The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (24 page)

Pru nodded toward the piano. “Perhaps Coleman can provide some musical recreation while Lucy and I retire to the study?” In an instant he was seated at the upright, arms outstretched, his graceful fingers poised above the keys. He began to play, his hands so better suited to music than they were to seafaring. As Pru and I left the room he launched into one song after another. “
She's only a bird in a gilded cage, A beautiful sight to see, You may think she's happy and free from care, She's not, though she seems to be . . .
”

Pru blushed slightly and grinned, looking every bit a lovely rare bird, minus the cage, of course. She ushered me into the study, toward a long library table covered in neat piles of books and papers. “Come around,” she said, spreading them out. We sat, side by side. She gathered a yellowed stack and thumbed through them. “Here—birth, marriage, and death certificates . . .” She indicated a pile on the right. “Land records, wills, legal forms.” She unrolled a fragile parchment. “Our family tree.” She spoke quietly, intensely, her eyes riveted to the page, smoothing it with strong yet graceful fingers.

I stared at the document, fascinated. There was my name, under Mother's and Father's, the words
Died at sea
penciled in beneath each. As if on cue, Coleman's voice rang out: “
Strike the bell, second mate! Let us go below. Look away to windward! You can see it's going to blow . . .
”

Pru took a pen, and in time with the jaunty chantey, made a triumphant slash through the dire proclamation following my name.

 

 

“Here's the story as I know it,” Pru continued. “It all started with my grandfather—your great-grandfather—Edward Simmons the First.”

“Yes,” I said. “I'd found a letter you'd written to Father, locked in the safe.”

“I retraced my grandfather's steps. From his hometown in Ireland to here. Old-timers remembered tales of the huge treasure he stole, rumors about a family curse, but not a one was privy to the details of his pirate queen, or the baby they produced. Then, there's this.” She retrieved a ragged scrap of paper, with a rough grid penciled in, letters across the top, numbers down the side. An
x
was scrawled in box J3. “I found it here, stashed in a strongbox. I felt certain this marked the spot here on the homestead where Grandfather had buried the alleged stolen treasure and the rest of his holdings—and, more important, the answers we're seeking. But without a compass rose, there was no way to know how the grid was intended to lay out over the property.” She shook her head and waved her open hands toward the heavens imploringly. “God knows, I tried it every which way, to no avail!” With this she threw herself forward in an exaggerated expression of frustration, her forearms and head thumping the desk. I patted her shoulder, recalling the cratered landscape and knowing how she felt, remembering my own vexation in trying to get into the safe. Pru sat up, squeezed my hand, and smiled, her whole face lighting up. “Difficult, yes, but together, I know, we'll figure this out!”

In the next room, Coleman sang on: “
Way-hay, up she rises! Way-hay, up she rises! Way-hay, up she rises, early in the morning . . .
”

Pru continued, suddenly serious, her brow furrowed in thought. “It's conceivable that this illegitimate child of their liaison is still alive—he or she would be some seventy-odd years old, and might be able to fill in the missing pieces.”

“So, how can we find out?”

“That's what I've been trying to do. And I'm not the only one.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I've been followed, off and on, for the last few years. A scrappy-looking pirate and—”

I jumped in. “A green-eyed man?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, springing from the chair. I told her about my near kidnapping, how the black square-rigger had followed us, about our collision rounding the Cape of Good Hope. Quaide's involvement and final disappearance. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared.

“Somehow those scoundrels knew you'd eventually lead them to me!”

“But why?” I asked. “What are they after?”

She ran both hands through her tumble of out-of-control locks. “The money, that's what. Edward the First was rolling in it—the stolen pirate treasure, booty from his days as a privateer. Opals and gold from his stint here as a prospector. There's a fortune to be had and I'm sure they saw us as the missing link that will steer them to it.”

I thought of Quaide. Of course. It all fit. “We may have seen the last of them,” I said, calling to mind how he'd crashed his way into the gaping hole of the capsized pirate ship, waves teeming in around him. And Marni's sense that Quaide wound up exactly where he needed to be—wherever that was.

“They're as clever and resourceful as they are devious,” Pru said. “If there was any hope of survival, I'll bet they grabbed it. You could be right. They may have been no match for the sea—but I wouldn't count on it.” She tipped her head to the side and nibbled the inside of her cheek. “More and more I feel that finding some record of the child they produced—Edward and the pirate queen—will somehow be the key to unlock this mystery.” Suddenly my flute began to vibrate and hum. It levitated out of my pocket, sounding that mystery tune again, “D–D–F, A–G–F, G–E–C, D.” A puff of glitter wafted in the air as it danced before us. Pru's mouth dropped open. “What in heaven's name?”

“Father's flute. It does this—it helped me figure out the combination to the safe.”

Pru leaned forward, tipping her head, delight playing across her face. “You are remarkable!” she said, speaking directly to the lovely little instrument, tweaking it with her index finger. The flute became even more animated, showing off all the more, whistling and gyrating, improvising on the familiar melody, louder and louder with each repeated refrain.

