by Vic Connor
Abe spits on the wooden floor. I flinch, fearing a negative reaction from the shop owners, but at least the little bald gnome doesn’t seem to mind. “Aye, this be yarr map, lad.” He sneers. “As incomplete as before, see.” He taps the upper left corner. “Morgantown be missin’ from ‘ere.”
A short cough comes from Van der Kaart. “I wouldn’t call the map inaccurate,” she corrects, “but I’d call it old. While I’m not acquainted myself with, how shall we put it…” She glances at the little gnome, as if looking for words.
The gnome shrugs, smirks, and offers, “Ellendige bijenkorf van uitschot en schurkenstreek?”
Van der Kaart snaps her bony fingers. “Indeed! While I’m not acquainted with such a joyful watering hole of swashbucklers and seafarers as Morgantown is widely reputed to be, I’ve heard it’s a relatively young enclave, perhaps not much older than you, Mister Russel.” With her thumb and index finger, she gently touches the bottom right corner of the map and rubs her fingertips against the paper. “While one need not be an expert to determine that this fine map of yours exists since before any of us were born.”
Memory Unlocked:
Sawed Off Peak (1 of 3)
The map unfolded over Father’s desk seems bigger than my bed, and older than any of the books Father has in his study.
“This is old,” I say.
“Yes, my boy,” Father responds. “Your grandfather bought it when he was about twice your age. And he told me it had been drawn about thirty years earlier.”
“While I don’t share your vast expertise, Madame Van der Kaart,” I say, “I’d feel tempted to agree: This map is six or seven decades old. Which means someone created it long before anybody here was born, I hasten to add.”
“Oh, no need to be so polite about our age, Mister Russel,” she jokes. “It’s no secret that my good associate Inktmeester wasn’t born yesterday.”
Juanita points at a peninsula protruding to the south near Duurstad. “It doesn’t show Barboza’s plantation, either,” she observes. “Although, if the map is as old as you say, not even Barboza was born when it they drew it.”
I catch the bald gnome exchanging a quick glance with the mapmaker.
Hmm. These two keep hiding things from us…
[Say nothing]
(To Juanita) Yeah, that makes sense.
(To Van der Kaart) Would you agree, Madame?
Let’s play dumb for now. “Yeah,” I say to Juanita, “that makes sense.”
But there’s something off here…
… something I cannot put my finger on just yet…
“Just give me a second, folks,” I announce. “I don’t like the look of this.”
Sveta did her cute trick of letting her dark-rimmed glasses slip to the tip of her nose while she examined the zoomed-in map. “The only thing of interest I can see, boss,” she said, “is there’s nothing interesting marked on the map. Where’s the classic ‘X’ to pinpoint the buried treasure?”
“You assume there’s treasure to find…”
She glanced up at me over her glasses. “One of your comrades is a pirate, boss. On a Caribbean island. Where Aztecs are minting gold coins the size of your hand. Of course, there’s a treasure buried somewhere.”
I massaged my chin, unconvinced.
“You don’t think so?”
“It’s a huge map,” I replied. “Very detailed when it comes to geography, but it has no markers of any sort except for the three towns we’ve already been to. It’s old, they all agree on that. And something else bothers me, but I cannot quite place what…”
“Perhaps something your character forgot?”
“That’s a safe bet,” I admitted. “But something else is amiss.” I placed my elbows on the table and buried my chin between my palms. “Like we’re missing something important right in front of our eyes…”
“Your father thought this map was important,” she suggested. “Could it be linked to that book he sailed to London for?”
“Another solid bet. So, let’s put the few jigsaw pieces we have together. Someone drew this map about seventy years ago. Fifty years ago, my character’s grandparent buys it. My father inherits it and shows it to me when I’m a little kid.
“When I’m about nine years old, Father goes to London. Before leaving, he writes two letters for me: Van der Kaart showed us the first, and my character still hasn’t remembered the second.”
“That’s probably where—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “He writes the letters, gives them to his lawyer Mister Huffington, and goes to London to buy a book. A precious book, from what Juanita told us, and a book Barboza wants, too; wants it so badly that he gets Father mugged and killed for it. That’s when Mister Huffington gives my character the letters, right?”
She wiggled her index finger. “Wrong,” she said. “Your Father gets killed when your character is nine years old, but Mister Huffington waited another nine years to give you your father’s letters. Juanita took care of you during those nine years as you grew up…”
“…And hired those tutors who taught me how to fight. Yeah, you’re right.”
She beamed. “This happens to be my job, boss. Also, Uitzli joins you during this time, too.”
I stared at the zoomed-in map. “So, my character spends nine years training and probably looking at this map; then he turns eighteen and Mr. Huffington gives him two letters from his dead father. Fast-forward three years, and my character goes to the island shown on the old map, with a pirate and a samurai added to his crew, to look for … what, exactly?”
“Revenge, as far as we know,” she answered. “Didn’t you come here looking for Barboza?”
