Chapter 4

           In the early morning light, the kitchen was a mass of oddly illuminated objects and shadows.  The sand-scoured stone floor was cold to Lizzy’s bare feet.  She stepped across the granite flagstones to the pantry.  She chose a hunk of dark wheat bread and a piece of ripe old cheese to munch on.  Then she scampered back to her room quietly and began to dress.

            As Lizzy laced up her boots by the back door of the greenhouse she felt her stomach rise in her throat.  She was now officially eighteen years old, and would be expected to be married to some young man, were it not for her lifestyle.  She had decided on her sixteenth birthday that she did indeed not wish to rule the country as its princess, even with her parents dead.  She and her dear cousin Christin then devised a monstrous plan.  It entailed that Lizzy mysteriously “die” and leave the throne to Christin.  Christin would then rule, and Lizzy, the true princess, would live the life of a pirate in secret service to Her Majesty the princess.  It was only with the help of the lords of the cabinet and several other high officials that the scheme had worked, but now it ran perfectly smoothly.  It was then with these thoughts that Lizzy left her own palace by the back door without saying goodbye to anyone.

            Lizzy scurried through garbage strewn, rodent infested dark back alleys to reach the pier.  From there she untied a small nondescript dingy and rowed it down the coast until she reached a secluded beach several miles from the city.  There, in a cove well guarded by a curtain of overhanging willow branches, The Stormy Lass rode the gentle waves from the sea.  Her captain inspected her as she rowed past.  The dark hull was free of barnacles and tight as a barrel.  Her lateen sails were artfully patched, but in good repair.  Her figurehead, that of an angry mermaid brandishing her triton at all who dared defy her, glistened with the spray and a new coat of paint.  Lizzy saluted the mermaid as she slipped past on the brine.

            Behind the ship’s stern yawned the mouth of a small cave through which Lizzy passed with no hesitation.  It led to a tunnel filled with wavering and varied shadows from the waves thrown by the few fitfully guttering torches clinging to the wet walls.  Murmurings could just be heard issuing from the end of the tunnel, where there more light glistened and the water grew shallower.

            “Halloo!” Iama called when she spied Lizzy dragging her dingy from the shallows onto the warm sand.  Iama and several other young women were seated, standing, or leaning around a bright fire in a ring on the sand.  The first mate was a dark-skinned woman with long limbs and a hard expression.  Her face fooled no one, though, as all knew she could laugh as well as the next.  Iama sat splicing a thick rope on a splintering crate.

            On the ground next to Iama lounged the youngest crewmember, a girl by the name of Kris.  Only fourteen, Kris had already made a name for herself as a valuable pirate.  Her red hair acted as a symbol of the fiery and volatile temper that made her the fiercest fighter of the lot.  Kris was a thing akin to a wild animal, but she was by no means their pet.

            The pet stooped on the other side of the cave checking supplies.  Margret, Maggie fondly, was nineteen, but with the face of a girl of seven.  Round face, round fingers, round waist, Maggie was short and soft, but a good and useful girl nonetheless.  She was the best at figures, organization, and cooking, skills which were vital to the survival of the crew.  She turned to Lizzy and asked frankly, “Didn’t Becca come with you?”

            “Becca?”  Lizzy was surprised.  “No, I haven’t seen her since two nights ago, why?”

            “She was supposed to be bringing some fresh fruit and vegetables before we got under way.”

            “Where is she?” Iama asked angrily.  Her patience was short, and she lived to sail the sea.

            Just then someone came frantically rowing and panting up the tunnel.  A lean girl pulled at the oars like she was being chased by demons until she hit the sand.  Flustered, she jumped out of her boat and hauled two enormous satchels after her.  “Sorry!” she gasped, out of breath.  Becca was tall, blonde, and never could tell where her arms and legs were at the moment.  She was gangly, awkward, and hair-brained, but Lizzy knew she could count on Becca in a pinch.  For all her awkwardness, when she needed to be Becca was swift, silent, and agile.

            Chuckles emanated from the back corner of the cave.  Sam, with blonde hair bleached silver by the sun, a tan complexion, and a figure to match that of her twin’s (though much more graceful), was the jester.  Always ready with a joke or at least a toothy smile, Sam kept the crew lighthearted.  She was also the brains of the group.  Her plans and schemes never failed, and they usually contained some fun for her majesty’s pirates.

            Abigail, “Abby” really, the newest member of the crew, was lying on her back next to Sam, gazing at the ceiling.  “Daydreaming again,” Iama said jerking her thumb at Abby.

            “I’m ready!” Abby crowed, jumping up and pirouetting in the sand.  The crew collectively rolled their eyes.  Abby fancied herself an accomplished dancer as well as a soon-to-be famous pirate.  She was more often caught daydreaming than anything else.  Her stories and musings, paired with Sam’s facetious jokes, were the chief amusement of the crew.

            “All right, all right!  Iama, did you tell them what we’re doing?”

            “Yes, she did, and I think it is horrible what Baron Austen has done.  People in the country are sick and starving, and he can only think of his son!”

            “I agree, Maggie, but there’s nothing for it.  We’re pirates, not psychologists!”

            “Hehe, that’s a pretty good alliteration, Liz.  But we need a course.  Any idea, Cap’n?”

            “Hmmm, I don’t know.  What d’you think, Iama, of going up around the north knob?”

            “Why north?”

            “Because they always sail south, to hide in the islands, and we always follow them.  I’m sure sooner or later they’re going to believe that we just patrol the islands, and avoid us as well as their taxes.”

            “That is true, but I hope you’re right about that time being right now.  A false move would waste a lot of valuable time, time for them to be arriving in -------- and stowing the money so we can’t get at it.”

            “I think she’s right.  The bay formed by the knob would provide an opportune hiding spot for a renegade taxpayer,” Sam said thoughtfully, chewing absentmindedly on a splinter.