Summary: Pre Curse of the Black Pearl. Young Marty must prove himself to the other boys. An ill-advised adventure into a long deserted house takes every ounce of Marty's ingenuity and resource. Will he make it out with the legendary last bottle of Black Devil Rum?
Halloween Challenge 2013.
Black Devil Rum
"There it is," whispered Johnny Harkness, pointing through the brush to the house across the open field. The late evening sun cast long shadows from gnarled old poui trees across the crumbling stucco of the once grand home. Windows sat empty and black like dead eyes that watched.
"Are you sure it's the right one?" Antonio asked in an unsteady voice. He was always nervous about getting caught. His mother often took a switch to him, even for minor offenses. Truthfully, all the boys were wary of Isabella Gonsalves. She was not a woman to be trifled with. Even full grown men were known to cross the road if they saw her coming.
"It's the right one," Red Bill Dawson said, giving Antonio a sharp smack on the back of his head. Red Bill was the leader of the gang of boys and was fearless, as far as any of them knew. He'd lived by his wits on the streets of Montego Bay for the last five years and had been given his moniker for his thick shock of unruly red hair.
More boys crowded in behind Johnny to get a look at the old plantation house. One had to squeeze between their knees to force his way to the front. He was by far the shortest in the group and had not yet been fully accepted. They weren't sure whether or not they wanted him, given his stature, but his unique appearance lent him some merit. His name was Martin, though everyone had taken to calling him Marty for Short or Short Martin. The story was that his father had left his mother upon his birth, thinking Martin's foreshortened arms and legs were a sign of ill luck. His mother had soon after taken to drink and now made her way in the world as a tavern server, leaving her little time to see to her son's wellbeing. Marty spent his days performing for small clusters of sailors and tradesmen, climbing ropes and balancing on stilts while telling ribald tales. He was able to pay for a small room for his mother and himself and, more often than not, the food they ate. His mother's earnings went toward drink. After being beaten and robbed one evening Marty had decided he needed some protection and approached the gang of boys. Now here he was, looking across a fallow cane field at the crumbling façade and sagging roof of the ancient house.
"Are you sure it's in there?" Marty asked.
Red Bill looked down on the boy giving him a half mocking smile.
"I ain't," he said. "Only got Casandra's word for it. She's been working at the Three Buttons for a while and heard more stories than anyone else on the whole island. I mean to find out for certain, though. You think you're brave enough to follow me, Marty for Short?"
Marty looked up at Red Bill and then back to the decrepit old house. His mouth went dry just looking at it lurking there behind the spreading branches of the gnarled old trees. He knew he needed to prove to the rest he was every bit as tough as they were, though. He gave a firm nod and looked back at Red Bill.
"Good," the leader said with a malicious twinkle in his eyes. "Anyone else coming?"
The boys looked to each other nervously. Johnny elbowed Antonio in the ribs and jerked his head as if to encourage him to step up, but Antonio wanted no part of this adventure. Johnny scowled at his friend and stepped up next to Red Bill. Three other boys hesitated and then joined their leader. The rest shook their heads and refused to meet the eyes of those who would venture across the fallow field and into the den of darkness that lay beyond. Red Bill snorted derisively and turned his back on them. He pushed a branch out of his way and began the long march in the failing light. The others followed with varying degrees of dread.
According to the locals, the house had once been the finest on the island with extensive fields of sugar cane and yams. It dated back to the time when the Spanish had ruled here. The owners had kept as many as three hundred slaves and owned three ships to carry their harvests across the seas. And they had also made the finest rum any sailor had ever tasted. The last bottle had been drunk some seventy years before, but the legend of it was passed down from one generation to the next. There was even an inn keeper who had one of the original corks with the strange mark of the plantation owner, a print that resembled nothing so much as a split-toed hoof, branded on it. The inn keeper said it was the print of the Devil's foot and that the plantation's master had made a pact with the Evil One himself to make the rum so good. Thus, everyone called the legendary liquor Black Devil Rum. The legend also said there was a secret vault beneath the manor house in which bottles of Black Devil sat collecting dust and just waiting for a brave soul to spirit them away. The vault and the bottles within, though, were guarded by the vengeful ghosts of dead slaves and no man who had dared go looking for them had ever returned.
