Hook & Jill (The Hook & Jill Saga) (21 page)

The boys stared at her, horrified, and shifted to look at one another. It was what they had suspected, and all too easy to believe. John spoke first.

“Wendy’s never lied to us before.”

“But she never met a pirate before, either,” Nibs countered. No one had to say,
The
pirate.

“You saw how different she is today,” Michael said. “She’s wearing Jill’s belt. Or one very like it!”

Lifting the strands of his own new belt, Curly indicated his missing weapon. “And carrying a knife.”

Jewel waited, drumming her fingernails on her shoulder. It was Tootles who said it. “She’s gone to parley on the
Jolly Roger!”

Grabbing up his knife, Nibs issued his command. “You three wait here for Wendy. We’ll send Tink with news. If Wendy comes back, tell her we’ll—”

“…be careful.” They said it in unison. Nibs’ grin held no cheer as he followed Jewel and Tootles up the chute.

Jewel sparked them through the trees, flying fast. They swept through the thick of the wood, stomachs knotted with anticipation, Nibs and Tootles at once elated and fearful. The mere mention of the pirate ship made their blood flow faster. Of all the Lost Boys, Nibs and Tootles were the most bloodthirsty. They were the ones who craved attack on— or indeed, attack by— pirates. Nibs pulled the knot at the back of his head tighter. Tootles ran a finger down the edge of his knife.

The sound of breakers burst between the last few trees, and Jewel paused at the end of the forest. The boys righted themselves to settle, tense and erect, on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Neverbay was still out of sight, but the smell of the sea blew in, stinging their noses. The boys inhaled, scenting adventure. Jewel let them revel in the atmosphere, then prodded them to jump off the cliff. She took the lead again, hugging the rock face, anticipating the view when the cliffs would fall away and the bay would open up— There!

Neverbay looked luscious. Its sparkling waves and featherbed clouds, its circling seabirds surrounded its prize. The sails, though bound now, were long and rippling, the crow’s nest hung like a jewel upon her ear. Her flag beat the breeze, the skull over crossed swords grinning welcome. Carved and decorated, her decks lay adorned with gilt, and her figurehead held out a sickle, reaching toward the waves to reap the wind.

The
Jolly Roger
, that beautiful ship, sat sweetly in the center of life, every boy’s dream.

Jewel performed a somersault in the air and flew backward to see their faces. Her light flamed. Their rapt expressions confirmed it. He was right about that, too!

* * *

When Wendy opened the door of the house, her pistol sat snug at her waist, alongside the dangling bags of powder and shot. The gun was hot from its trial, and she still smelled the tang of gunpowder. Her hand spread on the pistol. She half expected the swinging door to reveal a man in black sitting at the table, stirring her tea with an iron claw. She thought nothing would surprise her, but she made a new discovery, and this one was not a gift, but a loss.

She found the teacup on the table, untouched. The sugar bowl lay broken in splinters. Sugar covered the table, rifled, pawed, its sweetest property stolen. Although she sifted it again and again with her own fingers, someone else’s had unburied her treasure.

John’s and Michael’s baby teeth were gone.

* * *

Nibs and Tootles flew slowly toward the ship, skimming the water. The waves sent up a greeting of salty spray that they licked off their lips. As the fairy led them nearer, they saw that her hunch was correct. Wendy was aboard the
Roger
.

But there would be no need for parley. Every inch of their mother belonged exactly where she was.

She leaned off the prow, smiling woodenly at Nibs and Tootles. Her breasts were bare and her hair clung to them. Her mermaid’s tail looped along the keel. Her arms were raised above her head so that her elbows framed her face. Her right hand grasped the sickle. Her left was open, beckoning to them,
Come aboard!
Her smile, so regal, kissed the wind.

Tootles couldn’t resist touching her lips. Nibs fingered the sickle. Jewel sat on her nose and tweaked it. A rapping sounded above their heads. The boys flung a look at one another, then their eyes turned upward to behold the scar-covered face of Gentleman Starkey. In his fist, a ruler threatened.

“Don’t let me catch you late for lessons again, mates, or you’ll get ten of the best!”

He winked.

