The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (18 page)

“Because I thought he might know something.”

A blubbering sound escaped from Quaide's lips. I might be only thirteen, but anyone could see I'd be a more reliable ally than Quaide. I raised an eyebrow. Jack looked away. I pressed on. “What does he know about his grandfather's role in this?”

Jack met my gaze, considering. “Not a whole lot. He knew about Edward the First. And that, supposedly, Dirk had stolen the treasure, moved the family out here, and later disappeared, leaving them penniless. The fabled treasure had become a Coogan family legend. But since Dirk and Edward were both long gone there was nothing to do but focus on Edward's descendants. Given that your father was a sea captain, it was easy to track his comings and goings. Finally, the path led to you.”

“And you joined him in Boston, when we first set sail?”

The green-eyed man looked surprised. “What makes you think so?”

I thought of how, peering through my spyglass, I'd seen him exchanging money with Quaide, out on the Boston pier. “I know more than you think,” I bluffed.

Warily, we studied each other. I so wanted to trust this man with Marni's eyes, but . . . there was too much at stake. I took a deep breath and ventured on. “Listen,” I said, “we're related—we share a grandfather—well, your grandfather, my great-grandfather. You're a sort of an uncle to me. What if we were to work together? Who do you trust more—me, or
him
?” Jack eyed Quaide, nearly sucking the table, his eyes half closed, hands splayed, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Jack stared at me with piercing green eyes. I felt as though he could see clear through to my soul.

“I'll tell you what I know if you promise to do the same.” Even as I said it, I knew I wouldn't share everything. Nor would he. This lack of trust felt disloyal to Marni, somehow, but I couldn't take the chance.

Jack rubbed his chin, considering, his face reflecting the same keen intelligence I'd come to trust on Marni's face. “If what you say is true, you and Prudence technically aren't entitled to the spoils. The treasure needs to be returned to the descendants of Mary Maude Lee. Your lineage extends from Edward and Molly,
not
Edward and Mary.”

I nodded. He was right. But it was never the money I was after. “But remember,” I said, “you're not the only descendant. There's Marni. Once we find the treasure, the two of you can decide how it should be divided. Plus,” I added, “I'll lead you to the greatest treasure of all. . . .”

“What would that be?” he asked.

My eyes welled, thinking of my own loss.

“What?” he asked again.

I gulped and looked him straight in the eye. “Your mother,” I said. “I can finally give you back to your mother.”

26

I
n a tentative spirit of cooperation we managed to coax Quaide from the table onto his cot, where he lay on his back like a beached whale, his snores erupting in gurgling bursts. He'd be out for the rest of the night, and would surely be sick once he awoke in the morning.

A thought occurred to me. “Is it possible Dirk buried the treasure here?” I blurted. It
was
the perfect spot—out of the way, but not that far from the inn where Dirk had likely absconded with the treasure. And the outpost sat atop a hill—a mountain, almost—where the scoundrel could spot a would-be challenger approaching from any direction.

Jack jutted his chin, indicating the crater-ridden floor.

I persisted. “What about outside?”

Jack sighed deeply and I felt a little foolish. But not enough to abandon the idea.

“See for yourself,” he replied, walking me toward the door. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. A trench had been dug along the periphery of the crumbling foundation. And the surrounding area looked surprisingly like the terrain around our homestead in Australia—the ground riddled with holes. Two shovels were still planted in a heap of debris, where Quaide and Jack must have left them. My heart sank. The treasure wasn't here. Another thought plagued me—if Quaide and Jack had been seeking, for years, to find the treasure, wouldn't it make sense that others might have been trying as well? Maybe someone none of us knew had discovered the treasure long ago, and made off with it, taking their secret along with the bounty.

I was suddenly exhausted. I yawned, bleary eyed. “Get some rest,” Jack said, not unkindly, “before Quaide wakes up.”

“And then . . . ?”

Once again his face became guarded. “In the morning I'll decide.” In one fluid move he took hold of my wrists, and firmly wrapped them with a long strip of coarse fabric. “I'm sorry,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “I have no choice but to ensure you don't decide to run off during the night.” Regardless of how sorry he was, we were back to being captor and captive. He led me, leashed, to my cot, and tethered me there. I said nothing. I'd somehow assumed that once he knew Marni was his mother everything would change—but I'd been wrong. I turned my back to him, my face burning with embarrassment and indignation. I'd revealed too much, and gotten nothing in return.

