Ransom

CHAPTER TWELVE September 18 Water tower, San Cristobal Helena and the two other women visited the privy, then wound their way through the encampment to the water tower—a tall, square wooden derrick set back against the hill. Along one side was a waist-high metal trough under a half-dozen water spigots. On the opposite side were three shower stalls with gravity-fed shower heads. The stalls reminded Helena of restroom cubicles. Each had a door in front, and there was about a foot gap between the walls and the cement floor. The floor was sloped just enough to carry the water to the front of the stall, where it spilled into a gravel-filled trench. Fortunately, all the showers were empty. Helena stepped into the first one and flipped a metal hook into an eyebolt to lock the door. She pulled soap and shampoo from her tote, then hung the tote from a peg. Feeling exposed, even though the only things visible were her feet, she undressed and turned the lever to start the shower. Since it was hot on San Cristobal, the water in the tank wasn’t freezing, but it wasn’t very warm either. With goose bumps springing up over her body, Helena quickly started to wash her hair. In the next stall Christa let out a shriek as the water hit her. “Shit, that’s cold.” “Could be worse,” Julia answered from the far stall, “but Holiday Inn it ain’t.” When she was finished, Helena toweled off and dressed in her costume for the day—baggy men's pantaloons, clean peasant blouse, bodice and, not wanting to tramp around in heavy, hot boots or buckle shoes, she’d opted for leather sandals. Before she opened the shower door, she remembered Tibbits scanning her like an x-ray machine. She tugged the neckline of the blouse higher, covering her cleavage. Then she grabbed her tote, unhooked the door and stepped out, her wet hair framing her face and clinging to her shoulders. Tibbits was standing not ten feet away, leaning against a palm. Her heart leapt into her mouth as he straightened and came toward her. “What the hell is a classy girl like you doing with this bunch of losers?” He stopped within two feet of her, those dammed mirrored sunglasses still on his face, so she couldn’t read his expression. He seemed huge, like a big bear, blocking her way. How long had he been there, watching and waiting? He reached up with one hand and ran thumb and forefinger over his mustache, then pointed to her chest. “I liked the thing you had on yesterday better.” “I don’t dress to please you, Mr. Tibbits. Is there something you want?” Every cell in her being wanted to run. He smiled. “Oh, yeah.” “I don’t know what that implies, Mr. Tibbits, but if you don’t get out of my way, I’ll yell for help.” He made a sweeping gesture that included the whole encampment. “Which wimp are you going to call?” “They’re not wimps, now get out of my way.” Helena was fully prepared to scream her head off. Julia emerged from the far shower stall. She took one look at the situation and stepped instantly to Helena’s side. When she spoke to Tibbits, her voice was taunting “Haven’t you already harassed enough people today?” He never turned his face away from Helena. “Oh, I’m not harassing, just making an observation.” Christa stepped out, blue eyes blazing. “Then go do your observing somewhere else.” Tibbits didn’t move. Helena raised her chin. “I’ll ask you one last time, Mr. Tibbits, to get out of my way. You don’t move, I scream. And I can scream really loud.” “We’ll all scream,” Christa added. Tibbits stood a moment more, smiled, and without a word, turned and sauntered away. “What is it with that guy?” Christa said. Julia let out a breath. “I don’t know, but Alex needs to be told of this.” “No.” Helena turned to them. “The last thing Alex needs is this added to his plate. Please, don’t say anything.” She vividly recalled the ice in Alex’s eyes whenever Tibbits looked at her. News of this encounter would only make matters worse. Christa shook her head. “I don’t know, Helena. This guy seems to have a thing for you. If we don’t tell someone, he may try and corner you again when we’re not around.” The thought made Helena cringe. The thought of Alex losing control frightened her even more. Tibbits was a big man. He had a weapon. He could hurt Alex badly if given a reason. She didn’t want to be that reason. “I’ll be careful.” Julia shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I think you’re making a mistake.” “Come on, let’s go back to camp and make something for breakfast.” Christa, dressed in bodice and skirt, shoved on her head a wide-brimmed hat adorned with bright feathers, and marched back the way they had come. “It’ll be more like brunch,” Helena remarked, following her. “Breakfast, brunch, whatever. As long as it’s food. I’m starving.” Julia grinned. With the mood lightened, the three headed back to the Boca tents. * * *

