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The stolen bank vault stood on the deck of Captain Jack’s small, dilapidated ship, the Dying Gull . It hadn’t been easy for the crew to hoist the heavy thing on board. Jack was exhausted just from leaning against the deck, pointing his index finger here and there to direct the crew in carrying and placement of the vault.
The well-worn wooden slats of the deck strained under the vault’s considerable weight. Once it was placed to his liking, Jack carefully reached inside and took out the spoils of their crime: a single coin. The rest had fallen out during the chase. The crew glared at him.
“I told you robbing a bank would be easy,” Jack said breezily. For it was true: they had robbed the bank with great success. That the gold was no longer inside the vault was a technicality. “Now line up to offer your tribute, men!”
Marty put his fists on his hips and cocked his bald head. “You want us to pay you?” he asked. “We want our treasure, Captain! The treasure you’ve been promising us all these years!”
“All of us are starving,” Pike said mournfully. “Yesterday we ate a rat.”
“We will no longer follow a captain without a ship!” Bollard exclaimed, planting his feet wide and gesturing to the ramshackle boat they stood on, more a barge than a ship, and one that happened to be beached on a thin strip ofland.
Jack sniffed, insulted. The Dying Gull was a little worse for wear, but it was seaworthy—or it would be as soon as the crew patched it up. And besides, Jack had a grand vessel, as well—the greatest ship of all that traveled the high seas.
“I have a ship, gentlemen,” he said dramatically, opening his coat and reaching in. “The Black Pearl has never left my side!”
Jack pulled out a glass bottle and held it up high. Inside, the Black Pearl rested, a fraction ofits original size.
Pike leaned back, unimpressed. “The pirate Barbossa rules these seas now,” he said. “He has ten ships, guns full.”
The rest of the crew began to grumble as well and head toward the gangplank.
“Wait!” said Jack, holding up his hand to stop them from leaving. “Did we not find the Treasure of Macedonia together?”
Gibbs looked up and sighed. “It was a trove of rotted wood!”
Jack tried again. “But the gold of King Midas—”
“Was a steaming pile of cow dung,” finished Scrum, the scene still fresh in his mind.
“Face it, Jack,” Gibbs said, his expression sad. “Bad luck follows you day and night.”
“Bad luck? Ridiculous!” Jack blustered just as a passing seagull deposited its droppings on his shoulder.
“We know you fear your own sword,” Scrum spoke. “That you believe it’s cursed—with the intention of slitting your throat!”
Jack grimaced. They had a point there. The sword seemed to have a mind ofits own—a mind that hated him. He sauntered over to the dreaded weapon, picked it up, and flung it into the sea, as ifit were a piece of stale bread.
“Problem solved,” he said, brushing off his hands on his breeches. His attempt to assume a cool, casual attitude did not fool his men. They knew him too well.
“You’ve lost your luck, your ship, and now your crew,” said Marty.
Unwilling to follow Jack any longer, the men tromped away. Gibbs was the last to go, gazing at Jack regretfully.
“Sir,” the grizzled man said, “I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of the horizon.”
Jack looked down at his compass, which was pointing out to sea. “They’re wrong, Gibbs,” he replied. “I am still Captain Jack Sparrow.”
“If you say so, Jack.” Gibbs fiddled with his cap. “Good luck.”
Jack’s face twisted in a sneer and he flounced to the far side of the boat, not wanting to watch his men abandon him. He set the bottle on the rail and squatted down until the Black Pearl looked like it was resting on the edge of the sea. His men lacked vision, but Jack could see it. The Pearl would sail again, and he would be, as ever, its captain.
The military hospital of Saint Martin was bustling with activity. Soldiers lay with varying degrees of injury, their moans and cries filling the air, summoning nuns to their sides.
Henry Turner winced at a twinge in his neck as he slowly awoke, startled by the strange sounds and smells around him. Then three soldiers loomed over him, one of them wearing the stripes of a lieutenant.
Officer Scarfield twisted his hands tightly around the bed rail. “The whole town speaks of you—the only survivor of the Monarch ,” he said, his voice cool. “A boy who paddled all the way to Saint Martin on a piece of driftwood and was found jabbering about pirates and tridents.”
Henry tried to sit up, but heavy shackles trapped him firmly to the bed.
“Sir, release me from these chains. I have to find Captain Jack Sparrow,” Henry pleaded.
