Jim Morgan and the Pirates of the Black Skull Read online

  “Does even a little magic startle you, my boy?” the old man said, clucking his tongue again. “As I said, youths these days - no respect for the older things in the world.”

  “I wasn’t startled,” Jim said. “I’ve seen magic before!” But this was half a lie, for the magic had been so sudden and so unexpected that it had taken Jim quite by surprise. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, it even frightened him a little.

  “Well then,” said the man, offering Jim a friendly smile and motioning up toward his magically produced camp with an open hand. “If it bothers you not, good sir, come sit with an old man for a time, and let us have a chat.”

  “Actually, I really should be going, sir,” Jim managed, his heart beating wildly in his chest. If he had learned but one thing over the course of all his adventures it was this: magic was not a thing to be taken lightly. More often than not, it was a doorway leading straight to danger and trouble. But the old man was not so easily deterred.

  “Then go you must, and on my word of honor I shall not stop you. But perhaps, oh broken-hearted one, it would be wise if you spared me only a moment, just one, even if only to hear what I have to offer. Would even a chance to mend your current predicament not be worth a few minutes of your time?”

  Jim hesitated on the beach, just beyond the firelight’s reach. His chest ached and his throat was still tight. Tears yet threatened and nothing but a scorched piece of earth that used to be his home awaited him at the end of the beach. He cast one last glance toward a turn in the shore, where the beach led back to the stables on the manor grounds, where his friends waited for him. But curiosity - curiosity and perhaps even a touch of hope, pulled Jim’s eyes back toward the camp.

  “Only a moment,” Jim finally said, starting up the beach toward the little camp as the old man cackled with delight.

  The tiny pipe player blew a joyful tune as he and Jim approached the fire. He danced a spry jig around the flames in a circle or two before making his way up to his wagon. There he came to a prancing stop and loosed another trill on his flute, finishing with a deep bow.

  “Philus Philonius, purveyor of magical goods, remedies, relics, and potions, at your service, my boy. A pleasure and honor to meet you, young sire! And who, may I ask, might you be?”

  “I’m Jim Morgan,” Jim said. He gave the old man a quick bow himself before checking nervously over his shoulder toward the beach, as though a small part of him was afraid he might be magicked away by Mister Philonius at any moment.

  “Well, Jim Morgan, let us see what soothing balm I might offer to cure your affliction!” Philus seized the side panel of his wagon and with a flick of his wrist popped it open like a shopkeeper’s window. Row upon row of shelves revealed themselves there, lined from side to side and top to bottom with an assortment of vials, baskets, cauldrons, boxes, colored crystals, shiny stones, and even a polished skull or two. As nervous as Jim felt, that small flame of curiosity burned a bit brighter and pulled him nearer still to the wagon, his eyes poring over the goods there within.

  Philus Philonius rubbed his hands together and giggled with anticipatory delight. With a dancing shuffle he kicked the lower edge of his wagon, releasing a step upon which he leapt. This made the small man just tall enough to reach his shelves, and also to look Jim in the eye.

  “Now, we can hardly just give you anything, can we? Only the proper remedy will cure the proper malady, eh?” Jim opened his mouth to say something, but the small man held up his hand and shook his head. “No, no, no, master Jim – I am a professional, a craftsman at my trade, I am, I am, so no hints, no hints!” Philus ran his finger down one of the shelves, pausing when he came to a small pot, teeming with bright green, four leaf clovers.

  “A pinch of Irish Luck to do the trick, perhaps?” Philus blew a note on his flute and a rainbow leapt from the pot, flitting into the air like a brilliant butterfly. But no sooner had the rainbow flown in two circles than Philus swatted it from the air with his flute, bursting it like a soap bubble and shaking his head with a distasteful frown. “No, no, no, not nearly enough, is it? Not nearly enough!”

  Further down the shelf the old man searched until he came to a tall vial of pink glass, which he plucked gingerly off the shelf with two fingers, a bright smile upon his face.

