After the storm, the sea lay motionless—smooth as a burnished mirror beneath a sky rinsed clean of clouds.
The Garnor ran before the wind, her patched sails swelling gently, creaking as if they too sighed with relief after the night's chaos. She held a steady course toward the coast of Yucatán, her timbers groaning softly under the calm pressure of the breeze.
Sunlight spilled across the deck, where a few hands were mopping as they chatted in slow, unhurried rhythms. Some scrubbed salt from the rails; others spread damp lines to dry. A handful lounged in the shade near the forecastle, throwing dice or sharing a skin of rum.
Even the songs and insults had gone quiet. Only the slow creak of wood and the sigh of wind through the rigging remained. From the crow's nest, the lookout scanned the horizon and yawned at the utter calm. No ship in sight, no threatening cloud—only an endless, tranquil sea.
Every so often he glanced down to see how the others passed this rare spell of leisure, and that was when a solitary figure caught his eye, seated beside the forecastle under the shadow of the foremast's mainsail. The lookout shrugged at the sight of the mulatto boy reading a book, then drew his pipe and set it smoldering.
Sammy sat cross-legged with her back against the bulkhead, the journal in her lap. She turned the pages, frowning. Much of the notation was written in strange, indecipherable characters. Still, she studied the glyphs and cramped marginal notes—the mere act of looking at that script made her head ache.
Frustrated, she snapped the journal shut and tucked it into her satchel, slinging the strap across her chest. She leaned back and gazed up at the fore course, billowing above her, casting a rippling shadow over the bows. Closing her eyes, she mentally retraced a chapter from The Legend of the Unexplored Isle.
"After days at sea, at last, far off on the horizon, three points began to appear. The lookout gave the cry, and Captain Owens climbed to the quarterdeck with his spyglass and swept the line of blue… and he confirmed it: the three islands of the ghost. Then he produced the enigmatic disc which—if they survived the specter's curse—would show the course the Sea Hawk must take…"
The girl opened her eyes and watched the canvas breathe with the sea breeze.
"Ghost, you meant to tell me something… at least that's how it goes in novels," she whispered.
She rose and made for the hatchway. Down she went, past deck after deck where men either worked at their tasks or idled through the lull. At last, she reached the orlop and paused, making sure no one saw her.
She could hear the carpenter at some repair, whistling as he hammered and sawed. From the other side came the clatter of shifting gear, someone cursing and calling for help.
Sammy took advantage of the dimness, grabbed a lantern, and slipped into the hold—shadowed like the very pit of hell, filled with its familiar sounds: the creak of cordage, the dull thump of casks, the squeal of rats.
She walked slowly, striving to keep her composure. At a chosen spot, she hung the lantern from a nail in a post and peered into the dark. Her heart thudded in her chest.
"There are no ghosts," she murmured. "Then why… why am I here?"
Feeling a little foolish, she patted the knapsack that held the journal and the charts, as if to steel her nerve.
"Hello… whoever you are," she whispered. "I'm… Sammy. Many say you exist. I don't know if what I saw was real. Please… could you show yourself?"
She moved along the passageway, peering into pockets of darkness where her imagination insisted the ghost was watching her.
"You tried to tell me something… could you tell me what it is?"
Then she heard that soft hiss near her ear again. Her pulse jumped; a chill washed over her.
"Oh, shit," she muttered.
Something tapped lightly against her foot. She lifted the lantern and looked down: a die, its face showing three pips. Sammy started at the sight, taking it as a sign.
"What does it mean?" she breathed, turning around. "Tell me what it means… come on, speak to me!"
"Who the hell are you talking to?" came a voice behind her.
Sammy spun, and in the lantern's glow saw Cody's ruddy face.
"What the hell—Cody! What are you doing down here?"
"That's my question for you."
She swallowed and tried to recover her composure."Mr. Knox sent me to check the cargo."
Cody gave her a dubious look, stooped to pick up the die, then met her eyes as he straightened."Mr. Knox is with us," he said, turning away.
"What's going on? What are you doing here?" Sammy asked, following.
They rounded a corner of casks and crates, and there—tucked into a gap in the stowage—sat Kayin, the boatswain's mate, and a handful of pirates, each perched where he could around a crate they used as a table. On it, a game of dice rattled along with noisy good humor. Sammy marveled she hadn't heard them sooner.
When Cody returned with the die, they groaned and jeered.
"How far did you go for the damned thing?" one asked."Did you carve it yourself while you were gone?" another quipped.
Mr. Knox smiled and raised his voice."Easy, lads. Young Harris has done his duty. Let's keep it friendly… place your bets."
They laughed, but then noticed Sammy watching with a puzzled look.
"Oh no… the pilot's whelp has come," one muttered, and the rest burst out laughing.
"Something the matter, Mr. Worthy?" the mate asked.
"Beg pardon—no wish to interrupt or cause trouble," Sammy said.
"This club is private, Mr. Worthy," Knox told her. "I trust you won't mention it topside; you'd land me—and these men—in hot water."
"Why not play on deck?" Sammy asked.
"Because we can't wager up there," Kayin said, and the men lifted their tankards in agreement.
"If you're not playing, Mr. Worthy, at least don't break my streak," Cody said, taking the cup, shaking the dice, and casting them across the crate. The pips fell poorly for him.
"You've brought me bad luck," he muttered, eyeing Sammy, who sat down beside him.