Seven Dead Pirates

by Linda Bailey

  “And you, Lewis?” said Ms. Forsley.

  The room went quiet.

  She waited. The whole class waited.

  Lewis felt heat, like flames from a furnace, rise through his body and flow into his face. He felt panic seize his muscles, holding them tight and rigid. He opened his mouth. Ms. Forsley leaned forward.

  Nothing came out. Not even a grunt.

  The silence grew.

  “Lewis?” said Ms. Forsley.

  The silence dragged on. Lewis knew what he looked like. Scarlet. His face was now the same reddish color as his hair. No. Brighter! Kids had told him how he looked when this happened. Like a human tomato.

  At least he wasn’t crying. Sometimes when this happened, tears ran down his face.

  At least he wasn’t doing that.

  Finally, a voice spoke up. Seth Tyler’s voice, polite. “He can’t talk.”

  “What do you mean?” said Ms. Forsley. “Of course he can. Lewis?”

  “No,” insisted Seth, his voice not quite so polite anymore. “He can’t talk in class. He never does. We’ll sit here all day if you wait for him.”

  Muffled giggles followed.

  “That’s enough.” Ms. Forsley sounded rattled. “Lewis, we’ll give you another chance later. Now … um, Catherine?”

  Another chance later. That was bad. It meant she would keep trying. Most of his teachers did keep trying. They thought it was their job to get Lewis to talk in class. They even gave grades for it. They called it participation. Or worse, oral presentation.

  Lewis had seen a movie on TV once where the main character described himself as “terminally shy.” The phrase stuck in Lewis’s mind because that was exactly what he was. If it were possible to actually die of shyness, Lewis would have been in his grave long ago. Back in first grade, probably. That was the first time he had found himself in a class with other kids, his parents having kept him out of kindergarten because of a flu scare. Before first grade, it was just him and his parents and his nanny, Judith, who had looked after him when he was little. Judith was nice, but, like his parents, quite old, and looking back, Lewis figured that she must have been shy herself. At any rate, she never spoke to the other adults in the playground, so Lewis didn’t talk to the kids, either. Not until first grade.

  By then, it was too late. He knew nothing. He got everything wrong. Clothes, of course. He wore a coat that first year—a long blue coat that came down past his knees.

  You couldn’t play games in a coat! So tag and dodge ball were among the things he got wrong. Some of the other things were lunch foods, recess, birthday presents, names of cars, taking turns, TV shows, sharing, Halloween costumes and talking.

  Talking was the worst. He’d gotten that wrong immediately. He had talked way too much, he could see that now, and he didn’t talk the way other kids did or about the same things. So they had stopped talking to him. They had stopped listening. They had stopped even seeing that he was there. He couldn’t blame them, really.

  But Lewis wasn’t stupid, and he understood—even at six—that the other kids didn’t like him, even if he didn’t know why. So, little by little, he had given up. Eventually, he had ended up like that guy in the TV movie—terminally shy. He couldn’t speak anymore in class. Not at all! In the past few years, he had said so little that his school voice had rusted right over. If he forced himself, what came out was the caw of a crow, or—like this morning—a rodent squeak.

  When the recess bell rang, Lewis followed his classmates outside. He found a place to stand, beside the front stairs. Over the years, he’d developed a talent for finding corners of the schoolyard to hide in, walls to lean against. He was good at stillness, too—so good, kids ran past without seeing him, as if he were a stump. If Danny Divers were there, they might stand beside each other. Two stumps. They might say a few words now and then.

  But Danny Divers was gone.

  Lewis kept his head down, as if he had a powerful interest in his own shoes. A picture of an ostrich popped into his head—he’d heard that ostriches hide their heads in the sand, believing this makes them invisible. He smiled to think that he was really no smarter than an ostrich.

  “What’s so funny, Lewissssser?” said a voice to his right.

  Seth.

  Lewis didn’t answer.

  “I guess he won’t talk to us,” said Seth. “Maybe it’s because he’s so special.”

