Ransom

“I told you, a hottie. A real hottie.” A lad around fifteen spoke to his two companions, of the same approximate age. “Yeah, a babe. Kinda like Princess Amadala from Star Wars, only with blond hair,” a boy dressed all in black answered. “You ask her out yet?” said the third boy, wearing a red-striped shirt, blue pantaloons and the strangest, lace-up shoes Gray Dog had ever seen. They were white, their soles thick and wavy, with colored inserts in strange patterns. They made the boys feet look huge and deformed. “Naw, her Mom was there, so I never had the chance.” “Bummer. This girl hot for you?” “Shit, Derrick, I’m not gonna ask her that.” “She like the PFC?” “Haven’t told her about it yet. She likes Final Fantasy Seven though. We played over at Colin’s place a week ago.” “Dude, Final Fantasy Seven? No one plays that any more. Get real. My Dad just bought the Super Smash Brothers. You should get it.” The boy in black said, “My mom refused to buy me that one. Said I have enough games already. As if.” Gray Dog felt his brain starting to ache again. The boys spoke English, but with meaningless words. Was it some kind of code? Where was the Star War? The only war he knew of was the one between England and Spain. Maybe this was a secret military camp. He shook his head. No, that didn’t make sense either. There were no guns, no soldiers, no ships. The boy with deformed feet asked, “You guys going to look for the treasure?” Gray Dog nearly jumped from his hiding place. “Hell no. Nothing but a bunch of junk.” “Not me,” Black Clothes answered, “but my sister is. So’s my mom, I think. She likes trying to figure out the clues.” Clues? Gray Dog wanted to scream. Who had clues to the treasure? How did they get them? As far as he knew, Renaldo kept the map a secret from everyone except the Quartermaster. What were these colonist doing with clues to his treasure? The three boys moved past him, still talking in the strange code. He couldn’t decide whether to let them go, or beat the information about the treasure out of them. If he jumped them, he’d have to kill all three. He didn’t have time to bury them, and if the bodies were discovered, he’d have every lunatic on the island out looking for him. No, better to let the lads be. At least for the time being. Instead of returning to the path, Gray Dog threaded his way between the palms, heading for the crown of volcanic rock that was the summit of the island. He hunched low, ready to defend himself if anyone else should appear. When he reached the place where the palms became sparse and the pitted black rock began, he paused, listening. He heard no voices, but was reluctant to leave the shelter of the trees. Once out on the lava, where heat waves rippled like water, he would be as exposed as a fly on a wall. If he were spotted by any colonists, he would have nowhere to hide. And that was the crux of his problem. The longer he stayed on the island, the more likely he was to be seen. He’d avoided detection so far. The drunk of the previous night hadn’t seen him, and even with the thefts of food, no alarm had been raised. But Gray Dog knew his luck had a nasty habit of running out just when he needed it most. There was no help for it, he had to reach the summit, get his bearings, and see if he could figure out which path was the right one. He also realized there was no way the treasure could be buried or hung from a tree. It must be hidden within a fissure in the rocks, or under a cairn of stone. And there was something else he hadn’t thought of. Would Renaldo have set traps? He stood under the palms a bit longer, still reluctant to step into the harsh glare of the sun and take the nearest path, when he caught a flash of color at the corner of his eye. He looked south and cursed. Along the crest of the ridge stood a group of about a dozen men. Some held strange objects to their eyes, but one had a spyglass, its long brass body glinting bright as gold. Heart pounding, Gray Dog ducked down, but continued to watch. The men stayed on the ridge for a long time, a few working their way toward him. He hunched lower, feeling as if the spyglass was pointed right at him. Eventually, the men moved back down the other side of the ridge, apparently returning to camp. So, he thought, they know I’m here. “Well, that changes things, that does.” He waited a while longer, just to make sure the men were gone, then stepped onto the narrow path leading toward the top of the mountain. Gripped hard in his right hand was the knife, its blade still stained with Crow Legs' blood.