It was then the same melodic call they had heard when they first made landfall wafted again to their ears. It was more earnest this time, tinged with greater sadness though still as sweet. A call for help, one of concern and great loneliness. Picaro could not pick up its exact direction, though it seemed much closer now, as if it resounded out from beneath the pile of stone rubble beneath their feet, ricocheting from stone to stone. Heeding it, Valgur clutched the key and bent his ear to the ground. At the very end of the call, Picaro thought he heard the faintest hint of snickering laughter.
"Hear that, boy? Beneath the stone. What's that? Someone trapped? It must be here. Quick, go and get the crew. Spare not a man, go." Valgur cast out a hand to him, urging him to act. Looking at him, Picaro saw a certain sheen glinting in his pupil, a mournful look hinging on desperation. It was a peculiar sight to see his captain in such a way, eager only to heed the obsession growing in his bosom.
Picaro tried to grab at his coat. "Captain, but what if-"
Valgur spun on him. "Belay that, boy. Do as yer bid or you'll find a lashing from me waiting for ye.” A dangerous look flashed across his face. Picaro could only turn tail and run back out along the trail towards the beach, stumbling as he went and making the call of the seabird, the crew's telltale sign to come to each other's aid.
Along the path, a shadow shifted between the trees and Grit stepped onto the path. "What happened, any trouble?"
"Not yet. Valgur said he found something, but he seems off," said Picaro, panting. "Gather the men and I’ll lead you to him."
Soon Scuttle, Atrocius and the others found them, and they emerged onto the beach to see the rest of the crew milling about, seemingly looking for something. "You heard it again, too?" asked Silvertime when they approached.
"Aye, and the boy says they may have found the source," said Grit. "We need every able bodied man. Bring picks and shovels, rope and carts. Quicklike!" Grit began barking orders to organize the men on the beach. They all answered with a certain subservient and hurried nature that seemed uncanny to the boy, as if their task in this hour was most precious to them. And all the while each man would glance up to the sky or bend an inclining ear to the wind as if searching for the call once more, yearning for its sweet and sorrowful embrace.
When the men and supplies were gathered they rendezvoused with their captain inland. Small boulders had been cast aside from the rubble and their captain stood stooping over them strained and soaked with sweat, panting heavily. "At last y’made it. Quick, move these stones for me. It's here, I tell ye. Look," he pointed to the carving in the rockface and the men all nodded eagerly.
Then the call wafted up around them like rising heat. Men's hearts jumped in their chest. Some caught their breath, hanging onto its resonance for as long as they could. Each man moved as if entranced, like glad slaves held in some lustful bond, bending their backs fervently to uncover the source of the call. "Must be some woman lost herself under there."
"I'll rescue her before all of ye. Fer true, it if it's the last thing I do," said Mord, gritting his teeth and driving the edge of a shovel into the ground.
The call lingered in the air another moment. When it waned Picaro again heard unmistakable trailing laughter that seemed to mock him and turn his heart cold. A chill like a bead of cold sweat ran down his spine, making him shiver. He looked out across the men. They all had a similar grey sheen to their eyes as if they were looking far ahead, not seeing what was truly before them.
Picaro tried to rouse Grit with an effort. "There's something weird going on," said the boy, but Grit merely shrugged him off. Picaro saw the same emptiness in the his face.
Someone pulled the remains of a dead man's arm from the rubble and cast it aside as if it were a piece of driftwood. "It must be here. Other men been looking. But it's ours, it’s all ours now."
Men nodded their heads and did not look at each other, all so engrossed in their task. The blanket of the spell had covered them completely. Picaro began to back away. Then the call came again, more piercing this time. It made the boy's ears ring and his head pound. White flashed before his eyes as he clenched his jaw. A sudden madness threatened to overtake him. He wanted to scream. He fought it, yet the more he did so a malicious laugh rose up around him, mocking him.
They’re lost to madness, Picaro thought, why won't they wake up? In fact, the crew seemed to drink it in like sweet wine. It bade them to push harder, move faster. Their breaths were ragged, but they moved stones with greater fervor, straining in the afternoon heat. Atrocius heaved a particularly large stone from the pile and uncovered the wooden wreckage of an old crew's supplies. Picaro saw a skull among the rubble and it shook him to his core. He turned tail and ran back toward the ship, fully convinced of the crew's madness. He had to do something.
As he reached the beach, he heard the call again. It still sounded as if it were coming from all around him, as if it came out from the island itself, concentrated fully on torturing his young mind. He groaned and heaved himself onto the ship, searching desperately for something to blot out the sound. He burst into the mess hall and stuffed handkerchiefs into his ears. He staggered back onto the main deck and saw Onion at the rails. He ran up to the man, grabbing his sleeve. "Onion, they've all gone mad. There's something evil here, driving the men to desperation. We have to help them." But when he looked at Onion's eyes, the same grey sheen covered them.
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"You hear it, eh? Such a sweet sound. I wonder where she is. Do you know? Tell me, then. Tell me where she is," said Onion, and he clutched the boy's shoulders tightly, pressing his face to his.
Picaro shook his head and cried out. "Onion, stop. This thing is trying to control your mind and bring you to madness."
“What would you know about it? You’ve never even been with a woman,” said the cook, digging his nails into the boy's shoulder. Wincing, Picaro wriggling like an eel in his grip. He finally managed to work himself free, allowing Onion to tear the collar of his shirt as the price for his freedom. Picaro jumped the rail and fell to the beach, knocking the wind from him. He groaned and lay there for a moment until his wind finally came back to him.