  Lewis stared at the shoes in the semi-circle around him. He knew Seth’s shoes well. White trainers, heavily scuffed, with a couple of blue stripes. White pants. Lewis knew without looking up that the T-shirt was white, too. This had been Seth’s uniform ever since he’d turned up after Christmas the previous year. White shirt, white pants, every day. Nobody had ever dressed that way at Tandy Bay Elementary before. But Seth was the opposite of Lewis. He made friends easily. Soon there were two more boys dressing in white. And by June, two more.

  Now, glancing around, Lewis could see, above the shoes, six pairs of white pants. Maybe they were on sale, he thought, and his mouth once again betrayed him with a smile.

  “Must be hilarious, Lewissssser,” said Seth. “You’re a regular comedian.”

  The other boys laughed.

  “But guess what’s not funny. You’re standing in my square again.”

  Yes, thought Lewis, this was how it started.

  The front of the schoolyard was covered in paving stones, each about the size of a desk top. It didn’t matter which square Lewis stood on—that was the one Seth would want. It didn’t help, either, to leave the paving-stone area. Seth would draw a square around Lewis in the dirt if he had to. Just so he could claim it.

  “I don’t suppose you’d mind moving, Lewisssser. I mean, I know you’re fragile and all, but even us ordinary guys who aren’t so special need a place to hang out. Know what I mean?” Guffaws from the other boys. The blue-and-white shoes took a step closer.

  “Move!” ordered Seth.

  Spotting a gap in the circle, Lewis darted through. He headed for the swings where Mrs. Reber, the playground supervisor, had joined hands with a circle of little girls. If he got close enough to her, Seth might leave him alone. If he got too close, Seth would notice and come after him later, calling him a baby. There was a perfect distance—close, but not too close—if only he could figure it out. Last year, he’d spent a lot of time trying.

  This year it would be worse. Six guys already in Seth’s white gang. And it was only the first day.

  In the afternoon, Ms. Forsley tried him again with a question. An easier question—or so she thought. They were discussing what the class would do during gym time.

  “How about you, Lewis? Do you like sports?”

  Yes or no, thought Lewis. That’s all she wants. Answer!

  But it was an impossible question. If he said yes, everyone would laugh. Lewis Dearborn, an athlete? Ha, ha. If he said no, it would make him a weirdo. Lewis Dearborn doesn’t like sports? It must be because he’s so special.

  He said nothing.

  Finally, it was over.

  On the long walk home, Lewis had time to think. Not about school—there was no point. He thought about the tower instead. How fantastic it had been, living there. In those first days upstairs, he’d been sure that nothing at school could touch him—not if he could go home to Libertalia. And now, instead, he’d go home to more impossible questions, this time from his parents and Mrs. Binchy. Did you have a good day? Did you have fun with your friends?

  Why couldn’t the pirates just leave him alone? Why couldn’t they hang out somewhere else, as they had done when he first moved in? All he’d had to worry about then were a few noises.

  He could handle noises.

  His next thought stopped him in his tracks. What if the pirates weren’t in the tower? What if he was avoiding Libertalia for nothing? There’d been no sign of them when he went upstairs with his father. Was it possible that the pirates had left?

  Longing swept through Lewis like a tidal wave. />
  He turned into the Shornoway drive. There it was—the tower. He stared till his eyes began to water from the wind. Then he decided.

  He was going back upstairs.

  Yes!

  They were gone.

  Lewis had done a complete inspection, sniffing and searching the whole tower room, including under the beds. He’d even checked behind the red door. Everything was just as it should be. The air was fresh and sweet. The only sound was the sea.

  “Yes!” he said out loud, pumping his fist in the air.

  Looking around, he thought about what to do next. That was easy …

  Anything he wanted!

  He practiced handstands against the wall with his shoes on. He drew a time-traveling submarine and named it the Atlanticus and attached it to the wall with tacks. He took the tin soldiers out of the cabinet and lined them up in battle formation on his desk, reds against blues, using the stone and shell collections as landscape.

  He even had dinner upstairs. His parents were out, and Mrs. Binchy let him bring his lasagna up on a tray. As he ate, he wondered whether his parents might let him have a TV up here.

