Chapter 30
Now Landini sings. Alex wanted to scream. He would have if he thought it'd do any good. “Hurry, Gwen, before it gets away!” he called. Grabbing one end of the painting, he dragged it behind him as she fumbled to pick up her corner.
Once she had it on her shoulders, he quickened the pace, tramping along the bank while a light breeze ruffled the rainbow colored folds of Landini's robe. Although the singer belatedly trilled in a clear voice, it did little to cool Alex's anger.
I put up with Bartholomew's whining, cranky attitudes from Michelangelo, and I almost drowned. Still this diva waits to sing? Alex thought clenching the painting tighter.
“There! Straight ahead.” Gwen pointed with her chin.
Cruel eyes rose out of the water and scanned the shore. Alex ducked.
“Strange,” Bartholomew said after a few moments. “It's not reacting to the song at all. Maybe it's immune.”
“Louder, Landini,” Alex urged. “It's not working!”
The tiny maestro glared at Alex, who glared right back. Harrumphing, Landini trebled in ever higher notes. The timbre of his voice rose into the air.
Still, the fish swam on.
“No!” Alex kicked at the dirt.
“Let's get closer,” Gwen suggested.
The fish slapped its sharp tail against the surface in seeming rebellion before diving beneath the rippling foam.
Landini's organ moaned, but the beast didn't slow.
Alex was perplexed. They had used divine proportion. This creature should be snoring away by now, if fish did that. When he thought things couldn't get any worse, he heard a loud groan from Gwen. “What?” he asked, turning in her direction.
Gwen jerked her head uphill.
“Seriously?” Alex said staring at the thicket of thorny brambles.
“Those bushes must be six feet tall,” Bartholomew said.
Gwen sighed. “There's no way we're getting through that.”
Alex wanted to throw the painting on the ground and stomp on that slowpoke Landini. He glanced around looking for something to entice or at least to scare the creature in their direction.
Nothing.
He was about to make a mad dash uphill, when David ambled to them, the afternoon breeze rippling the fabric of the sling draped over his back. For some reason, Alex thought about the story of David and Goliath that inspired this marble sculpture. In it, a boy defeated a giant with a single stone.
“That's it!” Alex hit Bartholomew with the back of his hand before calling to the eighteen-foot statue. “David, find a rock, a big one.”
“Nessun problema,” David said, scanning the hillside. He soon found a cannonball-sized stone and loped forward, his long marble legs covering the distance in three strides. Hefting it, he placed it in his sling.
“Perfect,” Alex said.
Ordering everyone to stand back, David twirled the long leather thongs faster, neck and arm muscles bulging. Then he leaned back, closed one eye, and threw. The speeding rock jetted high, lighting the sky like a shooting star.
Alex lifted one eyebrow. “Whoa.”
When it hit the water, the fish reared up, long whiskers twitching.
“Please,” Alex said trying to keep his voice controlled. “Can you sing now?”
This time, the maestro didn't warm-up but burst into loud song. As soon as the beautiful melody filled the air, the fish slowed. In time to the music, its v-shaped tail swayed back and forth. After a few moments, its eyes rolled back in its head, and it glided to shore.
Leonardo, who had just arrived, hobbled to the riverbank. He spoke to the hypnotized fish in low tones as the creature slowly lifted its fins on one side and the other. When it swam in slow circles, the bearded man turned to Alex and his friends.
“It is done. The entranced creature will follow your command.”
Bartholomew's eyes widened. “But you are coming, too, aren't you?”
“That which was etched in the beginning of time, cannot be undone. The Soothsayer Stone requires you go on alone. Besides, I am old and would be little help,” Leonardo said.
Alex couldn't argue. Leonardo would definitely slow their progress. Alex shook the old man's gnarled hand, handed David the Landini painting, and thanked them both for their help.
Now all the responsibility fell on him.
Alex trudged up the mountain feeling heavier with each step. Bartholomew … Gwen … Mona Lisa … the Renaissance nation. It was all so much to worry about.
Halfway up, he turned. Leonardo and David had disappeared, but the Fish was still swimming in circles, waiting for them to emerge on the other side of the brambles.
