The PriZin of Zin (13 page)
Authors: Loretta Sinclair
spy
[spahy],
noun,
a person who keeps close and secret watch on the actions and words of another or others.
Day 2
The next morning, Ian found himself back out on the deck, hands greasy but feeling better with the salve. It amazed him how dirty the deck could become just overnight.
Without asking Ian, his prisoner-partner grabbed the bucket and threw fresh, cold seawater on Ian’s feet, just as he had done yesterday. Anger bubbled up inside him at the second day of insults. Ian threw the mop back at him. “You mop today,” he ordered.
“Nay!” he shot back. “I be fetcher ‘gain.”
“No.” Ian was firm. “It’s my turn on the rail.”
A hand shot out and hit him on his sunburned shoulder. Ian’s anger flared. He turned and swung at the other man, who wistfully dodged the blow. Ian tried again, but connected with nothing. A crowd of pirates immediately surrounded them, egging the fighters on. Unable to connect with any blows, Ian lunged forward and tackled the man. The two rolled around on the deck, locked in a tangle of swinging arms and legs. Whoops and cheers surrounded them, until they heard it. The sound of a banging stump on the deck silenced the entire crew.
Again, the men parted like the famed Red Sea and there stood the wild-haired Captain. “Fight’n ain’t ‘lowed on my ship.”
Ian opened his mouth to protest, but a hand slapped over it. A harsh warning was whispered in his ear. “Quiet! Questionin’ Cap’n’s orders be treason.”
Ian lowered his head. He didn’t know much about sailing ships, but he did know that treason meant a death sentence, and not a very nice one. Swallowing his anger, he looked down.
“You,” Peg Leg pointed to Ian’s partner. “Yer on the mop today.” He grabbed the mop from the ground. Before handing it to the prisoner he pulled off the t-shirt strands that Ian had put on it the day before. Returning it back to its original straggly condition, Captain Peg Leg shoved the mop at the man. “You,” he barked at Ian. “On the bucket, man.” Without another word, he spun on his peg and left.
Ian turned to the man who’d stopped him from speaking. It was one of his toothless guards. “Cap’n likes ye. Don’t be mess’n up.” He grabbed Ian and pulled him to the rail. Handing him the bucket, he gave another stern warning. “No matter what, ye cain’t be fight’n. He be watchin’ now.” He handed the bucket to Ian. “Best be fetchin’.”
Bucket after bucket of fresh seawater Ian hoisted over the rail and threw in front of the mop. Even though he initially tried to be kind to the man, throwing the water in front of him rather than on him, Ian still felt the other prisoner’s hostility toward him. At every opportunity, the man hit Ian with the mop. All morning he repeatedly slammed it into his feet and cracked the handle against his shins. Each time Ian turned to retaliate, he caught a glimpse of Captain Peg Leg, or Toothless staring at him. Swallowing his anger again and again, Ian swore that the other man taunting him would not get the better of him. He had no idea what the man’s plan was, but inciting Ian certainly seemed to be part of it. When the physical attacks didn’t work, the verbal assault started.
“Gimme them gloves, boy,” he ordered.
Ian looked at the man’s rough calloused hands. Clearly he was used to this type of grueling work. Ian rubbed his hands together. They were just starting to feel better. Between the salve and the gloves, they appeared to be healing. A rope burn on top of the blisters would certainly do his hands in.
“You don’t need them,” he said.
“Gimme them gloves, boy,” he barked again. His tone was more menacing, although he still kept his distance. Ian looked around. Toothless and the Captain both kept a stern eye on the situation.
“No.”
Anger flared in the man’s eyes, but he dared not lash out. Not yet anyway. “Trade wit’ me. Yer on the mop now.” It was not a question.
“No.”
Again the man surged with visible anger. His eyes flared and his hands clenched. Darkened and crooked teeth ground out his words.
“I’m – on – the – rail – now, - boy.”
Ian was enjoying this. His own anger unusually under control, he could see past his own feelings and could sense something bigger going on.
“Why?”
“I's needs to be on yonder rail.”
“Why?”
The man started to move in close, but backed off when he saw the guards notice.
“Please, kid.” His voice had a tone of urgency.
“Hey,” Ian said, “whatever you’re planning, tell me. Maybe I want to do it too.”
“No. I does things alone.”
Ian shook his head. Anger in check, he looked back at the man. “Then you stay on the mop.”
“Nooooooo!” the man raged. He lunged for Ian but was intercepted by the surrounding crew. “I’ll git ye fer this, kid. Ye’ll be mine soon, and ye’ll be sorry sure.”
Ian looked back at the man, wondering what he had ever done to make him so angry – and at him, no less. Ian had never seen the man before. Why was he filled with such rage?
