Barefoot Pirate, Page 2

  She worked fast, and steadily, finishing the vacuuming just as Mrs. Evans called Mr. Evans and Nan to dinner. She daydreamed as the Evanses complained about politics and the economy, and did the dishes. Then she got her clothes ready for the next day, took her bath, and at last the moment came when she slid into bed, her night light on, and the book on her lap.

  Barefoot Pirate splashed across the title page in promising gold lettering. Beneath it, in smaller letters, it said, by Magister Kevriac.

  “Funny name,” Nan breathed. Her heart had sped up again.

  The print was unusual—it almost looked like some kind of script, except it was so neat it couldn’t possibly be. There was no such thing as handwritten books any more. Even stranger, she didn’t see any publisher, or copyright date, or any of the usual clutter of legal words.

  She turned the page. Again in gold lettering it said: The events detailed here took place upon another world. The people are real.

  Nan grinned, liking the book already. That was quite a change from that usual dumb thing about people and places being imaginary and any resemblance to living persons, etc. etc. As if the publishers just had to spoil your believing in the characters before the story had even started.

  She turned the page and read:

  Blackeye the Barefoot Pirate was the only daughter of traders who, when the Regent took over the government, were forced to become privateers. They were never lawless pirates, but they could not get an official government paper because the enemy they attacked was the government, who tried to control all shipping and trade so that the tariffs and customs duties all went into the pockets of the Regent and his friends.

  Named Bera at birth, before she was orphaned at nine, she’d learned how to trim sail, how to navigate by stars and charts, and because she was large for her age and quick on her feet, she was no stranger to lessons with the rapier.

  Her quickened reflexes probably saved her life on the night her parents were betrayed and killed. She woke up to the sound of someone stealthily opening her door. Whoever it was had sufficient disregard for her age that he carried a candle as well as a knife. Bera flung the glass of water her mother always left by her bedside—the candle went out, and the ruffian stabbed at her and missed. Bera promptly tossed her bed clothes over his head. Before he’d fought them off, cursing and threatening most foully, she had opened her window and escaped...

  Nan bent over the book, reading faster.

  The story went on to detail Bera’s escape from the burning house, the sounds of screams and shouts echoing in her ears. The next morning she saw the same masked louts who’d attacked the house and killed everyone in it board her parents’ ship and sail it away.

  She’d thought their cove safe from attackers, for a magic spell had protected the entrance. Still, she’d grown up with the crew, and her first instinct was to seek out those crewmembers who did not live at the cove. She picked the very crewman who, she figured later, had betrayed her parents and the other crew members by revealing the cove’s Entrance Spell: Mursid was very nice to her when she showed up at his cottage, crying. But he gave her some tea that made her go to sleep, and when she woke up she was on her way to the capital, as an official Ward of the Principality.

  Later, she figured Mursid hadn’t dared to kill her only because others saw her enter the village, crying, and dirty.

  She was put under the charge of two grim men in green and black tunics, who would not let her speak until she was handed over to two equally grim women in a tall, dark, ugly house in the noisy section of the capital.

  It was here, Nan read, that Bera found out that she was now a Ward, and that she was in a Workhouse. She was told by the keepers that, as a child of pirates, criminals, she could not leave until she had learned a respectable trade—and then served as a journeyman until she had earned back what had been expended on her bed, board, clothing, and training.

  No one would listen when she protested that her parents were not criminals—that they had been killed! They just said that because she was a pirate’s child,” Nan read with growing indignation, “but was being given a chance to learn to be a respectable citizen, she was supposed to be Dutiful and Grateful.

  Like me, like me, Nan thought, turning a page rapidly—

  Her door opened right then, and Mrs. Evans stood there, frowning. “It’s late,” she said. “What are you reading there?”

  Nan forced her face to stay calm, and her voice to remain quiet. “It’s a biography. Got it for the English assignment.” And she forced herself to hold the book out to Mrs. Evans, knowing that to hide it or put it aside too quickly would make the woman curious enough to take it away from her.

  Sure enough, Mrs. Evans just said, “Lights out. I’m not having you getting sick from lack of sleep.”

  “Okay. Lights out,” Nan said, reaching over to flick the light off.

  Mrs. Evans shut the door and left.

  Nan counted slowly to 500, and when no one reappeared, she pulled a tiny pencil flashlight from under her mattress, and made a tent with her knees to keep any light from spilling. She opened the book and went on reading.

  The book went on to describe Bera’s life in the Workhouse. In an establishment run by strict Keepers who did not favor “spoiling” their charges by spending much on them, Bera soon found she was nearly always hungry, and frequently cold.

  Bera was not intimidated by the harsh rules and the unforgiving environment. The Keepers were prone to address her, whenever she got into trouble, as the Penniless and Worthless Child of Lawless Pirates, who should count herself lucky that the government was willing to invest good money into seeing that she grew up to learn a proper trade. And the trade they selected for her was sewing. Not the making of sails, but fine, decorative sewing, which called for nimble fingers, artistry, and a great deal of patience. She’d learned a certain amount of nimbleness working on board her parents’ ship, but artistry and patience she had little of. Especially for something as tedious as embroidery.