He extinguished the lamp and the room went black, save for the bit of moonlight shining through the single window. The springs of Jack's cot groaned as he settled himself. In minutes his breathing took on the steady cadence of sleep. Tired as I was, slumber was impossible. It began to rain, a gentle drumming on what was left of the roof. In no time, droplets trickled through the thatch, pelting down until the cot felt like a dirty sponge beneath me. Each drip sounded like the ticking of a clock. Time was running out.

I inched my way as far from the leak as possible, mind racing despite my exhaustion. Thoughts of Dirk, Quaide, the inn, this outpost . . . the futility of the excavations in and around the place.

Drip . . . drip . . . drip.

Shivering, I wondered whether the rain was just another way for the curse to assert itself. If there was a downpour, perhaps it would drown me right there on the cot.

Still . . . there had to be a reason Dirk set his homestead atop this hill, situated like a fort. Clearly, a lookout post offering him views of any treasure seeker who dared approach. There would have been no other reason to settle here—the rocky land was suited neither to farming nor grazing. It was far from town and neighbor. Traveling up and down the mountain was a challenge. The effort it took discouraged both friend and foe. Why, if not to protect the treasure?

Suddenly a thought struck me. Could it be that this hilltop lookout hadn't been situated to provide a view of would-be thieves and bounty hunters scaling the mountain? Rather, might it have been chosen because the panorama allowed Dirk to keep watch over a hidden treasure trove somewhere
below
? If he spied anyone approaching the spot, he could intercede. There were other advantages to this scenario—he wouldn't have had to transport the hefty spoils up the steep side of the mountain, and if anyone traced the missing treasure back to him and searched his property, they'd come up empty-handed. The idea seemed deceptively simple. There had to be a way to see if I was right.

By wriggling toward the top of the cot I was able to loosen my bonds slightly. I writhed and squirmed until I could position my bound wrists beneath my face. By turning my face slightly, the burlap strips brushed my lips. I craned my neck forward and, like a rodent, began to gnaw at the prickly restraints. I ground at the rough cloth until my jaw ached, my mouth filling with an earthy, straw-like taste. The process was painfully slow, but little by little the fibers separated, then split. Finally my hands became free enough to grab the edges of the frayed fabric and yank. One last rip and I was free. I flew to my feet, tiptoed around the holes in the floor, swiped the lantern and matches from the table, and snuck out the door.

The sun had not yet risen, the clouded ghost of a moon still hovered at the edge of evening. But despite the drizzle, a hint of dawn glowed along the eastern horizon. Soon Jack would be awake—I would bet he was the type of no-nonsense man who rose with the sun. There was no time to lose!

I inched along the rim of the hilltop, eyes peeled to the landscape below. I thought of lighting the lamp, but decided against it. Too easy for them to spot me. Instead I strapped it over my shoulder, the matches safe inside. At least this way they wouldn't be able to take advantage of it. Stealing around the perimeter of the craggy summit, I peered into the mist. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for. In an easterly direction, only a jigsaw of rocks and sparse greenery. Off to the right, the meandering road that surely led back to Ballyvaughan—perhaps I should just run in that direction, find my way back to Capt'n Adams's house. But no, if Quaide and Jack spotted me they'd easily overtake me with the cart. I picked my way around the periphery of the steep hilltop, eyes peeled. It was a landscape of natural rubble, spanning as far as the eye could see.

I stopped for a moment. If Dirk had situated his homestead so that he could keep an eye on his treasure trove, how would he have done it? I glanced back at the crumbling structure. There was but one crude window on the southern wall. A logical place to let in light, but what if . . .

I moved along the embankment, aligning myself with the window, in order to afford myself the view Dirk would have had from inside. The sun peeked over the horizon, parting the fog in the valley just enough to expose a portion of stone wall. The mist continued to swirl and dissipate, and as it did, more and more of a snaking border of rocks became exposed. The piled stones had been laid in a geometric pattern.

My heart began to race. I'd seen this configuration before—the lopsided sun with uneven rays was the symbol Oonagh had scratched on the hearthstone back on Clare Island! And what had she said—that this is where I'd find what I was seeking?