  “Now here’s a little beauty: Perfume of Summer’s Love!” Philus pulled the cork with a slight pop and a tendril of pink mist rose into the air followed by the unmistakable scent of strawberries and cinnamon, with just a hint of hot chocolate. But after a long, deep breath of the delicious odor, the little merchant’s nose suddenly twitched and he unleashed an enormous sneeze, blasting away the pink fumes and leaving only an annoyed wrinkle on his brow. “No, no, no,” he said, corking the vial and tossing it back on the shelf. “Too young, too young! Perhaps in a few years, eh, my boy? We need something bolder for you, don’t we? That I can tell!”

  Philus grabbed a small box next, holding it tight with both hands, and for good reason. The box shook so violently in his grip that the small man was nearly thrown to the ground. Jim took a step or two back in fear of his safety.

  “These little beauties are a pair of Bulgarian Boxing Rocks!” Philus announced, his voice herking and jerking. “Hold one of these stones in each hand and you’re guaranteed to knock any foe into the dirt, regardless how big or how strong he may be!” Jim arched one eyebrow at the Boxing Rocks, thinking for a pleasant moment of using them on Bartholomew Cromier. But the old man snorted again and all but threw the box into the back of his wagon, breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

  “No, no, no!” Philus repeated once more, stomping a foot on his little wooden step. “Hardly proper for a gentleman such as yourself. Besides, they’re a devil to get back in the box, believe you me.”

  The old man sighed and his shoulders slumped. He hung his head and tapped his flute on his bald crown as though on the verge of surrender. Again Jim looked back over his shoulder to the beach. He very nearly thanked Philus for his efforts and insisted he should be going, when the little man suddenly shrieked as though struck by a bolt of lightning. Mister Philonius threw back his head and laughed a long, how-could-I-be-so-foolish laugh. When his cackling laughter finally subsided, Philus snuck a long, sideways glance at Jim, as though measuring and weighing him with those old, green eyes. Then he slowly, slowly turned his shrewd, bearded face back toward the shelf.

  “There is one other possibility, isn’t there? It could be just the thing.” Philus rose up on his tiptoes and reached to the very top shelf, taking down a square, glass bottle, red as blood and capped with a burnt black cork. Stepping down from the wagon, Philus crept slowly and purposefully over to Jim and handed the bottle over.

  “This is the number, isn’t it, my boy?” he whispered.

  Jim took the bottle and nearly dropped it immediately. It was surprisingly warm, no, almost hot to the touch, as though it had just been heated over an open flame. Jim turned the bottle over in his fingers until he came around to the label, bearing but a single word, written on the side. When Jim read this one word, a desire as hot as the liquid in the bottle began to burn in his chest. The one word was written in black letters on a white label, and the word was this:

  REVENGE.

  SEVEN

  im looked up at Philus and found the old man staring back. The eager gleam in Jim’s eyes and the white knuckles with which he gripped the bottle seemed to be answer enough for the magician. The old man smiled from ear to ear. The fire danced like coals in his clear, green eyes.

  “Rare stuff that is, young master Morgan,” Philus said. His voice grew low and urgent. “Won’t bother telling you what it is or from whence I got it. You’d hardly believe me if I did, and I’m not sure you really want to know. All you need to know is this: one administration of a potion made from this elixir, and you are guaranteed to turn the tables on your foes.”

  Jim closed his eyes. The hot fire crackled behind him. The warm bottle sent wa
ves of heat up his arm. He pictured himself holding Bartholomew Cromier at sword point - the very way the pale captain had once held him, back in his father’s study so long ago. In Jim’s mind, Bartholomew’s father, Count Cromier, was there too, on his knees and begging for mercy. Jim imagined locking them up with Aunt Margarita, sorrowful misery dripping from their faces. Jim’s friends would then cheer him on as he rebuilt Morgan Manor with the reclaimed wealth of pirate treasure.

  “Yes,” Jim said, his voice hungry. “This is what I need.”

  “Indeed it is, Master Morgan. Now, how much would something like that be worth to you, my boy?”

  Jim’s shoulders slumped. The glorious fantasy burning a hole in his mind evaporated like smoke off a match. The fact that all Jim had ever owned was now burned to a blackened crisp rolled over him like a wave. He had nothing, not a farthing to his name. Now even this one chance to set it all straight, to get even with the Cromiers, was about to slip through his fingers.

