Cerulean Isle (8 page)
“Take what you can carry, Jacob,” he said, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
“You’ve already filled my pouch, remember?” I patted the heavy bag that dangled from my side.
My thoughts trailed as I searched through the belongings of Jean L’Ollon’s enemy. I kept thinking of the Mermaiden.
Is she really out there? Was she one of the Water People who sank L’Ollon’s fleet? She must be real. An artist must have seen her and woven the tapestry to remember her, to capture her for all to see.
It was then that a terrible thought occurred to me. I recalled Grant’s words:
‘L’Ollon is on a quest to reclaim his fortune. It begins with Shanley and will end with the Water People.’
If these beautiful creatures truly lived, if they were responsible for the ruin of L’Ollon’s fleet, he meant to kill them.
I stood motionless at the realization of this. I looked back at the tapestry. Her eyes gazed at me. It was such beautiful artwork, such intimate craftsmanship. I could almost hear the wind and feel the salty mist on my face. I wanted her to come to life within the threadwork and slip into the water where no one could harm her.
“I found it!” exclaimed Grant. He lifted a painting off its mount to reveal a weathered chart posted to the wall. “This is it, Jacob. It has L’Ollon’s name written on the bottom.” With care, he took it down and folded it small enough to hide in his shirt. “All we need now is that strange book. Any luck over there?”
I shook my head and stepped away from the tapestry of the Mermaiden.
“No worries,” he said, “I’ll search that book shelf, and you search the drawers of the desk. Hurry, we’ve got to get to the harbor.”
Bundles of parchment and scrolls filled the top drawer. I sifted through them and went on to the next. Bottles of ink and extra quills met my digging hands. In the last drawer was a small assortment of leather bound books, and in the middle of them, a shiny blue ribbon caught my eye.
“I’ve got it!” I tucked the book safely in my shirt and joined my friend at the door.
We retreated to the storage room and closed the door behind us. After putting on our shoes, we snaked between the stacks of crates back to the window. We slipped through the open window and stumbled out onto the soft warm earth.
“It’s time for the hard part,” said Grant. “We must hurry to the waterfront and meet up with Christoff. There is a good chance that blood will spill before night falls. Be brave and keep a readied will.”
We dashed away from the villa and into the thick growth of palms and fern, the leaves and vines slashing at us as we ran down the jungle-like hillside. The money in my pouch chimed and the deadly short sword clanged against my thigh. Grant ran ahead with the rolled-up sea chart stuffed in his belt.
Soon the Caribbean Sea gleamed beyond the edge of the forest. We broke from the tree line and raced down a graveled slope and onto a dusty trail that brought us into the heart of Willemstad.
Rushing through the crowded market, we headed to the harbor. As the scent of the ocean grew stronger, the bitter taste of fear brewed in my mouth. I saw the dozens of masts jabbing the clouds and heard boarding bells ringing, along with the distant murmur of seamen. The waves lapped against the pilings of the piers, and I heard the creaking of old ships moored against their will.
When we arrived at the waterfront, it was hard to tell who among the sullied sailors was friend or foe. I searched the crowd for Christoff.
“Stay close and don’t look anyone in the eye,” said Grant.
We ventured along the harbor, passing crews working to restock and repair their ships. They rolled barrels of rum, provisions, and powder over wobbling planks and up to the gangway.
We found Shanley’s beautiful sloop rocking softly in the blue water. It was moored with heavy lines that coiled around sturdy cleats on the port bow and wide pilings stemming from the dock. The sloop was single-masted, with a white mainsail and several tight jibs. The headsail flapped in the subtle wind. The hull of the ship was clean and a bright blue stripe—the boot top—ran from bow to stern, marking the waterline. The sloop had no name, and I wondered what I would call it if it belonged to me. The most intriguing feature of the ship was that the quarterdeck had been raised and a cabin area had been built under it. I guessed that there were three small rooms above the stern.
There were nearly thirty men aboard the sloop. They busied themselves coiling extra line and inspecting the rigging. A man with long yellow hair mopped the deck.
Grant stopped suddenly. Christoff was engaged in conversation with Captain Shanley. Shanley was pointing out features of the sloop to Christoff.
