Cerulean Isle (17 page)
“I was taken aback by his question. How could he know of my journal? I did not respond. He nodded as if my silence was all the answer he needed.
“‘Though I have not read your book,’ said Christoff, ‘I know what fills its pages. Your stories of the Merfolk drove L’Ollon to madness.’
“‘They are not
stories,’
I yelled.
“‘You are a passionate man,’ he said. ‘My name is Christoff. I was once Jean L’Ollon’s quartermaster. And you, beggar, thief,
pirate…
you sailed aboard the
Obsidian
too. I am in need of assistance and could use a seaman of your experience. Come, join me for a drink.’
“I joined Christoff and Waylin for a drink at the harbor-side saloon. The two men wore hooded cloaks into town to conceal their identity. I didn’t care who saw me. The hour was late and most of the town slept. Once in the saloon, we sat and talked over foaming mugs.
“‘I have little desire to sail over troubled waters,’ I said to them.
“‘On the contrary,’ replied Christoff, ‘I think you miss the ocean. Life on land is beginning to cloud your judgment. You have skills that are fading. I am offering you one last mission. There are people dear to me who need our help. At this time, I cannot go to them. You are the only man who can get to them and convince them to follow you.’
“‘You would have me be a messenger?’ I scoffed.
“‘It is critical,’ added Waylin. ‘We would go to them now if we were not being followed. The
Obsidian
still sails. L’Ollon’s men are tireless and thirst for our blood. Their only desire is to find us and the two lads, and hang us from the very bow where they hung Shanley.’
“‘The
Obsidian
is two days behind us.’ Christoff reached into a pouch and produced three pieces of eight. ‘Payment for your time thus far.’ I took the coins eagerly and accepted the job.”
“I can’t believe the
Obsidian
sails,” I said.
“And all for us, it seems,” said Grant.
“They instructed me to hand you this.” Owen reached into his shirt and pulled out a weathered parchment.
I took the letter and broke the wax seal that kept it closed. Unfolding its delicate edges, I held it before me and began reading.
Dear Friends,
If you are reading this letter, ill times have befallen us all. My friends, they have found us. I suppose it was inevitable and that I was a fool for underestimating them. What troubles me is that I do not know how they have managed to operate so effectively without L’Ollon.
I have known that you were successful in obtaining the journal and sea chart from Shanley’s estate. It was wise of you to hide these items. Grant, you are a man of the sea. Use the chart. Unlock its secrets. Jacob, you must believe once more in the Water People. My boy, they are as real as you and I. As for Owen’s role in this…he will guide you to the eastern shore where you will board the sloop. You should know, lads, I am dying while I write this. I have become quite ill as of late and nothing can cure what ails me.
There is a battle to be fought and a war to be won. Stay and defend Rosewing or follow Owen. The choice is yours. My journey is over at last. Goodbye, Jacob. Goodbye, Grant.
C.
“There is little time, Lords of Rosewing,” said Owen. “A decision must be made. The pirates of the
Obsidian
will discover this haven and they will attack without warning.”
“Tell me, Owen,” I snapped. Thoughts of the past ignited my anger. I drew my sword and pressed the tip against his chest. My sudden fit of rage surprised him. “Are they real? Are they?”
“You ask me of the Merfolk?” His eyes were locked on mine.
“Answer me, you crazy old fool!”
Anna let out a frightened scream and Martin hurried her out of the room.
“Yes. The Merlords and Mermaidens are real, damn you! I refuse to be challenged on this anymore.” Owen forced the blade away, snatched the hilt, and tore it from my hand. He struck me hard in the face. I fell backward, my head slamming against the floor. Owen leapt on top of me. My blade was readied in his grip and the cold point was pressed against my throat. He glared at me, the corners of his mouth wet with spit. His dark brown eyes burned into me. His free hand pulled my hair, forcing my chin upward, exposing my neck.
“Look at you, Jacob,” he snarled, “your anger is your weakness. You are not in control. I am. And so is the enemy. Destruction, cruelty, and death will march for Rosewing. The pirates of the
Obsidian
will force their way inside. They will tear down the doors to get you. Then with blades sharper than this, they will pin you to the wall. They will slay Anna first, then Martin, then Grant.
