Читать книгу The Little Jane Silver 2-Book Bundle - Adira Rotstein - Страница 8

Melvin

After the shock of Ned Ronk’s threat, Little Jane took care to avoid the midships or any places the terrifying boatswain was wont to frequent.

When Long John asked her over breakfast the next morning if she was interested in helping her mother below decks with the maps and navigation, Little Jane was only too eager to escape the surface. For the moment, at least, she had lost all interest in her quest to become a serious pirate. Instead her thoughts were exclusively occupied by an all-encompassing fear of Ned Ronk and his wicked clasp-knife.

Alone in her narrow little bed that night, she spent hours trying to get to sleep. When slumber finally did come, she was awakened by a sharp, pointy pain at her back. Instantly, she recalled Ned Ronk’s gruesome threat. Her corresponding scream was so loud that the gulls sleeping in the barrels of the ship’s cannons fled, exploding out like so many feathered cannonballs.

She turned around expecting to see Ronk’s sneering countenance as he jammed the knife in her back, only to realize she had fallen asleep on a pencil she had been writing with.

Little Jane awoke late the next morning to find her mother done with her charts for the day and busy on the foredeck practising her fencing with Jezebel Mendoza, the weaponsmaster. There were a few other crewmembers around watching, but luckily Ned Ronk was not among them. Little Jane sat on a stack of coiled rope and observed Bonnie Mary closely, scribbling down notes in her book.

When the fencing practice was done, Little Jane approached her mother.

“Captain!” Little Jane greeted her with a sharp salute and Bonnie Mary laughed as she always did when her daughter let her pull rank. “I want to learn to fence like you do, please.”

Bonnie Mary smiled at her daughter with a warm, gap-toothed grin. Secretly, she’d always longed for the day when she might impart to her only child a skill so highly prized by all those in her profession.

“Come,” she said, taking Little Jane’s hand and leading her back to the cabin. “If you’re going to take up fencing, there’s something you ought to have.”

Bonnie Mary closed the thick cabin door and the noise of clanking pulleys, creaking timbers, and billowing sails faded away. All thoughts of Ned Ronk forgotten for the moment, Little Jane could barely contain her excitement as Bonnie Mary pulled a long case out from under the wide bunk she shared with Little Jane’s father. With an air of solemn gravity, Bonnie Mary blew the dust off the surface of the case. Its hinges were old and rusty in places, further proof of its age and importance.

Bonnie Mary touched the gold hoop in her left ear. Threaded through it was a tiny golden key that flashed in the sun streaming through the porthole window. Little Jane had seen that key nearly every day of her life, but it never occurred to her that it might serve any purpose other than decoration. Now, as Bonnie Mary removed the earring and slid the key out of the hoop, Little Jane felt every sinew in her body go taut with excitement.

“This was mine when I was very young,” said Bonnie Mary as she inserted the key. The lock opened with a click. Visions of elegant silver rapiers, shining cutlasses, and gilded broadswords flooded Little Jane’s brain.

Bonnie Mary opened the lid and reverently lifted an object out. It was as long as a sword and thickly wrapped in sail cloth.

Little Jane waited with bated breath as Bonnie Mary unwound the cloth to reveal the treasure within.

It was a sword all right. Little Jane had been right about that much. But the sword that met her eyes was no silver saber or gilded rapier. The sword her mother held out to her was made of wood!

As her Mama beamed at her like it was the greatest thing in the entire universe Little Jane felt like smashing her fist through the cabin wall.

“Your very own practice sword!” sighed Bonnie Mary wistfully. “Your grandfather taught me to parry and thrust with this beauty. Ah! If he could only see you now …” Her good eye misted up as she cradled the wooden monstrosity.

Little Jane suffered her mother to hand over the silly wooden thing and tried to look happy.

“His name is Melvin,” Bonnie Mary explained.

“Who’s name?”

“Why, the sword’s, of course,” her Mama replied, as the thick seam of the scar that ran down the right side of her face bunched up in amusement. “Every good weapon must have a name. Oh, and he comes with this, too.”

