The Devil's Looking-Glass

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN





THE SEA OF stinking brown weed seemed to stretch to the blue horizon. The Tempest sailed through the boiling heat as if she were ploughing a furrow in an autumn field. The seamen lined the rails, watching with uneasy eyes while they recalled all the fearful tales of that place they had heard in quayside inns across Europe.

Leaning out, Will glimpsed dark shapes weaving sinuously among the floating clumps of seaweed; eels, he thought. He glanced around for the land he presumed must be near.

Bloody Jack shook his head. ‘No land here,’ he said. ‘Not for days. This is the great Sargasso, a sea within a sea. All around, the currents are the strongest you will ever encounter, but here ships drift in this forest of weed, and grow becalmed. It is a strange place, sailors tell, haunted, and most give it a wide berth.’

‘The weed will not hold us fast?’

‘The wind, or lack of it, is the greater problem. The weed can snarl a rudder, at worst. It floats on the surface in vast mats. I have fathomed it meself here, and there is no bottom. A Spanish sea-dog told me how his vessel was becalmed for weeks in the middle of this stinking sea. To conserve their water, the crew were forced to throw the war horses o’erboard and feared they would not get out with their own lives. There is nowhere like it in all the oceans.’ His brow furrowed. ‘And yet . . . My mind plays tricks with me. The last time I skirted the Sargasso the weed looked different . . .’ His voice tailed off. ‘It remains a mystery to me how that storm blew us so far off course.’

Will heard a troubled note in the captain’s voice, but his attention was caught by the swimming shapes. One broke the surface, black skin glistening in the sun. As thick as a man’s arm, the eel seemed to have a face akin to a baby’s, with wide eyes and full lips that revealed a hint of sharp teeth. A strange mewling sound rose up, cut short as the thing darted back below the surface.

Courtenay recoiled. ‘God ha’ mercy,’ he hissed under his breath.

Will thought back to the white men-fish that swam beneath the surface of the frozen Thames and asked, ‘You have seen the like of that before?’

‘Never. Nor have I heard word of such.’ He crossed himself. ‘I do not believe this is the Sargasso at all. It is some devil-haunted place we have sailed into.’

The sun beat down; the breeze began to fail. An uneasy mood descended on the men as the Tempest drifted through the reeking seaweed. Eyes flickered up to the sagging sails, watching for the moment when the breeze finally died and the galleon would be stranded there. The sea-hardened crew pretended not to notice those mewling noises rolling across the gently lapping swell. And with each hour that passed the weight of apprehension grew until every man was suffused with a deep dread of what lay ahead.

When the sun was at its highest point, the lookout called. Three dark smudges emerged from the heat haze over the seaweed ahead. Shielding his eyes against the glare, Will saw that they were barques. As the Tempest neared, he realized that there was no movement aboard. Two were little more than rotting hulks, listing low in the water, the sails but tatters. He did not recognize their design, but the crudity of the build suggested great age. Courtenay tugged at his beard, his brow creased.

The third ship sported a Spanish flag, hanging limply from the mainmast. Brown weed swelled up its hull. ‘I would investigate that barque,’ Will said, pointing.

Bloody Jack sighed. ‘I had a feeling you were going to say that, Master Swyfte.’

All eyes remained down when the captain asked for volunteers to board the Spanish vessel. Roaring in anger, he chose three men at random and they shuffled off to lower the rowing boat. As Will prepared to climb down the rope ladder to where the vessel bobbed, Strangewayes stepped up. A bruise bloomed on the side of his forehead. ‘I would accompany you,’ he muttered, his expression sullen. After a moment’s consideration, Will consented with a nod.

The seamen sculled away from the Tempest with hesitant strokes, their unsettled eyes darting around the waves of brown vegetation. Will sat at the prow, studying the path ahead. The weed bundled up ahead of the boat, the choking stink of it even thicker now they were surrounded by it. One of the sailors, a pockmarked, pink-faced man, cried out as one of the eel creatures leapt out of the water, disturbed by the oars. Its jaws snapped and its eyes swivelled towards them as if it knew what it was seeing. The men muttered prayers, rowing faster, but that only disturbed the creatures more. The sea on either side churned as they leapt up, mewling and crying in tones that were unsettlingly human.

