9 Tales Told in the Dark 7

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  “His father stole from us. Give him to us.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have back what his father took?”

  The pirates didn’t answer they just glared at him, their eyes looked like they might start to water if they didn’t scratch that itchy trigger finger.

  “Just asking.” Martin broke the silence.

  “Don’t ask or you are dead. The boy, now!”

  “Right, right, well you see…” Martin hinged on his words, something should’ve happened already. He wanted to glance over his shoulder to see what was taking the boy so long. But he shouldn’t.

  That’s when the sirens roared. The Sheriff’s appointed deputies had arrived and they were kicking up dust and gravel making the biggest scene possible. It was enough to leave Martin unprepared for when the boat yanked forward. He fell down on his face. Martin heard the pirates yell, “Get him!”

  But when he looked up they were shrinking. The boy had given it full throttle and he was right, his father’s boat was very fast. Martin crawled next to the boy then slowly crept up to see how far they’d managed.

  The pirates hadn’t wasted much time and were pretty close.

  “Let me get us into the cove.”

  “No, you tell me where to steer.”

  Martin was shocked. “Look kid you’ll get us sunk. You want your daddy’s boat back in good shape, you let me drive.”

  The boy gave it a little thought, looked in his rearview mirror to see how close the Pirates were getting, and then relinquished the controls.

  Martin watched the RPMs soar as he tried to give it a little more gas. The key was to keep the pirates moving just as fast so that they didn’t have time to spot the rocks hiding under the surface that would sink them.

  In all his years Martin had never had to run from anything. He was a big man even as a kid, he had always been the chaser. Always the bully.

  “Just what did your dad steal, kid?”

  “The name’s Ben, and he didn’t steal nothing.” The boy had to yell over the engine.

  “Well, Ben, the pirates think that he did. The more I know maybe the more I can help.”

  Ben responded, but he didn’t raise his voice this time so it was lost in the sound of the motor.

  “What was that?” Martin asked.

  “They killed him!”

  Urgency set in and not a second too late as the current lead them straight towards the hidden rocks.

  “Hold on to your hats,” Martin grunted.

  Ben would’ve been worried but noting looked treacherous. It was the deception of the cove. Every quick turn Martin made looked erratic. The pirates followed. Almost mimicking each move he made.

  Did they know?

  He tried to make his movement less obvious, but beneath him the rocks were becoming more frequent and he could only hope the pirates saw him slowing down and sped up to attack him.

  Martin took his eyes off the rearview mirror for a blink.

  That’s all it took. The sound was like a train coming off the rails.

  “We got them!” Ben clapped.

  The rocky shore was fast approaching, they had to anchor the boat and swim the rest of the way in. There was a trail that ran up the ledge and then connected back to the shoreline. Martin hadn’t walked it in years.

  “Come on, we have to swim ashore, you can swim can’t you?”

  The boy nodded. “Water is going to be cold.”

  “You bet. But once we get ashore, we can get you safe.”

  “The boat,” was all Ben said.

  “Is something on the boat?”

  “Uh,” Ben hesitated, he looked at the pirates scrambling off their ship and then back to Martin where he repeated, “uh.”

  “I want to help you, but I don’t really care what happens to your daddy’s boat.”

  “There’s a map.”

  “Okay, I can carry a map, you know, big strong guy like me.”

  Ben shook his head, “It’s on the boat.”

  Martin wasn’t quite following, “Then we’ll take it with us.”

  “No it is on the boat.” Ben pointed his finger. “Underneath it, so they wouldn’t find it, it’s drawn on.”

  “Well if I’d known that I would’ve crashed the boat and we could’ve dragged the piece in with us, look kid these pirates aren’t getting very far. If we hurry we’ll have the higher ground and can beat them back.”

  “It’s a treasure map!” Ben insisted.

  “Yeah, I got that.” Martin snapped he grabbed the boy’s arm and lifted him over the railing. “Swim!”

  Ben splashed down into the water and Martin dove into the icy water with him.

