by Rob Kidd
“Wow. String,” he said blankly.
“It is a quipu,” Tia Dalma said.
“Kee-poo,” Jack repeated. “Er. Splendid. Always wanted a…kee-poo. And is the, er, string going to help?”
“Do you want it or not?” Tia Dalma said fiercely.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” he said, quickly tucking it into his coat. “Thanks very much.”
“And you be taking Alex wit’ you,” Tia Dalma added, taking the zombie’s shoulders and pointing him at Jack. “Follow witty Jack, Alex.”
“Hang on,” Jack said. “No, don’t follow witty Jack. I don’t need a fellow losing bits and pieces of himself all over my ship. For one thing, it’s messy, and what’s more, bad for morale. Nobody wants the bloke in the next hammock over suddenly dropping his arm on the floor in the middle of the night. Very unsettling.”
“Him will be my eyes and ears wit’ you,” Tia Dalma said. “Him know all there is to know about the Shadow Lord. Also, him was a barber-surgeon, once. Perhaps him could be useful.”
Jack raised his eyebrows at the big, rotting hands hanging loosely at the ends of Alex’s arms. “No offense, mate, but you’re not shaving me!” he said.
“Go now, Jack,” Tia Dalma said. “Find the Shadow Gold among your Brethren. Then return, strong, to stop the Shadow Lord and his Shadow Army.”
“No problem with part one,” Jack said. “I’ll get back to you about part two.” Despite what Tia Dalma had told him, he was pretty sure there had to be some part of the world where he could stay out of the Shadow Lord’s way. Let someone else stop his “Shadow Army.” Jack just wanted to drink the gold and get well. It was a clever plan, really, if he did say so himself.
“Well, thanks for your ‘help,’ such as it is,” Jack said, and then realized that he was talking to empty air. Tia Dalma had vanished. He was alone in the graveyard with only a blankly staring zombie for company.
Jack tilted his head, looking Alex up and down. He waved a hand in front of the zombie’s face. No reaction. Not even a blink.
Casually Jack took a big step back, and then back again. Alex shuffled forward two steps.
“Hmm,” Jack said. He turned and walked around the edge of the graveyard back to the path. When he glanced over his shoulder, Alex was obediently lumbering along behind him.
Jack sighed. “No chance I can ditch you here, is there, mate?” he asked.
“No chance you can ditch me here, mate,” Alex agreed in a monotone.
Jack shrugged. “Think you can remember to call me Captain Jack Sparrow?” he tried.
“Think I can remember to call you Captain Jack Sparrow,” Alex agreed in the same dull tone.
“Splendid,” Jack said happily. At least there was a bright side. “We’re going to have to think of a more fearsome pirate name for you, mate. Alex…that’s a tough one. Angry Alex? Aye-aye Alex. Annoying Alex? Not very piratical, is it?” He sauntered along the trail, testing out names, with Alex close behind him.
As he came closer to the pier, he saw Barbossa crouching by the post, trying to untie Jack’s elaborate knots. Luckily, Jack didn’t exactly follow the knot-tying rules of most sailors. Or any rules, really. No reason to be predictable, he always said.
“It’s all right. Not to worry, mate. I survived,” Jack said cheerfully, stumbling up to Barbossa. He reached down and with one quick tug, all of the knots came undone. Barbossa looked angry enough to strangle an alligator. Then he saw Alex shuffling along a few steps behind Jack and he let out a most un-piratelike screech.
“It’s—it’s right there—” he gibbered.
“Who, him?” Jack said, enjoying the look on Barbossa’s face. He pointed over his shoulder at the zombie. “That’s just Alex. He’s joining the crew. Not so bad, really, once you get to know him. Shame about the smell, though.”
Barbossa recovered his poise quickly. “Joining the crew?” he snapped. “Well, of course he is. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. If we’re a-taking on stowaways and girls now, why not zombies?”
“Why not, indeed?” Jack said, hopping into the boat. “Alex, I hope you know how to row.”
Alex tilted unsteadily as he climbed into the boat, but they managed to avoid a watery debacle. He sat between the oars as Barbossa climbed into the stern, staying well away from the somewhat odorous reanimated corpse.
