X marks the spot, p.1
X Marks the Spot, page 1
Book Description
Set sail on the high seas with this collection of twenty-one unforgettable short stories featuring dashing rogues, daring rebels, and wily pirates searching for treasures of all kinds, including a forgotten journal, a heavenly sword, a young girl’s lucky sock, and even the Fountain of Youth.
Some pirates are familiar—complete with parrots, peg legs, and eye patches—but most are unique: a twelve-year-old computer hacker, a heroic rabbit on an unusual quest, a clump of cancer cells, and an alien setting sail among the stars.
X Marks the Spot: An Anthology of Treasure and Theft is about those men and women who live on the fringes of society, who are beholden to no man, no law, and who always have one eye on the horizon.
So grab your map and set your headings. There are adventures to be had, mateys, and treasures to be found.
This anthology is the fifth volume produced by the alumni of the Superstars Writing Seminars, and all royalties benefit the Don Hodge Memorial Scholarship Fund.
X Marks the Spot
An Anthology of Treasure and Theft
Edited by
Lisa Mangum
X Marks the Spot
Copyright © 2020 WordFire Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
The ebook edition of this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook edition with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
EBook ISBN: 978-1-68057-113-4
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-68057-112-7
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-68057-056-4
Cover design by Janet McDonald
Cover artwork images by Tiffany Brazell
Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director
Edited by Lisa Mangum
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Published by
WordFire Press, LLC
PO Box 1840
Monument CO 80132
Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers
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Printed in the USA
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Contents
Kristen Bickerstaff
The Wish Shore
Ken Hoover
The Wreckers
L.V. Bell
Scourge
Tracy Leonard Nakatani
The Pirate’s Cat
David Cole
Annie Spark and the Pirates of Port 1337
Linda Maye Adams
Tidying Magic
Trisha J. Wooldridge
By Stars and by Gears
Amy Hughes
Porch Pirates of Pasadena
Jessica Guernsey
Sabbath
Tanya Hales
A Good Pirate’s Final Storm
John D. Payne
Percival Bunnyrabbit and the Robot Wizard
Lauren Lang
Plundering Lives
Melissa Koons
Time Comes for All Men
Elmdea Adams
Life Pirate
Jace Killan
Pirated RPG
Clint Hall
Breath of the Cherubim
Nancy DiMauro
Princess Yum Yum’s Challenge
C.H. Hung
Where We Will All Go
Mary Pletsch
Silver Future
Julie Frost
Sea Wolves
Robert J. McCarter
Harry the Ghost Pirate
About the Editor
If You Liked …
Other WordFire Press Titles Edited by Lisa Mangum
The Wish Shore
Kristen Bickerstaff
Even the smallest, plainest of stones can hold a wish. That’s what Adria’s grandfather had told her every morning as they walked the wish shore.
When she was younger, she’d longed for a pretty stone like those the girls from the white-walled town inland threw when they made the daylong trek to the shore. A quartz or an onyx, perhaps. Even a mica-speckled rock would do. But all she had were the plain, gray-and-white rocks littering the shore. As the years passed and her grand wishes never came to be, she accepted the truth. She was a fishergirl, destined to marry a fisherman and live in a salt-stained hut by the shore. No rock would change that, no matter how fine it was.
But whenever Grandfather handed her a stone on their morning walks, she would whisper a wish into it to make him happy, her lips brushing against the water-smoothed surface, and throw it out to sea. Even after they sent Grandfather’s body back to Sky-Mother on a bed of blue-tinged flames, she still walked the shore and, if a stone caught her eye, she’d give it one of her wishes. Adria made sure to keep her wishes simple—for a good catch, for a clear night, for her voice to sound sweet at festival time. And if the wishes only came true partway or not at all, well, she didn’t really believe in the wish shore anyway.
Just a few days before Sea-Father’s festival, one stone caught her eye. Pale white with a black crack snaking through it, uniformly shaped, and sunbaked—it was just the sort of stone Grandfather would have picked. Catching up her skirts, she bent down and plucked the stone from its fellows before the sea could take it away. She rubbed her thumb down the black line, enjoying the flaw in the otherwise featureless rock.
Straightening up, holding in her mind the wish she would whisper, her eyes caught on a dark shape far out to sea. She blinked, and the shape formed into a boat flying black sails. The stone tumbled from her nerveless fingers, landing with a small plunk into the water.
The raiders’ distinctive black sails were a children’s tale, spoken over a crackling fire by an old-timer who’d spent his youth trying to make his fortune on a trading vessel. Even in the stories, the raiders only attacked fat merchant ships filled with gold and fine cloth. They didn’t come for tiny fishing villages on a small island in the middle of the sea. Yet there they were, growing closer with each rattling breath she drew.