Okay, gang, I added many new items to my shop today. Check 'em out! (The link is at the bottom of my sig)

Just wondering how everyone is doing. Has anyone tried working with PMC yet. I'm curious to know how hard/easy it is to play with. As for me, new things on my Etsy site, with more to come in the next week or so. Mainly earrings, since I don't have hardly any of those, and I can sell them inexpensively. Currently I am also researching tiaras. I love tiaras — NOT the rodeo queen, Barbie kind — and wish they would come back in style, other than to hold a wedding veil. I'm going to experiment with making wire and beaded hair combs, then if that looks okay, I'll tackle tiaras. Currently pouring over my book Tiaras, Past and Present, by Geoffrey Munn, published by the Victoria & Albert Museum. The pieces are stunning, and true works of art!

Happy birthday to the boys...try not to burn down anything while you're celebrating.

CHAPTER ELEVEN September 18 Artesian spring, San Cristobal When he reached the spring, Gray Dog drank greedily, wincing as the cold water hit one of his rotting teeth, sending a knife stab of pain through his head—as if his rum head wasn’t bad enough. Cautiously, he edged to the crest of the rocks and looked down. Like ants, the colonists crawled everywhere. There were even more of the strange-looking tents than he’d thought. All meaning what? Now that his mind wasn’t fogged by the craving for food, he could think clearly. He had no doubt they were setting up some kind of colony. How else explain the vast stores of provisions in all those crates, and the presence of women, and even children? But whose colony? True, they spoke English, or some form of it, but he saw no English flag flying over the one small building. He might have thought they were from the Colonies, but the few towns he’d seen along the Florida coast were small Spanish settlements. These people weren’t Spanish. He squinted, trying to get a better view of the sprawl of tents. Then his heart nearly jumped out of his throat. An all too familiar image leapt up at him, grinning that death’s head grin, those hollow eye sockets boring into his pounding brain. “Blast every demon in hell,” he raged. Then he spotted another, and another, until he fell to the ground, shaking with fear. Pirates. At least a score of flags all bearing some form of that cursed death’s head. His first coherent thought was to hide—himself and his boat. As he scrabbled back to the beach, he mumbled and cursed, paused to slam his fist into the trunk of a palm, then sucked his bloody knuckles. Try as he might, he could make no sense of it. Where had their strange gear come from? Why did they bring their women and children with them? Where was their ship? Yet, despite the flags, they didn’t look like pirates. Their skin was too pink, their bellies too well fed for any sailor he’d ever seen. Every pirate port he’d stayed in was an infested hole of filth and disease, the bays littered with decaying ships, the men living in tents made of scraps of sail canvas, their women pox-ridden sluts. These pirates looked healthy and—rich! He slammed his fist into another palm. What if I’m too late, he thought, and those dirty sons of flea-infested dogs have already found Renaldo’s hoard? He reached his boat, pushed it back into the water, and rowed to La Perla. He’d hide out there, keeping away from San Cristobal as much as possible, until he could figure out what to do. He needed to know who these pirates were and if they had found the treasure. He also needed to go back for more food. At low tide, he’d sneak over and help himself while everyone slept. From personal experience, he knew most pirates didn’t recover from drunken excess until late in the morning. He’d be safe enough until daybreak. Best be careful, he thought. If they catch me, I’m dead. With another string of oaths, and a nagging feeling of unease clawing the pit of his stomach, he pulled the boat to shore on La Perla, then scuttled inland to find a place to lay low until dark.

Check out this awesome site...weird, but beautiful! Loved to Death

Still no book from Pyrateleather. Hope it isn't lost in the mail!!!

Sorry, but give me the old Prince classic "1999" We could change the date, but then it wouldn't rhyme as well. The meaning, however, is the same.

Welcome indeed, lad. I think ye need the pyrate name of Brennan the Brave, for ye must be a brave matey indeed ta go through what ye must, to be well again. And well ye will be, that's for sure!

On the Aldebaran, things can get exciting! And just damned fun. I LOVE this boat!

Since there are now a few of us Pub members with Etsy sites, and more (I think) are considering opening up shops of their own on that forum, I thought it would be nice to have a place we could post updates of when we add new things for folks to check out. And, well, you know, with Christmas coming and all, it seemed like a good time to start this thread. So, ck here for announcements about all the things you can buy, made by your fellow Pub members who have set up Etsy shops to sell their fine wares. Better than Ebay, as there is no bidding...you see it, you like it, you buy it. Easy! I have added a few new items to my shop today, so click on the link in my signature, and check em out! Thanks! (Okay, Syren, Lady Browar...your turn).