“This” was a dusty old book.

“Admiral Hillingbottom’s Guide to Swordplay, with 64 Fun-Filled Exercises,” read Bonnie Mary off the cover. “Now you can do one exercise in it each day, and before long you’ll be ready—”

“For a real sword?” asked Little Jane expectantly.

“—to train with weaponsmaster Mendoza,” continued Bonnie Mary. “Now that you have Melvin, use him always. He may not look like much, but he is a precious member of the family.”

Then why don’t you keep him, Little Jane nearly said, but the words stuck in her throat. Bonnie Mary was looking at her with such pride that Little Jane felt compelled to glance away. “Whatever happens to me and your father, swear you’ll keep this sword. It can help you,” she said earnestly.

“Yes, Mama,” replied Little Jane, feeling utterly ridiculous and more like a child than ever. “I will.”

“I know you don’t think him much, but in time he’ll become as precious to you as he once were to me.”

Not bleedin’ likely, Little Jane thought tartly.

Soberly, Bonnie Mary threaded the key to Melvin’s box through the golden hoop in Little Jane’s own ear. The key was so light that Little Jane barely felt it, yet when she tossed her hair it jingled so sweetly that she grinned in spite of herself. Bonnie Mary’s own earring was now no different than that of any other sailor — a simple circle of gold. With all the cowry shells, pearls, and golden beads woven through Bonnie Mary’s braids to attract the eye and tinkle softly in the breeze, the absence of a tiny key wouldn’t be noticed by anyone, but Bonnie Mary missed it already.

“Good girl.” She spoke softly to Little Jane. “Now why don’t you go help Ishiro with the potatoes.”

That evening, with all the potato-peeling done for the day, Little Jane gave the wooden sword a thorough examination.

Melvin, she thought with distaste.

She instantly disliked it, if for no other reason than its idiotic name. What was it with her family and names? Swords were supposed to have women’s names. Certainly, she had no desire to do sixty-four exercises with a wooden sword called Melvin, no matter how fun-filled this Admiral Hillingbottom claimed them to be.

She noticed that Melvin’s handle was wrapped in an old red rag, nearly fused to the timber with rot and age. Certainly, no suitable weapon to take on Ned Ronk with — and at the returning thought of the fearsome boatswain, she shivered. Rethinking her strategy of hiding Melvin until she could safely toss the sword overboard, she thrust him into the gap between her bed and the wall. Here he could remain indefinitely, at once out of sight, but accessible in case of nighttime danger.

After only two pages of clumsily executed book exercises, per Admiral Hillingbottom’s instructions, and two days worth of perfectly executed emotional blackmail tactics employed on her unsuspecting parents, Little Jane was set to commence her first lesson with the weaponsmaster, Jezebel Mendoza.

At first Little Jane watched, taking notes. “Without proper supervision, adults should never be allowed to use swords, knives, or a brace of pistols,” she wrote, and indeed this was her conclusion after observing the other sailors trying to make pincushions out of each other while engaging in hand-to-hand combat drills. Even with corked swords, there was no shortage of dodgy manoeuvres, as Cabrillo, the sailmaker — unfortunately struck with a sword hilt in the unmentionables — could well attest to.

The weaponsmaster, Jezebel Mendoza, was a slight, cinnamon-haired Englishwoman. She was the unlikely widow of a notorious Mexican revolutionary and Jonesy had once referred to her as “a former member of the upper crust.”

This confused Little Jane as she had no idea what the weaponsmaster had to do with pies and pie crust specifically. (Personally, Little Jane thought it would be more fun to be the fruit filling, rather than any other portion of a pie whether upper of lower, but no one was asking her.)

What she presumed Jonesy meant was that Jezebel Mendoza was a little on the flakey side. Though the weaponsmaster had always been a close friend of her mother’s, Little Jane often felt uncomfortable in her presence. Her eyes had a disconcerting tendency to dart around a room in search of armed threats, even in the midst of conversations. When she did focus on you, her gaze was so intense, her questions so prodding, that no one but Bonnie Mary could remain long under her stare without squirming.