“I know how to row, Captain Jack Sparrow,” Alex said. Jack beamed. Perhaps having a zombie on board wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Dawn began to light the edges of the sky as they rowed steadily downriver, and soon they were back in the regular world, surrounded by farmland and fields of tobacco. Jack leaned back with his hands behind his head, basking in the warmth of the Shadow Gold inside him and trying to keep his nose as far away from Alex as possible.
Six more vials of Shadow Gold, and one of them in South America. Perhaps it would be best not to tell his crew the whole story about the Shadow Lord and the army and his illness and all that. No need to worry them, after all. Plus, he wasn’t sure how thrilled they would be about embarking on a perilous voyage around the world just to save his life. It didn’t seem like so much to ask, considering what grand adventures they would have along the way and what a fine captain he was, but…just in case, perhaps he would keep that part of it to himself.
Barbossa wrinkled his nose. “Do you smell that?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” Jack said, giving Alex a significant look. “But I was being polite enough not to mention it.”
“No, no, not that,” Barbossa said impatiently. “It smells like smoke—like something’s burning.”
Jack sat up quickly and examined the boat from end to end. No fire that he could see. But he realized Barbossa was right—there was a burning smell in the air. He stood up and surveyed the fields on either side of the river. They were in a narrow channel skirting around a large island in the middle, so they were fairly close to the reeds and bulrushes swaying along the shore. And off in the distance, Jack could now see several plumes of dark smoke.
“Tobacco plantation on fire,” he observed. “Pity. Waste of good tobacco.” He cupped one hand around his ear and listened intently. Shouts and rifle shots echoed from across the field. Jack’s expression became serious. He could tell that there was a slave revolt underway.
Jack valued freedom above all else and felt strongly about slavery. He’d first parted ways with the East India Trading Company when he’d liberated some of what they saw as cargo and he saw as human beings.
“Look there!” Barbossa said, pointing. “Someone’s coming!”
A tall, well-muscled figure was running through the long grass as fast as his legs could carry him. His ebony skin gleamed in the early morning light, and his strong arms swept the reeds aside with a long pitchfork. He had a look of great determination and the speed of a leopard. The crew could hear dogs baying in pursuit behind him.
All at once he spotted Jack standing up in the boat. He changed course instantly, pounding directly toward them. In moments, he had charged through the long reeds and was splashing into the river. Without stopping to ask permission, he gripped the sides of the boat in his powerful hands and hauled himself in. Gasping for breath and dripping with river water, he collapsed onto the boards at the bottom of the boat between Jack and Alex.
Barbossa’s lip curled disapprovingly. “Now this is the last straw,” he said. “Girls and zombies are one thing, but escaped slaves? Surely you’re too sensible to get mixed up in that kind of thing, Jack! Throw him overboard.”
Jack sat down, flicking his coat back. “Row, Alex,” he commanded firmly. “Row as hard and as fast as you can.”
Alex obediently started to row harder and faster, leaning into the oars with all his weight (which resulted in some unfortunate squelching noises). The boat fairly flew through the water, and soon the howls of the hounds and the smoke from the burning tobacco fields were far behind them.
Barbossa was too outraged to speak. He folded his arms and sat gl
aring, but Jack ignored him.
“Thank you,” the fugitive said sincerely to Jack, pressing one hand to his chest as he recovered his breath. His voice was deep and melodious. Water slid down his strong arms and dripped in small puddles on the bottom of the boat. “I do not know how to repay you or show you the extent of my gratitude. You have given me my freedom.”
“And by your leave, may I ask what you are planning to do with that freedom?” Jack asked.
“I do not know,” the man answered. “My master will search for me. I will have to keep running until I am far enough away to escape him forever.”
“Oh, yes?” Jack said. “I happen to know a great vehicle for running far away. It’s called a pirate ship.”
The stranger’s eyes lit up. “You would take me with you?”
Jack offered his hand. “Captain Jack Sparrow,” he said. “Know anything about ships or sailing, do you?”