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN September 19 La Perla Islet The man whose clothes Gray Dog had stolen was taller and heavier than he. A wide leather belt with a fancy buckle held up the new pantaloons, rolled at the ankles, and Gray Dog let the oversized shirt hang loose. He decided the boots were too fine for grubbing around San Cristobal, so he stowed them in the boat, which he’d covered with palm fronds to hide from view. Avoiding the heat of the molten midday sun, Gray Dog stood under the shade of the palms looking toward San Cristobal and thinking about the strange colonists. Moments of confusion warred with his anger. He couldn’t explain the things he’d seen, like the demon boat, the odd materials the crates were made of, the cloud-writing, or the strange food bags. Even the clothes he wore were made of cloth that felt different than anything he’d ever stolen. No matter how many times he scratched his beard and thought until his brain hurt, he could find no answers to his many questions. In all his years at sea, sailing the world, Gray Dog had never seen people like the colonists. The man he’d hit last night had been human enough, fat and well-fed as a lord, but different in a way he couldn’t quite grasp. It was little things, like the man’s short stockings—knit so fine, no human hand could have done it, and of thread that stretched and returned to its original shape with nary a sag. The fishing pole had been another puzzlement. It wasn’t made of cane or wood, but of something shiny and flexible, the handle covered in a dull black material like tar, but not sticky. Attached to the handle was a type of crank that held strong, clear line. Gray Dog had tried to turn the crank to let the line out. It would only turn one way, which tightened the line until one of the lead weights attached wedged against a metal guide-loop on the pole. The line snapped and the bright metal fishhook snagged in his pants. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get the line to unwind. Cursing, he’d thrown the pole into the ocean. With a quick snap, he unscrewed the top from the last bottle of syrup and drank down a third of it. The syrup was good but did nothing to quench his thirst. He needed a way to bring water back from the spring. Maybe he’d steal a bucket tonight, as well as food. He also decided, as long as he was careful, he could explore San Cristobal without much danger to himself. The colonists might fly the death’s head flag, but in his gut he knew they weren’t pirates. Maybe they thought the skull and crossbones would keep other pirates away. Whatever their reason, it wouldn’t keep him from looking for Renaldo’s hoard. He sucked down the rest of the syrup and tossed the bottle into the palms. The tide was low over the isthmus. With his knife tucked into his new belt, he splashed hurriedly over to the main island and ducked into the cool shade of the palms. He climbed to the spring, drank thirstily, then edged up the ridge to check the camp. Below, he saw a bustle of activity centered around the largest shelter. Men and women took turns shouting at each other while onlookers cheered. “Lunatics,” he muttered, shaking his head, while wishing he had a spyglass so he could get a closer view of the camp. It would make his night raids easier if he knew ahead of time where things were. He glanced toward the rocky summit of the island. Above the rim of palms and shrubs he saw paths, like slender gray threads, winding in every direction. Blast, he thought, there was only supposed to be the one path. How was he supposed to find the treasure if there were hundreds of them, snaking all over the island? Once again rage and frustration threatened to overcome him. At every turn his way was blocked, the prize tantalizingly close yet still beyond his reach. He looked at the maze of paths again. It might take him weeks, even months, to figure out which was the right one. He wished he had the map so he could get his bearings again. But then what? Renaldo, damn his scurvy hide, hadn’t marked on the map if the treasure was buried, hidden in a cave, or suspended in a net from a tree. There had been notes scribbled on the map, but Gray Dog’s didn’t know what the notes might mean. As another cheer went up from the crowd below, Gray Dog crawled back to the spring, drank again, then slipped his knife from his belt and headed for the high interior of the island.With the image of Renaldo’s map burned into his brain, he climbed toward the rocky summit. He didn’t get far before discovering not all of the colonists were down at the camp. Voices, then laughter, came from the path ahead. He darted into a thick clump of shrubs and sawgrass, his knife held at the ready.