It looks quite dashing, suh.

Sounds like fun, Eyes. Dang...one more reason I hate living so far away from everything.

Most excellent, D. Man. I feel I should click my heals and salute! BTW, belated birthday wishes. I missed the posting of your natal day. Hope it was grand.

“Hey, Alex, you still in there?” Don’s voice, along with a slap on the outside of the tent, broke through Helena’s haze of sleep. She sat up, holding the sleeping bag in front of her bare chest in case Don should open the door flap. “No, he’s not. He left the tent early this morning.” “Well, we need to find him. There’s a problem.” “Give me a minute to get dressed.” She pulled on the loose peasant blouse from the previous night, struggled into bikini undies and a pair of jeans, then left the tent. Don was waiting for her. Christa stood next to him, still dressed in a long sleep-shirt that read ‘Pirate Princess’ across the front. Don looked worried. Christa seemed as puzzled as she was. “What’s wrong?” Helena asked Don. She noticed he wasn’t wearing his usual knit pirate cap, and his mostly bald head was already turning pink from the heat. “I’m not sure, but Tibbits is looking for Alex, and that means something’s up.” “Maybe he just wants to ask him a question,” Christa said. “You didn’t see the smug look on his face. No, something’s happened and Tibbits can’t wait to confront Alex with it.” “Have you tried looking for him at the Bilge Rat?” Helena said. “Maybe he went to post the notice about no swimming in the nude.” “Here he comes.” Christa pointed at the first aid cabana. Alex, accompanied by Julia, was striding toward them. Alex’s expression was grim. “What’s wrong?” Helena asked him, as he entered their circle of tents. “A crew from Miami had an ice chest broken into last night. Everything inside is gone and whoever did it left it open, so all the ice melted. They also stole a bottle of rum.” “Shit,” Don said. “You talk to Tibbits yet?” “No, why?” Don sighed. “Well, he’s looking for you, so it’s a sure bet he’s heard what’s happened. Any idea who may have done it?” “No,” Alex said. “Could it have been a few of the older kids messing around?” Helena asked. Alex glared. “Kids in the PFC don’t cause trouble at events.” “What I meant was, maybe they just got carried away,” she said, stung by Alex’s rebuke. Don came to her defense. “Always a first time, Alex.” Christa said, “Maybe it was a dare. You know how guys are always daring each other to do stupid stuff.” Alex shook his head. “No, I don’t think it was kids. It was too savage, the way the bags were ripped up and thrown all over the place.” “Animals, maybe?” Don said. A grimace tugged at one corner of Alex’s mouth. “Animals don’t drink rum.” Before Helena or the others could say anything else, Tibbits entered their camp, thumbs in his belt, mirrored glasses in place. “Seems you’ve got a little situation here, Mr. Hunter.” “The organization will deal with it,” Alex replied through clenched teeth. “Thought you said this gang was here to have fun? That include trashing someone’s belongings?” Tibbits leaned his weight on one leg, his head cocked. “I said, we’ll deal with it. I’ve already talked to the people involved. I told them the rest of the group would donate food from their own supplies to replace what was stolen or ruined.” “Well, I’ve talked to the vics myself. Told them they were stupid for leaving their stuff out where anyone could grab it.” He glanced around their circle of tents. “I see you keep most of yours out of sight.” “That’s to keep it out of the rain, not because we’re afraid someone might steal it,” Helena snapped. Tibbits tilted his head skyward, his glasses reflecting the pristine blue sky and bright sun. “Yeah, sure looks like rain’s going to be a problem.” “Like Alex told you, Mr. Tibbits, the organization will handle this.” Helena watched him slowly turn his head in her direction, sky, palms and then her own face sliding over the mirrored lenses. She suddenly remembered she’d dressed quickly and wasn’t wearing a bra, and that the cloth of her blouse was thin. Trying to be casual, she crossed her arms over her chest. After letting his gaze linger on her longer than was necessary, Tibbits returned his attention to Alex. “Maybe you got yourself a stowaway.” “What are you talking about?” Alex demanded. “Maybe all your little merry helpers didn’t get back on the ferry. Could be some decided to stay, and helped themselves to the food.” “PFCers don’t steal from each other.” Alex stepped closer to the man. “If a few of the volunteers didn’t go back, they’d come forward and tell everyone. They’d want to be able to participate in the week’s events, and party with their friends. The last thing they would do is hide out in the palms and steal food.” Helena tried to keep the disgust she felt for the man out of her voice. “Look, Mr. Tibbits, if it will make you feel any better, we’ll ask around, but I think Alex is right. The volunteers would have come forward. Everyone would have looked on it as a joke.” Tibbits didn’t say anything for a moment, then he shifted his weight to the other leg and shook his head. “I don’t know what you guys are trying to prove, prancing around in your little costumes and talking like Long John Silver, but that doesn’t change the fact someone on this island is a thief. I suggest you find him—or her—and deal with it, because if it happens again, I call the ferry.” The mirrored lenses scanned Helena slowly, then Tibbits strolled away. Bill, watching Tibbits’ retreat, said, “You think he might be right about the volunteers?” Alex shook his head. “No. I can’t believe any of our own would have done it.” “But, Alex,” Julia stepped forward, “other than Tibbits, we’re the only ones on the island. Who else could it be?” “Maybe old Tidbits did it himself, just so he could call back the ferry,” Christa said. “God, Alex, do you think he’d do such a thing?” Helena asked. A look came over Alex’s face that frightened her. “If I find out he did, I’ll make sure he pays for it big-time.” The thought that Tibbits might attempt to sabotage the event made Helena furious. The look he’d given her made her shiver. “I feel dirty,” she said. “I’m going to take a shower.” “I’ll go with you,” Julia said. By the time the two women had tote bags full of toiletries, towels and a change of clothes, Christa was waiting with her own gear. She smiled. “Three’s company?” “Sure,” Helena replied, “but, let’s stop by the privy first.” Alex, obviously still fuming over the encounter with Tibbits, asked, “You want one of us guys to go with you? Just to be on the safe side?” Helena shook her head. “I’ll think we’ll be fine. Where are you going to be?” “I’m going to grab something to eat, then help Bill set up contests for the kids. We’ll be down by the beach if you need me. At least until noon.” “Then maybe we can meet back here for lunch. Yesterday I told Christa I’d walk through the merchant’s area with her this morning.” Christa grinned. “Yeah. I’m hoping to find that cute guy. Someone told me he does scrimshaw, so I’m going to go check it out.” Alex visibly relaxed. “Alright, see you at noon then.”

