“I’ve changed my mind on that.”
“But why?”
She didn’t mean to tell him but found herself speaking anyway. “I’ve my own reckoning to fulfill beneath the moon.”
With his mouth twisted into an angry sneer, Maycomb stepped forward about to argue further but his wife stopped him with a hand to his wrist. “Trevor, you hired this woman for a reason. She is capable and level-headed and principled. Stay with me and allow her to retrieve Daphna, if she can.”
“I want you here in case the ship is attacked,” Crimson said. She opened her satchel and took out three of the rowan tree stakes and four of the iron rings. “You know of what I speak. Use these if you must. A stake must pierce the heart with one thrust. The rings can be used to strangle the fiends, if need be. Iron is supposedly anathema to them.”
“Assuming they exist at all.”
“Yes, when making that presumption. Do you feel you’re up to the task?”
“Yes.”
“I’m convinced as well.”
Maycomb took the proffered weapons and said, “Do you believe your husband is alive on Benbow?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “No, I don’t think that at all.” She spun and grabbed the door latch, but before she could leave, Elaine Maycomb draped the silver chain and cross around Crimson’s neck.
“Save her, child. Deliver our daughter and yourself.”
5
The brazen three-quarter moon had started its lumbering climb into the sky. Two crewmen were on watch and they merely eyed her and kept silent, on the lookout for any activity in these pirate waters. The harpooner was still muttering about mermaids but nobody was listening anymore.
Welsh, wearing his darkest clothes, was already in the skiff when she reached it. Hedrick had placed in proper provisions, to be certain: a small cask of whiskey. Welsh had finished about half of it by the time she got in with her gear.
“Figured you’d want to make this journey at night.”
“Goat, if you really knew me so well, you’d run for your worthless gray life.”
“Someone’s got to watch over you, lass, before you go findin’ yourself in even greater troubles.”
Together, they worked the pulleys hard and lowered the skiff into the water. They cast off, sat side by side, and rowed towards the island of Benbow through the glossy darkness.
“They’re watching us fer sure. I can feel that spyglass on me handsome face now.”
“Must be the native girls so impressed with your dashing looks.”
“My thinkin’ exactly.”
“You keep your wits about you, old man.”
He grimaced and said, “What’s that hanging about yer neck? You haven’t gone missionary now, have ye? The savages be sharpenin’ their machetes for the likes of a nun spreadin’ the gospel in the wrong place.”
Crimson ignored him and kept rowing. They drew along the coastline and continued around towards the jungle side where the volcanic mountain rose with the village crouched at the top.
“No ships,” Welsh said. “This here looks to be the best natural harbor for the island, but there’s no vessels at all.”
“Could they be hidden in some cove?”
“On volcanic rock like this? Not likely from what we’ve seen so far. Still, perhaps…”
Whenever Crimson looked up, the island soared towards the pagan moon, a craggy monolith reaching. “We’ve come all this way and Villaine’s off plundering in Cuba?”
“Let’s set about there,” Welsh told her. “Watch the rocks. Lord in the heavens, what sort of heathen place of worship is this?”
“Look at the stairs. It’s as if the upper crest of the village itself forms some sort of temple.”
“No wonder the dead here can’t get any rest.”
There were perhaps fifty yards of clear beach before the base of the stone steps. ”Be ready for anything.”
“I always am, with the help of a bit of whiskey.” He gulped another mouthful down and smacked his lips. “All right, then, let’s see what sort of ghosts haunt this damnable place. Perhaps some pretty ones, eh?”
They beached the skiff but there was no point in dragging it too far up the shore. None of the vegetation was close enough for them to put to use in hiding the boat. Crimson watched for lamplight or reflections off weapons, expecting someone to come at them down those stone works. An unearthly quiet settled over the area and even the lapping waves didn’t break as hard as they should. The dark waters seemed to be moving in all the wrong directions.
“Lass?”
“What?”
“Did you not hear me? I asked if you’d taken your pouch of gunpowder. Is it in your satchel there?”
“Yes,” she lied. She’d been foolish and had packed poorly, she now realized, caring more about spirits than cutthroat corsairs. The iron rings clanked together quietly as she carried her pack to the towering obelisk of steps. “How many do you figure there are?”
“I’ve heard of tribes doing such things as this in the South Pacific. With the heads of idols that reach a hundred feet high, built at the rim of the volcano. They use ’em for human sacrifices. A foolish waste of virgins, if any would ask me. Sometimes there’s as many as five thousand stairs.”
“Impossible.”
“It’s true, so I’ve been told.”
“Your knees up for it?”
“If not, it’s a long way back down to the arms of the earth.”
“Let’s be off then.”
They checked their weapons and mounted the stairs, climbing steadily but without rushing. In this darkness, even with the moon bright above, all it would take was one misstep to send their skulls cracking. The night itself seemed to pluck and draw at them as they rose. She estimated the ascent at a good quarter of a mile at least. She was amazed by how smooth the stonework was. It must have taken a thousand men ten years to chisel it all to completion. The steep angle winded both of them, and twice while looking out at the silhouette of the
“I suppose they don’t frolic in the ocean much, these lovers,” she said. “It’d take them a week to get to the beach.”
“There’s bound to be other passages through the volcanic channels,” Welsh told her. “Escape tunnels and burrows, plenty of nooks fer loot. A rope and winch system so he can draw up his plunder though deep-cut shafts.”
“Let’s hope, leastways. It’d be much easier for us to find one of those routes than having to walk all the way back down.”
“Maybe he’s got some of those virgins tucked away as well.”
“You live on hope, old man.”
“One needs to at my age.”
Nearing the top of this bizarre temple—if that’s what it truly was—they heard the first sounds of night birds and smelled rich soil and flowers in bloom. The fronds and palms caught the wind and cool air wafted through Crimson’s hair. She hadn’t realized how sweaty she’d grown on the ascent. Moon-traced darkness offered a hint of movement in the jungle. They sat and rested for a handful of minutes. No sign of the two armed guards supposedly on watch.
“Look out for traps,” Welsh whispered.
