The Guardians of Island X (12 page)

“Smitty?” Jem turned. The boy must have followed him and Elmo after all. And somehow become an amazing shot in just a day.

But Smitty was nowhere to be seen. In fact, all that could be seen—and heard and smelled—were a few dozen smelly wild pigs galloping toward him, tusks skimming the dirt. Their hoofbeats drowned out the King’s Men’s bellows for help. Their smell spread through the jungle like fire through a dry forest. Liam and Elmo ducked and covered their heads so the pigs wouldn’t trample them, but Jem kept his up, wanting to watch.

Two of the King’s Men dropped everything and
hightailed it back the way they’d come. The third, however, remained pinned to the tree, squirming and screaming at the approaching pigs. Just an instant before the chief skewered his knees, the man slipped out of his coat and dashed off after his comrades, leaving the coat behind.

Several pigs galloped after them. But a few others, the chief included, halted right where the King’s Men had stood.

Jem bit his lip. He wondered how long it had been since a pig had been killed on Island X.

The chief looked from the retreating King’s Men to Scarlet shuffling toward him. Then he looked down at the body before him and let out a long, throaty moan.

There was no need for anyone to translate. Everyone could tell what the chief was thinking.

“I’ve never been to a funeral for a person before,” Smitty confided to Jem. “Much less one for an animal.” Only an hour had passed since the pig had been killed, and already the two stood waist-deep in the grave they were digging for it.

Jem stopped to wipe away the sweat trickling into his eyes. “Much less one for a pig.”

“Sure is a shame,” said Smitty.

“Hey, Smit, when was the last time you saw Uncle Finn and Thomas?” Jem leaned on his shovel, which Tim had brought up from the
Hop
on one of his visits.

“Hmm.” Smitty stopped digging. “I’d say yesterday
morning. Maybe a few hours before the spying mission. Why? Did they go looking for bromly-things?”

“I don’t know.” Jem sighed and started digging again. “I guess they must have. But you’d think they would have told me.”

Smitty clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I’ll bet they’re just off exploring. They’ll be back any minute now. Maybe Thomas’ll have grown feathers this time!”

“Yeah. Probably.” Jem forced a smile, although he wasn’t convinced. “Nice shot today, by the way.”

“What’s that?”

“Your arrow. The one that pinned the King’s Man to the tree.”

“My arrow?” Smitty repeated, looking confused. “Really? I thought I missed.”

“Missed?”

“Uh-huh. I took a shot, but I was pretty far away, and I thought it flew straight into the dirt. But you say it pinned the King’s Man to a tree?”

“Well, yes,” Jem said, puzzled. “Didn’t you see?” Smitty shook his head. “It was a perfect shot.”

“Huh.” Smitty considered this, then grinned. “Guess I’m more talented than I give myself credit for. Jolly!”

“I guess…” The story didn’t quite add up, but they had no time to discuss it further. The funeral was about to begin.

The funeral had been Ronagh’s idea. Or rather, Ronagh’s command. After her tears had dried and her sniffles subsided, she took on the role of funeral director. No one dared argue. Scarlet insisted they bury the body,
since burning it would attract attention. So they chose a spot downwind of the clearing.

Scarlet now stood off to the side, watching the funeral preparations and looking as dejected as Jem had ever seen her. Once the grave was dug, he went to stand beside her.

At first she said nothing. Then, finally, she tore her eyes away from the Lost Souls rolling the corpse into the pit. “They’re furious, Fitz.”

“The pigs?” He looked over at the band, which had gathered for the ceremony.

She nodded.

“At us?” Jem swallowed hard.

Scarlet sighed. “At everyone and everything. They won’t help us again. They don’t even want us to ask.”

Jem thought about this for a moment. “Well, I don’t blame them. But this pig wasn’t killed in battle. He was killed because—”

“Because those biscuit-eating King’s Men think they own the whole world and can do whatever they please!” A voice piped up behind them. They turned to see Monty stamping his foot on the grass.

“They’re worse than biscuit-eaters!” Edwin spat. “They’re bacon-eaters.”

A few Lost Souls nodded and murmured in agreement.

“They’re Enemy Number One,” Gil proclaimed.

More murmurs.

Jem turned back to Scarlet, whose face had turned an odd shade of olive. But before he could ask if she was going to be sick, Ronagh bellowed for everyone’s
attention and began the funeral ceremony. A cloud drifted over to obscure the sun, darkening the afternoon even more.

The ceremony was short and simple and involved a few Lost Souls stepping forward to say some nice words about the deceased. The problem was, none of them had known him at all. And the pigs didn’t seem up to sharing their own thoughts.

“He was brave and fierce,” offered Charlie.

“With very pointy horns,” Elmo said.

“Tusks,” Jem corrected him.

“Tusks.” Elmo clasped his hands and bowed his head solemnly.

“And he didn’t really smell all that bad…once you got used to it,” Smitty added.

Then they sang one of the only songs they all knew well, “The Ballad of Salty Jack,” and then filled in the grave with dirt and leaves. Once the victim had been laid to rest, the pigs began to wander off, leaving the Lost Souls to wonder what the flotsam they were going to do next.

That night, the clouds that had gathered throughout the afternoon began to rumble and roll. A few hours before daylight, a crack of thunder split them open, and great, big raindrops began to fall, soaking everything and everyone in the clearing. Sodden and sullen, the Lost Souls picked up their cloaks and headed for the trees, where they huddled, shivering, until the rain subsided at dawn.

