Across The Sea (24 page)

“The Acadae is merely a myth,”
the Dream Finder said, letting go of his wrist. “However, there are
many amongst us who believe that once, it really did exist. For a
long time, people have called it the Treasure of Atlantis.”

“What is it?”

“The Acadae was created by a
close ally of King Stullis, the last king of Atlantis. When the
King finally realized that the war between he and the peasant
farmer Torlo would never end, that it would go on, for generations;
he decided that if he and his descendants could not rule all of
Atlantis, no one else would. He used the Acadae. The Acadae is a
weapon, Francis. It is the weapon which legend says was used
thousands of years ago to sink the continent we call Atlantis.”

Francis was stunned. “This…
this is what they’ve been searching for? For all these years? A
weapon?”

“There has never been a weapon
like it since. A weapon which can sink large masses of land deep
into the sea. Once clues of its existence began surfacing all over
the world, the British wanted it for themselves. They convinced
themselves that it was because they did not want it falling into
the wrong hands. The Watermark, however, the group your brother
joined, was not convinced of the Royal Navy’s intentions. They set
out to find the weapon themselves and destroy it so that no one
could use its technology ever again.”

“Did Robert of Dreighton always
know the Acadae was a weapon?” Francis asked.

“At one point he and many in
the Royal Navy truly believed they were only removing it from the
world, keeping Rogalles and the Spanish from using it against
England. They never saw it as further empowering the English
Monarchy. But Dreighton went mad. He changed.”

“And Rogalles.”

“He was next in line to become
the King of Spain; a title, which in recent years, has been
bestowed upon him.”

Francis was blown away. How
strange that Dreighton was now working for his old nemesis.

“I have to go,” he told
Alianna. “I have to find my brother. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Of course Francis knew that the
Dream Finder did not believe that they would ever see each other
again. Francis himself, could not deny, that a dour feeling,
perhaps death, permeated the air on the island of Corralo.

He ran through the thin forest
and then onto grey, rocky, barren land. He looked up – as he
entered a vast, empty valley with hills and mountains surrounding
it.

He raced
onwards, scanning about, frantic.
What am
I looking for? These mountains, these hills, what could they be
hiding? I'm out in the open here. Anyone can see me.

Boom
.

A cannon, somewhat distant, had
sounded from the sea.

Boom
.

The battle on the water had
begun.

This empty
place
, Francis thought.
This abandoned valley. Once the battle moves to
land, it’ll move to here.

Something caught his attention:
at the top of a tall hill was a black dot.

What is that?

Francis ran harder, faster.

It doesn’t look like it
belongs.

It took a long while before
Francis was able to fully cross the lengthy valley and reach the
foot of the hill. He saw a beaten path leading up and darted onto
it. As Francis neared the top of the hill, he saw what the black
dot was: a dilapidated wooden cabin; a victim of time and sea
weather. And it was not black. It was grey.

Francis hoped this was the
place which Bodin’s guards had abandoned, angering the assassin in
doing so. Francis grabbed at the door’s handle. There was a rusted
padlock on the latch. Francis did not have much time. This place
would soon be swarming with armies, not to mention Bodin with his
murderous crew of brutes. Francis pulled his belt straight off and
manoeuvred the buckle’s pin into the lock.

The lock popped.

Francis tore it off and ripped
open the door.

The first thing he saw was
darkness.

Francis left the door open for
light. He wanted to call out Michael’s name but he did not want to
alert any guards who might still be nearby. His eyes focused in the
semi-darkness and he was able to see that the cabin was just a
covering for a stone, spiral stairway which wound round and round
deep underground. Francis descended, his shoes making a clapping
noise against the hard steps. He rushed further down, into utter
blackness.

Plock
!

“Oww!”