“Keel-haul ‘im.” All eyes turned to the Captain standing at the mainsail.
A long rope was fetched from below. The man began to wail pitifully. He slumped to the ground in a heap and curled into a fetal ball position. He was begging all around him not to do this. Ian’s heart felt for the man, but at the same time knew he could not interfere. A Captain’s power at sea was absolute. As the men surrounded the prisoner preparing to carry out the Captain’s orders, a shout came from high above.
“Battle stations!”
Ian looked up. There, in the crow’s nest at the top of the mainsail, the lookout shouted his warnings.
“Be Gamblin’ Jim and the White Lightnin’. Battle stations!”
“Hoist the sail! Raise the boom! Load the cannon!” Captain Peg Leg was shouting orders one after another at his men. “Raise the anchor! Hard to port!”
Every man ran for their places, leaving Ian and the other man on the deck. Seizing the opportunity, the prisoner ran for the side rail and leapt over. Splashing into the warm water, he began to swim toward the other ship. All eyes were on Ian now. Should he follow? Would he?
Ian turned his back on the man, and climbed the stairs to stand by the Captain on the ship’s bridge. “Waiting for my orders, sir,” he said.
“Thar be yer spy,” Toothless said to Peg Leg, pointing at the swimming man. “This’n be jus’ a lost lad.” They both patted Ian on the back. Peg Leg smiled at him. The three all turned to watch the other ship.
Both ships sat motionless in the water, waiting for the other to move first.
“What are they doing?” Ian asked.
“Waitin’,” Peg Leg whispered.
“For what?”
“Fer us to lose our temper an’ fire firs’.”
“Why is firing first bad? Aren’t they the enemy?”
“Don’t want to go chargin’ in. May be a trap. Need to stay in control so’s we can see ever’thing. Keep a safe distance till we know’s what’s what.”
Ian squinted and looked out over the water at the other ship. At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He rubbed his eyes, and focused again. “Why does that ship have two main masts?”
“That ain’t two masts, boy. That be two ships.”
As soon as he said it, the two ships separated and turned to face theirs head-on.
“Make sail!” he shouted. “Full speed! Git us out from here! Full to port! Go, man! Go!”
The ship lurched forward and turned away from the others. Peg Leg and Ian kept an eye on the other ships, as the rest of the crew busied themselves with their orders. The first cannon blast echoed across the water, rippling the surface, and splashing down a safe distance away.
“Full speed, lads! Move this ship!”
Still swimming toward the enemy in the water was the spy.
“What about him?” Ian asked.
“He’ll git ‘is. Don’t ye worry none, kid.” Peg Leg turned to check the other side of the ship. “Know when to fight, boy - and when not to.” As he turned back to watch, a giant, red diamond-shaped serpent head with wickedly sharp horns and a long neck rose up from the water. It hovered over the sole swimmer for a second, then swooped down. Snatching him from the water with its razor teeth and loose floppy jowls, it dragged him down below the surface, leaving a calm ripple in its wake.
Ian stared in disbelief.
Not again
.
“I guess some do eat folk after all.” Ian turned to face a smiling Peg Leg. “Spies always git their due.”
mes·sage
[mes-ij]
noun
a communication containing some information, news, advice, request, or the like.
Idiom Informal
. to understand or comprehend, especially to infer the correct meaning from circumstances
Ian tried to shake the vision, but couldn’t. The memory of the serpent dragging that prisoner under the water, as it had Morgan, was more than his brain could process right now. The chilling memory was just another reminder that this was no game he was playing. It was real and it was, without a doubt, deadly.
Ian opened the door. He no longer had any guards. They apparently were satisfied that he was no spy. He had shown his loyalty by the choices he’d made today. Ian made his way through the dark galley-way and up onto the deck.
Only a few men manned the deck after the fight. Most were below, licking their wounds and preparing the ship for the next battle. The cool breeze felt good against the last remnants of the sunburn he’d gotten the day before. Ian walked the lonely deck, trying to clear his thoughts. Stopping at the side rail, he leaned over to look at the ocean. Water churned beneath them as the ship continued to make its way through the choppy waves. Ian ignored the sounds of the ship around him, until a familiar sound found him.
Step.
Thump.
Step.
Thump.
Without turning, he asked the question that had been plaguing him all afternoon, “I thought you said you didn’t believe in sea serpents.”
“Aye, weel now. I kin see how he’d be think’n that. But what I said t’wer, ‘is that what yer tellin’ me?’ I ne’er said I dinna believe ye.”
Ian smiled. “Technicality.”
“I know not that word, son, but it matters not. I git the jist of it.”
The two stood silent for a minute, Ian still looking down at the water.
“Why does the serpent bother ye so? Ye seem a good lad. He shan’t be takin’ ye.”
