The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (17 page)

25

Q
uaide whipped off his straw hat, and in an instant tied a gag around my mouth, making it impossible to scream and difficult to breathe. He viciously bound my wrists and threw me in the back of a donkey cart, surely stolen from some unsuspecting farmer. His cohort sat holding the reins. “Make it quick, Quaide,” the second Straw Boy directed, “before they miss her and come looking. And there's no need to hurt her. I'll take the reins—you've already had way too much to drink.”

Quaide grunted, running a thick arm across his leaking nose, sniffing back the evidence of the effort it had taken to drag me to captivity. He chewed his lip, spit, then secured my ankle to the back of the cart, preventing my escape, and, for good measure, heaved a handful of hay over me.

“Yah!” The second Straw Boy cracked the reins against the donkey's rump and we jolted forward. I could still hear the music and laughter, could glimpse the twinkling lights of the wedding party between the strands of hay. Please, please, I prayed, someone notice I'm missing, someone stroll outside and discover Walter sprawled on the ground, bleeding. . . . Tears pinched my eyes. Why hadn't we taken Miss Oonagh's words seriously? Would whatever power she had send her a message regarding my present fate? And if so, would anyone believe her?

The cart bumped and swayed, the jostling becoming more and more pronounced. I could catch snippets of conversation between my captors, just a word here and there:
outpost . . . treasure . . . what she knows . . .

Perhaps they would torture me, trying to extricate whatever secrets they believed I held. Well, go ahead, I thought. Even if I had known where the treasure was I would never tell them!
Hmpff!
I groaned through my gag, straining against my shackles. Surely help would come. Other, darker thoughts crept up behind that one, but I pushed them away. I forced myself to calm down, conserve my energy. Who knew what might be required of me when we got to wherever we were going.

The sounds of the party diminished and it was clear I was being taken to a remote place. The air grew chilly and damp, and the silence of the countryside pressed in ominously. Suddenly I heard another sound, a rhythmic clicking and labored snuffling. My heart leaped and as it did, my hope was confirmed. I heard him jump and scramble, felt him wriggle his compact little body up and over the back edge of the cart. “Pugsley!” I murmured, the word strangled by the gag.

In an instant he was covering my face with wet kisses, grunting and wiggling with joy.

“Did you hear that?” the second Straw Boy asked.

Pugsley hunkered down, buried his face in the folds of my dress.

“Don't hear nothin'.” Quaide hiccuped.

My loyal dog remained silent for the rest of the journey.

After what felt like hours the cart slowed. Pugsley huddled behind me, beneath the hay, edging into a back corner of the cart.

“Get out!” Quaide ordered, yanking the rope, heaving me up by the hands. Stay still, Pugsley, I prayed. I could almost feel the bristling of his fur, see his snout curling in outrage.

“Ungag her,” came the other voice. “She can scream all she wants—there's no one out here to pay her any heed.”

I turned toward the voice of the mysterious Straw Boy as Quaide loosened the gag and untied my wrists. The green-eyed man! He'd removed his clownish hat and we stared at one another, his jade eyes piercing. “So we meet again,” he said, his voice velvety with sarcasm.

“Come on,” Quaide muttered, his words garbled. “Inside.”

It took me but a moment to recognize the peculiar desolate landscape of oddly shaped stones. We were in the Burren, in the middle of nowhere. Just to the right stood an old abandoned cottage and stable, its thatched roof sagging, walls crumbling. As Quaide shoved me toward the sorry structure I caught a glimpse of Pugsley hightailing it out of the back of the cart, dashing down the path we'd taken, a scrap of my frock dangling from his mouth. Go Pugsley,
I prayed. Godspeed.

The green-eyed man shoved open the stable door, struck a match, and lit a lantern, dimly illuminating the space with flickering light. They'd set up an outpost, furnishing the shack with three metal cots, a crude table and chairs, and a rack holding clothes and supplies. Oddly, there were craters, gaping holes and rubble around the perimeter of the space. A large rectangular rag rug had been placed in the middle of what was left of the dirt floor.

