The Expeditioners and the Secret of King Triton's Lair Page 12

  He wrapped me in a bear hug too, then turned to give one to M.K. “I couldn’t believe it when Raleigh told me you were coming to St. Beatrice. ‘They’ll have to stay with me,’ I told him. ‘No question about it.’”

  Mr. Wooley had stumbled onto the quay, looking slightly green and extremely grateful to be on solid ground again.

  “Cam! My old friend!” Coleman started to hug Mr. Wooley, but Mr. Wooley put a hand over his mouth again and waved him off. “Haven’t got your sea legs, have you?” Coleman said, laughing. “Don’t worry, a couple nights on St. Beatrice will set you right!”

  Mr. Wooley tried to smile.

  “Are you going to be okay, Mr. Wooley?” M.K. said.

  “We’ll get him to the house,” Joyce whispered. “Don’t worry about him. See you back here at ten tomorrow to start on the provisions.”

  I was sorry to see Joyce go. I’d enjoyed her company over the past eleven days. But I was pretty happy to see Lazlo walk away, cursing as he stepped in a pile of rotting fruit on the quay, his father berating him for not being more careful.

  “Welcome to St. Beatrice!” Coleman said as we shouldered our backpacks and walked through a narrow alleyway between two tall brick buildings, one painted a bright cobalt blue and the other a watermelon pink. The direct noonday sun made its way down through the alley, illuminating the hundreds of seashells set into the brickwork. They formed a giant sun.

  “Wow . . .” M.K. stopped at the end of the alleyway and pointed to the scene in front of her. “It’s so . . .”

  “Colorful,” I finished for her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so colorful in my life.”

  “That’s one word for the island,” Coleman laughed. “Colorful. We certainly are colorful!”

  Stretched out in front of us, sloping down to the turquoise-blue sea, was a patchwork of pastel-colored houses, three or four stories each, with flowering vines twining around the white filigree porch railings. Many of the houses had huge murals on their sides. The murals were so finely done that they appeared to be painted. It was only when you looked closely that you saw they were collages made of different colored shells, stones, and bits of glass.

  M.K. pointed at a mural depicting fishermen unloading their catch from a boat. Another showed a group of children carrying baskets of yellow and orange fruit. Another showed a group of brilliantly colored parrots in a tree. A few of the murals, I realized with growing interest, were maps.

  My first impression of the island was of a prosperous paradise. But the closer I looked, the more the picture changed. The houses looked pristine at a distance, but as we walked by them I could see peeling paint and broken windows. There seemed to be a lot of people just standing around, and almost everyone looked hungry and thin. There were soldiers and BNDL agents on every corner.

  Coleman led us through the narrow streets, pointing out buildings of interest as we went, stopping every once in a while to say hello to someone or hand a few coins to a barefoot child.

  “St. Beatrice was explored a few years into the New Modern Age. I don’t say ‘discovered’ because as far as the Arawak people who were living here were concerned, they didn’t need to be discovered. They’d been here for a long time. They hadn’t wanted to be found. But then Jefferson Robbins showed up and reported back that they had an amazing fruit growing there, a fruit that was hardy and prolific and delicious. When the word got out about the Ribby Fruit, settlers came from all over the Caribbean. My family were farmers from Antigua, and we became farmers here. We did very well, enough that we could move to town and pay other people to tend to the crops, and I could go to the Academy for a couple of years. Fish and fruit from St. Beatrice are shipped all over the world now. When the crop is good, at least. But it hasn’t been, lately, and the government forces us to sell so much of our crop at the government rate.”

  He stopped talking and quickly scanned the streets. In a whisper, he added, “Times have been tough the last year. I don’t know what they need so much fruit for. Sending it off to the territories and colonies where they can’t grow things, I suppose. And now they have their own government farms. They’re bringing labor in from all over the Caribbean, and everyone says they barely pay their workers. Anyway, it doesn’t do to talk too much about all of that.” He gave a sidelong look, searching for agents, that we all knew well. I’d heard people call it the “New York glance,” but the truth was that we did it everywhere because BNDL agents were everywhere. I could see a few of them standing watch in the marketplace, their telltale black uniforms out of place amid all the color.