Soaked to the bone, Jem gnawed anxiously on some guava fruit. Two great, big worries were bouncing around his brain: 1) the tree houses he ought to have built by now and 2) Uncle Finn and Thomas—wet, lost, or at the mercy of some treasure-hungry pirates.

“All right.” He swallowed the last of his breakfast and shook some raindrops from his hair. “Sitting here worrying isn’t going to help. I should either start building the houses or go look for Uncle Finn.”

Reasoning that he’d do a terrible job of the houses with Uncle Finn’s disappearance on his mind, Jem chose the second option.

He looked around at the Lost Souls, who were creeping back into the clearing now that the rain had stopped. Thankfully, Scarlet was in camp and not off chasing some monkey or iguana, so the crew was finally getting some direction. One group was getting ready
for a second spying mission while another gathered to learn the fine art of archery from Smitty. He wouldn’t be missed for some time.

Although he didn’t like to rely on the island to steer him, Jem hadn’t a clue which direction to take. So he chose randomly and set off, scanning the jungle for clues of the explorers’ whereabouts. He’d only wandered a little way, however, when a nearby bush rustled. Jem startled, cursing himself for setting out alone. Then he looked at the culprit. It was none other than Gil Jenkins.

Gil’s eyes widened at the sight of him. “Fitz!”

“Gil! What are you doing here?”

It would have been a perfectly logical question to ask almost anyone he met in the depths of the jungle. But not Gil. The boy’s surprise quickly turned to anger.

“Seriously, Fitz? You always have to ask? To do my business, all right?”

“All right, all right, don’t get your trousers in a knot.” Jem stepped aside to let him pass. “Sheesh.” He heard Gil retreating deeper into the jungle. Eventually his footsteps faded away.

Jem continued on, calling Uncle Finn’s name. But he’d gone only a few dozen steps farther when something else made him stop. Something small and silver lying on the ground before him. Something he hadn’t for the life of him expected to see again.

“My knife!” He turned. “Hey! Gil!” But Gil was long gone.

Jem turned back to the knife. “What on earth…hey!” he shouted again as he spotted a monkey inching
toward it. The creature’s hair stood up on one side of its head—rather like Jem’s own some mornings. It reached for the knife.

“Oh no you don’t!” Jem dove for it, but the monkey was faster. It snatched up the knife and bounded off, shrieking.

“Come back here!” Jem stumbled after it. “I
won’t
lose my knife again!”

He ran hard, dodging trees and hurdling ferns, managing to stay on the monkey’s tail until it suddenly leaped off the ground. The monkey hurtled through the air with a triumphant screech and landed on the shoulder of a young boy.

Jem came to a grinding halt. No more than seven years old, the boy had dark eyes and an eager grin. He wore no shirt—just a ragged pair of Old World trousers cut at the knee and cinched with a rope at his waist. Never in his life had Jem seen the boy before.

“Who?” he gasped. Then a thought hit him like a football in the face. He gasped again. “You’re not an Islander, are you?”

The boy just smiled and shushed the monkey jabbering in his ear. Then he plucked the knife from the monkey’s fingers and held it out to Jem. The monkey proceeded to throw a temper tantrum on his shoulder.

Jem reached out and accepted his knife, and his fingers brushed the boy’s. “But…I thought you…you all died after…,” Jem sputtered.

Suddenly something came crashing through the
bushes, and both Jem and the boy turned to see a girl with bare arms and long black hair, perhaps a year or two older than Jem. She had the same dark eyes as the boy and wore a dress made of palm leaves woven together with pieces of cloth that might once have been an Old World coat—a familiar-looking one, at that. Tiny, delicate vines twisted around her wrists and ankles, and she had a bow slung over her shoulder. When she saw Jem, she froze.

“Shivers,” Jem breathed.

The little boy looked from him to the girl with a nervous smile. The monkey leaped off into the bushes.

For a moment Jem and the girl could only stare at each other. Then, finally, she turned to the boy and said a few words. Although she spoke in a language Jem had never heard before, her tone made him certain she was saying something along the lines of, “What the flotsam do you think you’re doing?” Then she snatched the boy up under one arm and zipped back into the bushes.

“Wait!” Jem called. “Come back! I won’t hurt you!” But they disappeared without a sound to indicate where they’d gone.

“You’ve
got
to be joking.” All thoughts of tree houses, pirates, and King’s Men fled Jem’s brain as quickly as the pair had disappeared. They
must
have been Islanders—real, live Islanders. And they
were
real—Jem had reached out and touched one.

“This. Is. Amazing,” he said. He wondered what it would take for Scarlet to believe him.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Jem crossed his heart. “I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen them. Right up close.”

“Seen what?” Smitty paused in passing. “Cap’n, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“A ghost!” Scarlet snapped her fingers. “That’s it. They must have been spirits.”

Jem shook his head. “I touched one. They were real.”

“What were real?” Smitty looked back and forth between them.

Scarlet ignored him. “But the Islanders are dead. Everyone knows that.”

Jem shrugged. “These two weren’t. Look, Captain, I know they’re Islanders. I’d bet the
Hop
on it. In fact, I’d bet
Uncle Finn
on it.”

“Islanders?” Smitty shouted. “There are Islanders on Island X?”

Several other Lost Souls in the clearing looked up.

“Islanders? Where?”

Within seconds, Scarlet and Jem were surrounded, being bombarded with questions.

“Captain, what’s going on?” Liam asked.

Jem answered for her, quickly summing up his story to the other Lost Souls as they stared at him, mouths open like flying fish.