  The answer came immediately.

  Not a chance.

  “We don’t believe in technology,” his mother always said when he asked about TVs, tablets, electronic games, smart phones—anything, in fact, that had a battery or a plug.

  “We don’t think it’s good for you,” said his father. “We don’t believe it’s healthy for a developing mind.”

  The result was that Lewis’s house had one TV (old, small) and two computers (his mother’s laptop and the old desktop in his father’s study). Even these were rationed. Seven hours a week of “screen time” was what Lewis was allowed, except when he was working on school projects.

  It was medieval, that’s what it was. And it was one more way for Mr. and Mrs. Dearborn to make their son weird. It was like they were trying!

  His piece of lasagna was huge, but he wolfed down every bite. Afterward, he walked to the middle window. Opening it as wide as it would go, he leaned way out, inhaling the air in deep sucking gulps. It was as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time he’d been away.

  And then he felt it. That slight drop in temperature. Coming from behind.

  “The lad’s back!” roared a familiar voice, so close Lewis felt the spray on his cheek. Crawley’s battered face loomed into view. “I knew he’d not let us down. Didn’t I say so, Skittles?”

  Lewis whirled to face them.

  “Aye,” agreed Skittles, emerging from his cloud.

  The others were showing themselves, too. “The lad’s back, aye, he’s back.”

  “I can smell him,” snarled Jack the Rat, pushing through to sniff at Lewis. “He smells like fear!”

  It was true. Fear snaked up Lewis’s spine like an electric eel. He had forgotten how it felt to be closed in by these ghostly shapes, with their bizarre faces and pungent smells. His leg muscles tensed, ready to run.

  The only thing that stopped him was the voice in his head. It told him that if he left now, he’d never come back.

  Trembling, he held his ground. His fingers clutched the windowsill behind him.

  “Now that’s the spirit!” Crawley clapped with delight. “Look at him, clinging there like a barnacle. He’ll be a grand help, he will.”

  The captain did a strange little dance, leaping about as if his boots were on fire. It was like a signal to the others, who began cheering and smacking each other on the backs.

  Lewis stared in shock. They were celebrating! They thought he’d come back to help them.

  “Enough!” yelled Crawley. He turned to Lewis. “What’s the plan, lad? I likes a good plan!”

  “Aye, tell us the plan!” echoed the others. They crowded in close, waiting for Lewis to speak.

  For a moment, it was like being in school. Lewis felt his throat tighten. Then he remembered—they were adults. He was used to talking to adults. And they weren’t even real adults.

  “I don’t … don’t have a plan,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. Then, seeing their faces cloud over, he added, “Not yet!”

  “Not yet?” Crawley took a moment to consider this. “Well, that’s fine.” He squinted at Lewis with his good eye. “But when?”

  “I don’t know!” blurted Lewis. “I have to think!”

  “Think?” shouted Jack the Rat. “What’s the use of thinking?”

  “Hssst, Jack!” hissed the captain. “It’s good the lad is pondering it out. We doesn’t want a half-cooked plan, does we?”

  Jack grimaced and scratched his armpit.

  Lewis’s body stood rigid, but his mind raced. What if he could come up with a plan? One that would get the pirates to their ship all on their own? Without involving him?

  He could get rid of them for good!

  An idea flickered. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  The pirates shifted to let him through. He raced downstairs and shuffled through a magazine rack. Seconds later, he was back.

  “Here,” he said. “A map. It’s Tandy Bay. I can show you a way that avoids most of the traffic.” Opening the map, he held it out to Crawley.

  Crawley glanced over, then crossed his arms. “That’s of no use, lad.”

  “Why not?” asked Lewis. “I could mark it for you. Show you the whole route.”

  The other pirates gathered to examine the map.

  “Lookee there,” said Moyle. “All them words.”

  “So many of ’em,” said Jonas.

  “Too many!” muttered Jack.

  Lewis pointed. “See? Here’s the town hall and—”

  “Didn’t I tell you the lad could read?” Moyle smiled proudly at the others. “Talks like a book, don’t he?”