You
are the one they want the most.
You
killed their captain. When the room is red with the blood of your friends, they will set fire to everything. They will leave you then. You will be alone in the smoke and heat with a sword in your belly and your dead friends at your feet. The entire island of Grenada will be under attack. And you show
me
anger? After being truthful, you lift a sword against
me?
Tell me why I should not cut you down right here.”
I did not know what to say. He was right. I had no authority to challenge him.
“Tell me,” hollered Owen. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”
“Because
I
will kill
you
and you’ll never see your Mermaidens again,” said Grant from behind. He was holding a loaded pistol. He pressed the broad barrel against Owen’s head. Owen dropped the sword, and I moved away.
“Aye! I am pleased beyond measure,” the old man exclaimed. His face brightened and he began a queer dance. “Jacob is reckless and Grant is a fool but together they are unconquerable, ahoy!”
“What is wrong with you?” asked Grant.
“Many things, Grant.” Owen then turned to me, saying, “Let us be affable, Jacob, and forget our quarrel. Grant, save your shot for those more deserving.” Owen and I shook hands. “We have preparations to make regardless of what you decide to do.”
“What should we decide, Jacob?” asked Grant.
I looked sharply at him and said, “Get the sea chart.”
~~~~~~
We assembled in Grant’s suite, and he unrolled the old blue chart. The edges of the parchment spilled over his desk. Grant smoothed out the document, then reached into his desk and produced another chart. This one was white, crisp, and clean. He untied the ribbon and let it unfurl over the other.
“This is my copy,” Grant said. “Over the years I’ve worked to reproduce L’Ollon’s. The original is stained and weathered, and I feared that it would be ruined from time’s uncaring touch. In all modesty, my duplicate is perfect.”
Owen studied the new chart. “Perfect indeed, Grant. Fine work!” His fingers slid over the lines and traced the measurements that Grant had reproduced. “This is where it happened. This is where L’Ollon’s fleet was bested.” Owen’s finger followed a series of dashes that began at Curacao, trailed northwest, and stopped in the middle of the Caribbean Sea.
“Is this where L’Ollon lost his gold?” asked Grant.
“Aye.”
I said, “And that is also where you, Owen, saw the Merfolk for the first time.”
“Indeed it is. Fired me shot at them, I did!”
I placed a finger on the island of Grenada. “We begin here,” I said. “Though I am uncertain of where to go, we must get as much distance between us and L’Ollon’s men as possible.”
“West is our only choice,” said Grant.
“Why not north?” I asked. “We can leave the Caribbean entirely.”
“With the trade winds filling our sails, we will cover a great distance in little time; the quickness of the sloop will be unmatchable. It is safer for us to plot a westward course, since there is land only a few days north or south.”
“Then it is decided,” I said. “Tomorrow we shall prepare for our departure. By the evening we will say goodbye to Rosewing.”
Owen bid us a good night and went down stairs to sleep in the parlor. I stayed awake, unable to find peace, my mind as restless as the sea. Hours passed. The stars wheeled slowly over the island. I decided on a drink and left my room.
I found Owen awake in the sitting room. Seated by the fireplace with a stack of books at his feet, he heard my entrance and motioned for me to join him. “I was wondering which of the lords was the restless one.”
“To be honest,” I admitted, “I don’t sleep well.”
“Another thing we have in common, Master Jacob. The old salts say captains do not sleep; they rest but they do not sleep.”
“Are you likening me to a captain?”
“Aye. Why shouldn’t I?”
“I’m not much of a seafarer. Grant would be a fine captain.”
“Then what are you?”
I did not answer.
He continued, “A captain is a leader. A captain plans and thinks ahead. Grant may be capable of sailing a fleet of brigantines, but can he motivate a listless crew? Can he show the others what it means to be fearless? Can he acknowledge the strengths and weaknesses of everyone on board, including his own?”
“And you think I can?”
“Of course. Listen here; I am a man with many flaws. Knowing this makes me strong. I am greedy. I am impatient. I know naught of remorse, and I do not believe in forgiveness. Look into your heart and understand your flaws.”