“Si' down,” Quaide slurred, shoving me into one of the chairs. “Almos' forgot my stash,” he drawled, a wide grin turning his face into a fat jack-o'-lantern.

The green-eyed man sighed and waved him out with a brush of his hand. “Moron,” he muttered under his breath. Oblivious, Quaide lumbered out the door and returned with a large crate full of bottles.

“You stole that from the wedding party!” I cried.

“Wah . . . wah . . . wah . . . so I did,” Quaide taunted. “They won' even miss it.” He plopped himself in the chair opposite mine, grabbed a bottle, removed the cork with his teeth, and spat it at me across the table. “This calls for a li'l celebration,” he hissed.

“Ugh,” I retorted, brushing the place where the soggy cork had brushed my cheek. Quaide watched me through narrowed eyes, threw his head back, and poured the amber liquid into his mouth. He chugged, gurgled, and gulped.

“Take it easy, Quaide,” the green-eyed man chided. “You're already drunk as a skunk!” Quaide's response was a long, juicy burp. Once recovered from his colossal belch he broke into a jug of ale, smacking his lips between guzzling. I watched him as I might a hog in the barnyard.

“Whatsa matter?” he stammered. “Miss High an' Mighty never seen a man take a li'l refreshment?”

I rolled my eyes. Quaide leaned forward and swatted the air in front of me. “You'd best learn a li'l respect, missy. Had 'nough of you and yours tryin' to cheat me out of what's rightfully mine!”

“Hold your tongue, Quaide,” the green-eyed man warned. In response Quaide hiccuped loudly, shoulders bobbing. He wagged his fat sausage finger at me. “You're gonna tell me everythin' you know 'bout that treasure so's I can collect it once and fer all.”

“I'll tell you nothing! You've no claim to it!”

“Greedy little wench!” he snarled. “Arrogant, just like yer great-grandpappy. Look where it got him!”

“Quaide,” the green-eyed man said, “stop!”

Quaide's eyebrows shot up. “I'm done takin' orders from you, Jack. I'm in charge here now.”

I interrupted. “What do you know of my great-grandfather?”

Quaide smiled. “Not so smart as he thought he was. . . .” He gahuffed. “Never got o'er that my gran'daddy outsmarted 'im.”

So I'd been right about Dirk. “This makes you feel entitled to stolen property?”

“May the bes' man win,” Quaide slurred. He took another swig. “An' this one here,” he said, waving the bottle at the green-eyed man. “Run into him tryin' t' stake 'is own claim. Says the other one's his gra'mother.”

“What other one?” I asked.

The veins in the green-eyed man's neck popped. “Quaide! Shut up!”

But it was clear Quaide wasn't listening. The liquor had loosened his tongue. “Pirate queen. Mary Maude Lee. This here's 'er grandson.” He hiccupped again, a high-pitched yelping sound. “We's worked out a deal, splittin' the spoils. He brought the brains, and me the brawn! And so far I ain't seen the brains!”

I stared at the green-eyed man. If that was true, then . . .

The green-eyed man glared at Quaide, his lip curled in disgust. But Quaide's eyelids had grown heavy, his mouth slack, and his chin flopped onto his chest. He snorted and slumped onto the table.

I turned my attention to the green-eyed man. “Your name is Jack?” I asked. “How are you related to Mary Maude Lee?”

“I'll be the one asking the questions,” he said, staring with those cat eyes of his. Something about his gaze was familiar. He had an eerie calm about him, something focused and unflappable. For an instant I felt as though I'd been there before, face to face with him. The green-eyed man continued to study me. “You're a wealthy young woman, by all accounts, and so is your aunt Prudence. Why would you risk life and limb to pursue this quest? When is enough, enough?”

I barely heard him. An idea crept into my head and took hold. If he was Mary Maude Lee's grandson, he might be . . . Marni's son! I inhaled sharply, my hand flying to my mouth. Those eyes—of course. They were her eyes too! His manner of composed poise and patience. Of unflustered self-assurance despite Quaide's crude display. I jumped from the chair.

“Who . . . who was your mother?” I asked.