I went back and grabbed one of the shovels before scrambling down the hillside. The gravel churned beneath my shoes. Dropping to my backside, I scooted along the steep slope as best I could, until the ground leveled a bit. On my feet, I hoisted my dress, and cautiously trod the rest of the way down the hill using the shovel like a walking stick. It was rough going. But the mountainside wouldn't be my greatest challenge—at least the angle of the hill might prevent them from seeing me. Once I crossed the valley to get to the stone formation, I'd be completely exposed.

When I reached flat ground I began to run. From atop the mountain the shape of the rock formation had been clear, but the closer I came, the harder it was to distinguish.

I began to comb the perimeter as well as the length of each jutting ray, searching for some clue, any hint that might be useful. As I headed in an easterly direction the wind whipped up, bringing with it another rain shower. In minutes my dress was soaked, my hair clinging to my neck in wet strands. I reversed direction so that the wind was at my back, and the rain slowed to a drizzle.

Puzzled, I turned eastward and again, the rain came down in earnest, the wind blowing it toward me in punishing sheets. The ground became saturated, my shoes hopelessly muddied. The farther I inched forward, the harder the rain fell. I slogged on, the torrent of the rain forming a thin stream that trickled down from the mountain. The waterlogged ground sucked at my feet until I was ankle deep. I'd been so intent on locating a clue that I hadn't really thought about the curse—how the water had become my enemy, even when far from the sea. Once again I stepped back and the rain subsided. I closed my eyes for a moment and heard:
Press on, darling. . . .
Was it my mother's voice?

In response, the stream gushed around my ankles and the sod grew spongy beneath my feet. Shielding my face from the downpour, I spied an area of drenched ground that dipped ever so slightly along the base of the wall—a small circular area that appeared to be sinking due to the deluge. Or perhaps something was buried there! Heeding my mother's words, I stepped forward, shovel at the ready, positioning my foot on the blade. Then I threw my full weight into it. A portion of ground gave way; I scooped and lifted, once, twice, three times. A stream swirled into the hole, like water down a drain, drawing even more of the surrounding turf into the expanding cavity. The torrent gushed around my feet and into the pit. I lost my balance. Dropped the shovel.

The ground gave way, swallowing me whole.

I plunged into darkness.

27

D
own, down I slid into a musty, muddy chasm, water nearly enveloping me. I choked and gasped, spewing muddy water. The lantern I'd strapped over my shoulder banged against my ribs, rocky outcroppings bruised my arms and legs. My screams echoed against the walls of the abyss.

Finally my feet hit solid ground. It took me a moment to realize I was alive, and basically unhurt. Save for a thin ray of gray light shining down the shaft, it was pitch-black. I fumbled for the lantern, its glass dome still somehow intact, and with trembling fingers probed for the matches I'd dropped inside.

The first match I lit was promptly blown out by a gust of air from above. The next was damp, sputtered once, and went out. I slowed the panic that rose in me, the feeling of the cave walls closing in. “Slow and steady,” I whispered. I took a deep breath, felt for the match, struck it, cupped my hand around it, protecting the wavering flame, then eased the flickering light toward the wick. I held it there for one second . . . two . . . three. . . . Just as it began to singe my fingers the flame caught. I lifted the lantern, a low glow infusing the space. At the far end of the narrow corridor of rock was an opening into a larger chamber. Strange formations of stone hung from the ceiling and grew from the floor like huge icicles, water drip-dropping into luminous pools that had never seen the sparkle of the sun. I inched forward, treading carefully down a natural staircase of craggy rock. As I descended, the air became cool and clammy, turning my skin to gooseflesh. A steady stream of water splashed over my feet, leaving the floor dangerously slick.

Finally the shaft leveled off and I inched forward, back to the wall, to ensure I wouldn't step off a blind precipice. Gradually another sound became audible—a constant tumultuous churning, like the rushing of a river. I carefully rounded a bend, and an enormous waterfall became visible, several stories high, a glassy stream plunging into the pool below. I inched along the rim, shivering in the spray kicked up by the crashing water. The ledge was a mere six inches in width. A seemingly bottomless chasm loomed beneath it. I stopped and toed a small stone over the edge. One second, two, three, four seconds before I heard it splash. One false move and a person could disappear without a trace.

Slowly, but not too slowly
came a familiar voice inside me. The same voice that had instructed me so often at sea.

“Father?” I asked. The word echoed eerily—fath
er
. . .
er . . . er . . . er. . . .
I felt hot and cold at the same time, sweat trickling down my back, my arms shivering.