“Well, I am angry, stubborn, and I guess I am too protective.”
“What makes you so angry?”
“My father. Everything in my life makes me remember him and how he betrayed me. I am stubborn because I will not let this go, and I am protective of the things I love because I do not want them to be taken from me. Yet, that is exactly what is happening, isn’t it? I am losing everything—Rosewing, Grenada, my home. Once again I will be without a place of solace.” I paced the floor. “Curse those pirates. For ten long years I have fought with my memories and worked hard to build a new life. Now it is all threatened. I thought about staying and defending my keep, but I know we will lose and bring doom upon the island. It’s better if we go.”
“There! You speak like a captain. You know your flaws and why you have them. You assessed the danger and considered the alternatives. You have formed a battle plan and have centered it on the welfare of the innocent. Good, good, good!”
“And what of this battle? In Christoff ’s letter, he wrote, ‘there is a battle to be fought and war to be won.’ What did he mean by this?”
“Aye. It is the battle for your freedom and the war against L’Ollon’s men.”
“How are we supposed to defeat them? The sloop is no match for the barque. Their numbers triple ours.”
“That is correct. At this time they are stronger. However, we will get help, Jacob.”
“Who will help us? No one in the Caribbean would do battle against the pirates of the
Obsidian.”
“Those who I mean to align with have already bested them once.” A thoughtful distance filled his eyes and a grin spread over his face.
“What?”
“You hear me well. It is to Cerulean Isle that we will sail. We will find the Merfolk, and they will aid us in destroying what is left of L’Ollon’s forces.”
I looked around for empty wine bottles. I found nothing. He had not been drinking.
“Owen,” I began as delicately as possible, “I believe in Merlords and Mermaidens, but why would they want to help us?”
Owen rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. “While in my cage I had time to think on many things. The most dominating of my thoughts was the terrible night aboard the
Obsidian.
I remembered it clearly: the black raging waves slamming against the hull, the storm tossing us about. Then there was the light in the water. It was like starlight, only it wavered and shimmered through the depths. When I saw the Merlord staring at me, I panicked. Alas, I was young and foolish. In my superstition, I assumed they meant us harm. The Merlord in the water looked at me in kindness while I responded with fear and aggression.
“They are a peaceful race. They came to help the most ruthless fleet on the Caribbean. They will help us, I am sure of it.”
“Owen, that sounds wondrous, but what if the Mer remember you and your pistol shot? What if they remember when you turned on the Darien chief to obtain their secrets? If they recognize you, they will not have dealings with us. They will kill us.”
“Aye! Thinking like a captain again!”
~~~~~~
The morning brought a gray mist over the island. As we settled in for breakfast, Grant and I spoke of the previous night’s happenings.
“Your quarrel with Owen was risky, Jacob. We hardly know the man. He might have ended you had I not been there. You must be cautious around him. He is a madman, after all.”
“He and I had words late last night. I don’t think he is as mad as we initially thought. Or, perhaps I am beginning to understand him.”
“I will keep one eye on him, one on you, and the other on my rapier, should things get out of hand again.”
“That would mean that you have three eyes.”
Our laughter quieted when we heard approaching footfalls. We turned to see a strange man enter the dining room.
Having spent nearly an hour in the washroom, Owen hardly resembled the beggar we had befriended. His face was smooth from the caress of the razor; his skin was clean and appeared two shades lighter. Without the grime and tattered garments, Owen looked five years younger. His brown eyes were bold, alert, and eager. He had helped himself to a set of my clothes; a sleeveless brown tunic, dark brown belt, and black pants. His feet were bare.
“Good morning, Owen,” I said as I pulled a chair from the table.
“Aye. Thank you both for your hospitality. The clothes make me feel like my old self, and it is truly grand to be clean again.” Owen bowed.
“No worries, friend,” said Grant.
We enjoyed a hearty breakfast of boiled potatoes seasoned with the finest spices from Rosewing farm, buttery rolls, wedges of imported cheese, and a bowl of mixed fruit and nuts. After breakfast, we began with our preparations.
