Treasured Lies (11 page)

Archer shook his head. Confused.

Helen turned her palm over and squeezed Archer's hand. She looked up at him. ‘I
know
there were three ships. The
Flying Seahorse
was one of them.'

Alessandro clapped his hands together and rubbed vigorously. ‘
Te l'avevo detto
.'

Archer had no idea what Alessandro said, but by the look on his face he was obviously gloating. ‘Do you know anything else about these ships, Mum?'

She slowly shook her head and looked confused by the question. But to Archer's amazement, she started clawing back from whatever world she was tempted to slip into. Her eyes brightened and she looked around the table as if seeing them all for the first time. Her awareness increased and she even tucked a slip of hair behind her ear, something he hadn't seen her do since he was a kid. When she looked up at him again, Archer was taken back to a time in his childhood when his mother was perfectly normal. He held his breath as he waited for her to speak.

She blinked several times as if working the words into sentences. ‘Everything is in the shed.'

‘Shed?' It was Archer's turn for confusion. ‘What shed?'

Chapter 12

Nox couldn't stand the monotony any more. Every day was an agonising repeat of the day before. A rooster, so loud it had to be right outside the door, kick-started the twins into gear each morning. They'd roll out of bed, climb down the ladder and without so much as a glance in his direction they'd disappear outside. After a series of noises he couldn't decipher, they'd return with a bowl of food. It was only out of near starvation that Nox actually ate it. With the consistency of dense porridge and the appearance of soggy cardboard, it was anything but appealing. The taste, too, was as bland as cardboard.

Fully aware that he needed to eat for sustenance, he literally had to force down each mouthful with the one and only rationed cup of water he received each morning. But as the days rolled on, he became stronger and movement resulted in a bearable amount of pain. Finally he was able to climb off the wooden bench he was forced to use as a bed by himself. Now, he could sit at their makeshift table to eat. But even as he sat right there with them, the men made little attempt to communicate with him. It was as if he'd been in their company his whole life and they had absolutely nothing important to discuss. Not that he could communicate with them even if he wanted to. On the several occasions he had tried, he couldn't understand a single word they uttered. Even in their company, the isolation was as crippling as his injuries.

Nox knew their routine. It was like clockwork. After the rooster and the tumble out of bed came the outside work. Then there was breakfast, if you could call the brown slop they served food. Next they'd disappear again and during the course of the day he would see little of them. They'd venture back inside to cart in firewood for the pot belly stove or to drape dried fish over a series of ropes that hung from the rafters. Late in the day, as the sunlight through the cracks in the walls grew to long spears of light, they'd play a board game and drink their alcoholic brew until one or both of them passed out. Some days, the only change in their routine would be when they took out bundles of tattered clothes. They would return them days later, clean. Or so he assumed by the faint soapy smell that lingered in the room.

There were certain noises that were almost constant. The wind. It came in brilliant gales that forced through the gaps in the walls with a howl or a whistle. Sometimes he thought he heard waves crashing against the shore. But there was also a strange popping or clicking noise that he'd given up trying to figure out. When there was silence, which happened on the odd occasion, Nox wondered where in the hell he could be that would produce such complete absence of sound.

Time drifted along like the boring sermon's Father Benedici used to perform in the church on Sundays. Nox was becoming desperate to see beyond the four walls that had contained him for weeks; hell, it could be months, for all he knew. The uselessness of his situation was driving him crazy. Too many unanswered questions bombarded his waking thoughts. It was time to get some answers. He decided today was the day he would go out that door, even if he had to do it on his hands and knees.

While the twins were outside, Nox sought something to use as shoes. He had no idea where his were, and he'd never seen either of the men wearing any. A pile of rags to the side of the ladder was the most likely solution. He could wrap them around his feet.