  “Let’s go this way,” Coleman said suddenly, and he took a quick turn into an alleyway. We followed him out the other end, and then we all took another quick turn into another alley, making a big circle and coming out near where we’d started.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Thought I saw someone.”

  “An agent?” I asked.

  “No, no. Not an agent. Come on. Follow me. Here’s the market.”

  I turned and looked behind me. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw a flash of black, someone who had been watching and then ducked out of sight.

  We looked around at the people standing in line to get into the market. They were carrying baskets filled with mangos, bananas, breadfruit, and piles of the bright-green Ribby fruit. Others were carrying baskets filled with fish and giant lobsters. The soldiers stopped them and inspected the baskets, then sent them on their way into the stalls.

  Coleman led us into the market, and we wandered for a few minutes while he bought fish and vegetables for dinner. M.K. found a stall that sold gadgets and engine components, and she bought some bolts and wires of different sizes for Amy. Zander and I looked at the shells for sale.

  “That’s a Carib Cowrie,” Zander said. “And these I’ve never seen before. This looks like a whelk, but it must be a newly discovered species.” He bought a handful, and I bought a little cowrie shell suspended on a silver chain, thinking maybe I’d give it to Sukey, if I ever got the chance.

  Zander and I walked by a row of stalls displaying exotic animals. Pucci had been sitting on Zander’s shoulder, but now he hopped along the line of cages, poking his head in to look at the birds and mammals and reptiles inside.

  “This is awful,” Zander said. “That’s a Reingold Leopard. It shouldn’t be in a cage. And that’s an Oopala Pheasant. Someone should do something about these traders.” We stopped and looked at the beautiful bird. Its scarlet tail feathers drooped sadly.

  Coleman came and we walked with him along the crowded, noisy streets until he stopped in front of a big, robin’s-egg-blue house looking out over the harbor.

  “Here we are,” Coleman said. “Welcome to my home.”

  Inside, the house was even bigger than it looked from outside. At one end of the living room a huge wall of glass windows looked out on the sea, which stretched out away from the coast, toward points unknown. We’d be sailing out that way in just a few days.

  After he showed us our rooms, I took a steaming-hot bath in Coleman’s giant tub, looking out over the water and feeling the warm breeze coming through the open windows. The breeze smelled of flowers, and I felt almost recovered from eleven days at sea. When I came out, the others were getting dinner ready. M.K. was setting the table, and Zander was pouring fresh coconut water into glasses at each place setting. The dining room was decorated with paintings of St. Beatrice and other Caribbean islands, and there were more of the beautiful shells everywhere I looked.

  “Coleman, what are those?” I pointed to the shell pendants hanging from nails on the wall. They were made from all different kinds of shells, some pink or pale yellow, some made of shimmery mother-of-pearl. Some were carved to look like flowers, some like animals or fish.

  “Those are a traditional St. Beatrician art form,” he told me. “They’re whistles. Each one has a different sound—they’re in different keys and have different numbers of finger holes. The fishermen play them as they c
ome into port at the end of the day so their families know they’re back. Listen.” He took one off the wall and blew through one end, then placed his fingers over the little holes to play a tune. I recognized it as “Spanish Ladies,” an old sea chantey that Dad used to sing.

  Coleman grilled fish and vegetables on the terrace, and we sat down and dug into the best meal I could remember in a long time—since Dad’s disappearance, at least. The fish was crisp and brown on the outside and flaky white inside, tasting of lemon and herbs. Coleman had bought excellent bread in the market and I sank my teeth into a tender slab, my mouth filling with the fresh taste of salt and yeast. The coconut water was pure and cold and a couple of sips made me forget all about the warm, brackish water we’d had to drink on the SteamShip.

  Coleman offered a toast. “In the words of the St. Beatrician sailors, may you find calm seas and fine weather. Now, tell me all about this expedition.”

  We hesitated.

  “Well,” said Zander. “It’s actually Lazlo Nackley’s expedition. He thinks we can find oil out there.”

  “The underwater black waterfalls,” Coleman said. “He believes that old story, does he?”