Any more info/dates set for this, or are we too short of participants?

Ding, ding, ding.....Mod interruption, mod interruption!!!!! Let's carry on without any more references to ill-advised word usage. Any derogatory terms/statements used by either side is in bad taste and completely counter-productive to any passing on of knowledge. Yeah, it still happens, unfortunately, but please, don't keep quoting and perpetuating the issue. We're adults, remember, and shouldn't have to resort to calling people names they don't deserve. Ding, ding, ding....Mod interruption is now over. Thank you for your co-operation.

As for South Park, I can see your point, Michael. Like I said, I've only seen about four episodes, so I'm sure my B-I-L only sent me the funniest ones. My Dad used to love the many different ways Bugs Bunny would dive into his rabbit hole.

I just threw that out there as an example. If someone else has a better theme idea, shout it out. Actually, I thought the theme of being "Lost" would also be fun. I mean, a pirate could end up lost almost anywhere!

One of my favorite cartoons was Rocky & Bullwinkle. The "Herding Worms" episode was a good one. They were always saying stuff in those that kids would totally not get, which was good. I also loved the old Popeye cartoons, with Alice the Goon, Jeep, Poopdeck Pappy, etc. The mumbling under his breath that Popeye used to do was hilarious. And yeah, the few new cartoons I've watched (while at a hotel or something, as we don't have TV either) have been mentally and visually boring. Okay, except South Park. My brother-in-law sent me some tapes, and I have to admit, those were pee-my-pants funny (He sent the LotR episode, and the one on Mormons)

I added two new bracelets and a necklace to my esty shop today. Check them out! The link is in my signature.

Having noted many of the posts in the update bar are concerning the weather, and during this time of year the weather can be quite fickle, maybe that would be a fun theme. Good weather, bad weather, squalls, doldrums, hurricanes, etc. ?????

Hmmm, I heard ye was marooned — that mighta been over the Governor's wife affair Patrick mentioned. Guess ye musta found a couple of sea turtles an escaped, eh? Welcome back...an, try not ta steal the silverware. It took Stynky forever to "acquire" it for the grand reopening of Pub, and he might have to pawn it later to keep things running.

A most Happy Birthday to a fellow Esty shop owner! Cheers!

I just love being volunteered for things. LOL Sure, I'm in. Are we doing a theme again, like we did for Halloween? That was kinda fun.

Tea, with a double Excedrin chaser.

Happy Birthday, Captain.

Okay, I finally got brave enough to set up a blog site. Did that yesterday, and have so far made two posts, one with a photo. I can see where this could get addicting. Check it out and let me know what you think. ;=} Found in the Ruins blog site

Sure, Eyes, if ye split the take with me 50-50.

A most happy, and grand Natal Day to you, suh! Cheers!

A big mug of coconut vanilla tea, with a bit of sugar, half & half, and a shot of Pyrate Pistol rum added....'cause, it's bloody cold today!

Did he say fair writer? Fair!!!! I should kick his butt for that!!!! Come to think of it, at Ojai I will kick his butt!

On contemplation, I think that, when I am not off on "acquisition" runs, I will be in my room at Pew's Inn, sipping my Death in the Afternoon — no matter what time of day or night it might be — and secretly writing a journal of my daring life amongst the privateers. Then, when I am too old to hoist a jib, I will have my memoirs published and retire on my residuals. I will end up the eccentric old woman sitting in a dark corner at PEW's, her hat askew, dressed in out-of-date clothes, a rusty cutlass her side, telling tales for drinks...her brain slightly fuzzed by all the Death in the Afternoon's she has imbibed over the decades.

Jacky Tar? Hmmm, Jacky, Jacky....where have I heard that name before? Oh yeah, wasn't he the bloke who used to hang around the Pub and post poems and dedications? Yeah, yeah, wasn't he also a part of TPHSB? Coulda sworn he was the guy I hung around with all day Saturday at Ojai, and haven't heard nearly hide nor hair from since. Okay, there was the Christmas phone call I missed, and the surprise CATapult package I got not long ago, but........WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU J.T.???????? Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY COMMODORE And get yer carcass back over here. How can I have any fun in TPHSB if I don't have anyone to rant at, and who rants right back! LOL (Still looking for the perfect cats revenge "gift" to send your way. So, it will show up when you least expect it. ) WD R