Chapter 19

Dark Hunting

Rowan rapped his hands against his thighs, clenching his teeth as the blood flowed into his fingers. It had taken time to free himself of his bonds, but the trail was clear. Willow branches prickled his face as he followed Lightly and the Golden Boy. Two sets of feet had made their impressions. One set was firm, the size of his own, one set lighter and the size of the boy’s. They led him up the creek to the apparent end of its journey, then vanished into rock. Other, older tracks, those of a beast, and much larger, hung about. Rowan’s face stiffened.

Like the air here, the waters appeared to be stagnant, but Rowan discerned a hint of current where the core of Lightly’s apple floated. It bobbed ever so slightly among willow blades and scum, as if something bigger than fish lurked below the surface. He watched a little longer to be sure, frowning, then turned his attention to the end of the trail. The branches drooping against the rock were crippled. He brushed them aside to reveal a wall of stone, and studied it.

The odor alone told him more was here than could be seen. It smelled dank, the stench of swamp and decay, and it oozed from an opening low in the rock. The footprints were obscured by smudges where bellies had rubbed against the earth to wriggle into the opening. The hole’s upper edge was jagged. It was wide as the span of Rowan’s arm, not quite as tall, and half as thick. Easy enough for a boy to enter, if he could stomach the stink.

He saw the smaller footprints leading away again toward the water, where a deeper impression showed the toes of both feet had pressed down before disappearing. The Golden Boy had flown. Inside the rock, Lightly was alone. Rowan didn’t like the feel of it, the smell of it. Like an entrance to the Dark Hunting ground. Wasting no time, he dropped on his belly and slithered in to find out what he didn’t already know.

In the darkness he paused, his hand reaching to feel for his tomahawk, emptily regretting its loss. He allowed his ears to explore while his eyes adjusted, hearing nothing but the water outside trickling into its groggy pool. Daylight from the hole didn’t penetrate the grotto; the only source of light was a flickering within a shell. It glowed on a ledge of rock to the right, at Rowan’s waist level. Next to the shell sat a wooden bowl, and a circle was painted in what appeared to be mud on the craggy wall above, with daubs of more mud at regular intervals around its inside. He counted twelve daubs, evenly spaced around the inside edge of the circle. Rowan cocked his head. He thought the image might represent a spirit, but one only vaguely familiar to him. One sacred to white men, who strove to divide the sun’s day.

He could stand. The roof arched well above his head, and he stepped several paces toward the light. Now he could dimly see what was in the bowl. Teeth? Or small white beads, unevenly shaped. Perhaps they were the pearls he had heard his mother describe in her stories of pirates. Yes, it might be pirate treasure, for next to the bowl a tawny footpad lay, severed from a lion’s pelt, one of its claws stuck through the hoop of a finger ring magnificent with jewels. Rowan recalled the legend; the crocodile had swallowed the Black Chief’s hand, rings and all. And Rowan had seen jewelry like this only once before. On one single hand. Yesterday.

His gaze fell to the floor as he looked around for chests or bags of loot and signs of digging. There were none, but there was treasure enough for Rowan. A friend stood in the corner, and it was not a boy. Against a patch of mossy wall lay his tomahawk. Rowan smiled and snatched it up, wondering what spirit could have flown it here to him, before he himself arrived. This was no place the Black Chief was likely to visit, and the man had been on the far end of the Island last night. Who or what had carried it here?

Rowan rubbed his fingers over the familiar surface, flaking the mud away. But when he touched it, he knew in his bones the crust upon it wasn’t made of earth. It was dried blood, although not human blood. Still, it made him anxious to find his friend, somewhere in the blackness. He called out, cautiously. “Lightly.” The only response was the echo of his voice, trailing into the darkness.

He had seen all there was to be seen. The light of the shell burned too feebly to venture into the recesses. But Rowan was at one with life, and he sensed more than his own within this place. He turned around and followed the echo, seeking whatever waited in the farther shadows.

He shoved his feet forward one length at a time, feeling his way along the floor for Lightly. The earth was clammy underfoot, and as he stepped deeper into false night, the smell of putrefaction grew more repugnant. Rowan’s lungs resisted intake of the fetid air. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand. At last his right foot met a mat; his left met flesh. Rowan knelt, set the tomahawk down, and reached out for his friend.

The mat was woven of supple strands. The flesh was cool, unmoving. It was Lightly’s shoulder. Rowan’s hands traveled it, searching for the right place, and he leaned down to press his ear against the frigid chest. The boy must be sleeping.