His face had smacked something
and as a reflex, he jerked back, almost falling. He reached out in
front of him and touched flat wood. He felt around some more and
upon feeling the edges he realized that this was a door. He drew
his hand down, searching for a handle. His hand found another
padlock. He was still holding his loose belt in his left hand – so
again he used its pin and worked the lock.

Pop
.

Francis pulled the lock off the
latch and pushed the door open. Orange light burned – from a
flaming torch, affixed on the wall of the rocky tunnel ahead.
Without delay, he moved into the low and narrow passageway which
appeared to go on forever with lit torches fastened on the left
wall at intervals.

Soon Francis saw tunnel
openings on his left and right. He entered one. It was an empty,
rocky cave. He ran out and entered another. It too was empty. He
ran into two more. Both empty. He ran into a fourth.

And stopped.

Heavy chains ran through
several metal loops bolted into the rock floor. Someone had been
held prisoner here. Francis ran out of the room and into another
opening. Empty. He ran into yet another. Empty. Francis could not
hold it in any longer.

“MICHAEL!” he screamed.

The scream echoed down the main
tunnel, “Michael!… Michael… Michael…”

Francis ran to more openings
along the main tunnel as his scream faded. No response came. He
realized then how careless he had just been.

He stopped again.

He was at the mouth of another
cave with heavy chains and metal loops. He thought of Michael and
how he may have been in this very room, chained, for who knows how
long.

He ran out and entered the next
one. More chains and loops.

And a lump in the corner.

Francis stepped closer, his
breathing loud, heavy. The lump had long, matted hair. An awful
smell poisoned the air. Francis stood over the lump. He rubbed his
own eyes and looked again.

The lump was an old man. Small,
thin, frail. Asleep; perhaps dead. Dressed in rags. Overgrown
beard. Black-stained face. His wrists and ankles were locked in
manacles which were attached to the heavy chains.

“Hello?” Francis murmured.

The old man did not move.

Francis knelt and touched his
shoulder.

“Hello,” he repeated.

Nothing. Francis shook him.

“Please,” he pleaded. “Wake
up.”

The man’s head moved from side
to side. His eyes remained shut. His body then trembled, as if
cold.

“Hello,” Francis said
again.

The old man opened his eyes. He
turned his head to look up. Francis saw that his eyes were glassy
and his cheeks hollow.

“Is there someone else in
here?” Francis asked. “I’m looking for another prisoner on this
island.”

The old man lifted himself on
one elbow. “Little boy,” he finally answered, his voice cracking.
“How did you get in here?”

“Where are the other
prisoners?” Francis beseeched him.

“Who are you here with?” the
old man questioned. “Are they holding you captive?” He looked up,
past Francis.

“No,” Francis said. “I’m
looking for someone. Another prisoner.”

“I am the only prisoner
here.”

Francis sighed. “How can you be
so sure?”

“Little boy, who are you here
with? Where did the guards go?”

Francis’ heart felt trampled
upon. What if Michael had never even been on this island?

“Little boy, who are you here
with?” the old man repeated.

“Are you sure there’s no one
else here?” Francis asked again.

“Only guards. I have never seen
another prisoner. Unless you too are a prisoner.”

Francis placed his hand on one
of the manacles.

“Maybe I can help you get out
of these,” he offered. “But we don’t have much time. The men who
locked you here are on their way back.”

“Where did you come from?” the
old man asked. His stained face went tense. He was puzzled.

“I was captured myself,”
Francis answered, “but I escaped. You have to tell me everything
you know.”

“The guards, do they know
you’re here?”

“One of them
is with a man named Bodin. Do you know him?” Francis could find no
keyhole in the manacle, just a short slit.
How can I free this man?

“What is your name?” the old
man asked. “Was that you yelling before? I thought I was
dreaming.”

“I was yelling for my brother.
He’s the prisoner I’m looking for.”

“Your…” The old man sat up.
“Your brother.” He brought his face closer to Francis’ own. He
appeared to be examining Francis’ features up close. Francis felt
uncomfortable. He looked into the old man’s eyes. The man’s face
tensed up again. He was confused. “What is your brother’s
name?”

