by Andrea Jones
He caught his breath and, too late, plunged his hand in his pocket.
Far too late. Jill purred, “Welcome to our Island. I see that you have made yourself at home.” Still smiling, she shifted her sapphire eyes to consider his pocket. “But you are an honest boy, are you not? I happen to know to whom that ring belongs.”
David backed from her, shaking his head.
“Come. We will return it together.” Half turning, she indicated with her blood-red hand a man standing in the glossy greenery farther down the path. The glitter of a silver sickle made David’s stomach twist, and he knew, at once, whose boots had stalked him. And why Captain Cecco walked alone.
✽ ✽ ✽
Mrs. Hanover enjoyed her sewing. The occasional prick of a needle didn’t bother her. She was accustomed to pain of many kinds, willing to tolerate it. Her pins and needles as she worked made no noise in her fabric, but she listened to the shirring of her scissors. Because she used her voice so infrequently, the sense of sound brought her special pleasure.
The fabric between the scissors’ teeth felt nice, too— a rich material, cool and crisp. It wasn’t topaz, like Red-Handed Jill’s, but it was close. Canary yellow, perhaps. Like one of those birds she saw flitting through the woods this morning. The color would complement Mrs. Hanover’s brown hair. She had twisted her hair up and pinned it this afternoon, just as she’d helped Jill to do on her father’s wedding day. She liked the nakedness of her neck.
Mr. Yulunga had allowed her to take this linen from a chest in the hold. He, too, appreciated the feel of it, and he bought it for her from ship’s company. Under Mrs. Hanover’s hands, the scissors, needles, and threads would soon produce a garment to rival the lady’s. Raising her head a notch, Mrs. Hanover envisioned herself flaunting it.
If only Mr. Yulunga would grant her a necklace to go with it. He was wealthy enough to spare some jewelry for his mistress. Gold, like their earrings, would look well with this yellow. And bangles. Mrs. Hanover bit her generous lips as she thought of the bright, wide armband and the many bracelets Captain Cecco had tempted Jill to remove from his body, whenever they were intimate. Maybe Mrs. Hanover would win that same opportunity. Such presents wouldn’t come cheap; as used to ill-treatment as Mrs. Hanover was, she recognized that the captain, in his high state of emotion, would subject his next carnal partner to a volatile encounter. She had eavesdropped to overhear Yulunga offer her to him. Even as she listened for the captain’s answer, quaking at the idea of placing herself in that angry man’s arms, she had hoped to gain by it.
A greedy look sharpened Mrs. Hanover’s features, a look that receded as she remembered the jewelry in which Doctor Hanover had adorned her for similar purposes. Her father had bejeweled her in private, of course, because at his insistence she had purloined the treasure from Hook’s own sea chest. She delivered it into his hands, and his hands had enhanced her. Rings, earrings, chokers of emeralds, ropes of pearls he strung across her belly— when it was flat.
Looking down at her figure now, Mrs. Hanover ceased to smile. He’d left a seed pearl there, in her womb. Only time would reveal if it was flawed. By now Mrs. Hanover had studied her father’s medical texts enough to understand. Her child— his child— had little chance of escaping its heritage. In a few months’ time, the Women of the Clearing would deliver her of the new life inside. Mrs. Hanover was accustomed to discomfort. She would take charge of her child, then she would do what she had to do. Resolutely, she took up the scissors.
Mr. Yulunga’s footsteps made no sound, but when she heard him open the door, Mrs. Hanover looked up. Squeezing through the frame, he stooped under the ceiling, shoved the door closed, then dropped lazily to his haunches beside her. He looked around to determine whether she’d tidied the place. She had done so, but he eyed the yellow fabric spread over the rug.