Helena grimaced. “Maybe we should ask Rambo Tibbits to take a look. He’d probably jump at the chance.” Bill shook his head. “I doubt it. It’s been my experience that men like Tibbits tend to melt away when faced with real danger. Besides, the less Tibbits knows about what’s going on the better. At least until we need to use his satellite phone.” “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, for Alex’s sake,” she said. “Well, now we’re back to Blue, where is he?” “He’s judging the salmagundi contest. Should be done pretty soon, he’s been at it for about half an hour.” She cocked her head and smiled. “How much salmagundi can you eat before your tongue goes numb?” Bill chuckled. “That’s an easy question for me to answer, none, as I never touch the stuff. I’ll go hunt up Alex. Any idea where the rest of our crew are?” “Christa is with Eamon, over there with the gang from the Merry Death. Don is one of the rum punch contest judges. I’m not sure about Julia, but I think Arthur is out looking for the treasure again.” Bill gave a rueful shake of his head. “He is determined, isn’t he? What was the clue this morning?” Helena thought for a moment, then recited, “Now ye be high in the north, tis a mighty fine view, but looks not ta the sea, if ye wants ta stay true.” Bill shook his head. “That doesn’t help much. Just keeps everyone on land, and she said from the beginning the treasure was on San Cristobal.” “I think she’s just playing with them. After all, she has to drag out the game for another five days.” Bill’s expression sobered. “If the event lasts that long.” “It will,” Helena replied fiercely. “It has to.” Bill nodded, then went in search of Alex. The potbellied man with the stuffed parrot on his shoulder stepped forward, faced the leader of the Spotted Dick Tavern and let fly, “Curse ye fur breathin’, ya rum-soaked, pock-faced, defiler of sheep.” Julia approached and gave Helena a wink. “Why does that make me think of Tibbits?” Helena burst out laughing. “I’d feel sorry for the sheep.” “Me too. Cruelty to animals. I’d report him in a heartbeat.” Julia was already dressed for the costume contest, wearing royal purple skirt and bodice, over a blouse trimmed in silver lace. On her head was a wide-brimmed felt hat pinned up on one side with a flame-jeweled brooch. She gave Helena a look, then said, “You’d better get changed, or Christa will have a hissy. She’s dead certain we’re going to win the group category.” “She’d have me ... what do they call that punishment where they drag you under the ship?” “Keelhauled. Very nasty. Best avoid it.” “Right. If Christa asks, tell her I’ll be ready in ten minutes. Meet you at the Bilge Rat.” “Got it.” Julia nodded, then, as another creative curse was called out, she shouted, “Damn yer eyes, Rum Runner, is that the best ye can do? Yer mother would be cryin’ in her grog ta hear such a lily-livered curse comin’ from yer lips.” Chuckling to herself, Helena headed back to the Boca camp to get changed. She met Alex and Bill on the way. Alex didn’t appear to bear any ill effects from tasting salmagundi for an hour. “So, who won?” she asked him. Alex shook his head. “Sorry, that can’t be revealed until the Boarding Party this evening. That’s when all the contest winners will be announced and the prizes handed out.” “You mean, Christa’s going to have to wait five hours before she finds out whether we won anything?” “Afraid so.” He gave her a quick inspection. “You don’t look very hussy-ish in that get up.” Helena wore her usual outfit of baggy pantaloons, loose shirt, bodice, and sandals. She also sported Arthur’s tricorn hat, which he’d let her borrow for the day while he was out scrounging for treasure. “I was just on my way to change.” “Need any help?” “With your help, I’d miss the contest and Christa would never forgive me.” Helena kissed her index finger, placed it on Alex’s lips. “Sorry, love.” Then danced away as he tried to grab her. “See you at the pub.” Once in the dome tent, Helena shrugged out of her boyish clothes and struggled into Christa’s idea of what a New Providence prostitute might have looked like—much embellished and