  They didn’t need to swim far, and Ben beat Martin to the shore where he stood at the well-traveled trail, pouting.

  “Kid, I know you aren’t born with smarts, but look at it this way—if we get to the cops and get them all rounded up, your friends the pirates won’t get very far with your treasure map, got it?”

  Ben didn’t say anything and started up the path with Martin’s gesture.

  The path had a couple of switchbacks and on the first one Martin lost sight of Ben but soon heard a shrill shriek.

  “You scared me!” That awful voice said in a huff, it was Rena Washington. “Running up here like that, are you the boy that’s playing with all those fireworks?” Then she saw Martin and her look might’ve said should’ve known!

  “Rena, you better run back up this trail,” Martin ordered and didn’t give her a reason until Ben pushed past her, “those weren’t fireworks.”

  Rena’s gasp was loud enough to call the Calvary.

  “Run!” Martin yelled again as they reached the top of the hill that overlooked the bay. The pier was burning. Martin’s office also caught fire thanks to Geren’s poor parking job. And the pirates were in the cove—swimming for shore.

  Only Ben had a different idea. He turned and started throwing rocks down at the pirates. But it was more of creating a threat of an attack than actually attacking the pirates.

  They didn’t even seem to notice the rocks hitting the water nearby. They were trying to get to the boat. Rena’s car wasn’t too far away which finally made her existence worthwhile to Martin. He stopped Ben from throwing.

  “Rena, this is Ben. Please take him into town—the deputies are already all at the pier. Keep him safe. Pirates are after him.”

  “Pirates?” she said as if a world with zombies couldn’t possibly also contain something as fantastical as pirates.

  Martin ignored her shock. “Go with her. I’ll see what I can do about keeping that boat away from the pirates. That way you can have your treasure one day.”

  Maybe it was the fact that Ben finally realized how tall Martin was or perhaps it was that Ben had his back to a steep hill and Martin had shown no weakness in tossing him out of a boat, but Ben didn’t argue. He went with Rena.

  As soon as they drove away Martin knew he should just have gone too. But his heartstrings had pulled at him; a kid still had a chance at a life. Martin was about done.

  Martin tried to motivate himself, he had the high ground now and perhaps he could chuck a rock more accurately than the boy.

  Sheriff Geren had his two deputies in tow as they ran up the hill towards Martin. They caught him throwing the biggest loose rock he could find.

  When it hit the water it made a splash the pirates could not deny.

  “Gone all cavemen on me, where’s the boy?” Geren asked.

  “Rena Washington drove him into town.” Martin heaved another rock.

  “We’ve got to keep them from getting to the town.”

  “Yes, sir.” The two deputies reported in unison.

  Martin had only turned away to smile at Geren, only paused for the tiniest amount of time but when he looked back down into the cove. Half the pirates had reached land.

  “Oh crap.”

  A pistol fired up from down below, it wouldn’t have hit anyone. The two deputies dropped to the grou
nd and frantically started to reload their rifles. Martin had left his shotgun on the boat. Geren was able to return fire with his sidearm. Down below, little dust clouds burst where his bullets missed.

  Then also down below, a clicking sound that wouldn’t have sounded so nice if it had happened next to Martin. The pirate with the pistol was out of ammunition.

  Geren noticed too, and ordered his two deputies to lean out and take some real shots.

  After they got off four shots, one pirate dropped dead. Another jumped back into the water. But three more were climbing and had their assault weapons slung around their backs.

  Without warning, one of the deputies jerked back.

  Blood splashed along the dried grass and rocks. He started screaming as the other deputy shot back, then scrambled to put pressure on the wound.

  Another shot dropped Geren, but it was out of panic, not an actual hit. Martin the biggest target of all dropped down to his stomach just in time to see a sniper out on the rocks. Of course a modern pirate ship would have some one who could pick people off.

  The ground ripped up.