Until recently, this cabin bunked the two skinny mates of the ship’s former captain, the French privateer DéDé LeCorbeau. The room boasted four windows, two to starboard and two to stern, and it was cheerful when the maroon paisley curtains hung open. Captain LeCorbeau was a man of very different tastes than his successor, and Mrs. Hanover had seized upon his discarded furnishings. She’d spread an Oriental carpet on the floor. A petite but ornate chest of drawers held court against the bulkhead. Over it Yulunga had hung a beveled mirror for his mistress. She kept her sewing box and her books on a shelf over the claw-footed table and two satin-padded chairs. Yulunga’s weather-beaten sea chest, locked, reposed by the folded paisley comforter at the foot of the bunk. A matching bolster supported the pillows. Yulunga had the carpenter tear out the two mates’ cots and build a bigger bed under the portholes against the starboard side, but nothing could be done to raise the ceiling. Although cramped for a man of his size, these quarters were Yulunga’s first private lodgings since his abduction from Africa, and he enjoyed them to the fullest. His tastes were simple, his woman small. Her ambition, he found, was boundless, yet he managed thus far to confine it to his quarters.
He could see it would be a round-the-clock job. “So your new dress is not a dress after all.”
Stealing a glance at him, Mrs. Hanover shook her head.
“Turkish trousers and a tunic.” Yulunga folded his arms. “Just like the lady’s.”
She shrugged, but laid one hand on her unadorned throat.
“Like the lady’s, but without her jewels. Maybe I can find you some trinkets to sew onto it.”
The smile with which she rewarded him made him laugh, a deep, liquid laugh that bounced the beads of his necklace and turned Mrs. Hanover’s bones to jelly. She dropped her scissors and flung herself upon him.
He caught her. “No, no. You haven’t studied your books yet today.” He gathered her hands and pulled them from his neck. “And you will tell me, with words, how you found the Clearing.”
Mrs. Hanover frowned. Her body was more expressive than her voice, but always, Yulunga insisted upon words. They came out huskily, “Good women.”
“Good women. And they will care for you when your time comes. Unless you’d rather remain aboard, sailing. It’s your choice. Mr. Smee can deliver you.”
As her gray eyes showed panic, Mrs. Hanover pulled away.
“Use words.”
“Mr. Smee hates me!”
“Most of the Roger’s company hate you. Red Lady’s men don’t yet know you well enough.” His big hands squeezed her wrists. “Don’t give them the chance.”
Mrs. Hanover looked down. She thrived on this rough attention. It made her feel alive. Resisting just enough, she caused him to increase the strength of his hold.
Laughing again, Yulunga humored her, yanking her close. “I know all your games, little girl. But I tell you now, so you understand. Ship’s discipline demands it. No one touches you but me. Or the captain.” He waited for a reaction. Receiving none, he was certain. “You’ve been eavesdropping again. All the better. Now you know what the captain thinks of you. You know what to expect when he takes me up on my offer.”
Her gaze flew to meet his leer.
“Yes, he refused you. But I know Captain Cecco. He’s a gypsy. Hot-tempered, hot-blooded. A time will come when he needs to work off that temper. No. Say what you think.”
“You won’t let him hurt me.”
“I let him do what he needs. He needs Red-Handed Jill. You make yourself look like her…. You handle the consequences.” Yulunga snatched the pins from Mrs. Hanover’s hair so that her thick brown locks tumbled down below her shoulders. “It looked nice on you. It looks nicer on Signora Cecco. Find your own way.”
“Cruel!”
“Good. A useful word. See what you get when you speak without prompting?” And now that she was angry at him, now that he had wounded her, Yulunga forced his kisses upon her. She fought him, turning her head and thrusting away. She ended on her back on her fabric, her skirt flung above her waist and the cold steel of the scissors pressing her buttocks. Naked now, Yulunga shoved his breeches away. Lowering th
e mass of his body down, he made her feel the heat of his sable skin. He pressed it against her, rubbed her thighs with his own, and, easily, as she had known he would do, he pushed his way within her. She had been craving him this last hour past. And he knew it.
All the same, he took the scissors from her reach and tossed them to clatter against the door. He ignored the needles. They didn’t bother him.
✽ ✽ ✽
The color drained from David’s face. He took one long look at Hook. Then he turned on his heel.
Only one path lay open to him. He dashed to the pool and, seizing a willow branch, vaulted over the water. Clinging to the bough until the very last moment, he hurtled across, splashing only ankle deep on the far side. He felt his heart stop as his feet sank in the mud. With agonizing slowness, he dragged them up, one by one, to launch himself into the forest. Terrified that the barbarous hook might snatch him, he didn’t look back.