  Bera would have rather done almost anything else, as she tried to point out when she was punished, which was frequently, for messing up a good length of cloth. Brick-laying would have meant she’d be outside. Cooking would at least have afforded a warm kitchen and plenty to eat. As for prenticing out to a ship in any capacity, she begged for that, until she saw that the Keepers enjoyed her misery and had no intentions of changing her trade. Misery, they felt, was a good start toward the proper humility and obedience they desired from their charges.

  When she realized this she stopped begging, and outwardly, at least, became resigned to her fate. Inwardly, though, she resolved to escape as soon as she could, revenge herself on her parents’ murderers, and then steal back the ship she knew to be her inheritance. That was when she was eleven.

  “During these years,” the book went on to say,

  ...she made friends. She grew to be tall and strong for her age, and because she’d had training in self defense, no one was able to bully her. Instead, she intervened on behalf of the smaller, weaker children. She stood up against other children in the Workhouse until all, even the bigger boys, regarded her with respect. She organized the Workhouse children against the street bullies that frequently plagued them, and she also stood up to the Keepers on others’ behalf, when she thought they’d been unfair. This was often, and Bera consequently went to bed supperless on many nights.

  She made friends with nearly everyone, but four children became her close companions. These four were later to form part of her crew. In the Workhouse they were known by names the Keepers had assigned them. Here they are mentioned with the names they later chose for themselves.

  “Blackeye was the name the other children gave Bera, because of her shining black eyes. She decided it would make a fine name for a pirate—since the authorities insisted on calling her family pirates, then a pirate she would be.

  Tarsen was a thin boy whose quick fingers often did Bera’s sewing tasks for her. Tarsen was agile and f
ast. Fearless and daring, he was the first child to do handsprings along the ridge pole of the third storey roof.

  Violet-eyed Sarilda was a descendent of a magic race. She discovered inherited magical abilities after she’d learned to keep secrets. Bron had been crippled at a young age, by a parent who later abandoned him as unable to learn the arts of a gentleman. Gifted in the kitchen, Bron was not able to keep up with the outdoors tricks of the others, but he promised if they ever got away he’d run a better household for them than they’d ever had.

  Kevriac was the youngest of the Workhouse gang, a weak boy who nevertheless had a great desire to learn magic. He read anything he could get hold of, and Bera and the other two often did his share of the work in the stables he’d been assigned to, in order to win him study time.

  The book swiftly outlined the things the kids learned over the next two years. Just before Bera turned thirteen they made their escape during a thunderstorm in the middle of the night, ran straight down to the wharf, stole one of the Regent’s coastal spy boats ( for “customs inspection”) that was tied up against the storm. Lightning struck all around and thunder roared overhead, the seas were churning and choppy, and Blackeye’s friends were afraid, but she showed them how to step the single sail and they launched straight out to sea.

  By dawn the island was a distant hump on the horizon.

  They were free.

  They traveled back to her home island, where, she was glad to find, the old Magic Spell still permitted them entry.

  No one had bothered to change the Spell because nothing was left of the house but the burned shell. However, Bera remembered another Spell, one she’d never spoken of to anyone. This one, only known to her parents and herself, opened the way to a small cellar underground, where was kept some of the treasure that had (she had thought) occasioned the attack in the first place. It had gone undiscovered. Also undiscovered was the ship’s log, which their father had always stored in the cellar when they weren’t sailing.

  Bera sat up all night reading this, for here was the proof that her parents had not, in fact, been ‘criminal pirates.’ The log listed the terrible things the Regent had done to gain control of the island kingdom, and how traders who did not want to join his fleet had banded together to fight.

  By this time Bera had learned something of the true nature of the islands’ government. Everyone knew that the prince, who had inherited his throne at a young age, was not quite right in the head, and a trusted adviser was Regent. What Bera read in the ship’s log was the story of the Queen’s murder—and the placing of the young Prince under a terrible enchantment.

  Bera’s parents had not only been privateers, they’d been the leaders of a growing underground movement dedicated to overthrowing the Regent, and restoring the young Prince first to his wits, and then to his throne. The treasure stored in the cellar, taken from the Regent’s ships and friends, was all to be dedicated to winning the prince free again.

  Bera shared this information with her friends, and after a vote, all four enthusiastically vowed to carry on the parents’ work. Her friends all chose new names to formally acknowledge their new identities—Kevriac naming himself for a famous sorcerer, Sarilda for the people from whom she’d descended, and Bron and Tarsen for legendary heroes.

  Drawing a breath of pleasure, Nan read on.

  The book described how, within two years’ time, Blackeye and her crew found a new hideout, transferred the treasure there, and trained constantly to make themselves ready for the work ahead. They also embarked on a career of harassments against the Regent’s Guard.

  Kevriac obtained magical books and he was able to help them with what he learned. Meanwhile the crew expanded—Warron they rescued from some real pirates, and it was he who taught them a great deal about the handling of boats so that they would be ready for the Blue Falcon when they did steal it back.