I slammed my palms against the table. “That’s it,” I said. “That’s what’s been bothering me. It’s too much of a coincidence. This map is older than Barboza. What are the chances that the man who had my father killed just happens to live here by pure coincidence?”
She made an O.K. gesture with her thumb and index finger. “I’d say exactly zero, boss.”
“I see nothing wrong myself, young Jake,” Juanita says, peering at the map. “This is the map you inherited from your father, of that I am certain; I have seen it myself enough times.”
“Why did we come here?” I ask. “Isla Hermosa, I mean.”
“My child,” she replies, “your memories will—”
“I’ll take the risk of irking your Smoking Mirror,” I interrupt. “We came here after Barboza, right?”
She lowers her head, nodding. “We did, my child. As soon as we learned he was here.”
I wait for her to continue. After a few moments of silence, I press her. “How? How did we learn he was here?”
The witch shoots a sidelong glance at the pirate.
“’Cos one of ‘em thieves be spillin’ ‘em guts, me lad,” Abe tells me. “One of ‘em thieves who be stealin’ yarr father’s book—”
“Stealing and killing, you mean.”
He nods. “That thief, he tolds ya it be Barboza behinds it all.”
“How did we find that thief?”
He stares down at his huge hands. “Ol’ Abe don’t knows, lad. Ol’ Abe don’t…” He pauses, apparently struggling for words. “Ol’ Abe not be in yarr crew by then, lad, an’, an’… Ya be sure ya doesn’t remembers, me lad?”
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
[Press him] Spit it out, mate: How did you join us?
[Leave it] Never mind, Abe. We’ll talk about this later.
The mapmaker and the bald gnome are not missing a single word of our exchange—one we should likely carry on in private. “Never mind, Abe,” I tell him. “Let’s focus on the map.”
“Aye aye, lad,” he says, visibly relieved.
“But even so,” I say to Juanita, “how did we find the thief, and what did he tell us?”
“We tracked him down, my child,” she explains. “The details do not matter, but we tracked the thief, we cornered him, and, we
ll…” She stares at me. “The conversation did not proceed politely.”
“What happened?”
“He fought us, my child. Viciously. He wounded you, badly.” She mimics slashing a blade across my ribs.
A flash I’ve seen before in a previously unlocked memory…
Unbearable pain.
My hands press against the vicious slit across my left side and belly; blood gushes without pause.
When Uitzli places her hands over mine, I spill red over her milky skin.
“I remember this part.” I turn to Uitzli. “You saved my life that day.”
She smiles and hugs Abe’s arm.
“The thief ran away, I guess? Leaving me for dead?”
“He did not escape, my child. You shot him.”
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
“Damn…” I sigh. “That’s another fragment I keep not remembering.”
“I know you do not want to hear this, my child, but—patience.” Juanita pats my back. “You shot him, but he did not die. After Uitzli cured you, the thief told us what happened in London. Your father was a brave man, he resisted, and, in the ensuing fight, they killed him. But your father’s death was not the thieves’ goal—they were only trying to steal the book for their client.”
“Barboza…” I whisper.
Juanita nods. “The thief did not see the contents of the book, so we do not know why your father, or Barboza, would want it. Regardless of their reasons, being the prominent man, Barboza was much easier to track than the thief, and we came to Isla Hermosa to confront him.”
“Interessant verhaal,” says the bald gnome.
“Interesting tale,” agrees Van der Kaart. I can’t tell what kind of thoughts she hides behind her blue eyes. “You don’t strike me as one in search of revenge, Mister Russel.”
Looks can deceive, Madame.
Dying changes our priorities in strange ways, I suppose.
It’s justice, not revenge.
And yet that’s why I’m here, it would seem.
[Remain silent]
I keep my mouth shut; let’s be the ones not sharing the joke’s punch line, for once.
On the unfolded map, Juanita shows the island’s southern protrusion. “Whatever unfinished business we have with Barboza, this is where we are most likely to find him: his plantation.”
Van der Kaart taps Villarica with a bony finger. “Or here,” she adds, “during the weeks when galleons from Spain arrive. So they told me.”
“Heh. Don’t remind me of that,” I say. “It didn’t go well last time we tried—or so my fine companions told me after they dragged my dead body for resurrection.”
“Ah.” Amusement illuminates Van der Kaart’s eyes.
As if on cue, the little bald gnome chuckles. “Beginnelingen…” he says.
“We heard about, how shall we put it … of some unsavory encounter that Barboza had on his way to Villarica a week ago.”
I groan. “If you mean unsavory for the dumb bunch of losers who attempted to ambush him, then, yeah, that would be accurate.”
“Was it when you, hmm … misplaced this map?”
“Aye,” confirms Abe. “That Moorish dog leadin’ Barboza’s guards, he be a tough bone t’ chew, that one.”