“Michael.”

The old man
smiled, his hollow cheeks making his smile sinister. “It
was
you I heard.” His
eyes turned glassier. “I heard you.” His sinister smile grew wider.
“Francis, it’s me.”

Francis
frowned.
How does this stranger know my
name?
“Who are you?” he asked.

“Francis, it’s me.
Michael.”

Francis
stood, stepping back. Why would this old man say such a thing? “You
are not my brother,” he said. A few moments ago, he had felt
hopelessness at ever finding Michael again and now it appeared that
this man was making fun of him. Or perhaps he was just plain mad.
The man extended a hand –
cling
! – but the chain held it back
and Francis was quick enough to move out of its way. “Stop that,”
Francis ordered.

The man lunged up, his chains
clanging. Surprised, Francis was not able to step back in time; the
man seized Francis by the face with both manacled hands. Francis
grabbed onto the large hands as they pressed down into his cheeks.
They were deceptively strong for an old man.

“I’ve waited too long to see
you again to have this moment stolen,” the old man said.

Francis was scared.

“Look at me,” the man ordered.
“Why are you so frightened?”

Francis stared into the strange
man’s face, but Francis tripped then and fell backwards onto the
cold, jagged floor. He looked up. The man was taller than Francis
had initially believed. And his hair, though dirty and mangy, had
no grey. He was filthy, foul smelling and bone thin but this was
not an old man looming over him.

The man smiled again. “It’s me,
Francis. It really is me.”

Francis did not know what to
say. The crazed man was held back by the chains; Francis could run
off now.

“You’ve
grown,” the stranger continued. “
I
barely recognize you. I really thought I was
dreaming. Your voice was different but still I recognized
it.”

There was a sort of spark in
the man’s eyes after he finished saying this. Anyone would have
read that look as a sure sign of madness, but Francis’ heart
skipped; he knew that spark only too well. Tears welled up in his
eyes as he beheld the man standing before him. “Everyone missed you
so much,” he blurted.

The man
grabbed Francis’ left hand, lifting him to his feet, and threw his
arms around him. “It was
you
. Francis, it was
you
that I missed
so.”

“I… I didn’t know what to do
without you,” Francis said. He was crying now. “I’ve seen bad
things. Robert of Dreighton is real. And he’s a terrible man. I’ve
seen him kill and do awful things.”

“I know,” Michael concurred. He
pulled back and looked into Francis’ face. “Is that how you came to
me? Did Bodin have anything to do with it?”

“Yes. But I escaped. And now,
you and I can escape together.”

“I can’t.” Michael lifted both
his manacled wrists and jingled his left manacled ankle and then
right. “You need a different key for each and Bodin has every
one.”

“I can get you out,” Francis
said. He lifted his belt to show Michael and pinched the buckle’s
needle between his thumb and index finger. “I’ll just use
this.”

Michael shook his head. “These
manacles,” he said, lifting his left wrist, “are immune to belts.”
He placed his wrist back down. “Bodin had only four of these
special locks and he used all of them on me.” Michael sat back down
on the cold, rock floor. “I guess Bodin wanted to use you to force
me to reveal things.”

“Yes,” Francis said. “Michael,
there are armies here from both England and Spain and they’re about
to battle each other. We have to leave now.”

“Francis,”
Michael replied. “
You
have to leave. Before Bodin gets here.”

“What are you talking
about?”

“Bodin and his men brought you
here to use against me. And when they’re done, they’ll kill
you.”

“They’ll kill you too,” Francis
said.

“Our time together has run out.
Do this for me. For Mother and Father. For Margaret.”

“Not without you.”

“Please,” Michael said.
“Go.”

“I didn’t come here for
nothing,” Francis countered, his voice cracking. “People risked
their lives. People died. All for me to get here. To you.”