‘Fish, nothing more,’ Will called out in a reassuring voice, keeping his eyes fixed on the Spanish ship ahead. ‘Only fish.’ The seamen continued to mutter. Strangewayes withdrew his hands from the sides of the boat and clasped them between his thighs.

In the sticky heat, they pulled alongside the larger vessel and one of the seamen hurled a grapnel over the rail. One after the other, they climbed. The ship was still, the only sounds the whispers of the hull. Will wrinkled his nose. An odd smell hung across the stained deck, like a butcher’s shop on a summer noon. ‘Search below,’ he said to the three men, who looked as if he had ordered them to leap into the sea. ‘Call out if you find anything of note.’ He beckoned to Strangewayes, and strode to the captain’s cabin, his hand resting on his rapier’s hilt.

The cabin was no cooler. He sucked in a mouthful of stale air, casting an eye over the berth and the chart-covered trestle. By the compass a half-eaten biscuit lay in its crumbs next to a cup of wine. Strangewayes prowled around the trestle, eyeing the food as if it would bite him. ‘The captain left in a hurry,’ he said.

‘Abandoned his own ship?’

‘Taken, then. By pirates.’

‘Perhaps.’ Will looked round, seeing no signs of a struggle. Dropping to his knees, he traced his fingers across the dusty boards, but found no bloodstains. He flicked open a chest under the broad window to reveal the gleam of gold plate, cups and coin.

‘I do not like it here,’ Strangewayes said, looking round the hot, gloomy cabin. ‘It feels haunted.’

At the trestle, Will pushed a quill and ink-pot aside and opened the captain’s leather-bound journal. He ran one finger under the florid scrawl, silently translating the Spanish entries. ‘He speaks here of an isle of devils, and hearing the tormented cries of lost souls in the night.’ He skimmed the pages and read on. ‘A city of gold. Manoa, he calls it. “No man may escape it, save that he traverses the labyrinth before the Moon-Tower.”’

‘If this city of gold exists, Philip of Spain will have sent a fleet of galleons to loot it,’ the younger spy said.

‘Perhaps.’ Will recalled the Faerie Queen’s words from her cell in London and her mention of a Tower of the Moon which kept open the way between their worlds. He continued reading the journal. ‘“Long hours were we caught in that maze, fearing what was at our backs. And yet the way became clear. Twice stare into the devil’s face, then bow all heads to God. Thrice more the unholy must call. Again, again, again until the end.”’ Will reflected on the message for a moment, then tore out the page, folded it neatly and slipped it into his leather pouch.

Strangewayes wandered to the window and peered out into the west. ‘God has abandoned us,’ he said in a low, desolate voice. ‘I fear what lies ahead.’

The pounding of running feet echoed across the deck, accompanied by the frightened cries of the seamen. Will stepped out to meet them. Eyes wide with fear, they gibbered and plucked at their clothes with anxious fingers. Will glanced towards the dark entrance to the lower decks, the door swinging slowly shut. ‘Survivors?’ he enquired in a calm voice, his fingers folding round his sword-hilt.

‘Voices,’ the pockmarked man said breathlessly, looking over his shoulder at the closing door. ‘We were on the orlop deck and we ’eard ’em.’

‘From the bilge?’ Strangewayes enquired.

‘From . . . from the other side of the hull.’

‘In the water?’ Will demanded.

The man nodded. ‘We heard their nails scratching on the keel, and their whispers—’

‘What did they say?’ Strangewayes snapped, grabbing the sailor by the shoulders.

‘“Join us”,’ one of the other sailors whispered. His hands were shaking. ‘“Join us.”’

Will pushed Strangewayes to one side and leaned in, tapping his head. ‘The mind plays strange tricks,’ he said.