Half way across the old sugar cane field Marty glanced over his shoulder to discover two of the boys were sprinting back towards the road. He gulped and considered joining them, but something inside him held to his resolve and he kept marching. Marty had to work twice as hard as the other boys just to keep up. He was fit, but his short legs could never impart him with the stride of any of his companions. Well before they reached the moldy portico he was puffing like a bellows. He was surprised to see Johnny suddenly turn and sprint back across the field. Again Marty struggled with himself to go on. Red Bill laughed at Johnny's back and even threw a small stone to send him on his way, but Marty thought there was something false in Red Bill's bravado.
They climbed the four stone steps and crossed the portico to the half rotted doors with their great rusty hinges. Marty felt…something, like they were being watched by unseen eyes. Red Bill paused as if to catch his breath and glanced at his two remaining companions. He gave them a quick smile before turning to the doors. His hand hesitated just as it came in contact with the weather beaten oak. A heartbeat's pause then he shoved hard. The hinges creaked like the cry of a damned soul and a foul draft wafted from the dark interior like a breath from a grave. Red Bill gulped audibly before forcing his reluctant feet to cross the threshold. The other boy froze for a long moment until Marty touched his arm encouragingly. The touch broke the spell and the boy ran screaming back to his friends. Red Bill jumped and turned wide eyes on the retreating form of the boy. Marty looked up at him feeling his own limbs shake and had to grit his teeth to keep them from chattering. Seeing the diminutive boy standing fast when all the others had run Red Bill glanced back to where the group remained at the edge of the trees. Marty thought his leader might call this adventure off, but Bill firmed his jaw, snorted, rubbed his nose then gestured sharply for Marty to follow. Marty did.
They found themselves in the dark and moldering foyer with nothing but shadowed rooms and a collapsed staircase around them. Red Bill pushed the door as wide as it would go to let in as much light as possible. The sun was setting rapidly, though. They would have little enough light in a few moments.
"Maybe we should go back, Marty," Red Bill said, a nervous quaver in his voice. "We won't be able to find the vault in the dark."
Marty looked around and saw what he'd half hoped he wouldn't. A dust covered candle lay on the floor next to the ruins of a rotted table. From his pocket he took the small brass tinderbox he always carried and after a moment, succeeded in striking a small flame. He applied it to the wick of the ancient candle and held it up. Red Bill's smile did not look genuine. The shadows around them withdrew reluctantly and Marty felt there was a resentment in them that had not been there before. This house did not like intruders.
"Right," the taller boy said with another nervous gulp. "Let's see if we can find another candle and then we can look for the vault."
Marty glanced around and gave a nod. The boys ventured deeper into the house. They tensed at each creek of a floorboard and every skitter of a mouse. Their breaths came quick but shallow, with the cloying smell of rot imbedding itself in their nostrils. More than once Marty wiped at his nose in an unconscious, futile attempt to clear the smell away. Always, the feeling of being watched lingered. In what had evidently been the library they found another candle stump amongst a litter of books and papers near the hearth. Red Bill still looked unhappy, but he seemed to have mastered his fear.
"Where do you think the vault is?" Marty asked him.
"Supposed to be in the cellar." Bill pointed to a side door.
They crossed the floor and exited the library into a servant's hall leading to the back of the house and a narrow stair that climbed up to what should have been the servant's rooms above. Red Bill seemed uncertain about proceeding so Marty edged past him and with his candle held as high as his short arm could reach, he began to make his way towards what looked like the kitchen. A sudden noise made him turn. He was in time to see Red Bill run back into the library. Marty stood shocked. He listened unbelieving to the pounding steps of the bravest boy in Montego Bay retreating with his tail between his legs. And there Marty stood uncertainly with the wax of the candle dripping hot over his knuckles. He winced at the sting of it, but the sudden pain broke him from his paralysis. Looking around he found no threat or danger that had not been there before Bill had run. What was there really to fear in this lonely old house? Something. He didn't know what it was, but he knew the house didn't want him here. Maybe that was what had finally sapped the courage from Red Bill. It was all Marty could do to force himself to continue down the hall to the deserted kitchen.
The light of his little candle revealed a nearly empty room when he stepped in from the hall. All that remained was the hearth and a long counter against one wall where empty windows let in the meager light of late evening. And on the floor in the far corner was an iron ring set into the hardwood of the cellar's hatch.