But Hook did not pursue him; Jill flung herself on his trail. Her feet spurned the ground. She flew across the pool to follow David into the woods, keeping low. If he glanced back at all, he would believe her to be running. Hook always cautioned her to maintain the advantage of surprise. No need to waste her secrets on this boy.
But in the weeks since washing ashore, David had been a victim of this danger-filled Island. He was familiar with this ground, and quick upon it. He dodged low branches, skipped fallen limbs. The underbrush grew thicker as he left the stream behind. To move silently was hopeless, but invisibility was possible. He turned sharply under cover of a thick tree trunk, hightailing it on a slant from his original course, toward a less lethal territory.
Jill reached the tree and straightened to stand, casting her gaze about. She caught a glimpse of French blue and took off again, speeding after him.
David wondered that he heard no pursuit. No boots, no thumping feet or moccasins. At the next dodge— an enormous moss-covered rock— he stopped to pant and check behind him. His eyes grew round as he spied Jill running toward him, her arms flung out at her sides and her long topaz tunic flying. He caught the gleam of her pistol, and he set off again, angling to the left to take up his original direction. He hoped he’d lose her before he covered enough ground to reach the end of this wood. He had no wish to blunder into the Indian camp. Between pirate and native captors, David would be hard-pressed to choose. Burrs pricked at his ankles. His lungs gasped for air as he pelted through the forest.
Still on the wing, Jill swooped around the rock. Listening, she heard nothing but the silence of the birds where David had passed; scanning, she detected no trail. She peered up through the treetops. Lightly hung there, pointing the way. David was headed toward the Indian village. Signaling to Lightly to keep following the boy, Jill flew.
David clutched at the stitch in his side, wondering if he dared stop to rest. A few more paces and he knew he had no choice. His gut ached with a stabbing pain. Weeks of scant food and unhealthful air had weakened him. He threw himself down on the ground and rolled to stretch alongside a fallen tree. Torn from the soil, its roots propped up its trunk. Squeezing beneath it, David listened again and heard only the buzzing beetles on its surface. A shadow passed overhead— some bird of prey, no doubt— and David looked up too late to see it. When he returned his gaze to the earth, he grimaced.
Red-Handed Jill stood there.
David’s breath came in spasms, but except for the light in her jewel-blue eyes, Jill showed little sign of exertion. The gems sewn to the bosom of her tunic winked in the spangles of sunlight. She reached her scarlet hand out to him.
“Come now, David. You trusted me, once upon a time.”
“Once upon a time,” he spat, “I was a fool.”
“All children are foolish. But they learn.” Her bare feet stepped closer. David caught the glow of gemstones on her ankle, below the tight cuff of her trouser. “Have you learned, David?”
He waited a moment, gathering one last gulp of air. Under his hand he felt something hard, a nut of some sort. He clasped it, then twisted his hands together, pretending to yank off the rubies. Hiding his ring hand, he pitched the nut past Jill. He watched her tense, turn, and trace it, heard it drop behind her in a crunch of leaves. Nimble now, he rolled under the log and doubled back. He let loose a howl— he couldn’t help himself— and thrust deeper into the woods.
For once David felt some relief. If Jill meant to catch him, she must choose task over treasure. Nor had he heard any sound of men on his trail. Jill seemed to seek him alone. That meant he couldn’t move too far in this direction; it would bring him back where he started— at the boots of Captain Hook. Aboard the Unity, David had listened with alarm to the legends of the pirate king. Beyond many another horror, he dreaded that monstrous man. He felt stupid he hadn’t thought of it before— naturally a pirate like Red-Handed Jill would join the blackest of buccaneers. But he saw no sign of Hook now. With luck, David could pull ahead of Jill and find a likely tree to scale. Even if she abandoned the phantom rubies, she couldn’t hunt him forever.
As he ran, he kept his hands clenched to secure the ring. David’s arms pumped. He became aware of a flash of his blue sleeves with every movement. It gave him an idea. He searched for just the right spot and, flinging a fast look behind him, he halted on the crest of a ravine. A row of prickly bushes lined the top. David knelt by one and, with frantic haste, broke branches near its base. The skin of his hands got rubbed raw, but the overlarge jacket slid easily from his shoulders. He stuffed the coat through the opening and discarded it on the other side of the bush, then backed and ran to the left, down the hill in a direction he knew would lead to the river. Jill might believe he’d crawled through the hedge and rolled down the opposite side of the slope.