Rowan shook him. He didn’t wake. He slid his hand up to Lightly’s neck, to measure the pulses of the blood. Lightly wasn’t sleeping. Rowan felt the cold, like the stench, creep throughout his veins, but he didn’t freeze. Instead, he gathered Lightly in his arms and stood unsteadily. The weight of friendship was good, it brought warmth to Rowan’s limbs. He searched the darkness for the faint sign of the entryway and headed for it.

He laid Lightly down by the hole, then lay on his own back, hooking each of his feet under Lightly’s shoulders. Stretching out, he grasped the rugged wall on either side of the entrance, then he drew a breath and closed his throat, and with an effort, hauled himself head first under the rock, dragging his friend with him. Shady as it was, the light under the willows dazzled him. The boughs scraped his skin as he emerged, but he pulled with feet, then hands, until both bodies were free of the tomb in the fresher air of the swamp. Out here, Lightly’s stillness made Rowan more apprehensive.

The brave bent over the boy, who he could now see was white as birch bark. Lightly’s skin contrasted with the circle of mud drawn on his forehead and the dots spaced evenly around the inside of the circle. Rowan knew what he had to do. He straightened and inhaled deep breaths, sucking in what life forces existed just outside the grotto— in the air, the mud, the water, the light. Warmth returned in full, spreading rapidly, quick as lightning through the crooked pathways in his body, all the way up to tingle in his scalp.

Rowan captured the last breath, then bent over Lightly’s face, his fingers prying at the boy’s lips. He shoved his own mouth down over Lightly’s, and exhaled.

It was said that Rowan was the Life-Giver. He hoped it was true.

Because the silence that rang in his ears was rent by the subtlest of sounds. A swish of water, and a steady beat not imagined in nature.

White man’s Time.

Chapter 20

War of Attrition

The life-breath was potent. As soon as it surged through his lungs, Lightly’s eyes sprang open. He beheld Rowan’s face above his, felt Rowan’s fingers pressing on his jaw. The fog of confusion quickly dispersed as his ears awakened to the tick of oncoming death. Recognizing it instantly, Lightly gathered his wits. With no time to lose, he pushed Rowan aside and sat up, scrambling forward and leaping into the sky, leaving Rowan to read the imprints of his toes on the stream bank.

Fighting dizziness, Lightly swooped and hollered through the air, plunging at the crocodile with outstretched fists, then veering toward the water. The beast pursued him, snatching at his limbs. Half in the water, it stretched to snag a heel, but Lightly proved too nimble. With a clap, the jaws closed on emptiness. Its tail thrashed the pool, dredging up clods of muddy debris. Sweating with cold, the boy gulped breaths of swampy air and circled back, diverting the croc while Rowan scaled a tree to sit in patchy sunlight, taut brown skin among stiff brown blades.

Once assured of Rowan’s safety, Lightly left the croc to fester. He lowered himself to a branch, and the two friends hung, panting. The color returned to their faces. And swiftly the grins spread, and then the laughter, and they were a brace of eagles who had outsmarted death. Beneath them, in its own purgatory, the crocodile snapped and snarled, moving in irregular rushes against the rhythm within, a gash on the crown of its head.

“It hasn’t a hope of snaring these birds! Not until it learns to fly!”

“Your totem is surely a bird.”

“That’s what I was thinking yesterday.” Lightly looked down again, and grimaced. “Look at that ugly cut on its skull.”

“The mark of my tomahawk. It was taken from me, then returned to me in the tomb. But I left it there.”

Lightly felt along his belt. “I don’t have my bow or knife, either.”

Their eyes met. “Our old friends are gone, exchanged for new.”

“It’s a good trade.”

“Even without weapons, we have paid each other life-service.”

They heard the sibilance of the croc below, intolerant of their freedom. The young men watched its red eyes glare at them, then, grudgingly, it dragged itself through the rock into its cell. Once again, the ticking was swallowed up.

Lightly was still a bit fuzzy. “How did we get here?”

“I saw you by the small dwelling-place and tracked you to the cave.”

“I was following Peter to your mountain camp and we stopped to take a look inside. I’m not sure what happened next. I got so sleepy…” Lightly’s eyes opened wider when he became aware of his surroundings. “Look!” His recent adventure faded as his astonishment grew. “These leaves are the same as Peter wears! This must be the skeleton tree.”