  Then they rescued Tarly, a young centaur who had been stolen by some unscrupulous traders from her home on a faraway continent, and who was in the process of being sold to some wealthy friends of the Regent’s, to live a miserable life as a talking beast of burden/nanny, drawing their spoiled children around in a buggy, and being responsible for them. Tarly was able to read other languages, and helped Kevriac with his studies. They made friends with Elan, who had a job as a servant in the Regent’s palace, and they adopted two street children, Mican and Shor, who narrowly missed hanging when they were caught stealing food to keep from starving.

  At the end of the two years, Blackeye decided they were ready to start on their plans. The first item was the recovery of the Blue Falcon...and the last would be the freeing of the prince.

  Nan discovered that she’d already reached the last page. Just two paragraphs remained.

  “What?” she muttered. “Where’s the rest of Blackeye’s story? It can’t end now...”

  The book said:

  Kevriac learned, though, the nature of the enchantment on Prince Troial. A terrible one indeed: no one born anywhere in the world may come near the prince, other than the Regent, or the prince will die.

  And the last paragraph read:

  So if you, the Reader from distant Earth , would like to help them free the prince, then wait until Full Moon night, and repeat these words three times:

  Narndael en arnda hyt teldehr ehr!

  And you will be transported to their world.

  Three

  Nan laid the book down and flicked off the flashlight. Her first thought was: When’s the next full moon?

  And her second thought was: Joe Robles read this, too. She frowned into the darkness of her room. What did he mean by wanting to “talk”? Surely he didn’t believe in magic, much less need to escape to another world—not a popular kid like him. Especially a boy.

  And what if the book meant only one could go?

  She flicked the flashlight back on, rereading the last paragraph. “You,” was all it said. Didn’t say whether it meant you-singular or you-plural. Anger burned in Nan’s middle. It would be just her luck if the magic only would take one person—and of course this boy meant to behave like a typical boy and bully her out of going.

  Another world.

  There was no promise it would be like Narnia, or Oz. She thought, what if I get there and they turn out to be not like people at all—but monsters? After all, experience showed so far that if she left one situation, the next was usually worse.

  Turning the flashlight off, she frowned into the darkness of her room. The book didn’t really say what they looked like, outside of the comment about Blackeye having black eyes, and Sarilda’s violet eyes, and the other boy’s pale hair. What if they were nine feet tall, fungus-green, with fangs, and all they ate was snails?

  But they SOUND good, she thought. So I don’t care what they look like. McKynzi is supposed to be so pretty, but I can’t see her or her pals lifting a finger to help an old lady cross a street, much less help a prince regain his kingdom.

  And Blackeye and her gang also seemed to know about awful guardians.

  Fungus or not, I want to go.

  She brushed her hand over the book, and again felt that tingle. Oh yes. Despite all her caution—the practical side of her that was convinced nothing good would ever happen to her—she was convinced that Blackeye’s world was magic, and good.

  And I’m going to do that spell.

  She resisted the temptation to turn her light back on and reread the book. It would be just her luck if one of the Evanses was up, and she’d get the lecture about proper sleep, and what was keeping her awake so long? Trash about magic? The only magic was hard work, and obeying those who look out for you, and you should be grateful...

  She hugged the book against her.

  No one in her life yet had ever cared the least bit about what she wanted, or liked, or dreamed about, or needed outside of the basics such as food, clothing, and a roof over her head. She had turned to books to find what she never found in people.

  Nan flung herself back
on her pillow, wishing she could at least check the shape of the moon. The wind howled, blowing wet snow against her window. Since sleep was impossible, she lay there listening to the winter storm, and planned all the practical details of her escape from a world where no one wanted her.

  o0o

  In the morning, Joe’s house was noisier than usual.

  He slammed out at seven, figuring standing freezing at the bus stop for an extra few minutes was much better than the headache he’d get from Mar Tee’s shrieking, Benny’s whining and tears, Maria’s heavy-metal noise, and Mom fighting with Maria about her short skirts, bare tummy showing her piercings, and her new tattoo.

  As soon as he shut the door behind him, the silent world of steady snowfall seemed to enshroud him like a gentle white cloak.

  Then he had a weird thought. He’d assumed the magic world would be beautiful, like Narnia, or something. What if it turned out to be a hideous desert world, with boiling temperatures and tornados and things? Who cares, he thought. I’ve wanted adventure since I was little. I’m so outa here. Like anyone would even notice.

  Except Benny, of course. Joe sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt—and a lot of annoyance. He shrugged the feelings away. His mother would just have to pay attention to her own kid for once. Maybe at the same time she’d see what a mega-monster Mar Tee was turning into, and do everyone a favor by stepping on her for once.

  The one thing that worried him was making contact with that Nan. What if she somehow cheated him out of going?

  Joe yanked the piece of notebook paper out of his pocket onto which he’d copied the entire last page of the book. It didn’t say that a person had to have the book on hand—or that more than one couldn’t go. It didn’t even say where the person had to be, except (he guessed) you had to be somewhere in sight of the full moon.

  Tonight, he thought, and once again that crazy feeling of joy burned inside him. After he’d finished the book two nights ago, he’d sneaked out to the yard to check the moon. It had been nearly full.