The ripples below made a maze of circles on the Arno River, reminding Alex of a watery labyrinth. It was one he hoped he wouldn't get lost in.
Or fall into.
Chapter 31
Gwen wished Mr. Clean would go faster. Even though she and Alex were making their way back downhill to the river, Bartholomew was still at the top.
“Come on, dude!”
Bartholomew waved but kept tiptoeing. It was annoying how he stopped every few seconds to reach in a pocket for his empty bottle of hand sanitizer. She had no idea why he didn't simply toss it. It didn't seem to bug Alex, though. With a quick wave, he sprinted down to the Arno to order the fish forward before leading them along shore.
They followed the river for what seemed like hours, and the fact that the guys barely spoke as they passed olive orchards, stone houses, and fields of waist-high sunflowers made it seem even longer. Alex looked like he was deep into tactical plans, while Bartholomew went from smiling at the clouds to tripping over rocks.
Yawn.
As soon as they entered the shadowy forest of ash, beech, and oak trees, Gwen's annoyance turned to foreboding. Every twisting branch was a reminder of her bedroom furniture seeming to swell and shrink in the darkness before nightmares came. She halted when she noticed the fish suddenly swam around in figure eights. “What's it doing?”
Then she saw triple masts swaying back and forth.
“Hide!” Alex rasped.
The three of them ducked behind an outcropping of rocks at the edge of the woods. Gwen gaped at the long and lean sailboat with Red Raven painted in crimson letters on its pointed bow. It bobbed on the river, while turbaned men milled about on deck.
Alex jerked his head toward the ship. “I bet Mona Lisa is in there … probably in its hold.”
“Maybe,” Bartholomew said, chewing on his lower lip. “How do we check? In case you two didn't notice, those are pirates. And they have weapons.”
Gwen swallowed. Their curved swords looked scary, and the sneers on the pirates' faces told her they wouldn't hesitate to use them. Even though this place seemed like a cartoon, she'd learned you could get hurt here as easily as on Earth.
“We need a diversion,” Alex whispered.
Bartholomew nodded.
“The fish?” Gwen suggested.
“Nah.” Alex shook his head. “We need to get them as far from the ship as possible.”
“We need something like a bullhorn,” Bartholomew said.
All Gwen saw were rocks and trees.
“You got it, B-three.” Alex smirked.
“I did?”
“Sure. Maybe not a bullhorn, but something like it.” He scooped mud from the riverbank.
Bartholomew stared at him blankly at first. Then his blue eyes widened, and he smiled. He ran a hand over the ground touching different stones as if searching for a good skipping rock. When he found one about the size of Gwen's foot, he set it next to where Alex was working.
“Perfect,” Alex said before molding the mud into a long thin shape. Bartholomew knelt at his side and rolled the opposite end of what Alex fashioned.
What happened next made Gwen's jaw drop.
Alex's and Bartholomew's hands worked faster, and soon their arms were blurs. It only took a few seconds, and when Gwen blinked to clear her vision, Alex was leaning back smiling at the
tool in front of them. Sculpting an axe in twenty seconds was weird enough. However, the really crazy thing was it was no longer made of mud and stone but had transformed into a steel blade with a real wooden handle.
“Nice job, B-three,” Alex said and turned to Gwen. “Bartholomew might be good at sculpting, but I think you should handle this.”
Looking at him blankly, Gwen shrugged. Alex didn't explain but kept smiling as if waiting for something.
“What?” She shrugged.
“The diversion, of course.” Alex pointed at a tall cypress behind her.
Then she got it. They'd made the axe to fell a tree. Okay, no problem. Alex was right; she did know how to handle one. Dad taught her to chop wood up at their cabin at Big Sur. She'd even helped him cut down a Christmas tree at a farm along Highway 101.
“No problemo.” But when she went to pick up the axe, it was heavier than it looked. Gwen lifted barbells, but this weighed a ton. “On second thought, couldn't you dudes work your magic and make it lighter?”