It was this intense stare that focused on Little Jane now. “Come along, child,” Mendoza commanded her, “we have much work to do. Far be it from me to criticize your mother, but she has delayed teaching you the proper defensive techniques for far too long.”

Little Jane swore silently to herself. Whatever else happened, she did not want to look like a rank amateur. Having wooden Melvin at her side did nothing to help her self-esteem.

Someone at the back of the group sniggered.

“Don’t worry about them,” said Mendoza dismissively with a swish of her own Spanish-gripped steel rapier. “You’ll do fine — you’re a Silver. Duelling is in your blood. Now don’t look so incredulous, Little Jane, it’s true. You know George Silver was the first Englishman to publish a thorough analysis on the strengths and weaknesses of the various Continental fencing styles, don’t you?”

“What?”

“The Paradoxes of Defence. Remind me to lend it to you sometime. Very forward-thinking for the time with regard to proportioning the length of the weapon to that of the arm and the necessity of light materials for increased speed in the parry.”

“Huh?”

“But enough of old George. Let’s fight!”

With that, Little Jane was thrown right into the thick of things. She had fenced a little before with her mother and father, so some of the moves were familiar, but she knew her parents held back when they duelled with her.

The weaponsmaster, however, showed no such restraint and would shout out the name of each perfectly executed manoeuvre just as she performed it — Straight thrust! Advance! Advance! Disengage! Feint to the head! Advance, advance! But Little Jane could not concentrate on the proper names of the moves as Mendoza’s sword seemed to be everywhere at once — coming at her from the right, the left, down, sideways, above. She backed down under the assault.

“Arrêt!” shouted Mendoza, but Little Jane kept striking away. “Stop,” she added, gracefully sidestepping a thrust before it clipped her in the hip.

Little Jane quickly lowered her sword. “My apologies, Weaponsmaster.”

“No need. Even I did not reach perfection in the art of fencing instantaneously. Before one can speak intelligibly, one must learn the words.”

“Words?”

“Mix up the letters in sword and that’s what you get — words. You see, learning the sword is like learning to talk. You learn the words and what they mean and then how to put them together. Now, you can still be understood if you don’t know many words, but you won’t be considered well-spoken until you master the technique of proper speech. Fencing is the same. You must learn the proper movements and stances and what each one does. Only then can you string them together.”

“Couldn’t I just learn to brawl like all the other fellows around here? I mean, no offence, but it does seem that fine speech and courtly swordplay might serve no point here. I doubt any o’ them,” Little Jane said, jerking her thumb and her adult compatriots, “was properly trained.”

“More’s the pity. I have to go back and try to make them unlearn all their bad habits. These poor sods might be all right in a scrap, but they only know how to fight in one way. They each have their own modus operandi, and I respect that, I do, but once their opponent is onto it, then they’re lost, you see?”

“No,” said Little Jane. “What’s a modus opera?”

“Your modus operandi is the special way you work, your trademark, your gimmick,” explained Jezebel Mendoza.

Little Jane stared blankly back.

“Your special trick that only you know, unique to you. That surprise you give your opponent when all seems lost. Using what you have in natural abundance to replace what you lack. That sort of thing.”

“And does everyone aboard have a moder — a gimmick, I mean?”

“I suppose so. Your mother, for example, she uses an extremely light sword, but with a very sharp tip. Her footwork is unbelievably fast. When she comes at you it’s like a needle in and out and side to side, and every stroke she makes, even if there’s not a man’s physical strength behind it, with such a thin, sharp blade, every thrust is deadly precise and hits home.” Mendoza spoke quickly as she demonstrated with her own sword, a blur of silver motion. “She bobs around you quick as a fox and the moment you leave even the tiniest part of yourself undefended — zzziiippp!” and here Mendoza stabbed Little Jane with her finger, making her jump.

“Aye, I believe I get the picture,” said Little Jane. “What about my father then? Don’t see him lollygagging around studying lessons, wasting time practising.”