  “You don’t?”

  “There are a lot of stories about what’s out there.” He winked. “Maybe three or four of them are true.”

  I hesitated. “We’re a bit more interested in the shipwrecks in King Triton’s Lair,” I said. “You and Dad went looking for them, didn’t you? What do you remember about the expedition, Coleman?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been trying for a long time not to remember. It was that expedition that convinced me I didn’t want to be an Explorer. That’s why I left the Academy. The shipwreck haunted me. Better to follow my father into farming.” He took a long sip of his coconut water. “I remember a few things. What do you want to know?”

  “Where had Paul Mirkopoulous heard about King Triton’s Lair? How did he get interested in coming here?”

  “It wasn’t Paul. It was your father. I don’t remember why they put Paul’s name on the expedition, but it was Alex’s show all the way.” Zander and M.K. and I exchanged glances around the table. “Your father was the one who wanted to see if he could find the shipwrecks at King Triton’s Lair.”

  “What happened? Mr. Wooley said a storm came up and the ship sank.”

  “Children growing up in this part of the Caribbean are told in the cradle not to go near King Triton’s Lair,” Coleman said grimly. “When I was a young man, I heard stories about what happened to sailors who strayed too close. Your father convinced me to go along on the expedition. I don’t know why I agreed. Pride, I suppose. I didn’t want them to think I was a coward. But now I wouldn’t go near it for all the Ribby Fruit in the world. We sailed out for a day or so. Your dad and Paul had some coordinates they’d found and we set a course. But before we got very close, we ran into a terrible storm.”

  Coleman described almost the exact series of events that Mr. Wooley had, right down to being rescued by the fishing boat.

  “It’s a miracle your father survived. He didn’t say much about what had happened during his time on that raft, but it must have been awful. I’ve known a few fishermen who survived shipwrecks, who spent time on pieces of their boats at sea. They never get over it. The sharks. And there are stories about other, more terrible things. . . I don’t know why you want to go there. I don’t know why they’d let you.”

  “So you really don’t think there’s oil out there?”

  “There may be oil. But whether you can get to it without killing yourselves is a different question.”

  He took a deep breath and pasted a smile on his face. “Now, let’s talk about something happier. Have you ever tasted Ribby Fruit cake? No? Well, you are in for a treat.”

  Twenty-four

  “Look at her. She’s a beauty!” M.K. squealed.

  Zander whistled. “She sure is. Wow.”

  We all stared up at the catamaran’s huge mast, the mainsail a mosaic of colored sailcloth forming the image of a mermaid staring with placid confidence out to sea. The boat’s two broad hulls were made of gleaming dark mahogany, each big enough to contain berths and common space for an even bigger crew than ours. The St. Beatrice boatbuilders were renowned for their expert craftsmanship. Based on traditional multihulled boats, catamarans were faster and more stable than single-hulled vessels. The Beatrician fishermen and seal hunters used them to sail out into the deep waters of the northern Caribbean, precisely where we’d be heading in a couple of days.

  Bright red letters painted on the front of the hull spelled out her name: the Fair Beatrice. There was a large covered cockpit at the center of the bridge and painted wood mermaid figureheads mounted on each of the hulls.

  “Beauty!” Pucci squawked. “She’s a beauty!”

  Jack greeted us on deck. He wore bright white pants and a white jacket, a green silk scarf tied around his neck.

  “I wouldn’t wear that getup if I were you, Jack,” M.K. said. “Someone might accidentally spill engine grease on you.” He stepped back, a protective hand over the front of his shirt.

  Joyce, wearing her navy canvas sailing jacket, Njamba perched on her shoulder, laughed. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you a tour.”

  Everything was shining and new belowdecks, a roomy galley for cooking meals and three berths in each hull.

  “This is more than a fishing boat,” Coleman said, running a hand across the gleaming surface of the mahogany chart table. The top lifted to reveal a deep compartment for the charts we’d use to plot our course. “I’ve seen a lot of boats, but this is something else. Where’d you find this lovely lady?”

  “She belongs to a generous BNDL official,” Lazlo Nackley said, coming out from one of the berths. “He only agreed to loan her to the expedition when he heard that I was in charge.”