In the next room, Coleman took up the tune, creating a spirited duet. Responding to this, the flute bobbed across the room toward the parlor. Pru grabbed my hand and danced the two of us out of the study to find Marni and Walter clapping along in time. As we sashayed in, the magical woodwind in the lead, their clapping abruptly stopped. Having never witnessed the antics of my flute before, they gaped at us, a mix of shock and amusement on their faces.

Suddenly, Coleman's voice rang out, clothing the familiar melody with words:

“
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 seafarer's blood did she spill!
A la dee dah dah . . . a la dee dah dee,
This is the ballad of Mary Maude Lee.
”

I inhaled sharply. Pru looked up, a note of recognition flickering across her face. “I've heard this melody before,” she whispered. “As a child . . .”

        “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!

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

        This is the ballad of Mary Maude Lee.”

The color drained from Marni's face. She gripped the arms of the chair with white knuckles. Coleman continued, the flute dancing in the air beside him, sounding a shrill descant. Pru, Marni, and I stood, riveted by the lyrics, Walter glancing from one of us to the other, his face a question.

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

        Escaped with her booty, and then off he went.

        She swore her revenge against that sorry traitor,

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

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

        The sons of his sons would all die in the sea!

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

        This is the ballad of Mary Maude Lee.
”

Coleman launched into a piano interlude between verses and suddenly there was a sound like a drumroll, building to the next chorus. Walter saw it first—the box of cards rising from my travel bag, the lid vibrating percussively. “What?” Walter asked. “What's going on?” I placed my hand on his arm, and raised an index finger to my lips. Taking a deep breath, Coleman continued,

        “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!

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

        This is the ballad of Mary Maude Lee.
”

I rushed to Marni, whose face collapsed, the life draining from it with each subsequent verse. Pru's and Walter's eyes were fixed on the box of cards, levitating and chattering, floating across the room. Coleman, oblivious, 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!'

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

        This is the ballad of Mary Maude Lee!”

He ended with a great flourish, an arpeggio from the bottom of the keyboard to the top. Father's flute trilled on the final D note. The box of cards dropped to the ground with a bang. The deck shot out, splayed in a wild array across the polished floor. The face cards fluttered and rose, hovering around Marni.

Eyes wide, hands trembling, she plucked the queen of spades from the air and held it out before her. She stared at the image, gasped, and dropped it, as though it had burned her fingertips.

She sunk back into her chair, looked from one of us to the other. “Now it all makes sense,” she said, her hand flying to her locket. “Mary Maude Lee . . . Mary Maude Lee was . . . my mother.”

I
t took more than a moment for the enormity of her words to sink in. Marni—the daughter of my great-grandfather and the pirate queen! That meant that . . .

“You're related!” Walter exclaimed, eyes darting between us. “Marni is your . . . your . . .”

“My aunt,” Pru said. “Lucy's great-aunt.”

I ran, knelt, and flung my arms around Marni. Laid my head on her shoulder.

“My own mother,” Marni whispered into my hair, “responsible for all this evil . . . it explains, of course, why I was drawn to you, unconsciously trying to undo her doings—it's what I've done my whole life, in one way or another. . . .”

The queen of spades flipped up. “Oh, please,” she retorted, leaning off the card. “I offered you everything and you rejected it! Had you not been such an ingrate, your own boy might not have gotten snatched by that so-called husband of yours.”

The room fell silent as they ogled the talking icon. Walter looked between the card and me, eyebrows raised. Coleman's mouth was agape, and Pru stood, riveted. Now they all shared in the secret I'd been bound to all these months. Marni's eyes narrowed. She picked the card up between thumb and index finger, flicked the image of her mother to the floor, and stamped it down with her foot.

Gently, Pru touched Marni's arm. “Did you know your father?”

Marni shook her head. “No. It was forbidden to speak of him. Didn't even know his name. I only knew he double-crossed her.” She turned to Coleman. “And I never heard this ballad. Where did you learn it?”

He shrugged. “
Aboard some ship, across the Irish Sea . . . forgot about it until that crazy flute . . . crazy flute . . .
”

The bulldog-faced queen of diamonds shot into the air. “Now that you've got that witch under control, let's get on with it. The cards! How about the cards?”

“Now they're all talking!” Walter exclaimed, pointing at the animated card. Pru stared at the queen of diamonds. “I know you,” she said. “You're my grandmother! Molly O'Malley!”

“Yes, yes,” the queen responded, “love and kisses and all that hogwash. The cards! Are ya payin' attention to the cards?”

“So, it's all about the cards?” Pru asked, gesturing toward a far wall where a large framed display hung. About a dozen small rectangles had been cut into a matte, revealing a set of familiar designs. She turned to me. “My father had this deck of cards . . . my grandmother—her,” Pru said, pointing, “the queen of diamonds—Father said she was handy with pen and ink. When Grandfather was off to sea, which was more often than not, she'd pass the days illustrating. She crafted a whole set of cards, with tiny scenes on the back of each.”