“Just because you’ve never seen him at it, doesn’t mean I don’t instruct him privately,” revealed Mendoza.

“What? Really? By himself? Is he an absolute disaster, then?”

“No, actually he’s quite good,” said Jezebel Mendoza, staring down the length of her blade, studying its perfect line for any hint of deviation from absolute symmetry. “Just not terribly graceful, that’s all. And he’s rather vain about such things.”

“Oh,” said Little Jane, disappointed. Her father just couldn’t be good at fencing! Couldn’t she ever be better than her parents at anything? It wasn’t fair! “But surely he must have some truly spectacular gimmick to make up for his bad leg?”

“Well, he’s crack with a pistol, no question. Excellent aim and a speedy loader, too. With the blade, he’s got a nice supple wrist, I suppose. But above all that, I’d wager your father’s tongue against even George Silver’s sword any day.”

“His tongue?” asked Little Jane incredulously.

“Don’t look so surprised, my dear, it is the strongest muscle in the human body, and the courtly art of interfering with another fellow’s mind is not to be underestimated. To make an opponent so angry he strikes without judging, to force your enemy to question his motivation and delay in attack for just that one crucial moment, to surprise a foe with your level of expertise when he anticipates a quick and easy victory — that, my dear, is real talent. Pure skill with a sword can only get you so far.”

“But that’s rather unfair, isn’t it? What’s brave and noble about winning a duel by tricking someone?”

“Nothing. But who said the art of the sword was about bravery and nobility? Certainly not I. It’s about not getting yourself killed. All the rest is just window dressing. As I understand it, all the fancy techniques in the world won’t help you if you’re sliced through the middle. But then again, I may just be old-fashioned.”

“But what works with Ned, then?” asked Little Jane, suddenly desperate for a definitive answer. “How would you fight him?”

Mendoza peered shrewdly at Little Jane, searching for the motive behind such a question, but the pirates’ daughter said nothing.

“Ned is big,” Jezebel Mendoza said slowly. “Tall, broad in the shoulders — a man like that can intimidate a fellow just by standing still. Some people make the mistake of assuming all big men are slow, but it’s not true. Old Ned, for example, is quick as lightning and tough as they come.”

“So he ain’t got a vulnerable spot? Nothing?” asked Little Jane in dismay.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He’d work for anyone for a bit of coin — that’s one vulnerability. That, and he’s got no imagination.”

“Imagination? That’s it? Isn’t there anything more to it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jezebel dreamily. “A wise man once told me that imagination is the root of all kindness. Once we can truly imagine ourselves in the shoes of our brothers, only then can we do them no harm.”

Little Jane gave Mendoza a sidelong glance. “But you’re a weaponsmaster. Doing people harm is your bleedin’ job!”

“Well, so it is,” said Mendoza briskly, “which is why I carefully choose when and where to exercise my imagination.” With that she sprang to her feet, on alert once again. “Now let us finish our lesson.”

They drilled with footwork first, no sword. Mendoza explained that some schools of fencing didn’t even let the student use a sword until six months into training as a way to focus solely on the importance of proper footwork. (Little Jane was very glad she didn’t belong to such a school.)

After this they drilled with actual weapons, practising straight thrusts and basic lunges. Then they practised parries and cutovers. Back and forth and back and forth. Little Jane pushed on, though her strength was flagging. Eventually it was Mendoza who commanded her to stop with a brusque “Arrêt.”

The weaponsmaster poured a dipper of water over her flushed face. “Let’s just rest for a bit,” Mendoza said, more breathlessly than she had anticipated. Little Jane had given her an unexpectedly thorough workout.

Unaware she’d managed to impress the usually unflappable Mendoza, Little Jane sat down on a box of mouldy breadfruit and drank some of the water, wishing it was cool and refreshing instead of tasteless and warm.

Idly, Little Jane noticed that the red rag wrapped around Melvin’s grip had come slightly undone during her practice. With a little picking she managed to detach the cloth from the wooden grip. The rag had been on the sword for so long that the grains of wood underneath had been stained a reddish colour. To Little Jane’s surprise, someone had carved something into the wood underneath. Letters … no, words, cut thick and deep into the surface read: MASTHEAD EAST LAMP VERGALOO IN NAKIKA.