“I see,” says the mapmaker. “And after such an unfortunate encounter, to the victor went the spoils. Interesting…”
I look at her, frowning. “Interesting why?”
“Interesting how fickle Fortune is,” she says. “But I digress. If you don’t mind me asking, Mister Russel, I have to confess, I’m curious: What is this map for?”
I’m fairly certain where she’s going, because it’s the same thing that’s been bothering me about this unfolded piece of paper: It doesn’t really show or tell us anything new. Heck, we’ve already been to the three towns drawn on it.
Sveta is right: where is the ‘X’ marking the hidden spot?
I study the map again. Something, there has to be something…
Memory Unlocked:
Sawed-Off Peak (2 of 3)
The map seems bigger than my bed.
“Here,” Father says. There is a cluster of pointy mountains drawn in the island’s center. “This one.” His finger taps on the only hill with a flat peak, as if a giant had cut the top off with a gigantic seesaw. “Will you remember it?”
I nod.
He withdraws his hand from the map. “Now you find it.”
My finger looks tiny compared to his, and I need to stretch out a lot to reach the middle of the map and touch the sawed-off peak.
“That’s a good boy.” He smiles. “But tell nobody. Ever. Promise?”
I nod again, eagerly.
I feel proud: Father has shared a secret with me.
Really proud.
Ah.
The little bald gnome stares at me as if he could see inside my head. “Hij herinnert zich,” he says.
“He does,” Van der Kaart agrees. “But the question is, what do you remember, Mister Russel?”
Why do you ask?
How do you know?
My memories are my own.
Actually, I remember nothing.
“How do you know?” I ask. “How can you tell if I have remembered anything?”
“A face is a map of what a soul tries to hide,” she explains. “And, as you may have noticed, reading maps is no small part of what we do here.”
“But if you still need to ask for specifics,” I reply, “perhaps your reading is not as accurate as you claim?”
“I never said it was, Mister Russel. As you yourself so aptly put it, the map isn’t the territory, hence my question. What have you remembered?”
No, I’m not telling you anything. “My memories are my own,” I answer.
“But surely what you own you can trade, if the price is right?”
Aha. So that’s where this has been going all along.
I’m listening…
My memories are not for sale.
“I’m listening…”
“This map of yours,” she begins, “demanded a great deal of effort to make, and not a small amount of expertise. And as you’ve noted, it predates your quarrels with Barboza by several decades. Therefore, as mapmakers who happen to live and do business on the same island that this map represents, we can’t help wondering: Why go to through all this trouble to produce a map showing in great detail nothing of interest?” She looks at my forehead as if she could drill a hole in it. “The ‘X’ happens to be sketched inside your memories, does it not?”
Why do you want to know?
What’s your price?
I’m not interested in this exchange.
I think it’s obvious, but just in case: “Why do you want to know?”
She sighs. “Come on now, Mister Russel. We’re mapmakers. You may know something we don’t about our own island. How could we not be interested?”
Yeah … thought so. All right: “What do you offer in exchange, then?”
“You tell us what you know,” she proposes, “and we tell you what we know.”
“About what?”
“About who else has shown quite an interest in this map of yours.”
Abe laughs at the same time as Juanita mutters under her breath.
“That be no fair deal, me lady,” says the pirate.
“Indeed,” agrees the witch. “Our knowledge would make your maps more valuable. What could we gain by knowing who some of your clients are?”
“I’m afraid my companions are correct, Madame Van der Kaart,” I tell her. “It doesn’t seem like a fair deal.”
“Was there any fairness in the way they dealt with your father back in London?”
Her words seem to slap Juanita in the face. “You should consider what you say carefully, mapmaker,” the witch warns. “Lest you come to regret opening your mouth.”
I raise my hand to calm the escalating situation. “I’m sure there’s a reason Madame Van der Kaart br
ought up my father’s killing in such an abrupt manner,” I say smoothly. “Am I wrong?”
Van der Kaart rests a needle-thin finger on the southernmost protrusion. “Señor Barboza is looking for a map just like this one. And offering a handsome amount for it.” Her blue eyes fix on me. “Is this information relevant to you, Mister Russel?”
Interesting. The map has to be connected to that book my father died for. There’s no other explanation for Barboza being on this island.
I force myself not to glance at the drawing of the hill with the sawed-off peak. If the mapmaker or the bald gnome can read faces as well as they claim, it would be a dead giveaway.
“Yes, this is relevant information, Madame Van der Kaart,” I agree. “But since I very much doubt a shrewd shop owner like yourself would share all they know without making sure we agree to your terms, I’m wondering, what else do you know about Barboza that is as valuable as my memories?”
The little gnome laughs. “Slim kind,” he says.
The mapmaker grins. “You don’t lack in bartering skills yourself, Mister Russel. Let us cut straight to it: If you wish to finish your, shall we say—” she taps again the southernmost protrusion “—conversation with Barboza, we can help some of you get under his roof.”
This could work.
Yeah—this could work.