She knew she should scream and wave her hands to the fishing boats out to sea—the ones carrying her father and brothers—but another part of her, the part that knew there was no Sea-Father granting wishes to each silly fishergirl who threw a rock into his domain, understood that it was already too late. The fishing boats were too far out, and the black sails were moving too fast. They move like ghosts, the old-timer had said. And so she sprinted back to the village, hoping against hope that her legs could outrun the sails.
But when she reached the pickets that marked the edge of the village and glanced back, her cry of alarm choked off in a sob. The familiar silhouettes of her family’s fishing boats roared with flames, pillars of thick, black smoke obscuring the clear, blue sky. The black sails were already ahead of her loved ones’ pyres and moving alarmingly fast, almost to the wish shore. She would never make it to the white-walled town in time.
Her wish stone lay on the rocky shore, tumbled by the tide and the heavy boots of the raiders, forgotten.
“Yer a wind-singer, aintcha?”
Adria drew back from the raider’s reeking breath, stinking of chew-leaf and rotting fish, as far as she could in the hold’s close quarters. Kara, the only other captive from her village, tightened her near-permanent grip on Adria’s hand, while the woman to the other side of Adria merely leaned away. Adria ducked her head so that her long dark hair, matted and salt-stained after weeks at sea, would fall in front of her face, but it was too late. He had seen.
The raider squatted to get a better look at her, pushing her hair back and grabbing her chin to tilt her face up to his. Putting on a show of bravery for young Kara, Adria held the leering gaze of his one eye, the other covered with a leather patch.
He jabbed a finger at her cheek, where the sign of her family was inked in blue. “That’s the sign, right? I had a woman once from your parts. She said your kind could fill a sail on the stillest of days. Bet that’s not all you can make swell.” He smacked his lips, thin and pale under his scraggly beard.
Adria fisted her hands in her damp skirt—it was always damp these days, since she and Kara had been spared the raiders’ knives and forced into this stinking, swaying hold—so that she would not strike him. Lashing out would only earn her, and most likely Kara, another beating. But when he poked her cheek again with his grubby finger, it took everything she had not to snap her teeth at him.
“Oy! You deaf, girl?” he asked, curling his hand into a fist.
“It’s just a superstition,” she mumbled. “I sing at Sea-Father’s festival and the like. I’ve never been out to open sea.”
His beady, dark eye searched her face, but he’d find no trace of a lie there. Then his single-eyed gaze moved over to Kara. “This true? Is it all rubbish?”
Kara’s wide brown eyes flickered to the raider, to Adria, then back.
No, no, no, Adria begged her silently. At barely ten years old, the girl was too young to understand that Sea-Father was
Kara lifted her chin, and Adria’s heart sank. She knew that look, had stared it down ever since the girl had been a toddler, marching around the beach and declaring it all for Sea-Father against her imaginary enemies.
“You better leave her be!” the girl said. “The wind-singers are Sea-Father’s own children, from his love of the sea-maid, and he doesn’t take kindly to any who hurt them! Her songs will bring a storm like none you’ve ever seen, and then you’ll be sorry!”
Oh, sweet girl, how I wish that was true.
The raider bared his teeth, what few were left. “Ay, well, superstitions come from somewhere. Let’s have you up, then.”
He pried Adria from Kara’s grip, ignoring the girl’s cries, and dragged her to the ladder that led to the deck. He slapped her backside just as her hands touched the deck, sending her sprawling. Rough laughter chorused from the other raiders, and her face burned.
“What’s this, Holger?”
A man swaggered up in that strange bowlegged walk all the raiders seemed to share, clothed in black tatters that were in slightly better condition than the rest of the crew’s. His beard was trimmed closer than Holger’s ratty mess, though Adria had still never seen so many men with such unkempt beards. She thought of how Grandfather would carefully slick fish oil through his each morning until it shone, and how they’d laughed when her youngest brother, Tadd, had proudly smeared the oil across the peach fuzz dotting his cheeks.
Holger shoved her once more, bringing her nearly chest-to-chest with the captain. He stank of sweat and salt.
“She’s a wind-singer, Cap. Figured she could sing us up a bit of wind, get us back to familiar waters.” There was a desperation underlying Holger’s voice that worried Adria.
The captain looked down his crooked nose at her, his lip curled in a sneer. “This true, girl?”
“I tried to tell him,” she said, her voice barely dribbling past her lips. “Wind-singing is just an old story, a tradition for festivals. It doesn’t actually work.”