Jibberish? Or some odd foreign language? Vergaloo? Wasn’t that some spicy Indian dish? No, that couldn’t be right, could it? And what did the direction east have to do with anything?

“Wake up, Little Jane!” snapped Mendoza.

“Eh?”

“What’re you looking at there?”

Little Jane showed her the handle of the sword and the strange carved words.

“Huh,” grunted the weaponsmaster, her brow furrowing.

“What’s it mean?” asked Little Jane.

“Most likely a name,” said Mendoza. “Maybe the workshop that first made the sword?”

“Or the bloke it was stole from,” suggested Sharpeye Sharpova.

It seemed a rather long and unlikely sort of name to Little Jane, but she had met some people with exceptionally odd names in her travels.

“Maybe it’s a spell or a mantra,” Dvorjack, the powder monkey, said. “Secret words that give the user special power.”

“Could be, could be,” said Mendoza.

Changez, the cooper, busy constructing storage barrels, nodded seriously.

The Nakika part, though, seemed familiar, if vaguely Hawaiian to Little Jane’s ears. For some reason she thought of the little purple octopus that didn’t really look like an octopus that was inexpertly tattooed on her father’s back, between his shoulder blades.

She resolved to ask him about it the next time they had a moment together. In the meantime, she copied the strange message in all its glorious incomprehensibility down in her book.

As she spent more time learning from Mendoza, Little Jane gained a new respect for the intense woman’s skill. Mendoza’s own modus operandi, Little Jane came to realize, was an almost touchingly iron-clad confidence in her own superiority.

The very idea that someone could ever get the better of her simply never crossed her mind. Thus, whether she took high tea at the spas in Bath with the sons of nobles or dined on hard tack in the mess with a band of pirates, mattered not a jot to her. In her mildly delusion opinion she was always the best person in the room no matter who she kept company with. The only authority she ever bowed before was another person’s skill with the blade.

Slowly it began to dawn on Little Jane that if such an attitude could benefit Mendoza, it might go far to solving her own personal dilemma.

Little Jane flipped open her book to a fresh page and wrote, “If you believe you are something, other people will come to believe it, too. Believe you are a grown sailor of good standing and the rest of the crew will follow suit.”

An easy enough thing to write, she mused the next day, as they sailed toward Habana harbour, but not always the simplest advice to put into practice.

“Steady on course,” bellowed Captain Bright as Habana came into view.

“Tighten up that topsail!” yelled Ned Ronk.

Mustering all her courage, Little Jane marched up to the resistant topsail line and gave it a tug.

Seeing Little Jane on the line, Ned frowned.

Steeling her trembling soul within her, Little Jane gazed coolly back at the boatswain.

He wouldn’t dare harm a hair on her head with her mother so close at hand. She narrowed her eyes at him. I belong here, she thought. I’m the daughter of the greatest pirates to sail the seas, mate. Child of the ocean herself and you ain’t nothing next to me.

As if sensing her unspoken words, Ned Ronk turned to the closest seaman, flustered. “You there, Changez, we need an extra. Get on that line with the child!”

Changez pulled the line back with a quick jerk of his muscular arms and tied it off in no time at all, but Little Jane didn’t care. She had made the fearsome Ned Ronk flinch. Not only that, but they would be in La Habana soon, where she’d be up to her eyeballs in fresh fruit, spicy food, music, parties, and more trinkets to waste money on than you could shake a stick at.

She made a promise to herself then that she would tell her parents about Ned’s threats once they reached Habana. And as soon as that nasty business was taken care of she would do something about Melvin. Regardless of the so-called magic codes, spells, or octopus-related names that might be written on him, she was going to ditch that stupid Melvin and make her parents buy her a real sword! Once she had a proper weapon by her side, old Ned Ronk wouldn’t dare threaten her!

At least, she thought with a gulp, she hoped not.