Gritting his teeth the boy took an unsteady step and then another and another. He was growing surer of himself with each stride and felt more determined now than he had back on the road. He was going to open the cellar and find the vault. He would show the other boys that he was the bravest of them all. He would not run like the others had. He would…
Marty woke up in darkness. His ears were ringing and he hurt in about a dozen places. Raising a hand he found a small lump on his scalp and he winced on touching it. To his surprise he discovered he still held the stump of candle, though it had gone out. Once more he took out his tinderbox and struck flint on steel until a small flame rose from the charred linen. A moment later he had relit his candle and was able to see the dark confines of the cellar all around him. Looking up revealed a gaping hole in what had to be the kitchen's floor. Darkness lay beyond. The timbers supporting the planks had rotted through and it had taken only his small weight to bring them down. Marty shook his head, feeling lucky he hadn't broken anything.
Standing, he kicked boards away from him and took a good look at his surroundings. The cellar was not particularly large, but the shadows made it seem quite imposing. Here in this pit they seemed far more menacing than they had up in the rest of the house, as if they were pressed down by the ruin above. Worse, there was no sign of a vault.
"It's supposed to be a secret vault, though," Marty murmured to himself. "Where would I put a secret vault?"
Empty shelves lined one wall. Another was showing the strain of age. It sagged inward, stones had fallen from the top and long cracks ran through the mortar joints. That couldn't be it. He looked to the far end where the wooden steps had collapsed and now slumped like the carcass of a dead beast across the floor. The fourth wall was merely blank stone with not a sign of a chink or crack. Marty went to the shelves. His candle would soon burn out and he had no wish to spend more time in this darkling hole than need be. He inspected all the shelves he could reach and then chanced climbing them. Unlike the rest of the house, the wood of the shelves had not deteriorated much. Built of cedar or some other long lasting wood they groaned at his weight, but held as his sure, strong fingers grasped them and his sturdy feet took his weight. He crawled from one end to the other, the flickering light of his candle casting wraithlike shadows on the far wall. On the very top shelf, out of breath, he finally despaired of discovering anything. He sat there recovering his strength and wondering just what madness had ever brought him here in the first place.
"Idiot," he grumbled in self-reproach. "Now what?"
Marty was just about to climb down when he saw a queer thing. A small burn mark on a knot in the wood. He ran a finger over it and found that it sank slightly. He blinked. Had he imagined it? He pressed the knot again and heard a click from below. Heart beating with sudden hope, Marty leaned over the front of the shelves holding his candle low. There in the floor was a large flagstone that had risen a fraction of an inch, disturbing the thick layer of dust. He scramble quickly down the shelves and stood breathless over the stone. Licking his lips the boy slipped his fingers under the edge of the stone and lifted. It came away on a silent hinge as if it weighed nothing. Beneath lay a single bottle covered in dust and cobwebs. Clearly discernable, a branded hoof print was emblazoned on the cork.
"Black Devil Rum," Marty breathed with a smile. He'd found it! Of all the boys in the gang he had been the only one to brave the quest to the end and he had found the bottle. Then the thought seeped into his brain. How would he get out with it? The stairs were gone. Even if they had been sound he doubted he could have lifted the trap door to the kitchen. He reached down and grasped the bottle, lifting it out with care. At the least, whoever found his body would know he had succeeded in finding the last bottle of Black Devil. He would have that satisfaction, if nothing else. He felt the surrounding darkness mocking him.
Dejected, Marty sat down cradling the bottle in his lap. He found a stone chip that had evidently come from the collapsing wall and cast it as hard as he could at the broken stones. He hadn't expected it to do anything but bounce off. Instead, it cause a slight trickle of dirt to pour from one of the cracks. Frowning, the boy set the bottle and the candle aside. He rose and went to the damaged wall, examining the split joints. Was that a breeze he felt on his sweat damp face? As quick as he could Marty fetched one of the floorboards that had given way and sent him tumbling into this pit. Marty jammed the end of it into the deepest crack and pried. He hauled on the board and grunted with the strain. Finally there was a grating noise and the stone shifted. Panting from his exertion he jammed the end of the board deeper and hauled again. This time the stone moved with ease and suddenly Marty had to run for his life. The wall began collapsing in earnest. Large blocks tumbled to the flagstones as he dodged away. When the noise stopped and the dust had settled Marty lifted his candle and grinned. Cool air scented with odors of plants and growing things wafted down the slope of rubble into the dank cellar. The earth had given way and now a low, steep path led up to his freedom. Anyone but Marty would have had to crawl on all fours to get up that path, but he strode with a straight back like a conqueror up into the Caribbean night. Clutched under his arm was the dark bottle of Black Devil Rum.