“Your sleeves have been ripped—the mark of treason,” Scarfield continued, his voice full of disgust.
“We were attacked by the dead, sir,” Henry explained. “I tried to warn them!”
Scarfield shook his head, unmoved. “You’re a coward who ran from battle. And that is how you will die.”
Turning on his heel, Scarfield led his men away, leaving Henry to sigh in dejection. Would his quest end there?
A nun approached his bed and held a cup of water out to him.
“I don’t believe you are a coward,” she said.
“Please leave me, Sister,” Henry said softly. It was kind of the sister to try to comfort him, but all he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts.
“I’ve risked my life to come here,” the nun said in a rushed whisper, “to see if you truly believe as I believe ... that the Trident will be found.”
Henry’s gaze flew to the nun in surprise, and he really saw her for the first time. Her blue eyes pinned him to the spot, her expression intense and focused. She was young, beautiful, and, judging by the torn dress peeking beneath her habit and the iron cuff around her wrist, not a nun at all.
“Tell me why you seek the Trident,” Carina urged him as she glanced over her shoulder. She didn’t have much time.
Henry shook his head to clear it, sensing that his answer held great importance to her. “The Trident can break any curse at sea,” he explained. “My father is trapped by such a curse.”
The young woman’s eyebrow shot up in skepticism. “You’re aware of the fact that curses are not supported by science?”
“Neither are ghosts,” Henry answered, his voice laden with certainty.
“So you have gone mad, as I had heard.” Carina frowned and began to stand up. “The laws of modern science—”
“Have nothing to do with the myths of the sea,” Henry interjected. How could she concede the existence of the Trident of Poseidon but not believe in the possibility of curses or ghosts? “Why did you come here?”
“I need to get off this island to solve the Map No Man—” Carina began.
“Can Read,” Henry finished in awe. She was searching for the same treasure as he.
“So you’ve read the ancient texts,” Carina said.
“In each language they were written,” Henry answered enthusiastically. He couldn’t believe he’d found another person who knew about the Map No Man Can Read. “The map was left behind by Poseidon himself. But no man has ever seen it.”
“Luckily, I’m a woman,” said Carina, producing an ancient diary from beneath her nun’s robe. The brown leather of the volume was cracked by the passage of time. On the cover, a red ruby was embedded over a sea of embossed stars.
“This is the diary of Galileo Galilei. He spent his life looking for the map. It’s why he invented the spyglass—why astronomers have spent their lives looking to the sky.” She ran her fingers over the cover, then flipped through the worn yellowed pages covered in diagrams of constellations and notations of the phases of the moon.
Henry’s brow creased. “You’re saying the Map No Man Can Read is hidden in the stars?”
“Yes, but I have yet to see it,” she answered.
“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” he said. He’d encountered enough supernatural phenomena to know that truth well.
Carina bit her lip, wondering if the odd young man could really help her. He did not have a scientific mind, to be sure, but perhaps his knowledge of the lore of the sea would come in handy.
“This diary was left to me by my father,” she explained. “He believed I could find what no man has ever found, and I will not let him down. Soon there will be a blood moon.” Carina stopped on a page with a drawing of a cluster of five stars in a sea of black and white dots and showed it to Henry. “Only then will the map be read—and the Trident found.”
“Who are you?” Henry wondered aloud as the young woman produced a pick and began to unlock his chains.
“Carina Smyth!” someone snarled.
Carina froze, knowing if she turned, she’d find Scarfield and his men behind her.
Pressing the pick into Henry’s hands, she hissed, “If you wish to save your father, you’ll have to save me. Find us a ship, and the Trident will be ours.”
Scarfield drew his sword. “Turn to me, witch!” he commanded.
Carina pushed away from the hospital bed, which offered her just the leverage she needed to shove Scarfield and his men aside. She wove around nuns and past beds, her flowing robe flapping like a ship’s sail.
Just inches from the doorway to freedom, Carina’s path was blocked by Scarfield and his men.
Carina held her chin high as she faced the men.
“Sir,” one of the soldiers gasped, pointing behind her, “he’s gone!”
Everyone whirled to see that Henry’s bed was empty, his shackles piled on the sheets. The wind silently ruffled the curtains at a nearby open window.
Carina’s eyes were clear as she gazed at the sky, but hope and dread warred in her chest. Now her fate lay in the hands of a stranger, a young man who believed in ghosts and curses, but one whose loyalty to his father might be her salvation.