  “I don’t have any money. I can’t afford it, sir.” Jim held the bottle out to Philus, his chin drooping toward his chest. But the old man grabbed both Jim’s hand and the bottle and held them tight together. For a small man, his grasp was uncannily strong.

  “Easy, lad,” Philus said. He clucked his tongue and shook his head, the smile still fixed upon his face. “Empty pockets and broken hearts often walk hand in hand, don’t they? But I told you I was here to ease your ills, did I not? I’m here to help you, not rob you, my boy. Yet nothing worth anything in this life is free, is it? However, being the reasonable merchant I am, I would be willing to come to a trade for a single dose of revenge. Surely you have a little something to trade for this golden opportunity.”

  “I have nothing,” Jim said. A lump formed in his throat. Philus chuckled slowly, though, and let his sly smile stretch a bit further.

  “Trust an old salesman, Jim Morgan. Nobody has nothing. We’ve all got something we can trade. It just depends on how badly we want whatever it is that we want. Now, think hard! Are you absolutely sure have you nothing to trade?” For a brief second - Jim could not even be entirely sure he saw it - Philus’s eyes flicked down to his coat. As though an invisible hand had dropped a rock in his pocket, Jim remembered the square shape that jabbed him in the side every now and again.

  His father’s box.

  A sudden hope surged through Jim’s mind. All his fantasies of plunging those wretched Cromiers into prison and restoring the house of Morgan roared back to possibility. Without thinking, Jim pulled the box from his pocket. Handing the bottle of Revenge back to Philus, he flipped open the box and looked inside.

  The letter, the moonwater, and the necklace all lay within, safe and sound. One by one Jim considered them all.

  The letter, lying folded beneath the vial of moonwater, had turned out to be more than just a letter. It held a secret from Jim’s father – possibly even a map to buried treasure. Jim could never part with it. Of course, in order to read whatever was hidden upon the letter he would need the vial of moonwater lying on top of it. But, just peeking out from under one edge of the tattered parchment, a coil of fine silver chain glimmered in the firelight – Jim’s mother’s necklace.

  Swallowing so hard it hurt, Jim withdrew the necklace. He closed the lid behind it with a soft tap and put the box back in his pocket. The shell charm dangled at the end of the chain, spinning slowly before Jim’s eyes. Philus Philonius let out a low whistle at the sight of it.

  “Well, I say, Master Morgan, that is a lovely necklace, indeed. Fairly small, not much silver really, but quite, quite lovely.”

  “It was my mother’s,” Jim said, his eyes fixed on the silver shell, all but glowing in the moonlight. A pair of strong, invisible bands squeezed Jim’s chest. Don’t do it, a voice whispered in his mind. The voice could have belonged to Lacey, or Phineus, or even Jim’s father.

  “Not much silver, really,” Philus repeated. He leaned his little face so close to the necklace that his nose nearly tapped the shell. His fingers were reaching for it, though they never touched the charm. “But for you, my boy – for you it would be just enough - just enough to take a crack at those who have taken everything from you. It would be just enough for a chance to reverse your fortunes. You have only to say the word.”

  Jim stared at the necklace. His insides churned and he felt as though he would be sick. It seemed as though his arm wanted to shove the necklace back into his pocket and his legs wanted to run away. But in Jim’s mind, all he could see was a world put right – a world with the Cromiers locked up like animals and Morgan Manor built anew, a proper home for Jim and all his friends. He could build a room, Jim told himself, a whole wing of the new house to honor his father and his mother. Surely that would make up for the cost of this one necklace, would it not?

  Jim slowly extended his arm and offered the necklace to Philus. At the last moment he nearly yanked the necklace back and ran away, but Philus pushed the bottle of warm Revenge into Jim’s other hand. Jim felt the heat in one palm and the cool metal in the other.

  He let go of the cold silver chain.

  “Aha!” Philus announced with a whoop. “Then it is done! A well-struck bargain my boy, and I do believe you came away with the better end of the deal, I do say, I do say. But now, to prepare your concoction!”