  Dirt filled Martin’s eyes as he rolled away, a pirate had made it up the trail. Martin saw the pirate take a casual aim on the Deputies.

  He couldn’t allow that.

  Almost three hundred pounds dry was three hundred pounds wet, cold and angry. Martin charged into the pirate and knocked him back down the trail. Three more were coming. And Martin started swinging.

  He thought about Geren’s wife and children. He thought about calling his insurance company to see if they could still cover the damages, he thought about the boy’s father, and about treasure. Each thought was another punch that landed.

  Martin tripped trying to chase a pirate back down the trail. He busted his lip as he landed. Didn’t stop. He kept fighting. He realized he was blocking any clean shot the deputies or Geren might’ve made, but he also no longer cared.

  He just wanted them to stop getting up.

  Some of the pirates did not get back up. A couple ran back into the water. But none of them fired another shot. Geren and the deputy took them out like beer cans on fence posts.

  The battle was won.

  Martin collapsed on the concrete in front of his burned office and stared at the worst looking pier.

  Stumbling with him was Sheriff Geren. Neither spoke, both were unsure of what else the day might have in store for them. But they knew what they wanted.

  Quiet.

  Like a ghost, Old Ben appeared behind them oblivious to the battle that had taken place, for he’d drank too much and wandered to where he called home and it was no longer recognizable.

  “What happened to McHenry’s boat?”

  “What happened to all the boats?” Geren corrected Old Ben.

  There was nowhere for Old Ben to sleep. He stood dumfounded for a good minute before it really started to irritate the Sheriff.

  “Guess you’ll just have to go and find yourself a job. Or a woman.”

  Old Ben wasn’t offended. He crept along the remnant of the pier picking up boards here and there.

  “That’s the part I’m not looking forward to,” said Martin.

  “You put on a helluva a fight. You never gave up.” Geren coughed.

  “Couldn’t.” Martin rolled over on the beach, it felt good, the stench of rotting fish, the muddy sand that soiled his clothes and would later be scratchy and dry.

  “I prayed to God that you wouldn’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t really think I believe in God. I guess maybe now I’m supposed to.”

  “God’s like the Sun in Reddick Bay, just because we don’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not there day after day giving us just enough light not to trip over ourselves.”

  The silence between them grew until Geren laughed.

  “I seem to remember you tripping.”

  Martin laughed too, “Yeah, I did, quite a bit. I’m big and lopsided.”

  A deputy brought in young Ben’s boat. It had been the reason for all the commotion and yet it looked so innocent afterwards, like the pretty girl at the party who the boys had fought over.

  “There’s supposed to be a treasure map on the bottom of that boat,” Martin told Geren.

  “I’ll let you handle that. Not much use for treasure these days.”

  Silence was a treasure but it was soon cut short by Rena Washington shrieking in a vocabulary that contained not a single curse word, but just her tone itself was vile enough to make a preacher blush.

  “That boy!”

  They both looked and saw young Ben running down to his father’s boat. The decision to pursue him was mutual, if only to get away from Rena Washington.

  “Don’t scratch it!” Ben yelled as the deputy beached the boat. After all there had been no dock to tie it to. He quickly inspected the boat’s underside, happily running his fingers over the carving in the boat.

  Martin looked at the writing. It didn’t look like a map at all.

  “Can you read that?”

  “It’s a formula. Do you think?” Geren asked. “Son, what did your father do?”

  “He was a scientist. Best scientist in the world.”

  Martin’s mind filled in the blanks. “Is that the cure?”

  Ben nodded. “Treasure Map.”

  THE END.

  ASYLUM TREE by Jim Lee

  The two young white men came to Samoa abroad the first Boat-that-Flies from Tonga following the rainy season in the white man's year of 1892.

  Such craft were still a considerable novelty then. I'd previously seen but one myself, a full year earlier. That one had come a different way—from the eastern islands that the whites renamed for their famous Sea Captain, “Cook.” I'd watched as one spellbound as the craft moved across the sky above Cape Tapaga with an almost stately grace and far less noise than one has come to expect from one of the white man's marvels.