CHAPTER TEN September 18 Boca camp, San Cristobal Island Helena was only vaguely aware of Alex slipping from the sleeping bag and dressing. He kneeled, kissed her forehead, and left the tent. She was too comfortable to move. It must be early, she thought, as the light filtering through their tent was dim, and the air that sneaked in when Alex unzipped the door flap felt cool and smelled of dampness and the sea. She snuggled deeper into the sleeping bag, thought of their lovemaking the previous night, and smiled. Alex could reduce her to jelly like no one else she’d ever known. It sometimes frightened her how easily he accomplished it. With the others before him, and there hadn’t been that many, she’d held in reserve her strongest desires. She’d never clearly understood whether it was because she didn’t trust them, or didn’t trust herself. With no interest in marriage or kids, she’d not been sorry when the relationships fell apart. The last one, with Paul Mathews, had exploded in recriminations, and his accusation that her snobby artist friends were more important than he was. At first she’d been hurt, but on reflection, had decided he was partly right. He hadn’t fit in among the people with whom she did business, hadn’t understood her need to succeed. That’s when she decided, for the time being, a close relationship with someone was not a good career move. She’d met Alex the day of her last, heated telephone conversation with Paul. She’d been furious because Paul called her at work just as she was negotiating the sale of a beautiful watercolor. Sick of his selfish theatrics, she’d tried to explain the situation to him. He hung up on her. The couple said they wanted to talk about the purchase over lunch before deciding, and left the gallery. They never came back. After work, still frustrated and angry, she’d walked across the street to a bar called the Blue Parrot for a calming glass of wine. She was on her second when six people came in—four men and two women—all weirdly dressed and talking like something out of a bad version of Treasure Island. The bartender knew them, greeting them in the same silly talk. This is all I need, she’d thought, a bunch of role-playing fanatics to make my lousy day complete. She was getting up to leave when one of the men turned to face her, made eye contact, and grinned. He gave her a wink, and she found herself sitting back down and taking a large swallow of wine. When he stood and headed in her direction, her heart danced in her chest. He was no blond-haired kid, as she’d first thought, but an extremely good-looking man in his late twenties, with eyes the color of Hopi turquoise. “You look a bit lonely, lass,” he’d said, staring down at her. Overreacting to the sudden flush of heat that spread throughout her body like warm butter, she’d answered, “Not really. Who are you, Captain Kidd?” Her snappish answer hadn’t fazed him. With a flourish, he settled into the chair opposite her. “Nope, Captain Blue, actually.” He cocked an eye. “And you might be?” “None of your business.” He’d leaned back and grinned again. “Now, I’ve heard some pretty strange soundin’ names in me travels, but that one be by far the strangest. Would yer nickname be None, or maybe Biz?” It was that grin. That damned, ‘don’t take life so seriously’ grin that did it. She’d laughed. “Helena Lindsey.” “Much better,” he’d said, with no trace of the comic. “Mine’s really Alex Hunter. I’ve never seen you in the Blue Parrot before.” “This is my first time.” “Must be karma. I almost didn’t come to the meeting tonight. We might never have met.” She’d looked over at the group, laughing and still talking in stage accents. “Just what group would that be, and why are you all dressed like attendants for a theme park ride?” He’d told her about the PFC. When he’d finished, he asked, “And you? What do you do?” Without hesitating, she told him about her job at the White Gull Gallery. He winked again. “White gull, blue parrot—we’re made for each other.” Much to her continued amazement, and despite her initial skepticism, it seemed they were—all previous thoughts of no close relationships banished by the ease with which Alex fit into her world. Helena pulled the sleeping bag over her head to block out the brightening light. From one of the other tents she heard someone cough. A gull called and was answered by another. The dry voices of the palms were soft, as if just waking. Over all was the rhythm of the surf, pounding in and hissing back—a never-ending, ancient heartbeat. She curled up and drifted back into sleep. * * *