The bloodied bandage, still wrapped around his body, wasn't bandage at all. It was a torn up rag. The rudimentary dressing was almost barbaric. How long it had been there was impossible to calculate. In that very instant he decided it was time to remove it. First he unravelled the knot. As he unwound the bandage, he tried not to gag at the stench. Nox found himself actually praying that the smell wasn't his own flesh, rotting. Every loop around his body revealed a bloodstain slightly larger than the last. The final thread of tattered cloth, the part that actually touched his skin, refused to release from his body. Blood and God knows what else held it firmly in place. He would need to yank it off. A cold sweat smothered him at the thought.

Nox swallowed the lump in his throat, grabbed a firm handful of the bandage, clenched his teeth, and yanked. The scream that burst from his lips was one of pure agony. Tears spilled from his eyes and he gasped for breath as he forced back a wave of nausea with deep breaths.

He heard footsteps crunching on the gravel, but he was powerless to hide what he'd done. The door opened and Scar Face stepped into the room. His yellow eyes fell on the bloodied bandage, then he looked up at Nox. He frowned for the briefest of seconds, then Scar Face turned and walked back through the door. But before the door shut, a grey cat scampered into the room.

‘Shadow?' The name tumbled from Nox's mouth. His cat. His beloved Chartreux stray that had become his one and only true companion in the last ten years, had found him. The cat's tail weaved its hypnotic magic as it swung ever so slowly from side to side. Shadow sashayed around the tiny room. Soon the feline was weaving his way around Nox's legs as he'd done many times before. Ignoring the sting radiating from his wound, he bent over and ran his hand along Shadow's back. His fur was coarser than he remembered and Nox felt his ribs. Shadow wasn't the picture of health he was used to seeing.

Nox glanced down at his wound. Fresh blood dribbled from his pale skin, but other than that, it was just a crusty black scab, no bigger than a coin. Relief flushed through him. He would survive. In fact, he was going to do more than that. Once he escaped from here, wherever here was, nothing would stop him from getting his hands on the Calimala treasure that was rightfully his. It was his only certainty.

He needed to get these rags onto his feet and, as if he'd had the plan all along, he decided to use the discarded bloody bandage to secure the rags in place. With each flick of the threadbare cloth strips around his foot he had to shove the cat aside, he was either attracted to the playfulness or the blood. Nox assumed it was the blood. He fought head spins and nausea as he doubled over to wrap the bandage. The final result was comfortable and practical.

All he had to do now was be patient. Once the twins had finished outside they would return indoors. And like every other day so far, they should play a board game that involved a couple of dice and twenty-four discs of two different patterns. During the course of the game they would guzzle copious amounts of the alcohol that he was certain bordered on poison. Their conversation, if you could call it that, was sporadic. Sometimes several games were played without a word spoken by either of them. The only certainty was the winner would gulp back whatever was in the brown bottle and then they'd start again. Often, before the blackness of night consumed the hut the brothers would pass out at the table.

Sometime during the night, each of them would make their way up to the loft and that's where they'd stay until the rooster started its morning wakeup call. Only Nox had no intention of being here to listen to that damn rooster crow any more.

Nox stood up and tested his new shoes. They felt good, boosting his confidence even more. He paced the room, scoping the place for any other items he should take with him. Near the pot belly stove he plucked several long strips of dried fish off the dangling rope and as he chewed on the rubberised salty flesh, he realised he needed at least one more thing, water.

The men had been very strict in their rationing of one cup of water per day. At first Nox had thought it was their cruel joke, but as the days rolled on, he began to wonder if they were rationing it because water really was scarce. The reasons for the latter conjured up a landslide of ideas of where the hell he could be. And not all of them were good. He would know soon enough.

Nox did the rounds of the building, all the while chewing on the salty fish and sharing it with the ever-eager Shadow. It wasn't long before the men ventured inside with arms full of wood that they tossed into the corner. They each tugged a couple of slabs of fish from the overhanging ropes and settled in opposite each other at the table. Nox remained seated on his wooden table nearby, however neither man glanced in his direction. The board game was produced, as was the bottle and minutes later the men were grossly involved in their late afternoon ritual.