“No, it doesn't work that way,” Alex said shaking his head. “I'll help, if you want.” Hefting one end of it, he assisted to carry it to the tall beech tree.
Gwen set her end down and circled the tree three times. “Hmm,” she mused before explaining how to make wedged cuts to get the tree to fall where you want.
“Okay,” Alex said. “As soon as the toppling tree makes the pirates come, I'll run downhill to board the ship.”
“No, I'll go,” Bartholomew said.
“I don't think so,” Alex said doubtfully.
“I'm the better swimmer.”
Alex clenched and unclenched his fists. Gwen could tell he wanted to say no. He searched Bartholomew's face. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Bartholomew replied.
A hesitant Alex agreed. Clenching his jaw, he watched Bartholomew give them a thumbs up and trot through the trees to the embankment.
“Let's do it.” With Alex's help, Gwen hoisted the axe onto her shoulder and widened her stance. She swung, and bits of bark and wood flew.
“Now knock that sucker over,” Alex said.
Gwen went around to the other side and tried a few short chops alone but barely broke bark.
“Put more power into it.”
She flexed her wiry muscles and struck. Still only splinters. She shrugged.
“I know,” Alex said. “I'll get close behind you, and we'll make our arms work as one.”
“Sounds like a plan.” But when Alex positioned his arms over hers, Gwen wished she hadn't agreed. Her face turned red, and her heart pounded.
“Ready?” Alex asked.
All Gwen could do was nod weakly. Her throat was too dry to answer.
“Swing!” he cried pulling her arms back.
Gwen tried to focus, but those curls brushing against her cheek were making her light-headed. She'd never noticed how adorable Alex's sun-streaked curls were before. His arms felt so strong. Staring off into space, she imagined the two of them in the middle of the gym at the school dance.
“Gwen, you okay?” Alex nudged her with his shoulder.
Blinking, she shook her head and grumbled that she was fine before raising her arms for a third strike.
“Now, swing.”
With this strike, the swaying tree toppled and crashed right next to the ship. The surprised pirates shouted an alarm.
Even when they set down the axe, Gwen could still feel his warm arms on hers. Pretending to brush the dust off her pants, she turned away. No way was she going to let him see her blush.
“Okay, here they come. Get ready.”
Gwen nodded. Right then, she would have flown to the moon if Alex had asked her.
Chapter 32
From his crevice between two granite boulders, Bartholomew peered at the ship. He tried to imagine the men on deck as clowns in balloon pants, but it didn't work. He'd read enough about pirates to know what they'd do if they caught him. They'd poke at his toes with long pikes, slice his shirt with curved scimitars, and cut his hair—or more—with sharp daggers.
Bartholomew gulped.
When the last of the roaring men surged down the gangplank after Alex and Gwen, five pirates remained on deck, and Bartholomew had no idea how to get past them.
He couldn't approach from the bow. They'd see him running along the shore, and he sure as Saniclean couldn't use the gangplank with sentries at the top. He only had one choice. Oh, what the heck. Maybe it'd wash some of the stains out of his clothes.
Scrambling atop the largest boulder, Bartholomew sprang into a long racing dive. When he hit the icy river, he glided underwater, kicking furiously past the ship'shull.
He surfaced downstream near the fish some twenty yards behind the galley. There, he ordered the monster to keep swimming in circles until he emerged later. Bartholomew wasn't sure if the blinking creature understood, but he didn't have time to worry about it now.
Keeping an eye on the lookouts high in the crow's nest, he treaded closer. Unable to find a way aboard at the stern, he breaststroked toward the front of the sleek ship. When he reached the bow, he found the anchor chain leading up to the deck.
He slipped his shaking fingers through the links and ascended a few inches, his muscles strained from the weight of his heavy wet clothes.
The sound of approaching boots made Bartholomew freeze midswing.
“What's taking 'em so long?” a gravelly voice asked.
“You think I know? Captain don't tell me nothing.”
“What's that?” The first man leaned over the bow right above where the terrified Bartholomew hung.
“Aw just that big fish,” said the first pirate.
“It be acting strange,” replied the second.
“'Cause it's on our side, tuna breath.”
