester, and probably inside all of us, if only we knew it. You found out about it because you were suddenly scareder than you’d ever been before.”
“So?”
“So, what the Zindar … influence, I suppose we have to call it. What the Zindar influence did to us was open us up to the potential that had been living inside lemmings all this time. The part we notice the most is how much better we’re thinking than we used to. But hasn’t it dawned on you, Sylvester, that you’ve just been working about three weeks without a break? You didn’t use to have that sort of stamina before, none of us did.”
The Tides of Avarice Page 53