Onion roared his displeasure. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said as he clambered down off the side of the ship.
Panicked, Picaro stumbled across the beach in his effort to outrun him. He made it to a rocky outcropping that jutted out from the beach, sticking out into the tide. He slipped over the wet stones, the surf spraying up white foam about his heels. He jump over several dangerous gaps where sharp edged rocks stood out like teeth below him, waiting to impale him should he fall. Onion tried to climb up the stones, but he was too large himself to make it across the gap. He continued to slip, and he howled in frustration before lumbering off into the jungle.
Picaro watched him go, grieving for his dear friend. He stood there collecting himself, heaving in deep breaths. He nearly went after Onion into the jungle. But as he put out a hand to steady himself, something caught his eye. Beside him along a stone face wall that bent inward to form the mouth of a cave was a carving of a seahorse, its nose pointing inward toward the shadowed alcove. What looked like it may have been a coin was etched into its belly.
Curious, Picaro followed the path with his eyes. There was a ledge barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast snaking along the edge of the wall, leveled as if made by human hands. Carefully, Picaro followed it, minding the walls for signs and the floor for any loose stones or unwelcome gaps. He followed the wall to its end and nearly abandoned his course, for the ledge ended at the base of a pool hollowed into the stone. He stood there in the dark, unsure what to do next. He knelt and tested the water with his arm, but as much as he reached downward he could not touch the bottom. It seemed deep, and also a dead end.
He would have left then had he not tried one last option. He felt the wall above the pool, searching for some sign. His hands passed over smooth lines carved into the stone tracing the outline of an image set into the stone. Curiosity continued to be his guide, and without a second thought he stole back to the ship in search of a particular item. Silvertime would have it, he knew. Tears of the sun, a special oil that would be most useful for just such a situation that when lit would not allow its flame to go out, even when doused with water. Picaro found it in the man’s belongings, a small container of black paste that shimmered with many colors when it caught the light. Picaro smeared it over the wick of a torch and lit it. The flames crackled as if commanded a brilliant yellow.
He found his way back to the cave and edged his way along the wall, using the light of the torch to illuminate the image carved into the stone just above the pool. It was the whale once more, another of Vagabon Doughty’s, no doubt. Yet this time the gold coin that had so eluded its jaws in the other carving was now resting safely in the whale’s belly. He knew what that meant without meaning to, and stared down into the depths of the pool. The glassy water was dark as if it had no bottom. The boy whistled, and the sounded echoed back to him many times over.
“Let’s have at it then,” he said and plunged into the water. It went down many feet and them seemed to curve into the shape of a long tunnel. The boy swam long it, the light from the magical oil spilling yellows and greens across the porous rock around him. The tunnel went for twenty yards, and he thought he might soon run out of air before it started curving upwards. Picaro surfaced and pulled himself from the pool gasping for air.
He found himself in a large alcove. Directly ahead of him was a sloping stone wall. Its ceiling went so high he could not illuminate its top. Yet he did not need to look that high, for carved into the rockface was not another image but a door with a single key hole.
Without another breath he understood now what he must do, and so he swam back through the tunnel and scrambled from the cove, staggering through the jungle. He found that the crew had moved away a large portion of rubble. Now Valgur was barking at them to dig deeper, and many men were scooping dirt out of a large hole in the ground. No one looked at Picaro as he came up to Valgur, reaching up to touch his captain on the shoulder. “Cap’n, come quick. I found the place, come and see.”
Valgur swung on him in surprise, still in his stupor. “What ye mean? It’s here lad. Buried treasure. Now start digging.”
Picaro shook his head. “Not here, captain. I found both the entrance and the keyhole. Bring the men. You’ll see.” Yet again the call came, now a desperate wail. Picaro cringed from it, but Valgur expanded his chest and took a deep breath.
“We need to help her. She knows where the treasure might be,” he whispered. He pushed Picaro roughly. “Grab a shovel and start digging.”
Frustrated, Picaro saw no other option. He slipped quietly to the side. Valgur seemed not to notice as he strode forward to inspect a spot Mord had found in the dirt. Picaro crept up and pilfered the skeleton key from its place in Valgur’s coatpocket. Then he kicked Valgur in the back of the leg and held the key up for him to see. “What are you going to do without this?”
Valgur wheeled, his eyes full of bloody rage. “Ye filthy little bastard,” he roared, lumbering toward him. Picaro dashed back into the jungle, careful not to lose sight of the captain and his crew. “The boy took the key. Without it, we’ll never find the treasure, or the girl,” he heard Valgur call behind him.
The thunder of many stamping feet followed Picaro through the jungle. He glanced back to ensure that he was still being followed. He burst out onto the beach where he found Onion still pacing. The cook turned in surprise as a riot of Free Men burst out onto the beach in pursuit.
Picaro scrambled onto the rocks and waited just before the entrance to the cove. He looked back and flashed the key into the air. “Looking for this?” he asked, and then disappeared into the cave.
Mord was the first to make the outcropping, for the rumbling oaf could go quick when need demanded it, and was he in such need now. “I’ll skin the flesh from his hide. I’ll tear out his eyes. You’ll pay for this, you rat of a boy. You’ll see.”
Valgur was not the first to clear the rocks and make the cove, but when he did so he saw the brilliant yellow flame of a torch in the boy’s hand illuminating a carving of the whale above them.
“The boy wants the treasure for himself,” he heard a man call.
“Well then, after him,” said Valgur. “We’ll still get what we came for.”
Then Picaro dove into a dark pool and was gone.
How it started:
- Samuel O. Ludescher