The man's face clouded over ever so slightly. “Never had a mother. She abandoned my father and me when I was just a boy. Didn't have the mothering instinct.” His voice betrayed an edge of bitterness. “Then she died.”

“No, no, she didn't,” I sputtered. “It's all a lie. It was your father who took you away, because . . . because . . . your mother wouldn't have him bringing you up into a life of pirating! She's searched for you, her whole life long!”

“Enough,” he said. But his expression wavered.

“She has your hair woven in a locket—she wears it every day. You were towheaded as a boy, weren't you?”

He hesitated. “How would you know my mother?”

“Marni! My friend, the one who took care of me since I lost my family in Maine! She saved me from drowning—twice. She's been with me from the start. Surely you've seen her, accompanying us all over the world! You have her eyes!”

“The old woman with the long silver hair? I'm supposed to believe she's my mother?”

“And not only that! You asked me why Pru and I would hunt down Mary Maude Lee's treasure? Because she put a curse on all Edward's descendants—swore that every male in Edward's line should die at sea. And so far my grandfather, my father, my uncle . . .” I held up a finger for each. “All died at sea. And not only the males—it killed my aunt and mother. And Marni—she's the daughter of Mary Maude Lee and my grandfather, which means . . .”

“That I'm the next male in line?” He gazed off into the darkness, or maybe into the past, his eyes changing color like the sea on a stormy day. He spoke softly, his words measured. “It's true, the sea's nearly claimed me, more times than I can count.”

I nodded. “And me.”

He shook his head. “Crazy talk . . .” But something in his demeanor had changed. He was suddenly not so sure of himself. “So, this supposed curse . . . ?”

I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulled out my flute, and put it to my lips. My fingers flew over the holes, the familiar melody pouring out in a stream of glittering mist. At the last note the music continued of its own accord, a haunting interlude that invited me to raise my voice in song. I took a deep wavering breath and began to sing:

 

“This is the ballad of Mary Maude Lee—

a Queen and a Pirate—the Witch o' the Sea.

Tho' fair of face, and tho' slight of build,

many a seafarers' blood did she spill!

A la dee dah dah . . . a la dee dah dee,

This is the ballad of Mary Maude Lee.”

 

At this, the green-eyed man's eyes widened, perhaps in recognition of the long-forgotten melody he'd likely heard as a boy. I continued on, my voice gaining strength and confidence.

 

“She fired her blunderbuss, torched their tall sails,

Laughing as mariners screamed, moaned, and wailed.

Off with their silver! Off with their gold!

Off with supplies lying deep in their holds!”

 

Quaide began to snore, so I sang all the louder.

 

“Her coffers grew fat, till Edward, that gent,

Escaped with her booty, and then off he went.”

 

Here, for emphasis, I hopped onto a chair, slowed the tempo, and enunciated each syllable.

 

“She swore her revenge against that sorry traitor,

Placed a curse on the sons of the cuss who betrayed her!”

 

Jack stood, and I jumped to the next verse.

 

“Mary Maude Lee said, ‘I'll spit on their graves!'

Then drew back and spat in the white churning waves.

And each generation of menfolk that followed,

Into the sea they'd be chewed up and swallowed!”

 

During the interlude I prompted, “Here's the important part!” and sang on:

 

“The only real way that the curse can be broken

Was revealed in the last words that Mary had spoken,

‘If not in my lifetime, then to my descendants,

Hand over my treasure and appease Mary's
vengeance!
'
”

 

The glitter swirled around the room and dissipated with the last note of the refrain. “That's why Prudence and I have been searching for the treasure!” I exclaimed. “Not for personal gain, but to end this, once and for all!”

Jack looked between us, Quaide still snoring, his face flattened against the table, a puddle of drool collecting beneath his bottom lip.

“What if you're lying?” Jack said. “I didn't spend my entire life searching for this treasure my father spoke of to be outsmarted by a twelve-year-old.”

“I'm almost fourteen!”

Jack scowled. “Twelve, fourteen . . . no matter.”

“Look,” I said, gesturing toward Quaide. “You heard him. His father was the one responsible for stealing the treasure. Why would you team up with
him
?”