“For the twenty-third time, I don't have no fish breath.”
“Oh, yes you do. Even Aruj Barbarossa says so.”
“I'll not stand here and be insulted by a Spanish slave!” he said before the sound of stomping feet told Bartholomew the insulted pirate headed for the stern.
The second man chuckled heartily when his comrade marched off. Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, Bartholomew counted waiting for that second pair of boots to shuffle away. Instead, the pirate whistled off-key.
The discordant sound compounded with his stretching arms made Bartholomew feel like he was on a torture rack. His clothes grew heavier by the second. One finger slipped.
Bartholomew fought to hold on, but if he didn't move soon, he'd be back in the river with a huge splash. Another finger slipped.
Bartholomew prayed.
Just when he was sure he'd be splattering water like a beacon, the second man ambled off.
Kicking his legs, Bartholomew swung up on deck and landed with a soft thud. Immediately, he inched behind one of the cannons mounted at the gunwale to get a good view of the guards milling on deck.
So far, so good.
The weather-worn deck had a couple of lifeboats, some rigging, and barrels but no lady anywhere. There was a hatch mid-deck leading below. Maybe Mona Lisa was down in the hold. Bartholomew crawled to it. Holding his breath, he raised the cover an inch and waited. He lifted it a bit more. No pirates.
Lowering his legs into the square opening, Bartholomew dropped silently onto the wooden floor. Expecting an attack, he ducked.
None came.
After a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the dim light. A few hammocks and oil lanterns hung from the ceiling. On the floor, rows of benches were topped with the wooden oars used to power this ship.
Then he saw a head bowed as if in prayer. Bartholomew half stood as a painted woman turned toward him.
The first thing he noticed was how the filtered light gave her cheeks a soft glow. Her peach-colored lips were turned down, and her hazel eyes were rimmed in tears, reminding him of amber droplets.
Bartholomew was mesmerized.
When she opened her mouth to speak, Bartholomew
put a finger to his lips. “Boungiorno.” Then she put a hand on her mouth and nodded her understanding.
Bartholomew tiptoed to her. “I'm here to rescue you.”
“A bambino?” She raised her nearly invisible eyebrows.
Okay, he was being called a baby again, but it didn't make him angry; a curse would sound like an aria coming out of this lady's mouth. Her mustard-colored sleeves draped gently over her arms. With long auburn hair curled around in a gentle frame, her face was somewhere between oval- and heart-shaped.
Perfect. He couldn't help but stare.
After a time, Mona Lisa cleared her throat.
He blinked. “Sorry.” Keep your mind on the task, B-three, he thought, glancing down at her wrists shackled to the bench.
“A key?”
Mona Lisa pointed to the ring hanging on the wall, and Bartholomew padded there to retrieve it. The handcuffs fell to the floor, and she rubbed her red and bruised wrists. “Now we must fly.”
Bartholomew stepped up on the second rung of the ladder and poked his head out. Clear. Then he reached down to give her a hand, and they crept over the deck before ducking behind the cannon at the bow.
The fish still swam in dizzying figure eights. In a low voice, Bartholomew explained how they'd use the fish as camouflage while swimming to shore. They lowered themselves into the water, barely making a sound.
Crack! The roar of gunfire filled the air.
Bartholomew dove under, pulling Mona Lisa with him. After a few strokes, it looked like they were going to escape unnoticed, but something above the calm surface made Bartholomew turn. The fish stopped its dazed swimming. Now it was blocking their way.
And it looked mad.
Bartholomew punched the beast in the nose.
“Quick, my lady, swim!” he cried.
Mona Lisa kicked wildly, while the fish splashed. It was so loud that he was sure they could hear it onboard. He tried swimming around it.
Then Bartholomew heard a new sound. It was laughter. Not the tinkling giggles of a beautiful lady escaping her captors. This was a pirate's sniggering.
“What have we here?” a red-bearded man in a rowboat asked.
Grabbing Mona Lisa's hand, Bartholomew turned, but before he could swim a single stroke, the net covered them both.
The Kidnapped Smile Page 11