David didn’t see the darker Indian dive from a branch of a nearby oak to snatch up the jacket.
Swift as the girl of her childhood, Jill caught up to Rowan and drifted upright. She smiled when Rowan pointed to the broken bush, holding up the coat. With his eyes, he indicated the route toward the river. Jill adjusted her garments and streaked off after David. Tossing the nut was a clever stunt; the jacket showed more desperation. Together, she and Lightly had followed the ‘ring’s’ progress and quickly unearthed it, amused. The Neverland never disappointed Jill. It was treating her to another adventure. She found the chase invigorating; the fragrance of the Island filled her lungs. Her heart was at home here, in the thrill of a hunt. She felt even happier now, more complete, than in the days of her girlhood. Laughing, she let the wind tousle her hair. If any boy needed a mother, surely, that boy was David. The Wendy within her hadn’t vanished.
Nor had the boy. The earth sloped downward here. In time the trees thinned, and smaller plants pelted Jill’s skirt and trousers. A trampled trail led her onward. At length she spied the tatters of David’s white shirt ahead, as he plunged in the river. A cloud of heron rose flapping from the shallows. Jill crossed a narrow Indian track at the foothill of the mountain and lit upon a rock. The green waters rushed by at her feet, bubbling over boulders. Wary of the natives, Jill glanced about before concentrating on David again.
He was swimming, his streaming sleeves flashing as he fought the current, which was strong here at the head of a rapid. Halfway across, he tossed the wet from his eyes and treaded water to look back. In his surprise he gulped a mouthful of river. He coughed it out, then filled his lungs and bobbed beneath the surface.
Jill stood on her rock, shaking her head. As if on an afternoon jaunt with all the time in the world, she wiggled her toes in the water. It felt cooler than the waterfall, and just as refreshing.
She couldn’t hear the gasp as David sucked air again, but she saw him surface some distance upstream. He dragged himself to the shore, lay panting for a moment, then, walking backward, staggered among the rushes. Unsure of Jill’s intentions, he kept moving but spared his energies. Jill allowed him time to recover his breath. She marked his direction. Then she pulled her pistol.
David froz
e. Abruptly, he turned to bound into the woods. With his dripping rags plastered to his skin, he headed through the thin fringe of the forest. He had to find a hiding place, and soon. The sea lay only a short way off, more foothills straight ahead. Before long no avenue of escape would lie open. He was exhausted. His ruse at the bushes hadn’t shaken Jill off his trail, but surely the river would delay her, if not stop her altogether. He must find just the right tree and scamper up for shelter. Not a large tree— she might look for him there. A slender one, just hardy enough to hold him, but with leaves enough for cover. David’s feet stung from the rocks and sticks he’d trodden. The parts of his body not numbed by cold ached instead. He’d have to climb immediately, before he lost control of his limbs. And he’d wedge himself securely among the branches, in case he fainted.
Finding a young maple, David seized a bough. With dogged determination, he hauled himself upward. He scraped his knees and knuckles, but at last he jammed himself in the crotch of two flimsy branches, ten feet above the earth. He clung there. Fatigue caused his muscles to twitch, but he clamped on, gritted his teeth, and waited.
David had, however, forgotten something. As his breathing slowed, his ears awakened. Within minutes he heard someone else breathing, too, someone walking in the grasses. A sniffing sound followed, and in that second, with his stomach flipping, David remembered.
He paled as the notion came to consciousness. The river water made his clothing sodden. The damp also strengthened the stench. He understood that, no matter where he hid, the reek of his cloister clung to him. Shielded from sight, still he perched unprotected, for, screened by the foliage that hid him, whoever smelled him edged closer. Was it Captain Hook with his claw poised to carve? The two Indians aiming arrows? Or more natives, perhaps, bearing tomahawks, from the village downriver. Then he forgot other enemies, as into the grass beneath him stepped a set of substantial feet.
David’s hunter stood revealed. As his blood pounded in his painful head, David clutched his branches and sat perfectly still. He dared not descend; he couldn’t climb higher. Already his sagging perch threatened to snap. He held no weapon to defend himself. The chase was at an end.