  The others nodded, impressed.

  Suddenly, Lewis got it. “You mean … you can’t read?”

  The pirates laughed.

  “Now where would we be learning that?” asked Skittles. “Us that had to earn our way from the age of—well, I were five when I were orphaned. Lived by my wits in the streets of Liverpool.”

  “I worked like a dog from the day I were weaned,” said Moyle. “Looking after me dear sick mother. The two of us in the poorhouse.”

  “Poorhouse were a palace,” muttered Jonas, “beside the life of a slave.”

  Lewis gaped. “You were a slave?”

  Jonas nodded, his face grim. “Captured as a boy and packed into a ship that were no more than a traveling coffin. Took me to a plantation on an island off Jamaica, where the master—you never met such a devil! Except for maybe that Captain Dire what drowned us. As soon as I were old enough, I ran away. Joined up with some buccaneers and went to sea. Since then, I been free in body and soul.”

  “Not as free as you’d be in Libertalia,” Moyle put in.

  “Aye.” Jonas heaved a sigh. “Libertalia. There ain’t no such freedom as you find there.”

  “Libertalia?” Excitement coursed through Lewis. “You mean it’s … a real place?”

  “Why, o’ course it is!” grinned Moyle. “Best place in the world for a pirate. Off the coast of Africa, on a sunny isle called Madagascar.”

  “It’d be warm there,” said Jonas.

  Lewis nodded. “I know about Madagascar.”

  “That’s where Libertalia be,” said little Skittles. “A kingdom of pirates where all is equal.”

  “Where they lives in peace and harmony,” added Adam. “Where no man is better than another.”

  Crawley hoisted a tankard in a toast. “To Libertalia!” he shouted.

  “To Libertalia!” echoed the others, raising their own tankards—where had those mugs come from?—and putting them to their lips to drink.

  Was there anything in the tankards? wondered Lewis.

  Crawley let out a disgustingly complicated belch. “Now, laddie. Back to the matter at hand. Our ship. What’s the plan?”

  Lewis sighed. He folded the map. If they cou
ldn’t read, it was useless. So much for his plan.

  But the pirates were still staring. Waiting.

  He had to give them something.

  “You … well, you’d have to go at night,” he said. He was careful not to say “we.” No way he was going there with them.

  “Aye,” said Moyle, nodding wisely. “Night would be best, for certain.”

  “And you should be … um, extremely quiet.”

  “True,” rumbled Bellows. “Well said, lad.”

  “And, of course,” added Lewis, gaining confidence, “you’d have to stay invisible.”

  He waited for agreement. To his surprise, they glanced away. Several twitched or bit their lips.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Lewis.

  “Ah,” said Crawley sadly, “if it were only that easy. But here’s the rub, lad. A ghost may make hisself invisible, as you say. But he cannot guarantee to keep hisself that way. If something were to happen as to get us excited—why, we’d be as visible as you. Seen by anyone who cared to look!”

  “It’s the getting excited,” added Skittles. “Makes us bright as ships’ lanterns.”

  “Aye, and when we sees them things that go so fast, we gets terrible excited,” said Jonas, breathing hard at the thought. As Lewis stared, he did seem to grow a little brighter.

  “It’s like when … when …” struggled Bellows. “Now what’s that word for when your skin comes up red?”

  “Blushing?” said Lewis.

  “Aye, that’s it.” Bellows looked impressed by Lewis’s cleverness. “When we gets excited, we comes up brighter, the way a lad like you might come up blushing.”

  Moyle leaned in close to Lewis, inspecting his face. “Lookee here, mates. The lad’s blushing right now.”

  “I am not!” Lewis twisted away in embarrassment. He couldn’t believe he was blushing here! With the pirates.

  “It’s all right,” murmured Adam to the others. “He can’t help it, no more than we can.”

  Lewis forced himself to concentrate. If the pirates were right—if they became visible when they got excited—then that changed everything. Invisible, they might make it across town, even past the police station. But visible? Looking the way they did? Not a chance.