Grandfather had been the last wind-singer in the family, and Adria had agreed to take on the mantle for love of him, nothing more. She’d never believed she had the power to call up winds or calm storms; even Grandfather had admitted that, when he’d tried as a youth, no wind had come at his call. The captain’s skeptical expression seemed to agree with her, but enough of the men had heard Holger’s claim and clustered closer, eagerness glinting in their eyes.
“Let ’er sing, Cap!”
“We could use the wind!”
The hungry gazes of the raiders passing over her made her sweat. Adria noticed the dark circles under their eyes, the pinched looks on their faces. This, pieced together with the strangeness of the raid on her village and the raw, rotting grain the women were served each day, made the whole picture clear.
These men were lost, blown off course and running low on provisions. She’d already been warned by some of the other women that they were meant to be sold as slaves at the next port the raiders docked in, as they were the only goods worth coin on this cursed ship. That was why the men hadn’t done more than touch Kara or Adria. That was why she and Kara had been spared the knife, when the old fisherwives and the elders and the young boys had all been slain.
These men knew nothing of mercy, and hunger would have only sharpened their cruelty. What would they do when they realized she couldn’t sing the wind?
The captain was already nodding, though, and pointing to the bow. “Have her try out there. After our cursed luck, I’ll take what backwater magic we can find.”
Holger shoved her across the rocking deck, ignoring her protests as the raiders followed after. Adria clutched the railing to keep her balance and turned her back on the men and their ravenous eyes. All around her was sparkling blue water, stretching endlessly in every direction. It would have been beautiful, but she understood the danger in an empty horizon. How much longer did they have before the men started pitching the extra mouths overboard?
There was no wind to speak of, the sails hanging loose and forlorn from the mast. When she merely stood, gazing out at the empty water, Holger gave her another shove, flattening her against the rail.
“Sing, girl, or I’ll make you wish you had,” he growled.
Adria licked the taste of salt from her lips as her mind scrambled over what to sing. Nervous and unwilling to test Holger’s patience, she decided on the song that opened the summer festival. It was almost time for it, after all, or had it already passed? She cleared her throat, wishing for a cup of water, and began to sing.
“Oh, Father, oh, Father, where have you gone?”
Her own father was buried beneath the waves, his bones resting in the sand along with her brothers’. Adria squeezed her stinging eyes shut and forced herself onward.
“Our nets, our nets, long for fish but hold none.”
There were no nets for Adria to weave anymore. No more days in the common hall, shoulder to shoulder with her friends, singing songs as their callused fingers deftly caught and knotted the flax. No more memories of how her mother, long dead, had shown her those knots, over and over until she could tie them with her eyes closed.
“Our sails, our sails, lie dead on their lines.”
And may they stay dead, Adria wished fervently. She thought of young Kara and the horror that awaited her if they found land. Better the watery embrace of the sea, or slow starvation, than that living hell.
“Oh, Father, oh, Father, now is your time.”
The rest of the words blended together, and her last note held for a long time, floating back to her on the waves. Adria blinked against the bright sunlight reflecting on the ocean’s glassy surface as sweat dripped down her spine.
Not so much as a breeze rustled through the sails.
A rough laugh broke her song’s spell, followed by grumbled curses. She hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself a smaller target, and clung to the railing, even as their fists fell upon her unprotected back.
That night, as she tried to find a position to sleep in that did not send fire racing across her new bruises, Adria leaned her head against the hull. With her ear pressed against the wood and only her short, pained breaths to count a rhythm, the lap of the water against the ship sounded almost like a song.
And so it went. For the next five days, Holger dragged her up to the bow, and each day she sang with no real hope that Sea-Father heard her. Each day, no wind appeared, and each day, she was beaten for failing to sing it to them. The raiders had long since lost hope that she could actually do as Holger claimed she could, but they seemed to enjoy the break from rowing and the distraction from their hunger, their thirst, their boredom. Each day, there was no hint of where shore might be.
Oh, Father, oh, Father, where have you gone?
They could not row back to Adria’s home. They did not have the men to conquer the white-walled town as easily as they had her poor village. Their prowess lay in quick raids on the water, not attacking well-defended fortifications. And they did not have enough drinking water to backtrack. Their navigator, Adria learned, had been lost in the storm that blew them so wildly off course and to the shore of her island home.
Our nets, our nets, long for fish but hold none.
On the sixth day, when the grain ran out, Adria was sure that was the end. It was the end for two of the older women in the hold, who were thrown screaming and wailing over the rail, their cries echoing long after the boat had rowed away from their clutching fingers. Adria had pressed shaking hands over Kara’s ears, as if such a simple thing could shield the girl from what was likely to be their shared fate.