“It’s not me,” Ian said.
“Oh, aye. So ye be knowin’ ‘nother who got his’self took?”
He nodded.
“He ‘twer wit’ ye when ye fell from thar?” Peg Leg pointed up.
Ian was too choked up to speak. He nodded again.
“Weel, I got no words fer ye, then, son. I hear tell of some folk findin’ their way out, but I know not how. It be a prison, ye know. An' not's a good 'un."
Ian nodded again. “Why do they call it Zin?”
“Zin be a wilderness.”
“A wilderness? Down here?”
“Aye. Any place where thar be no hope is a wilderness. I hear tell it be a place of despa’r an’ misery. Ye’ll not be want’n to go thar, sure.” Peg Leg turned to leave. “Git ye some rest, son. Be a big day tomoree.”
Peg Leg limped away, leaving Ian at the rail. Unable to get his mind off Morgan, he stood for a long time watching the pattern of the water against the hull of the ship. As the bow sliced through the water, it churned up bubbles against the side of the great ship, splashing tiny droplets all the way up onto his face. The cool water was refreshing. Silence all around him, Ian could hear the bubbles popping as they hit the ship, each with a sound unique to itself.
Pop.
Snap.
Spit.
Ping.
Help.
Help?
Now he knew he was tired. Ian shook the grogginess from his head. He leaned over a bit further. Just one blast of cold water against his face, then he’d be off to lunch with the crew.
Snap.
Pop.
Help.
Ian froze. This time he was sure he’d heard it. He looked down into the water, but saw nothing. The voices kept coming.
“Ian. Where are you? Help us.”
“Hunter. I’m here!” he yelled back.
“Ian?”
“Mr. Welch! I can hear you!”
“Ian! Find the others. You can’t save me but you can save them.”
“Where? Where do I find them?”
Pop.
“Ian. Ian, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Mr. Welch, I’m here!”
Snap.
Glurp.
“Find them! Find them before it’s too late!”
“But how? How will I know?”
Pop.
Spit.
Pop.
Silence.
All voices stopped.
Ian stood tall. He wiped the ocean and the tears away from his face and turned back to his cabin. Lining the deck behind him were several members of the crew. They said nothing, but stared blankly.
“Mermaid,” he said. “I’ve never seen one so beautiful before.” Ian had to leap out of the way as the men ran for the side to catch a glimpse. Leaving them behind, Ian stalked away, haunted by what he had just heard.
He swabbed the deck in complete silence— alone. Very few people were around, and the ones who were, did not speak. It was late and everyone was tired. He decided not to wait for someone to tell him what he had to do. Perhaps if he got the deck cleaned from one end to the other, he would be so exhausted he could do nothing to fight off the sleep that had eluded him the night before.
Or could he?
Ian was still choked up about what had happened earlier today. He’d heard them. He knew he had. Hunter and Mr. Welch had called out to him through the surf. But how could that be? Ian dunked the mop back into the bucket. Empty. Picking it up, he went to the side rail and hurled it over, then slowly pulled on the rope to drag it back up.
The ship was moving and the bubbles churning still. He watched them, mesmerized by the fluid motion of the water against the wooden hull.
“A beaut’, ain’t she?”
Ian turned to see Captain Peg Leg standing at his side.
“Yes, sir. She is.”
“What ails ye, young ‘un?”
Ian shrugged his shoulders, not sure how to answer.
“Be it the spy been ‘et from that serpent?”
Ian shook his head. “No. Not that.”
“Then ye heared ‘em. Did ye not?”
Ian looked to the elder seaman, but dared not to speak.
“Aye, then. It be so.” Peg Leg motioned for Ian to follow. Yanking the bucket back onto the deck, he dropped it at his feet and followed the Captain to the wheel.
“I hears ‘em from time to time, too.” He picked up the lunar sextant and looked toward the skies, trying to set their position. “When the sea calls to ye, best be listenin’, lad.”
“How do I know what it’s telling me?”
“Weel, then. That’s when ye be ‘cypher’n.”
“’Cypher’n?”
Peg Leg nodded. “Aye. Listen fer that that wee voice inside ye. Mos’ folk it tells right from wrong. But if’n ye listen weel ‘nough, it guides ye through the storm, it will.”
Ian was silent while he contemplated this new thought. “What if you don’t have a wee voice?”
“Got to, man. Ever’one git one from the Great Capt'n up thar. Mayhaps ye have not found yers yet.”
“How do you find it?”
Peg Leg raised a finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he whispered. “Listen.”
Ian lingered by the Captain’s side for a few minutes more, then turned to head back to his duties.
“Make sure the deck be a’shinin’. Mayhap be celebratin’ later on.” Ian nodded. Still disheartened, he went back to his mop and bucket.