But the seaman shook his head furiously, having none of it. ‘This is a ship of ghosts,’ he insisted. ‘We are doomed if we stay here. They will come for us—’

Will felt Strangewayes’ eyes on him, but he did not acknowledge the look. ‘Let the dead whisper to the fishes,’ he interjected. ‘We are done here.’

Sweating and red-faced, the seamen heaved the rowing boat back to the Tempest with furious strokes, their gaze never leaving the drifting seaweed. Will himself half expected to see hands rising from the surface or dead faces looking up from the pools of dark water among the vegetation.

Once they were back on board the galleon, Courtenay set the helmsman to steer a steady course west through the strange dead sea. The deserted Spanish ship fell behind them, but even then Will thought he could feel eyes on his back. For the rest of the day they creaked along under the unforgiving sun, and as twilight began to fall they broke out of the bank of vegetation and into open water. Will felt the mood lift, and not long after he heard Courtenay’s throaty laughter rumbling across the deck as the crew began to sing.

Yet he found himself haunted by what he had read in the Spanish captain’s journal. An isle of devils. Lost souls in the night.

With the red sun low on the horizon, he found his worst fears confirmed. Wreckage drifted on the swell ahead: a shattered hull, chests and barrels, masts tangled with rigging and ragged sailcloth. ‘Caught in the storm?’ Will asked as Courtenay joined him at the rail.

The captain tugged at his beard in his habitual manner as he studied the shattered remnants. ‘Mayhap.’

They watched in silence until Bloody Jack caught sight of a torn flag floating by: a red cross on a white background. ‘One of ours, then,’ he said. Neither of them needed to express what lay heavy on their minds. The captain sent two of his men out in the rowing boat and in the dying light they returned with a sodden remnant of the captain’s log bearing the ship’s name: the Eagle, the carrack which had carried Dee and Meg. Will felt a momentary pang of despair.

Strangewayes appeared at their side, fresh from ministering to Grace. He looked tired and drawn; Will had not seen him eat since the storm. There had still been no improvement in her condition and Will’s mood darkened further.

‘Can there be survivors from such a wreck?’ Strangewayes asked. ‘If Dee is lost—’

‘This is not the time to speculate,’ Will said, a little more curtly than he intended. For a moment, his thoughts turned to Meg, but he set them aside when the lookout cried, ‘Land ahoy!’

Courtenay’s brow furrowed. ‘There is no land in these waters.’ Yet when they rushed to the forecastle, they saw white-topped waves crashing against a jagged reef, and beyond it the hazy outline of an island in the dying ruddy light. ‘Hard a starboard,’ the captain bellowed to the helmsman, adding with a growl, ‘We’ll not end up on the rocks like those other poor bastards.’

Will gripped the rail, peering towards the island. He could make out a hilly, tree-covered central area, and grey cliffs to the south and north with a stretch of sandy strand directly ahead. ‘Dee could have washed up there,’ Strangewayes said in a hopeful tone.

‘Aye,’ Bloody Jack growled, raising the tele-scope to his eye. ‘He’s as tough as a tanner’s hide, that one. Wring his scrawny neck and he’d still keep on breathing. And I’ve wanted to do that a time or two. We’ll sail to the north and drop anchor. Only a madman would try to cross that reef with night coming in,’ he added without a hint of irony.

Will watched the darkening waves as the ship sailed astern. So much misfortune had afflicted them in recent days, he barely dared to hope for some small relief. Beside him, Courtenay cursed. ‘What afflicts that fool at the helm?’ Once more, the island lay directly ahead. He snatched the tele-scope from his eye and roared to the helmsman, ‘I said, hard a starboard!’

The Tempest turned a starboard again, but within moments Will blinked his eyes in the growing gloom and saw the island ahead of them once more. Courtenay’s face darkened. ‘Will we never be out of these cursed waters?’ he muttered.

Three more times they attempted to sail round the island’s northern edge, and three more times they failed. ‘It seems,’ Will said, ‘that this island is waiting for us.’