“Look,” Deborah said. “There’s the ship.”
The ship, anchored nearby, and more.
Distant islands, which had been clear cut, were now covered once again with trees.
But that fact was less remarkable than the structures occupying the two islands dead ahead of them. One smaller island was occupied by a tiny shack made of shipwreck and driftwood. The larger island was filled from edge to edge with a white marble palace, onion-domed with minarets, like something from an oriental picture book.
A rope bridge connected the two islands.
Proctor’s skin usually tingled in the presence of magic, but at this moment it crawled and itched and twitched as if he were wearing a blanket of ants. Deborah crouched in the middle of the boat, appearing just as surprised as he felt.
The boat continued its motion, drifted around the two islands the way water spiraled down a drain. They passed the bigger island with the palace, the smaller island with the shack, and moved on past the anchored ship. It looked old to Proctor, almost ancient. The wood was gray and worm-eaten, cut with deep gouges. The paint had long faded so that it was impossible to tell what colors it had once been and the sails were so thin they were nearly transparent. Frayed lines had been knotted again and again beyond count. There were twenty cannons poking out the gunports on one side, but they were rusted and draped with bits of seaweed and other windblown debris.
“That can’t be the British spy ship,” Proctor said.
“That can’t be… ” Esek said from the back of the little boat. “The devil, it is.”
“Fancy that,” Deborah murmured.
Proctor followed her gaze. Although nearly all the paint had faded, the ship’s name could still be read across the stern. Fancy.
It didn’t mean anything to Proctor. Deborah caught his eye and it didn’t seem to mean anything to her either. But Esek leaned forward eagerly.
“ ’Hoy,” came a voice from the island, startling them all.
A thin man with short-cropped hair and hollow, haunted eyes had stepped out of the shack. He was wearing a dress coat, as gray and dusty as the rocks, threads hanging from the hem. He wore a pair of breeches but no stockings or shoes. He took a hesitant step toward them, then dodged back into the shack.
“Hello,” Proctor shouted. “Where are we?”
The man came back out, tugging a ratty old wig onto his head and slapping an outrageous feathered hat atop that. He ran across the rocks and grabbed hold of a rope-line that connected the island to the ship. “ ’Hoy,” he shouted again. “You don’t want to drift past the ship there.”
Proctor looked past the ship. Another island, mounded with white rocks atop the gray, waited ahead of them. “Why not?” he called back.
But the man was pulling himself hand over hand across the line to the Fancy. He had a knife clenched in his teeth so he was unable to answer.
“I can stop her,” Esek called back. “There’s no wind, she won’t steer out of the current.”
Their boat floated past the Fancy, too quickly to be drifting. It was like they were a fish on a line that someone was reeling in. Now that they were around the ship, Proctor could see the shore of the third island was covered with wreckage, bits of spar and plank and flotsam. The flag of Massachusetts drooped from a broken mast.
The missing ships.
Proctor was about to say as much when a dark shape stirred on the top of the white mound. One of the rocks rolled loose and tumbled with a hollow sound down to the water’s edge, where it came to rest — a skull. The mound was made of bones and skulls.
The dark silhouette stood and stretched like a housecat waking from a nap. But it was too large, the largest cat that Proctor had ever seen. A tiger. Its paws were the size of paddles.
Esek had grabbed an oar from the bottom of the boat and was alternately trying to steer or paddle clear. The boat teetered under Proctor’s feet as he twisted, searching for another oar.
“Here,” shouted the stranger. His feet thumped across the deck of the Fancy as he ran to the bow. He used the knife to saw through one of the sail-lines. Fabric tumbled behind him. He swung the rope once, twice, and let go on the third loop. It arced through the air toward the little boat. Proctor leaned over the side and stretched out his arm.
The rope fell well short, hitting the water with a sad splash.
“Damn,” said the man, softly. “Not as strong as I used to be.”
“Grab it,” Esek shouted. He swatted at it with the oar, tipping the boat precariously, and Proctor flung himself to the other side to keep from falling in. The rope was already beyond them.
The stranger stood in the bow of the Fancy, hand cupped to his mouth. “Been a long time since I had any company. But it was good to know you.”
Esek yelled at the man on the ship. “Try again — throw another rope — it’s not too late—”
Proctor glanced at Deborah — rigid with fear in the middle of the boat — and glanced once over his shoulder. The tiger climbed down from its mound of bones and batted the skull into the water.
Proctor’s head snapped back to the rope that dangled from the ship.
He didn’t have Deborah’s talent, or her skill, but he had used his magic on the farm. And one of the things he had done was learn to feed a rope through a pulley without climbing to the top of the barn.
“Spare not, lengthen thy cords, and strengthen thy stakes,” he said.
Nothing happened. He stretched his hand out to the rope. On the farm he used a smaller piece, cut from the same length, drawn through his hand for a focus. He made the motion of drawing the rope through his hands. “Spare not, lengthen thy cords, and strengthen thy stakes.”
The rope lashed out of the water like the end of a whip. It cut a slash across Proctor’s hand but he grabbed it and held on tight. It was just barely long enough to reach them, and the boat twisted under his feet.
“Don’t go overboard,” Esek ordered, rocking the boat so much that he nearly pitched Proctor over the edge. Proctor braced himself, hunkered down, and pulled.
They came a few inches closer to the ship. He could feel the boat trying to pull away from him, like a team of oxen leading a plow. He drew a breath, reached forward, and pulled again. The nose of the boat dipped toward the water, but he drew them a few inches closer.
Deborah scooted over behind him, grabbing the loose end of the rope and pulled with him. Feeling her presence next to him, her breath at his back, lent him extra will. Only the strength of his arms stood between her safety and a likely death. It was enough.
Hand over hand, he dragged them in to the ship.
Deborah gathered up the rope behind him and passed it back to Esek, who quickly tied it off. When they came alongside the Fancy, he lashed them together. Only then did Proctor look back. The tiger seemed to be watching them curiously. When their eyes met, it opened its mouth and roared. The sound echoed over the water, making all Proctor’s hair stand on end and his knees turn to jelly.
A thump sounded behind him. The stranger had dropped a ladder over the side of the ship.
“That’s Old Scratch,” he said, cheerfully. “Don’t pay no attention to her.”
“Are you all right?” Deborah asked. Her fingertips rested on his forearm. Proctor glanced down and saw the blood streaming over his wrist. The slash in his palm had been gouged deeper with each pull on the rope.
“I’m fine,” he said, snatching his hand away and squeezing it shut. The sting, which must have been there all along, finally reached him and he winced. “Are you—?”