  Its screw propellers turned relentlessly, pushing the great bag of special light air and the boat hull suspended beneath it through the sky currents. They functioned, I realized, in the same way as they would on the backside of one of their steamships on the ocean waters. Yet I noted that nowhere did it belch the menacing dark and acrid smoke typical of a coal-fired engine.

  I was overjoyed and ran back to the Place of Five Waters, imagining some new and better, cleaner white man's power that might supersede and replace his loud and dirty Age of Steam. I sought out Tusitala—surely he would know if my hopes were justified!

  His wispy mustache twitched, his great sad eyes grew sadder still as he gently explained these strange new “Zeppelins” to me. It was true that the devices that held the energetic power to turn the propellers—called “batteries,” he informed me—worked more quietly and seemed cleaner at first glance. But after being used, this energy must be replaced and the special machine that made this energy—this “electricity”--and put it into the “batteries” must be powered itself.

  “By more coal-fired engines?” I murmured in knowing disappointment as he paused. The Teller of Tales winced. He nodded solemnly.

  And then the Ever-Coughing Sickness came upon him, as it often did in times of stress.

  I closed my eyes in silent prayer—to our Gods and yes, my son, also to his people's odd, Three-in-One God—to make the attack a brief and mild one.

  That time my prayer was answered well. By which deity or deities, I would not presume to say. But his weak and narrow chest stilled, the convulsion passing with no apparent lasting damage. Tusitala smiled a wan but grateful smile as I handed him a cup of soothing water.

  I smiled back, I recall, though even then I somehow knew that the other white men and their infernal Age of Steam would eventually be the doom of us all.

  ><><

  In any case, these two young men came to Samoa, to Upola Island in the first days of May 1892. They came by steamship from Australia to Vanuatu—the islands the British and French then jointly ruled and had ren
amed “New Hebrides.”There they boarded this “Zeppelin” of the “German-Pacific Line” as it made the very first regularly scheduled circuit of the several island groups to our west.

  Our land was the farthest east that particular craft was to venture.

  These two left the “Zeppelin” for good upon its arrival at Apia.

  The great strange vessel itself—back then more a source of wonderment than terror, even for the whites—was still tied up at the new-built mooring station, preparing to depart for the French-held islands of Wallis and Futuna when Mr. Lloyd and I arrived in the city, two days later.

  Mr. Lloyd—Tusitala's full-grown son-by-choice, Lloyd Osbourne—and I had come down to the port to see certain supplies back to the Place of Five Waters. We discovered the steamship company had made an error—not an unusual circumstance, my son. Only part of the order had arrived on schedule, with the balance promised to follow in three more days.

  It was decided that I would see what had arrived back to its destination, while Mr. Lloyd stayed with the wagon to collect the remainder. We encountered the two strangers even as our city-hired porters and myself made ready to depart.

  As I just noted, this pair had only been two days in Apia, though their brief stay had already included an audience with our great & Wise King, Malietoa Laupepa. They informed Mr. Lloyd of this with condescending smirks upon their faces, blatantly ignoring the hired men and myself as if we were invisible—though we stood right there, beside them.

  “So we have an actual letter of introduction for your stepfather,” the Australian—named Willard Jones—said with disrespectfully curling lips.

  “From 'His Majesty' himself, no less!” the other—an American called Matthew Benford—added as if the very idea was somehow quite amusing.

  Mr. Lloyd—while not so well-versed or respectful of our ways as Tusitala, but still decent-minded for a white man—glared at the arrogant pair for a long cold moment before venturing to speak. “You, uh, gentlemen should know what Malietoa Laupepa has accomplished. He brought peace and unity to this little nation. Ended decades—decades, gentlemen—of bloodshed and petty tribal struggle upon being recognized as King back in '89. My stepfather never could've brought the family here a few years later, if not for the King's benevolence. He deserves quite more than mockery from us. . .”