Isle of Swords (10 page)

“Do you read the Holy Scriptures, Declan Ross?” asked Padre Dominguez. His stare fell cold on Captain Ross. The captain of the
Wallace
lost his smug smile just as quickly as it had come. He stared out of his quarters' balcony window at the whitecaps.

“Uh, no.”

“Then do not presume to judge me by them.” The monk continued. “The Brethren is a sacred order called by God to maintain the safekeeping of the holy relics of God. The Brethren acts with a pure heart and a clear conscience.”

“Whatever you say, Padre,” Ross said, relieved to back out of that conversation. He grabbed a handful of nuts from a bowl on the desk. “We're in. So where is this Isle of Swords?”

“In the North Atlantic, some one hundred miles due west of the Azores.” Ross nearly spit out a mouthful of nuts.

Stede, who knew the names and locations of every port in the known world, was aghast. “There b' no islands due west of the Azores!”

“Not on your sea charts, perhaps,” said the monk, turning to reveal the map on his back once more. “Nevertheless, it exists on mine. And I have been there.”

Stede studied the monk's back. “This is one outrageous trip, he b' talking about,” he said, turning to Ross. “Three thousand miles, mon.”

The captain of the
William Wallace
shrugged. “The Spaniards do it in their heavy galleons all the time.”

“And the galleons b' attacked by the likes of us all the time,” argued Stede. “Or did ya forget that Bartholomew Thorne's whole fleet b' hunting the seas for us soon?”

The monk grew suddenly stiff. He pulled his robe up to cover his back and turned to Ross. “Even under pain of torture, the Brothers of Saint Celestine would not tell Thorne that I am with you. Thorne should not have cause to chase us in particular.”

“Well,” Ross said as he ran his fingers through his coppery mane, “actually, that's not quite true. Before we picked you up, we killed Thorne's second-in-command.”

“What?” The monk raised an eyebrow.

“We fixed him good, we did,” Jules said. “Stede buried his machetes into old Chevillard's back, and Nubby finished him off with about the biggest kitchen knife I've ever seen. We used his own cannons and blew holes out both ends of his ship. Sent her to the bottom quick.”

“You killed Thierry Chevillard?” The monk's eyes widened. Ross nodded. “And sank his ship?” Ross nodded again. Padre Dominguez shook his head. “The Butcher will no doubt be welcomed to perdition—vile and bloodthirsty man that he was. Did you leave any survivors . . . any who could tell Thorne?”

Ross lowered his eyes. “Of course you did,” said the monk. “For you are not like they are. But Bartholomew Thorne will not let that go lightly. The journey to the Isle of Swords would be treacherous enough without that threat hanging over our heads.”

“You mean the storms?” Ross asked. “Padre, I am Scotland-born— the North Atlantic, my old backyard. The Brothers of Saint Celestine did a smart job fixing up the
Wallace
. We can handle the storms.”

“More than storms,” said the monk. “In the open ocean, there is always the threat of storm. Perhaps worse, the doldrums. But aside from those perils, it is just a long voyage. We will need even more provisions than the Brothers of Saint Celestine were able to provide.”

“That's no problem,” said Ross. “I have a place in mind.”

The monk nodded. “But as we draw within the last one hundred miles of our destination . . . there, the real dangers will begin. The first is an anomaly in the sea—two strong currents collide and form a deceptive perimeter around the island. The turbulent waters will misguide a ship, but the unwary seaman will not discover that he is off course until it is far too late. This is marked by a red dagger on the map, but it cannot be found without the help of the stars. We must make for this point by nightfall and use the stars to pass over the boundary and onto the real course. We will either find the way or become hopelessly lost, wasting precious days seeking the spot where we began.”

“This sounds like voodoo, if ya b' asking me,” said Stede. “I've sailed that way many times. I tell ya, there b' no island there.”

“Voodoo, no,” said the monk. “But supernatural, I agree. To my knowledge, there is no other place in all the oceans of the world where this occurs. I believe it is the Almighty's way of keeping the island private.”

Stede snorted and crossed his arms.

“Mock if you wish,” said the monk, “but I have a suspicion that we will all need guidance from heaven before this venture ends.”

Stede uncrossed his arms. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Jules was amazed. It wasn't often that he'd seen his captain and his quartermaster dressed down in the same afternoon.

“And if we do navigate the stars successfully and find the perimeter where the currents clash, still we must be wary. For a span of seven miles we will ride some of the roughest swells and currents you have ever seen. Worse still—the colliding forces beneath the waves cause deep sucking pockets to open up. One minute you are cresting a wave, and suddenly, a two-hundred-foot chasm opens up off the bow. A ship drawn into the gaping dark mouth in the sea has but moments to live. The currents will slam the chasm shut, crushing any vessel under a mountain of never-ending water.”

Stede whistled. Ross and Jules realized they had been holding their breath while the monk spoke. They exhaled together and looked about nervously. Padre Dominguez went on. “We can catch our breath for the next seventy-five miles,” he said, winking at Stede, who still looked shaken. “Then we will begin to hear the first beats of the island's molten heart. We'll pass through a shield of mist and volcanic ash, and if the sun has risen, we will see the Ilha de Espadas. The island is shaped like a crescent. The outer rim of the island is sheer and unassailable. The only way to approach it is from the mouth of its bay.”