  Philus leapt from the step, flute to his lips. A rollicking, raucous tune, wild and dangerous, spilled into the night. All by itself the fire whipped into a burning whirlpool of orange and yellow tongues, so bright and so hot that Jim covered his face with his arm and fell back on his seat in the sand. When he dared to look again, he found a black cauldron, perhaps summoned from the dark night itself, hovering above the fire. Water steamed within, frothing and bubbling over the sides.

  Philus danced around the cauldron, his fingers flying over the twin-piped flute. Even when the old man stole the enchanted instrument into some hidden pocket, the melody continued to thrum in Jim’s ears, like wind through the trees. From other unseen pockets the tiny man withdrew the potion’s ingredients, chanting their names as he dropped them into his magic brew.

  “Three drops of venom, squeezed from a scorpion’s sting!”

  “Four yellow petals, torn from Birdsfoot Trefoil!”

  “Two black feathers, fallen from Nemesis’s wings!”

  “And one rose, cut from Brutus’s garden!”

  Every item dipped into the cauldron’s depths sparked the enchanted tincture with thick smoke and flashing color. First came a sickly yellow, then a fiery orange. After that was a bruised purple, and lastly an emerald green. The colors dazzled Jim’s eyes. They were not quite natural colors in the potion, nor quite earthly scents upon the smoke. This was real magic. Jim knew it in his gut and felt it in his bones. It was as real as the Pirate Vault of Treasures or the Amulet of Portunes, both of which Jim had faced during his time in London.

  “Now boy, the final touch to bend all the others toward your noble purpose.” Philus danced over to Jim, wrapping his small, strong fingers around Jim’s wrist. Pulling Jim over to the cauldron, Philus unstopped the vial and drew Jim’s hand over the boiling concoction. The heat burned against Jim’s skin and he wanted to snatch his hand away. But Philus was stronger than his small frame belied. He held Jim’s arm firmly in place and carefully, oh so carefully, let slip one perfectly measured drop from the bottle of Revenge into the cauldron’s brew.

  The moment the liquid splashed into the potion, smoke and magic erupted in a column of red fire. The explosion threw Jim back from the cauldron and into the sand, his eyes closed tight with fear. When Jim found the courage to open them again, all was calm once more. The fire had died to a lazy burn, the smoke had drifted off in a strong sea breeze, and the potion in the cauldron had settled into a bubbling simmer, glowing a dim, blood red. The faint scent of burnt honey hung in the air.

  Philus produced a pair of long, wooden tongs and reached into the red brew. He swirled the mixture with the tongs once, twice, and then on th
e third, delicately squeezed the tongs shut and withdrew what remained of the rose cut from Brutus’s garden. The red petals, still full and blossomed and curled, had turned to ashy gray, and the stem to solid black. On one side, just beneath the color-drained flower, protruding and glistening with potion, sat a single curved thorn. Philus held the rose stem toward Jim from between the tongs.

  “Here, my boy, take it. Take it if you will, but do be careful! Mind the thorn.” Jim reached out with a trembling hand and took the rose stem from Philus, pinching it between two fingers below the wicked sticker. “Now, listen to me close, lad, and listen well, for I will say these words only once. This potion will grant you but one chance to strike revenge against your foes and reverse your fortunes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Jim said. The rose stem was hot in his hand from the fire. It stung his fingers, but he refused to drop it into the sand.

  “There is but one ingredient that yet remains to spark the spell: a single drop of your blood. You must wait for your enemies to be close, boy. Even if it means waiting until fortune, fate, and foes have you under their boot. You must hold your enemies in your gaze when you ignite the spell. That is of paramount importance! Hold them in your gaze, boy! Then prick your finger with the thorn. Do not prick lightly! You must dab the thorn in blood. Do this and the road of time will lead you inevitably to your revenge. Do you understand?

  “Yes,” Jim said. He could hardly wait for the chance to put this magic to work and undo those horrible murderers and thieves.

  “Good,” said Philus. “Then be on with you. It has gotten late and you should be home. Doing magic has drained me of my strength and soured my mood. I must rest and regain my vigor.”