“Notice,” said Shanley, “that this ship is more of a small warship than a traditional sloop. I’ve outfitted her with four cannon, two on the starboard and two on the portside. Each fires a nine-pound shot instead of the traditional eighteen-pound shot. This cuts down on weight. She could probably take another four cannon, but you can alter her as you see fit. That’s what makes these ladies so attractive in our trade, eh? A man can make her into whatever he fancies. I’ve had the finest carpenters in Curacao alter her stern. This beauty has three comfortable cabins below the quarterdeck.”
“You’ve crafted a fine ship, to be sure,” answered Christoff.
“Ah, see there, looks like you got your crew, my friend,” said Shanley. “Your shipboard articles were hard to turn down. That yellow-haired man with the mop, that’s Waylin. He knows the seas better than me, I’ll admit. He’ll serve you and the ship well. I almost hate to sell her, but I got me a good buyer, so all’s well.”
“All’s well indeed,” said Christoff. “Well then, without further delay, I would like to conclude this deal. It seems that my financial advisor has arrived.” Christoff nodded a greeting to the man standing behind Shanley.
Shanley turned around and gasped, stepping back as he recognized the man with the long, greasy black hair and rotted teeth.
“Good day, James,” said L’Ollon, his face gnarled with malice. L’Ollon moved forward quickly and pressed his twelve-inch pistol into Shanley’s stomach. “You’re coming with me, and if you make a sound I’ll pop your belly right here on the dock.”
“Kill me, then,” said Shanley. “I have nothing to live for anyway.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“You know why.”
“Ah, yes. Your deaf son. Somebody kidnapped him in San Juan. I wonder who that was.”
“You worthless fiend,” growled Shanley.
L’Ollon struck him in the face. Blood poured from Shanley’s nose and dyed his teeth pink. He recoiled from the impact of the blow and would have fallen to the ground if it weren’t for Christoff holding his shoulders.
“What do you want, Jean? I’ll pay whatever I can. I’ll give you
Kraken’s Bane
and
Eternity.
My estate, I’ll sign the deed over to you. Return my son, and I’ll surrender.”
L’Ollon grabbed Shanley’s face with his grimy left hand, forcing Shanley to look at him.
“You are in no position to negotiate. I did not come all this way to commandeer your fleet or seize control of Willemstad. No. I am here for three things: my sea chart, the book, and—” L’Ollon broke off and turned his gaze on the quartermaster. “Christoff, where are those two vagrant rats, anyway?”
Grant and I took deep breaths and stepped forward. Captain L’Ollon noticed our approach but kept his pistol buried in Shanley’s stomach.
“Grant,” yelled L’Ollon. “Were you successful?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“It’s time for a family reunion. And then I will have my
third
desire fulfilled.”
“And what is that?” Shanley’s voice shook with hatred.
“Your death!”
As these words were spoken, the
Obsidian
came into view. Its sails rippled against the sun, and its wide body split the water as it entered the harbor. People began to flee. Men scurried away from their ships, taking whatever they could carry. Peddlers and merchants recognized the dreadful ship, gathered their wares, and left. The sight of this one ship struck fear into everyone in Willemstad. L’Ollon looked on as his mighty barque drifted to a halt roughly two hundred yards from the docks. The powerful cannon were readied and aimed at the wharf. No other ships in the bay were ready to combat the
Obsidian.
As panic broke out along the docks, the barque and its crew waited for a signal to open fire.
“You see, James,” yelled L’Ollon, “today your empire falls. Today I reclaim the fortune that my forefathers amassed, the fortune that you stole. Today you will watch your son die.”
A lifeboat was lowered from the gunwale of the
Obsidian.
Two heavily-armed pirates rowed it to the docks. The men took hold of Shanley and forced him into the craft. Christoff signaled for us to get in. Once all five of us were seated, the pirates rowed away from the dock. L’Ollon kept his pistol aimed at Shanley, who remained silent as the lifeboat bobbed and rocked over the choppy waves.
The row to the ship seemed to last for hours. I tried to remain calm and keep my thoughts together. I felt the warm leather of the mysterious book against my chest.
What story does it hold? What words could be inscribed within that are so important to Jean L’Ollon?