Scar Face won the first and second rounds but Short Beard won the next three. Their bulging eyes were soon drooping and their hand movements reduced to slow motion. Four more rounds were played before Scar Face stood and without a word made his way up the homemade ladder and disappeared. Short Beard plonked his head onto his playing discs and began snoring almost immediately.

Nox didn't waste a second. He tugged a handful of dried fish from the rafters and shoved them down his top. Then he opened the door and stepped into the fresh air.

The area right outside the door was like a scrap yard, all manner of junk piled on top of each other. Bottles, lots of plastic bottles, dirty, mouldy, with lids and without, were piled higher than his shoulders. There was fishing gear, scraps of metal and other bits and pieces he couldn't decipher. Beyond that was nothing but sheer cliff face, rising up from the junk like a giant edifice. A path wove its way through the mayhem and Nox had no choice but to go that way.

The end of the path met with the side of the building and that's when Nox saw what produced the never-ending popping noises that nearly drove him crazy. Chickens. Dozens of them. Black, brown and white, big and small, scattered in all directions as he walked towards them. His mouth salivated at the thought of eating one of them right now. It would never be, though; he didn't have the time and even if he did, he wouldn't have the strength to catch it either.

His eyes bulged at a row of boxes nestled low against the wall. He hurried towards them and as he silently prayed, he dropped to his knees and looked inside. Two eggs stood out from the twigs as if they were made of gold. Nox reached for them. Ever so carefully, he cracked the first shell on the side of the wooden box and gulped down the raw egg without even thinking. It was disgusting and divinely delicious at the same time. He repeated it with the second egg, and with the chickens milling around him pecking at the ground, Nox took a moment to savour the food in his belly.

Nox was mindful that he needed to keep moving. He had no idea how much daylight was left. Using the nesting boxes for support, he climbed to his feet again and continued heading towards the sun. A couple of steps later he walked onto a grassy knoll, and with the sun on his face and the wind in his hair, the sense of freedom was overwhelming.

But when he walked to the edge of the clearing and looked down, his new-found freedom evaporated. Below him was nothing but cliff face. Beyond that was vast ocean, as far as he could see. He did a slow three sixty degree turn and saw nothing but rocks and ocean. Not a single sign of civilisation other than the decrepit building he'd just escaped from.

Chapter 13

The wind whipped up the bluff, threading its way up from the Mediterranean Sea to take its dying breath as a low whistle through the cracks in the broken weatherboards of the isolated storage shed. Rosalina could still taste the salt in the air despite the distance the breeze must have travelled up from the ocean. She tried to ignore the cobwebs that had failed against the wind and now dangled from the abandoned shed's gutters in tightly corded knots.

Rosalina rubbed her clammy hands together as she watched Archer turn the key in the lock of the abandoned shed. His fingers trembled, drunk with nervous anticipation, or maybe dread. The decision to come here hadn't been a difficult one; in fact, it was a certainty. Since Archer's mother told him about the storage shed, Archer had driven nearly everyone crazy with his obsession about it.

The last couple of days had been intense with a new sense of urgency. Discretion was no longer required as it was obvious Iggy was watching them. So, with
Evangeline
moored almost right on top of the
Flying Seahorse
, they had extracted the precious items from the ancient wreck, literally by the bucket load. With each treasured piece in the fresh haul examined, Alessandro's highlighter had almost marked off every item listed on the middle pages of the ancient manifest. For Rosalina, every piece they marked off took her one step closer to going home to her grandmother.

They'd spent a few more days searching the dive site for the last of the treasure and when the last two dives produced nothing they moved onto the last piece to raise from the bottom of the ocean. The cannon. It took two days alone to dig it out and lift it with the aid of both air bags and the crane.

Once it was positioned right alongside the deckchairs on the sundeck, Archer declared the treasure hunt over and Rosalina breathed a sigh of relief. By that night he'd pulled up anchor and set a course for Patmos Island, and in particular Zoodochos Pigi, the ancient nunnery where he found his mother.