Too much thinking can spook you.
Sidestep. Move by feel, not by sight.

Ready now, left foot, together—STEP!
That's my girl!

I edged my way around the underground pool, until finally the ledge widened. Catching my breath, I started through a short passageway that opened to an expansive chamber. I raised the lantern and gasped.

The chest was the size of a large coffin, its lid flipped back, revealing stack upon stack of gold and silver coins and thick, brick-like bars of precious metal. In between were stuffed bulging canvas bags tied with drawstring, some of which had split, spilling the glittering contents into and over the sides of the chest. Gemstones, pearls, perhaps diamonds, and sparkling crystals. Even beneath more than a century's worth of dust and debris the priceless plunder twinkled and shone like stars in the night sky. Beside the treasure lay two skeletons, both clad in the remains of their disintegrating clothes. I tiptoed closer. One of the dead men, a giant of a man, lay on his back, a large sword wedged between his ribs. What was left of his ragged clothes clearly belonged to a laborer, the remains of a coarse woolen jacket still covering the arms.

The other man, a gold tooth glinting from his jawbone, lay on his side, a fierce dagger jutting from the vertebrae of his throat. A decaying topcoat clung to his ribs and arms, remnants of its fancy trim work scrolling around the cuffs and lapels. I crept closer, drawn to the gold ring surrounding his bony finger. I held the lantern high and leaned forward for a better look. The ring's flat oval face was engraved—I knew even before I read the inscription what it would say:
e.s
.

Suddenly, a scuffling sound. I scrambled to my feet, holding the lantern high. At the same time a trickle of water seeped around my feet.

A flash on a distant wall, a flickering light. The sound of footsteps. I considered snuffing out my lamp, but once I did that the chances of relighting it would be slim. I'd never find my way out in the dark. And dying alongside my great-grandfather was not something I cared to do. Better to face Quaide and Jack.

I hunkered down. Closer and closer came the shuffling footfall, the light of a lamp bobbing against the stony walls. But wait . . . I'd stolen their lantern. . . . Had they had another, stashed away?

I peered into the dim light, waiting for them to appear.

A small whining sound. A low growl. Panting. Rhythmic clicking. I flew to my feet. “Pugsley? Pugsley, is that you!?”

A flurry of yips. The sound of his nails on the stone floor meant he was running toward me.

“Be careful!” I shouted. “Slowly, Pugsley!” My warning boomed back at me.

“Lucy,” came a voice from the distance. “Where are you?”

My heart stood still. “Marni?”

“Yes! I'm coming for you. . . .”

Pugsley bound in and leaped into my arms. I hugged him tightly and rushed toward Marni, just emerging from the treacherous corridor. She raised her lantern and devoured me with her eyes.

“You're all right,” she said, the deep line between her brows easing.

“How did you . . . ?”

Before she could answer she caught sight of the treasure. Her eyes became clouded with a faraway look. The echo of Jack in her features was unmistakable. “Oh my,” she whispered, stepping forward. I followed her, watching her take it all in—the decadent riches, the evidence of greed and unbridled desire, and the legacy of revenge surrounding it. “Generations of pain and loss—all for this?”

“It's almost over.” I placed my hand on her shoulder and wondered how to tell her about Jack. I wanted to be able to say that he was eagerly awaiting her. That he was kind and noble. But I wasn't sure of any of that. That he was smart—yes. That he had her eyes. And if he would only allow himself to let his guard down . . .

Instead I asked how she'd found me.

“The search teams had already left by the time Pugsley came hightailing it home. He led me toward that mountain, and I thought for sure that's where they'd taken you. But when we passed this ring fort, he put his nose to the ground and brought me on a wild-goose chase.”

“Ring fort?”

“Mysterious ancient stone structures—associated with fairies and the like . . .”

I remembered then what Nessa had said that day in the Burren. She'd talked about these “thin spaces between the worlds”—places where fairies sometimes gathered.

“Pugsley tracked you to the mouth of the cave,” Mari continued. “It took me a while to navigate, but I knew enough to follow him.”

“Marni,” I began. “There's something else . . . the Straw Boys . . . they did take me up the mountain, to a hideout there. One was Quaide.”

“That much we all suspected. He didn't hurt you . . . ?”