“I can learn fast,” the man said. “And my master always said I was a good cook.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to light up. “Just the thing we need!” he said with delight. “See, Barbossa, this was a lucky break for us, after all.”
Barbossa continued to glare at them.
“What’s your name, my good man?” Jack asked.
“Gombo,” the man replied. “That is what I have always been called, ever since they brought me here. I remember no other name.”
“Gombo,” Jack echoed. “Well, then, Gombo…welcome to the crew of the Black Pearl.”
CHAPTER NINE
Billy was waiting with the rest of the pirates when Jack and Barbossa arrived back in New Orleans with their two new crew members. The Pearl was all ready to go. Catastrophe Shane’s hat had been removed permanently, and the pirate had been tied to the mast so he couldn’t break anything or accidentally shoot anyone while they set sail. All the pirates were on deck, much happier after a day of carousing in New Orleans.
There was only one small problem.
“Jean,” Jack said, beckoning his old friend over as his men worked the giant winch to haul up the anchor. Unlike Barbossa, most of the pirates seemed very appreciative of the addition of Gombo and his strong muscles. They were less thrilled about Alex, of course. Unfair treatment, in Jack’s opinion, just because the fellow smelled like rotting meat and lost bits of himself here and there.
Jean came up to Jack, hunching his shoulders and looking sheepish.
“Jean, mate,” Jack said, “there seems to be something in my cabin.”
Jean blushed. “I’m very sorry, Jack,” he said. “She won’t listen to me. She says a lady shouldn’t have to sleep in a hammock with a bunch of pirates.”
“Ha!” Carolina said, overhearing. “A lady that delicate shouldn’t be sailing with a bunch of pirates in the first place.”
“That’s what I said!” Marcella yelled from behind the closed door to the captain’s cabin. “I hate pirates! Dirty, smelly pirates!” She had apparently stacked furniture against the door, so it was impossible to open it. Jack stood with his arms folded. He was very unimpressed by this turn of events.
“Madam, I am the captain!” he called. “And this is the captain’s cabin, savvy? Where the captain sleeps! And makes decisions! And looks at maps and things! How am I supposed to do any of that if I can’t even get through the door?”
“Not my problem!” Marcella called. “We can stay right here in port for all I care!”
Jean tugged on his curls, looking exasperated. “I’m really, really sorry, Jack.”
“What a baby!” Carolina said loudly. “I haven’t done that much whining and crying since before I could walk!”
“I HEARD THAT!” Marcella shouted in outrage.
“You were supposed to!” Carolina shouted back. “You’re an embarrassment to women and sailors and pirates and, and…and people everywhere!”
There was a loud sound of heavy furniture scraping around, and then at long length, Marcella flung open the door of the cabin. Her stringy red-black hair was falling out of its bun, and she was panting with rage. Her strange yellow-brown eyes went straight to Carolina, who stood tall, with her hands on her hips and her long black hair flying loose in the wind.
“How dare you speak to me like that!” Marcella cried. “I am a lady and a Magliore! Not some Spanish peasant girl like you!”
Carolina drew herself up, her eyes flashing.
“Carolina, don’t!” Diego warned, but it was too late to stop her.
“Peasant girl! I am a Spanish princess,”
Carolina said proudly, “descended from the great kings and queens of Spain, twenty-second in line for the throne. So I think if I can manage to sleep in a hammock, so can a mere Creole girl with pretensions to the so-called New World ‘aristocracy.’”
Everyone in earshot stared at her, mouths agape. Jack wheeled toward Diego.
“PRINCESS?” he demanded. “Didn’t think that was worth mentioning, mate?”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Diego pleaded. “She still needed rescuing.”
“I could have rescued myself,” Carolina objected.
“You might have saved us some trouble if you had,” Jack pointed out. If New Orleans weren’t already fading to a speck behind them, he would have seriously considered going back and leaving her there. But he was on a bit of an urgent mission. Speaking of which…
He nipped around behind Marcella and darted into his cabin.
“Mine!” he yelled triumphantly and then closed the door on her startled face.