With a lethal grin, MacTavish watched the sloop break away from the other two vessels. "Weel noow. Twil be like culling sheep." He left the rail and barked at his helmsman, "Take her away west a wee bit, then come round on yon sloop. We'll pay our respect tae the Spaniards first." The Pride of Flodden fell off the wind, tacked, and headed north-west.

Happy natal day to Pirateleather...a great mate, who also participates in the Art Journals and the PTC exchange. Hope your day was grand!

Muster looks good to me. Like I said, I made ten cards, so the wrangler can keep an extra one, and then he can decide who gets the other bonus card! LOL R

"I'll admit, the Devil's or the Irish, Nate does seem to carry his weight in luck. I've no objection to letting him, Cat, and Robert's stay on. The Spaniards, however, are a different story. But if you aren't worried, then so be it. As for MacTavish...well, I'm not so much worried about an outright attack. I'm thinking an ambush is more his style. All I'm saying is, we should watch our backs. And, where do you want to check in for supplies? Especially water. Florida is mostly Spanish held...say, maybe those Spaniards will come in handy after all." I refilled both cups and my own, emptying the bottle, then, grinning, held my cup up in salute. "Well gents, to our next bit of adventure." Smithe downed his brandy in one gulp. Jacky, looking warily at me over the rim of his cup as if he expected some trick, downed his as well. Then I held up the tea pot, shiny silver glinting in the dim light. "Sure you don't want any tea before you go?"

**Ransom back-peddles with embarrassment** You did send a SASE last time? Was I supposed to, and screwed up! Yikes! I do know that when I did the first round of cards, Cannibal Chrispy's would have been smashed to bits of I had sent all the cards back out in a regular envelope. I don't know that mine this time will fare too well in a regular one either, being a little...bony. LOL

Okay, I thought you said do 10 PTCs??? That's what I sent. Also, we never included a SASE before, since there is no way to know how heavy the end results of the cards might be, or that they would fit into a regular envelope. Cannibal Chrispy did very 3-D cards that wouldn't have survived in a regular envelope. It's kinda a given, here on the Pub, that he who wrangles, pays the postage.

Ransom & Chain Shot...both in!