  I thought about how much Sukey would have liked the Fair Beatrice. She was a pilot, after all, and even though she wasn’t a glider or a plane, the boat would have been right up Sukey’s alley.

  Coleman inspected her carefully. “She looks sound enough,” he said. But his forehead was creased with worry as he looked around.

  Joyce showed us the stern hatch through which you could climb back up on deck, then led us up the companionway back to the cockpit. Mr. Wooley sat in a chair on deck. He still looked ill, his face pale, his hands shaking.

  “Can’t believe they convinced you to sign on again, Cam,” Coleman said. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to go out there for anything.”

  “Let’s just say . . . it wasn’t my first choice, but I am an instructor at the Academy for the Exploratory Sciences and I’m willing to do my duty.” He sounded like someone was holding a gun to his back, forcing him to say the words.

  Leo Nackley smiled.

  Coleman raised his eyebrows. “There’s got to be more to that story, but I won’t squeeze it out of you. Good luck with your work today.” He told Zander, M.K., and me that he’d pick us up at the end of the day.

  We spent the morning loading provisions onto the Fair Beatrice while Lazlo sat on deck and directed us. With the help of some fishermen Mr. Wooley had hired for the job, M.K. installed stern davits, metal arms usually used to hold and lower lifeboats, on the back of the boat, and secured Amy for the voyage. When we were ready, we could easily lower her into the water. While the rest of us stacked rice and dried pasta and salted meat and barrels of water into the hold, she tinkered with the submersible, making sure she was ready. Once the provisions were loaded, we helped to get the rest of the equipment on board, stowing the drills and pumps and containers Lazlo had brought to take oil samples back for BNDL.

  While Joyce continued inspecting the boat, Zander and I offered to get lunch for everyone. We slowed our pace as we walked along the harbor, enjoying being away from Lazlo and feeling the sun on our faces. Pucci and Njamba flew above us along the quays, surprising the gulls looking for fish scraps by dive-bombing them and kn
ocking them into the water.

  “I thought Lazlo was going to throw Joyce overboard,” Zander said, smiling. “But she knows how to handle him. I’m glad she’s along.”

  “Me too.”

  We walked in silence for a little while, watching the two birds harass the poor unsuspecting gulls. “What are we going to do once we’re out there, anyway?” Zander said. “Do you think there’s any way we can look for the shipwrecks with Lazlo obsessed with finding the oil?”

  I thought about the Explorer with the Clockwork Hand. “We’ll have to find a way,” I told him. “I’ve been thinking about it, and Lazlo is our only problem. Jack doesn’t really care and I think Mr. Wooley will be willing to look the other way.”

  “So what? We’ll get into Amy and just escape? How long did M.K. say she could stay underwater?”

  “I think she said four hours.”

  “And then what?” He frowned. “Do you really think Lazlo is going to just let us get back on the boat after we abandon his expedition?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “We’ll have to do it at night, without him knowing. Maybe we can do it when Joyce is on watch. I don’t think she’d give us up.”

  “I don’t think she would either, but it just seems risky, Kit.”

  “It’s the whole reason we’re here,” I said. “We have to find whatever it is that Dad wants us to find in the shipwrecks. It’s something big. Something important. The Explorer said that everything could depend on us finding the shipwrecks. If you had talked to him, you’d know what I mean.”

  Zander stopped. “But I didn’t talk to him, did I? No one but you has ever met this guy or even seen him.”

  We stared at each other. Pucci swooped down and landed on Zander’s shoulder for a moment, then flapped after Njamba again, cackling loudly.

  “You think I’m making it up?” I asked.

  “No, of course not. I just don’t see how we’re going to pull this off.”

  If I was being honest, I didn’t either, but I didn’t say anything. We continued down along the harbor, which was ringed with palm trees and brightly painted shops and warehouses. We listened to the fishermen sing sea chanteys about whale hunts and mermaids beneath the sea. Dad had loved sea chanteys and Zander and I stopped to listen to the hearty voices singing in unison as the men scrubbed and painted their boats and repaired their nets.