The
Obsidian’s
hull loomed over us. The pirates on deck hauled our boat out of the sea. I saw a calculating look in Shanley’s eyes as he exited the lifeboat, no doubt piecing together a battle plan, a desperate and last strategy.
Instinctively, my left hand fell upon the cold pommel of the sword that hung from my belt.
I bid you welcome, old friend.” Captain L’Ollon stood proudly under the mainmast. Dark clouds formed overhead, a storm approaching.
A large portion of the
Obsidian’s
crew surrounded us. L’Ollon and Shanley faced one another in the center of the circle. Grant, Christoff, and I stood to the right of our captain. L’Ollon, with his pistol aimed at Shanley, ordered one of his crew to retrieve the deaf boy. The pirate nodded and hurried away.
Shanley remained ready. He did not cower. He focused on his adversary and maintained a poised posture. Dried blood flaked under his nose. “You have my son?”
“I am a lot of things, but a liar is not one of them.” “If he has suffered, I swear I will—”
“You will what? Have you so quickly forgotten that I am in control? You are aboard
my
ship, encompassed by
my
crew, with
my
pistol readied against your heart.”
“And what will you do?” challenged Shanley. “After you have killed me, what’s next for the great and terrible Jean L’Ollon?”
“I trusted you once with my plans. Never again.”
“Then it is as I suspected. There is nothing left for you after my death.”
“You dare speak to me in such a manner? My plans have only just begun. It is all in the book, is it not?”
The brown leather book remained hidden in my shirt.
“You have succumbed to desperate measures, L’Ollon. The once cunning pirate lord is chasing the ravings of a madman.”
L’Ollon pressed the pistol under Shanley’s chin, forcing his mouth to close. He spoke in a half growl. “There is more truth in that book than you will ever know. People should learn to listen to the mad.” He lowered his weapon and let it hover over Shanley’s heart.
“The Merfolk are nothing but wild stories brought back from sea by drunken sailors. That book will lead you in circles.”
“You speak like one who has sought Cerulean Isle.”
“Nay. I wouldn’t waste the labor of my crew on such a ridiculous voyage. There is no Cerulean Isle and there aren’t any Merfolk. My last thought will be of the
Obsidian
sailing the blue, hunting imaginary Mermaidens.”
The circle of pirates broke when two men burst into the center with the deaf boy in their grip. They tossed him to the floor. His sunken eyes looked desperately at L’Ollon and then shifted to Captain Shanley. A weak smile cracked his dried lips as he crawled toward his father.
“Sebastian!” Despite L’Ollon’s poised weapon, Shanley knelt to help his son. “This is madness!” He cradled the boy. “Surely you have some sensibility left in you, L’Ollon. Again, I offer you everything I own if you spare Sebastian. Please.”
“Ah ha! The great Captain Shanley reduced to a beggar.”
“My son has nothing to do with our business or the wrongs we have done to one another. Come now, Jean. We are pirates. We share a common lifestyle that goes far beyond shipboard articles. I am talking about infamy and renown.” Shanley paused to help his son to his feet. The pair faced L’Ollon and his pistol.
Shanley continued, “What is done can never be undone. Nay, old friend, and we
were
friends not long ago, I am not begging. I should not need to, not to you, at least. What will you accomplish by the murder of a child? Yes, I found your sunken fortune and took it for my own. You would have done the same thing. I will give it all back to you, and more. You have won.”
A long silence fell over the ship. L’Ollon’s eyes burned in his skull. Rain began to fall and the wind of the brewing storm blew his inky hair, the oily strands twisting and writhing like black snakes. His jaw tensed and the edges of his mouth curled, showing brown and yellow teeth.
“Is there no end to your cruelty?” asked Shanley.
“No.”
The barrel of the pistol exploded. A yellow flash flamed for an instant and a cloud of smoke filled the air. I heard a thud, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floorboards. When the pistol smoke cleared, the boy Sebastian lay in a pool of rain and blood. Shanley let out a heart-wrenching scream.
L’Ollon took a long silver sword from one of his men and approached the defeated pirate. Shanley held his dead son loosely in his left arm. He lifted his maddened gaze to L’Ollon. “You will burn in the deepest regions of hell, I will see to it!”
