Isle of Swords by Wayne Thomas Batson Page B

awake . . .” She fingered the coral pendant that hung at the end of a cord necklace. “How do you feel?”
    â€œLike I’ve been hit by a bull. My head throbs, and I am stiff. I feel like I am lying on broken seashells.”
    â€œThose are the scabs. Nubby said they’d be pretty bad. He put some medicine paste on those awful gashes.” Anne paused, wondering if she should ask. She grimaced and decided she had to know.
    â€œWhat happened to you?”
    The lad turned his head. He did not answer.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Anne said. “I shouldn’t have—”
    â€œI don’t know,” he said through gritted teeth.
    â€œWhat?”
    A hot tear escaped. “I don’t know what happened to me.”
    Anne fell silent. She thought about Chevillard, that terrible moment when he entered the room. Anne couldn’t be sure, but he seemed to recognize this wounded lad. “Are you . . . are you a pirate?”
    â€œA pirate?” The lad frowned. “Why on earth would you think that?”
    Anne stood up. “And just what’s wrong with being a pirate?”
    â€œI didn’t say there was anythi—”
    â€œFor your information, I am a pirate!” she said. “You are a guest aboard a pirate ship. And if it weren’t for the pirates on this ship, you wouldn’t be alive!”
    â€œYou are a pirate?” he asked, astonished.
    â€œYes,” she replied hesitantly. “Well, no . . . not exactly. But it’s only a matter of time. I can do everything the men on this ship can do. Better than some.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that, well . . . most pirates aren’t like you.”
    â€œI guess you’re right about that.” Anne softened a bit. “My name’s Anne. Anne Ross.” She waited for him to respond. He said nothing, but the rims around his eyes became red, and he shook with anger.
    â€œI can’t remember . . . I’ve tried. There’s just nothing there. I don’t know my name. I don’t know what happened to me. I don’t know anything.”
    â€œIt’ll all come back,” Anne said, smiling bravely for him. “I’m certain it will.”
    He closed his eyes. Anne wished she could do something to help.
    From somewhere above came the clear sound of two bells. “Nubby’ll be down to check on you soon,” she said. “I have watch.” He didn’t respond. He was so still Anne thought he might have fallen asleep.
    Anne hesitated, made sure his eyes were completely shut, and then put the leather pouch back on the table near his hand. She thought it was a good thing he hadn’t caught her with it. She left the room without another word, wondering about the cross, the lock of hair, and the jewel . . . especially the jewel.
    He was not, in fact, asleep. But his mind raced such that he hadn’t noticed Anne’s final act before she left. No, someone could have fired a cannon at his bedside, and he would have ignored it. For, at last, he thought he had figured something out. The footprints he’d seen on the island. When he’d seen them that day, he’d assumed that someone else had been on the island. But picturing the scene now in his mind, he remembered that the footprints had led up to where he stood. If someone had come out of the palms and approached him while he was unconscious, there would have been a set of footprints returning into the palms. They were mine , he realized. I made the footprints that came out of the palms and across that dune . And that meant that somewhere on that island there could be other clues to his identity.

    â€œIt is called by the Portuguese, Ilha de Espadas ,” said Padre Dominguez. He, Ross, Stede, and Jules sat alone around the captain’s desk. Anne, to her everlasting frustration, was on watch and so, not invited. Ross had