Jim Morgan and the Pirates of the Black Skull (25 page)

The children had been walking down the beach for nearly an hour. Rows of large boulders barred their way from the hills and fields Twisttail had warned them to avoid. The morning sun crept ever closer to noon. Cornelius had decided to pass the time telling some sea
stories. This began as a charming idea, but many of the tales really were quite alarming and hardly did the clan’s confidence any favors.

“Blimey, Darkfeather,” George said tiredly, kicking at the sand with his toes. “How many stories do you know, anyway?”

“Oh, countless tales from countless adventures, Master Ratt! I could regale with you epics from each of the Seven Seas seven times over.”

“Oh,” said Peter as George groaned. “I was hoping you were going to say like eight or something…you know, like a more manageable number.”

“I think he’s told eight already, Pete,” Paul said, picking up a stone and throwing into the water.

“Oh no, lads!” The raven cawed with delight, completely oblivious to the Ratts’ apparent boredom. “I haven’t even gotten to the really delectable ones yet. I was actually going to continue poor Frederick’s saga and tell you how he went from being Freddy Sevens to simply Fred the Stump. Honestly he was probably the unluckiest bloke I ever knew.”

“Oh dear,” said Lacey. “That sounds awful!”

“If we become statues it’s gonna look like I turned to stone from boredom,” said George. This sentiment earned him a reproachful glare from Lacey and threatened to set off yet another argument between the two of them.

For those who have never walked a long way through sand, it sounds like a rather pleasant time, especially in the fair morning weather as was on the island that day. But it is exhausting work after a while, and the five friends were starting to grow grumpy with one another. Jim, however, was only paying half attention to either the raven’s stories or the Ratts’ wisecracks. Instead, he fixed his eyes straight down the beach. His thoughts were clamped as tightly on the coming day as his gaze upon the way ahead.

A mile or so behind them was the Cromiers’ rowboat, run up onto the sand. The sight of it had set the clan’s nerves on edge, but it had been worse by far for Jim. Every time he pictured Bartholomew
Cromier’s pale face or Count Cromier’s crimson curls, his jaw tightened and his left hand ignited in pain. The flute song would play in his thoughts and darkness would seize his mood.

Jim fought all this as best he could. Faced with the dangers of the Veiled Isle, he wanted only to see his friends safely from the shores of the cursed place. But as the black vines snaked their way onto Jim’s hand, so black thoughts of revenge wound deeper into his mind. But just when George and Lacey nearly came to blows, and Cornelius kept trying to distract them with his story, Jim’s unwavering stare finally fell upon the dead tree Twisttail had described.

“Look!” he cried. Only a half-mile down the beach, a hill had come into view. At its top stood a large oak, dead as a doornail. The leafless branches reached to the sky like boney fingers on a skeleton’s hand.

The clan ran to the bottom of the hill and skirted around the base. On the far side, just as Twisttail promised, the grass and beach gave way to row upon row of gray stone ridges. These were the crags, a crisscrossing, winding knot of rock. Though not a single cloud marred the sapphire sky, as the company approached the entrance to the rocky maze, a shadow fell over the beach. A prickle of gooseflesh crawled over Jim’s skin. The ache in his left hand began to reach into his arm, beyond his wrist. So Jim shoved his fist even deeper into his pocket, as though that might ease the pain.

“Just beyond these rocks should be the field of long grass Twisttail told us to follow,” he said, though he could not help but frown at the grim look of the path between the rocks.

“Are we sure this is right?” asked Lacey. “I know Mister Twisttail was trying to help, but I don’t know. There’s something about this that feels wrong, Jim.”

“Maybe it in’t supposed to feel right, you know?” George offered. “Like in all them stories. The right way is supposed to be the hard way, right?”

“There is a difference, young Master Ratt,” said Cornelius. “Between a way being challenging and difficult, and a way being dark and wrong.”

The group stood there for a long moment. Jim felt his friends beginning to back away from the path between the hill and the crags. It did seem dark down that way, and cold, Jim thought. But the Cromiers were out there, ahead of him, and armed with the map. Perhaps they neared the cave even as he and his friends stood here, afraid to move forward. Between the ache in his hand and the dire thoughts in his head, Jim saw no other choice.

“Come on, you lot!” he called over his shoulder. “It’s already noon and we used more than a whole hour coming down this beach. We only have the rest of today and tonight to find our way, so there’s no turning back now.”

“Are you sure, my boy? Are you sure?” Cornelius whispered into Jim’s ear.

“Sure or not, we’re wasting time just standing still. The Cromiers are out there, Cornelius. And I’m going to catch them.” Jim took the first steps alone, but one at a time he heard Lacey and the Ratts fall in behind him. Together they entered the shadowy path beneath the crags.

The lifeless gray cliffs loomed like tall towers over the clan’s heads. They warded off all sunlight and warmth, and allowed only a gray chill to settle and brew down in the deep ravines. The pathway between the rocks reminded Jim of the alleyways and backstreets of London - dark, dirty, and possessed of more than a hint of danger. Every once in a while, a few traces of blue snuck between the cracks above, but otherwise the shadows clung tight about Jim and his friends. Faces seemed to appear in the stony walls, laughing at the clan like gargoyles in the rock.

“Jim, I don’t like this way,” Lacey said at last. “I keep expecting the rocks to reach out and drag me into the shadows. I’d almost rather have dealt with those lights Mr. Twisttail told us about than risk losing our way down here.”