“Let me guess,” said Ross. “There's something in the way.”

“Yes,” replied the monk. “The island is not called Isle of Swords for nothing. Guarding the mouth of the bay is a unique reef formation we of the Brethren call the shards. Hundreds and hundreds of sharp rocks and coral thrust up through the surface like so many daggers. A ship that crashes into one of these is likely to be split and sent to the bottom. There is danger below as well, for hidden spikes of coral lay beneath the waves. There is only one path through the shards, and I alone know this path.”

“I don't suppose you'd care to write that down for us,” said

Ross, already knowing the answer.

“No, Declan Ross,” the monk replied. “I will keep that knowledge to myself until we are in sight of the island.”

Stede had heard enough. “So, then, we just hurry across that little harbor and fetch all the gold?”

“Alas, no. We must moor in the harbor, and there I must dive for the key.”

“Key?” Ross squinted.

“The Treasure of Constantine is locked tight in an impenetrable clifftop castle on the northern end of the crescent. Without the key, there is no way in, unless, of course, any of you can scale a sheer wall of stone some three hundred feet. The only window in the fortress looks out over the ocean, but it is not an entrance.”

“And you have to dive for the key?” Ross asked. “Why not just keep the key yourself ?”

“A key of such value cannot be entrusted to the possession of a man. A man may change allegiances. A man may be corrupted. A man may get sick and die, and if so, the treasure would be lost to all forever. The Brethren felt that it was best to keep the key within reach of the island, but at the same time out of reach.”

“Seawater will corrode the key to naught—given a few years under,” Ross said. “I hope you made the key of something sturdy and put it in something watertight.”

“The key is wrought iron, tempered by the Brethren to endure the corrosive power of the sea.” Padre Dominguez paused, rubbed his bottom lip thoughtfully, and then continued. “The key is encased in wax, sealed in stone, and placed among thousands of like stones.

One must know exactly what the stone looks like to separate it from the others. I know this. The key waits for me to dive and retrieve it.”

“Why you?” Jules asked.

The monk paused, again wondering how much he could trust them, and also, how much they could possibly believe. “In due time,” he said.

“Okay,” Ross said. “So, you can do the dive. Just please tell me that once we have the key, we can just go on up and get the treasure.”

The monk shook his head once again. “With the key in hand, we begin a five-mile trek from one end of the island to the other. We will enter a network of volcanic caves and sedimentary tubes. From there we emerge in a dense forest. This takes us around the base of Arrojar del Fuego, a volcano that never rests. At last, we are faced with a final climb . . . a mile-long slope that is both steep and perilous. Jags of sharp granite and steps of brittle sandstone at our feet and unusual volcanic lightning overhead. We will make our way to the gate of Boveda de Dios, the fortress that guards both our treasures.”

“If all this mon say b' true,” Stede said, “then how we b' getting the treasure back down? The slope will kill us, if we b' heavy with gold.”

“He is right. It will not be easy,” the monk said.

“The window in the back of the fortress, how high did you say it was?” Ross asked.

“About two hundred feet.”

“And the depth of the water at its base?”

The monk hesitated. “I do not know for certain, but I suspect there is at least fifty feet of water at the base of the cliff.”

“We're going to need woven baskets—and rope, lots of rope.”

Ross grinned. “I know a man in Dominica. He'll get it for us. That and some other things we'll need.”

“I don't suppose he has access to monkey pee, does he?”

The room suddenly went very quiet.

At last, Ross said, “That's kind of an odd request.”

The monk laughed. “Yes, I know. Let me explain myself. You see, within the caves and volcanic tubes that we must travel, there lives a species of lizard found nowhere else. They are carnivorous creatures drawn to body heat. One man is not usually enough to draw them out, but given the size of our expedition, they will come at us in dangerous numbers. The monkey pee has a unique smell that wards these creatures off.”

“I don' think I want to know what we b' doing with that monkey pee,” muttered Stede.

“You're right,” said the monk as he turned to leave. “You don't.”

“Wait, Padre,” Ross said. “One more thing.”

Padre Dominguez eyed the captain curiously.

“Why did you—why tattoo the map on your back?”

Padre Dominguez smiled sadly. “There are several reasons,” he explained. “It is the largest area of skin without blemish, a kind of canvas of skin. And having the route to a great treasure where one can easily see it would prove too great a temptation, so, again, the back is better suited. But the Brethren's primary reason for having the map inscribed upon our backs is . . . that it is a symbol.”

“A symbol of what?”

“Just as Christ bore the cross, we too must bear a burden.”

Later, up on the deck of the
Wallace
, the captain and his quartermaster spoke in whispers. “He's hiding something, Declan,” said Stede. “Did ya see the way he changed when we told him about Chevillard?”

“Yes,” Ross replied, his eyes narrowing. “Almost like he knew the man.”

“Yeah, I was thinkin' the same,” said Stede. “And, funny how him won't b' telling us the part of the treasure him b' wanting to get fer himself.”

“I don't really care what part of the treasure he wants. If Constantine's wealth is half as grand as it's supposed to be, we'll all have enough to get out of this business once and for all,” Ross said.

“Declan Ross.” Stede clapped his captain on the shoulder. “We both learn the hard way that the sweet trade ain't so sweet.”