cleaned up. Bodice and skirt were emerald-green brocade festooned with gold braid and black ribbon. Helena added the many necklaces and bracelets Christa had provided, and untied her hair, as instructed. Then she placed Arthur’s tricorn back on her head, but not before attaching three sweeping green ostrich feathers. She had promised Arthur she would remove them before returning the hat. With a final adjustment of the skirt, she prepared to step out of the tent, then hesitated. Tibbits, with his nasty habit of lying in wait for her, might be just outside, hoping for another opportunity to harass her. This time Alex and the others weren’t around to stop him. Cautiously she drew back the tent flap. “Took you long enough. You should have let me help.” Alex sat on one of the folding chairs, his hands cradling a mug, legs stretched out and casually crossed at his booted ankles. Helena let out a sigh of relief. “Come to escort me to the contest?” Alex rose and walked toward her, his eyes blue as cobalt. “You should wear dark green more often. It looks good on you.” She gave him a theatric curtsey. “Why, thank you, Captain.” He cocked an elbow. “Come on, H. H., before I change me mind, and strip ye out of that dress and have me way with ye.” “Save that thought for later.” She took his proffered arm, and together they strolled back toward the Bilge Rat Pub. Although he’d said nothing of his reason for keeping guard outside the tent, Helena knew very well why Alex had been there. As she walked beside him, she prayed that nothing else would happen to spoil the event, or put anyone in danger, and that Tibbits would stay away from her. However, the crawling feeling that something wasn’t right still haunted her. She wondered if Bill had mentioned to Alex her theory about the drug-runners. “Alex, Bill and I were talking earlier—” “Yes, he told me about the possibility of drug dealers on the island.” “What do you think?” “I think I was stupid not to consider it before. Bill is rounding up a few of the men and will do a quick search of the island. Mostly from the ridge, using binoculars to check the eastern shore. No sense getting too close if we’ve got unwelcome company.” “What will you do if they find we’re not alone here?” “Call the ferry. But I don’t think we’re going to find anyone. At least not drug runners.” “Why not?” “Think about it. Drug dealers aren’t going to waste their time stealing food, root beer and fishing poles. Yeah, they might bash someone in the head for getting too close to a stash, but this is a privately owned island, usually crawling with campers. I don’t think drug runners would risk using San Cristobal as a drop zone or hiding place.” She shrugged. “Maybe Mr. Ross is a drug dealer. Maybe that’s how or why he bought the island.” “If that were the case, I doubt he’d rent the place out. But if there are others on the island, we’ll know by later this afternoon.” “I hope there are.” She said it with a fierceness that surprised her. Alex stopped. “Why?” “Because that would mean it wasn’t a PFCer who stole that stuff and hurt Flash.” It would mean all of Alex’s hard work wouldn’t be spoiled by someone within his own group. He gave her an enigmatic look. “You’re getting pretty protective of a bunch of pirates all of a sudden.” She smiled. “Yeah, go figure.” “I warned you.” He gave a lock of her hair a playful tug. “Give it a little more time, H. H., and before you know it, you’ll be drinking rum and entering the cursing contest.” She laughed as they walked on. “I could take pointers from Julia. You should have heard her taunting Rum Runner.” “Now there’s a lass who can let fly with the best of them. Makes a captain proud, she does.” “Well I’d have to down a lot of rum before I could call someone a pox-infected cheese bag.” Helena, happy to see a smile return to Alex’s face, found herself actually looking forward to the costume contest. She pushed worry and doubt to the back of her mind, gave Alex’s arm a little squeeze, and prepared to act as hussy-ish as she could—for Christa’s and the contest’s sake at first, but later, she’d give Alex a more personal performance.