“You heard what the lizard said about those lights,” Jim answered. “They’re evil spirits! In fact, I hope the Cromiers and Splitbeard did go that way, and I especially hope they all got snatched up by them!”

“Jim Morgan, how terrible!”

“It would be no more than they deserve, Lacey.” Jim shivered as the words left his lips. As the day had worn on, an oppressive cold had begun to seep into his bones. His hand ached worse with each passing hour. Jim was afraid to pull his fist from his pocket. He could feel the black vines snaking their way toward his wrist.

“Well, I dunno about those lights or nothin’,” said George, walking with his brothers in a tight knot just behind Jim and Lacey. “But as long as old Darkfeather keeps us straight, I’ll be glad to get out of these rocks, that’s for sure.”

“You said it, Georgie,” Peter agreed.

“I don’t like dealin’ with no trouble that you can’t snatch, pick, or con your way out of,” Paul added, staring warily about the stone walls. Nearly right on cue, a cawing came from above. Cornelius flapped down through the rocks and came to land on Jim’s shoulder. With one black wing he pointed to a turn just up ahead on the path.

“This way, this way! Two lefts and three rights around the next few towers of stone should keep us moving in the right direction, my friends.” Cornelius had been flying ahead and looking at the crags from above for the last two hours, guiding Jim and his friends to the other side.

“How far in are we in, Cornelius?” Jim asked the raven in a whisper. Whether he wanted to admit it to Lacey and George or not, he hoped more than anything that the end of this dark, twisting path drew close.

“Nearly halfway there, my boy. But be thankful you have my eyes and my wings. These crags are nothing short of a maze. Woe to the one who loses his way amongst them. A man could be lost for days and never come close to finding his way to the other side.”

“What’s that about being lost?” Lacey interrupted.

“We’re not lost, Lacey, so stop eavesdropping on other people’s conversations!” Jim snapped. Even as Jim heard his own voice, he wondered why it sounded so harsh. The heavy cold he’d begun to feel pressed upon him. He felt it in his chest and on his shoulders. Every time his hand burned anew, the cold deepened its hold on the rest of his body. It bit into his bones and made him so much more tired and dreary. Instead of apologizing for his harsh tone, Jim simply said: “Don’t worry, Lacey, we just need to get through these ravines and then that forest. Once we get to that cave and find the shell, we’ll get off this island and everything will be fine.”

Cornelius harrumphed in Jim’s ear, poking at him with his wing to encourage a bit more kindness than that to his friend. Then the raven flapped back and sat himself on Lacey’s shoulder instead, to offer a few calming words and smooth over the moment of fear.

“I was saying nothing of the sort about being lost, sweet Lacey. I was actually just recalling the time that Dread Steele and I were forced to face the Minotaur’s Maze on Crete…yes the very one from the old tales! It was no easy trick without a spool of string, I can tell you that!”

“Not another story,” George whined under his breath.

“I like your stories, Mr. Cornelius,” Lacey said. Jim could practically hear her glaring at George as she spoke. “They’re the only cheerful things we have under these horrible rocks.”

“George,” Paul said, laughing to himself. “If we all turn to stone on this island, Cornelius has to have his mouth open and you’ve gotta be pluggin’ your ears with your fingers, like this!” Paul demonstrated and Peter exploded into laughter at this suggestion. But Lacey stomped her foot on the ground and unloaded on the younger Ratts, bringing the small party to a halt.

“Stop talking about that! It’s dreadful! And besides, we’re not going to turn to stone, are we Mr. Cornelius?”

“Of course not,” said the raven. “With me as your guide, we’ll be out of these rocks in no time.” Yet Jim could plainly hear a note of uncertainty in Cornelius’s usually sure voice.

“Well, if we do turn to stone,” said George, who never knew when to quit while he was ahead. “Lacey should make sure she freezes in mid-stomp with her finger up in the air so that everyone can see what a nag she was in real life!”

That was the last straw. Lacey balled up a fist. Her face lit up a bright red and her eyes flashed a furious blue. She was clearly ready to shut George up with a swing at his jaw. This was the last thing they needed now, Jim thought. His hand began to burn again and the cold shook him hard, getting him angrier and angrier the longer they dawdled in the ravines.

“Oh, would all of you just please shut it!” Jim hissed. He stalked back into the middle of his friends, hands on his hips. “I don’t care if we tell stories or walk as quiet as ghosts. I also don’t care if you lot want to make sure you’re all standing on our heads when you turn to stone! I, for one, am not going to turn to stone. I’m going to find that shell in this cave and I’m going to use it to set things right and put those Cromiers in their place! So just be quiet for a few minutes, so I can think straight and get us out of here!”

Jim’s friends stared at him with wide eyes, though that hardly bothered Jim just then. He was feeling quite good for having made his point so soundly, and was just in the process of spinning sharply about on his heel to march onward, when a loud voice echoed down the rocky corridor behind him.

“Well, that’s got to be the worst idea I’ve ever heard! Doomed to failure it is!”

Jim stopped dead in his tracks. A dark scowl burrowed even deeper onto his face. He spun back around, one finger pointed into the air, ready to say something more to George, Lacey, or whoever had just—

Yet before Jim could begin his tirade, he noted the wide-eyed looks on his friends’ faces were no longer directed at him. Rather, they were pointed in every other direction about the gloomy rocks.

The voice had belonged to someone else.

FOUR

cy, you’re never wantin’ to try anythin’ new! Not never! If it were up to you, we’d do the same blasted nothins, talk about the same blasted nonsense, and eat the same blasted food until we died and turned to dust from boredom, you bossy old hen!”