“No, but—”

Suddenly Pugsley began to growl, a low rumble that raised the hair along his back. Then we heard it too—the shuffling of feet. Muffled voices.

Instinctively, we drew together, eyes riveted to the entrance of the chamber.

Quaide burst in, his face screwed up in rage. But then, as he caught sight of the dazzling treasure, he gasped, his small beady eyes flashing, his fleshy mouth dropping open, eyes wild. He tramped around both skeletons and knelt beside the chest, filling his pockets with coins, lifting handfuls of jewels and letting them flow through his fingers like pebbles. “Oh!” he yelled. “Ohhhhhh! Finally, the payoff! I'm gonna be the world's richest man!” Over and over he pawed at the booty, running a coin across his lips, lowering his head toward the bags, inhaling deeply. He was possessed by the lavishness of the spoils, like a cat in a field of catnip. “Yes!” he wheezed. “Hit the jackpot! No—not the
jack
pot! Jack'll be getting
nothing
!” He laughed maniacally. “Not after he let the little missy run off!”

As if responding to his name, Jack appeared in the entranceway. In an instant he took in the scene, then locked eyes with Marni. I felt a jolt of energy, a stream of silent words exchanged. One hand flew to her cheek, the other to her locket. Her bottom lip began to tremble.

“Yes, Marni,” I said. “That's what I was trying to tell you. . . .”

“Shut up!” Quaide growled. He yanked the sword from between his grandfather's ribs and swung it fiercely over his head, setting off a storm of flapping. Hundreds of startled bats pelted our faces, pinged off our bodies. I ducked, shielding my head. When their frantic retreat was past I looked up to find Quaide peeling several from his shirt, another from his hair. He waved us into the corner. “Sit there an' don't move,” he ordered, brandishing the blade.

“Put it away, Quaide,” Jack said, laying a hand on his mother's arm. “Nobody's threatening you. You're wasting precious time.” He glanced my way. “Why don't we work together, all of us? Figure out a way to get this treasure out of here. You can't do it alone.”

Quaide screwed up his face. “Suddenly you're a do-gooder, Jack? First ye let Lucy run off, now ye're protectin' old ladies?” He grunted. “Here's how much I trust you.” He drew back and spit. “Here's how much I trust
any
of yous. Who's gonna be the first to go?” He pointed the sword toward Jack's throat.

“Stop!” Marni yelled, lunging between Quaide and Jack.

Quaide savagely swung the cutlass. Blood gushed from Marni's shoulder. Jack caught her as she fell.

“You monster,” I shouted. I knelt beside her. “Don't die!” I commanded through clenched teeth. “Do you hear me? You. Can't. Die.”

Jack ripped off his shirt and pressed it into Marni's wound to slow the bleeding. Marni was pale, but conscious.

“Everything's all right now,” she whispered, smiling weakly. “But a little more time would have been nice.”

There had to be a way to stop Quaide. To get Marni to safety. If he didn't have the sword we might overpower him. . . . Quaide wiped the bloody blade on his trousers, leering at us. “I guess we know who's in charge now,” he said.

Suddenly a deafening whooshing sound filled the chamber. Torrents thundered over the waterfall. Murky water roiled up and out of the pool in the adjoining chamber. Rippling and churning, it surged around our ankles, lapping against Marni and Jack.

Wild eyed, Quaide wielded his weapon. “I'm ending this once and for all!” he shouted, charging at me through the rushing water, the sword held over his head. There was a flash, and then another.

Notsofast!Thesearemypeople!
Nessa appeared, a queen card tucked beneath each arm. She soared toward Quaide, a blade of grass poised at her lips.

TherecouldbeanotherREWARDinthisforme!ThekingcardANDsomegold!

Quaide swatted wildly, splashing and flailing, but Nessa persisted. The hairlike projectile blew from her grass dart gun in a barrage of sparkling light.

“Aghhh! Ow! Aghhh . . .” Quaide writhed about, his nose growing bulbous, cheeks inflated like two maroon balloons. He tottered side to side, still grasping his weapon.

This was our only chance. I threw myself full at him, thinking of nothing but knocking the sword from his hands.

He faltered. Lost his balance. Staggered backward toward the precipice, his long, diminishing cry echoing through the cave. We froze. A few seconds later there was a thump and a splash. The water receded, its trickling music echoing off the cavern walls.

And then all was silent.