Okaaay, this story will pick back up in the middle of a chapter, as due to tech difficulties — I hit "paste" instead of "copy" and a whole section was replaced by what had gone before, and I screwed up and hit something that made "undo" null and void. I had to get to my safe deposit box to get my back up CD and replace what was lost, before I could continue. So, apologies, and here we go again.... ***************************************** Helena hated to admit it, but she’d been thinking the same thing. Maybe it would be best if they canceled the event. It would be a nightmare to refund all the money, even if Mr. Ross agreed to reimburse them for use of the island, but it woul d be better than risking more injuries. She also wouldn’t be sorry to have Tibbits off her back, stalking her wherever she went. Yet, she hated the thought that Tibbits would win. That he could drive them off the island just because he was unhappy and didn’t understand why they were here. Alex ran a hand through his hair, then looked at Sandy. “I’ll give it through today. It’s the one everybody’s been looking forward to the most. Nothing happens, we take it another day. But, I agree with you. Anything else happens, and we call this whole thing off.” Helena and Sandy both nodded silent agreement. “Okay, let’s get out there and see what damage control we need to do.” Alex gave them a halfhearted smile. “Hell, as far as we know, Tibbits may already have made the call and the ferry is at the pier waiting to take us back. All this pacing on my part done for nothing.” Sandy rose from the chair. “Let’s hope the PFCers can be tightlipped when they need to be. With luck, Tibbits won’t find out what’s happened.” Helena took one of Alex’s hands. “Come on. Lets round up the rest of our crew and see what’s going on. If I recall, you have a contest to judge.” For the first time, Helena saw a hint of despair come into Alex’s eyes. “God, Helena, how can I judge a contest when stuff is getting stolen and Flash has a bruise on his head the size of a football?” “Because, you’re Captain Blue, and it’s your job to make sure everyone has a good time. If the rest of the PFCer’s see that you’re worried, then they will be too. If that happens, then Tibbits wins.” The despair left his eyes, replaced by a fierce, crackling anger. “Like hell he will.” * * * “Strike yer colors, ya deck-lickin’, louse-infested spawn!” A cheer went up as the first salvo in the Best Pirate Curse contest was fired. “Come at me, ya toad-bellied, bilge-puking son of a sea worm!” A young lass no more than fifteen shouted back. Helena laughed along with the rest of the crowd. This cursing contest was the best medicine for relieving the tension that had gripped the camp all morning. She hoped it would help relax Alex as well. With her at his side, he’d spent the morning talking to various group leaders, asking if they wanted to cancel the event and call the ferry. The consensus had been a resounding no. Some of the crews make a joke of the trouble, others had taken it as a challenge, but no one wanted the event called off. Helena was glad. She knew, had they wished to go back to the mainland, Alex would feel he’d failed the group, and taken all responsibility for the disaster. “Rot in hell, ya scurvy, pox-infected cheese bag!” The leader of the Spotted Dick Tavern shouted out. “Careful, mate. That be my daughter yer callin’ a cheese bag.” A dark-haired woman wagged a finger. The leader quickly held up his hands, palm outward, then pointed to a potbellied man with a fake parrot on his shoulder. “Nay, marm, t’was that cheese bag I wer aimin’ at.” The woman looked to where he pointed, nodded her head, then laughed and replied, “A fine hit, then mate, a fine hit.” Bill strolled up to Helena. “Where’s Alex?” Helena’s heart leapt into her throat. “What’s wrong?” Bill smiled. “Nothing. Just wondered. Thought he’d be here putting in his two-pence worth. He’s got some curses that would curl your hair.” Relief rushed through her. “Thank God. I was afraid something else had happened.” “I don’t blame you for being jumpy. Everyone’s a bit on edge after this morning.” “I know.” She looked into Bill’s worried brown eyes. “Do you think Tibbits hit Flash?” “I don’t know, but after that threat last night, it makes me wonder. The only thing worse would be to discover one of the PFCers did it.” Helena let her gaze wander over the jubilant crowd, then faced Bill again. “You know, if that turns out to be the case, Alex is going to be crushed. He has such faith in this group.” “If not Tibbits, then who? The PFCers are the only ones on the island.” Helena shivered. The feeling of dread coming back, strong as a tidal wave. “What if we’re not the only ones?” “What do you mean?” “This whole area, southern Florida, the Keys, the Caribbean, they’re all home to drug runners. Maybe they have a camp on the other side of the island. Could be they were here before we showed up and aren’t too happy about the company.” “Christ, Helena, I never thought of that. Although, so far, none of the people out looking for Mad Matilda’s treasure have reported seeing anyone.” “Maybe we should send a group to scout around, just to be sure.” “If we do, we need to stress caution. Drug-runners aren’t the most social characters.”

OMG! OMG! OMG! How have I never heard of this before!?!? I had to look it up to be sure it wasn't a brainchild of Ransom's fertile imagination. Can I order them by the pitcher? Or maybe just one of these and one Sazerac, to start... My fertile imagination" Phiff! You have no idea! LOL I think I am going to make a Death in the Afternoon my "signature" drink. Actually, I may make one tonight. I have both ingredients at hand.

Pew, since you have Matusalem's snail mail addy, if he won't respond to PMs or emails, maybe you should mail him a quick information request. Send it with a postal delivery confirmation, so we know he got it. Maybe even try and find a phone number?