Evidently Marcella had decided that her first order of business was to redecorate the cabin according to her tastes, which meant rearranging the furniture, dumping all the maps and papers in an untidy pile behind the couch, and redraping the curtains. It also looked like she’d adorned the arms of the upholstered couch with odd scratches. Odd indeed, this one.
With a deep sigh, Jack set to putting things back the way they were. He was nearly finished when there was a knock on the door a few hours later.
“Come in!” he called. “No, wait! Who is it? I’m not here! Go away!”
“Jack,” Billy said, poking his head inside. “It’s been very nice to see you and Jean again, but I
can’t help but notice that this is not the way to North Carolina!”
Jack squinted out the window, where the setting sun was clearly to their right, proving that they were going south, not north.
“Ah,” he said, “yes. Right. We just have to make one more stop. Not to worry, mate! One quick stop and then we’ll head right there!”
“Jack,” Billy said warningly.
“Tell me something,” Jack said, pulling out the quipu. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
It worked; Billy was instantly distracted. Unfamiliar things always made him curious.
“Looks like a bunch of knotted string,” he said, taking it in his hands. “There could be a pattern to the knots, but I don’t know what it means.”
“Think it does anything supernatural?” Jack mused. “Tia Dalma gave it to me. So I’m guessing it’s a mystical mumbo-jumbo, stringiewingie thingie.”
Billy handed it back quickly. “I don’t know,” he said, “but speaking of the mystic’s, er, gifts, I think that zombie might have left one of his fingers in the ratlines of the forward sail. None of the men will go near it.”
“Well, tell Alex to go get it himself,” Jack said. “He’s very obedient, unlike most pirates. They could learn a lesson from him.”
“He’s acting rather odd, actually,” Billy said. “He keeps shuffling along the edges of the deck, staring at the land and muttering. I heard him say ‘Shadow Army’ a few times.”
That got Jack’s attention. “Hmmm. I’d better go see what’s ailing him, then, hadn’t I?” he said casually.
Billy was right: Alex was shambling from one end of the rail to the other, staring at the land off to starboard. The other pirates on deck were trying very hard to stay away from him, scrambling to the opposite
end of the ship in a giant pack every time he moved.
From the grating over the hatchway came the voice of Marcella. She was stamping around the crew’s quarters down below and complaining at the top of her lungs.
“It stinks down here! And it’s hot! And stuffy! And what is this hammock made of, canvas? How am I supposed to sleep on that? You better find me a curtain so I can have some privacy, Jean!”
Jean answered in a patient, murmuring voice, but she carried on angrily. Near the main mast, Carolina, looking impatient, shook her head and started to climb the ratlines to the crow’s nest. Diego hurried after her.
Somehow the Black Pearl had gone from having too few pirates to being overrun with troublemakers. Jack shook his head and approached the wandering zombie.
“Not to interrupt,” Jack said blithely, “but you’re going to wear a hole in my deck if you keep this up.”
“Coming up on Panama,” Alex said, jerking his head at the land, “Captain Jack Sparrow.”
Jack couldn’t help smiling at that. “Sure we are, mate. What’s your problem with Panama? Lovely country. Excellent rum.” He wished they could stop, but there was no time for that.
“Not my problem,” Alex said, gazing at the horizon. “His. The Shadow Lord’s.” He lowered his voice. “Hates Panama. Did terrible things here. Old grudges. But new victims.”
“That doesn’t sound very cheerful,” Jack admitted. “You’re not telling me His Shadow-ness has already attacked here, are you?”
Alex’s eyes stared blankly ahead. “You will see. Soon. Soon you will see.”
Up in the crow’s nest, Carolina shivered, rubbing her arms. She loved to be up there, above the noise of the ship, just her and the wind and the wild stretches of open sea all around her. But she always forgot how cold it was.
“Here,” Diego said, climbing into the basket. He pulled off his coat and draped it around her shoulders, his arms lingering for a moment around her. It was as close as he could get to embracing her.
“Thanks, Diego,” Carolina said, putting her arms in the sleeves and buttoning the coat. “If you’re sure you don’t need it…?”
