Chapter 12
The Curse of Atahualpa
Within an hour we had rounded
the east side of the island and set a course to
Little Cayman about 80 miles to the north, somewhere
over the seablue horizon. It was good to be back
at sea again, almost as if the past 48-hours had
been a dream. Uncle Bob was at the helm and Timor
was busying himself with the sails. Since Timor
had joined us the shipboard duties for Pat, Vince,
Badger and me had lessened. The four of us had
gathered on the foredeck and were lying about
in the sun, chilling out, as they say. Mum was
looking at the charts with dad and Prospero, well
Prospero was wherever he was.
The light winds that took us
away from Cayman dropped to a whisper and finally
died completely. Bob turned the ignition key to
start the engine. Nothing. Bob and Timor went
below deck to investigate, leaving dad on the
helm and mum at the chart table. Whatever it was,
the problem had not been fixed by late afternoon.
Idly, the rest of us sat around discussing our
find.
“Pat,” I said. “What
are you going to do with your treasure?”
“I dunno, sell it I suppose.”
“What will you do Badger?”
“I don’t want any
treasure,” he said.
“Can I have yours then?”
said Vince.
“What about me Badger?”
I said. “I thought we were best friends.”
“I should get it since
I’m the oldest,” said Pat, “And
I actually pinpointed the treasure.”
“I can’t believe
what you’re all saying,” said Badger,
“You should listen to yourselves.”
He left us to find Bob and Timor in the engine
compartment.
“What’s up with him?”
said Pat.
“He’s behaving like
a wuss,” I said. The amulet felt comfortable
in my hand. It felt almost reassuring, as if it
was helping me to confirm the sureness of my thinking.
“What about our parents?”
said Pat. “Should they get a share?”
“What have they done to
deserve one?” I asked. I could hardly believe
I was saying such things. “They’re
not pirates.”
“And we are?” said
Pat.
“In a way I suppose we
are. I drank from the cup, remember.”
“I thought that was a dream.”
“Maybe it wasn’t.”
I noticed that Pat was holding something shiny
in his hand. “What’s that?”
I said. He tried to hide it.
“You kept something for
yourself didn’t you.”
“It’s only a token,
a little cat, I liked it. It doesn’t make
any difference. I suppose you didn’t take
anything. Vince here took a doubloon. He hasn’t
turned into a frog has he?”
“We’re supposed to
share out the treasure,” I said, hoping
that no-one had seen my own theft. “And
the sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.
I’m not sure I want to go to the Polynesian
islands anymore. I want to go home.”
“I want to be famous,”
said Vince, like that man who found the mummy’s
tomb in Egypt”.
“You mean Howard Carter
and the tomb of Tutankhamun, the Egyptian boy
king?” said Pat. “That was cursed,
they say, and Timor says this is cursed. Carter
died soon after the tomb was found. Do you believe
in the curse of Atahualpa?” he asked.
Vince and me were silent. Badger
came over and joined us again. In his hand he
had a piece of paper. “I think you should
read this. Timor was able to decipher the inscription
on the chest. He’s just shown it to me.”
Pat read the text quietly to
the rest of us:
Whoever tampers with this chest,
Shall find three bodies lain to rest,
Victims of the curse they lie,
Born to plunder, doomed to die.
A sacred bird shall be my eye,
That Inca souls may touch the sky,
And feel the warmth of Inca Sun,
As Atahualpa’s will be done.
The gold and wealth that fed
men’s greed,
Shall work another evil deed,
Before the spell has run its course,
Four more shall feel its dreadful force.
The blood had drained from Pat’s
face; the hair was standing up on the back of
my neck; Vince looked puzzled. “Four more
what?” he said.
“Forget it,” I said
and looked at Pat. There was fear in his eyes,
reflected most surely from my own. A shadow had
fallen across our group. I looked up and there
was Timor towering over us.
“Why didn’t you tell
us?” I asked.
“Would it have made any
difference? It made no difference to my father.
He must have read those words before he died.”
“What do you think killed
him?”
“Who knows? I suppose it
was the curse.”
“They’ll be coming
for us, won’t they.”
“Maybe.”
My stomach felt hollow. I wished
I had never set eyes on the treasure. And yet
it was mine - the greatest treasure since that
of Tutankhamun. I looked at Timor. The hair from
his top knot was hanging limply down the back
of his head.
Bob appeared on deck. His arms
were covered in engine oil. “Sorry kids,”
he said. “We’ve got water in the engine.
I think we can drain it out but it’s going
to take time.” That night the boat sat on
a flat calm sea. Timor had relieved mum on the
helm so that she could sleep and Bob had enlisted
Prospero’s help on the engine.
I couldn’t sleep. At one
point during the night I thought I had heard a
loud splash. “What was that?” I said,
but Vince was asleep. It must have been a fish.
Could it have been Scar? All the same I counted
everyone next morning to make sure we were all
present and correct.
The wind had risen by the time
the engine was working again the next morning.
We were in full sail when a sudden gust caught
the yacht, healing her over.
“Squall,” shouted
Bob, “I can’t hold her. Get the main
down.”
Prospero went to the winch. “It’s
jammed,” he said, “something catching
at the top of the mast.” Timor sprang on
to the steel hawser that formed the back stay
and began shinning up towards the top of the mast.
He had just reached the top when one of the strengthening
gusts knocked the boat on to its side, hurling
Timor in to the sea.
“Timor,” shouted
Badger.
“Man overboard,”
cried Bob, then “Hold on,” as the
boat went over.
Suddenly the mainsail came free
and dropped in a heap, half over the side as the
boat righted itself. My father was looking behind
him, searching the frothy waves as a handcuff
snapped around his wrist and the other cuff was
clamped around the wheel.
“There,” said Prospero,
grinning. “Nice and safe.” Bob turned
but too late as Prospero pushed him over the side.
Mum was down below and the rest
of us were hanked on by our straps. “Stay
where you are,” he said to us and dashed
to the hatch. We heard mum shouting, then banging
on a cabin door before Prospero reappeared. There
had been no time to gather ourselves as the boat
was still rocking wildly. Back on deck Prospero’s
eyes were gleaming wildly.
“I’m sorry young
folks. But this is Prospero’s gold and I’m
commandeering your ship.”
“Get my father,”
shouted Pat.
“You’ll shut up Mr
Pat, if you know what’s good for you. One
more word and you follow him.”
Prospero prized off a hatch-cover
on the stern, pulled out the box that contained
the inflatable life-raft and slung it over the
side. Tied to the boat with a rope the life-raft
inflated automatically. Then he shouted for Caliban.
The monkey poked his head out of the hatch. “Pockets,”
said Prospero. On this command Caliban began to
crawl over us, frisking our clothing, retrieving
the golden puma from Pat’s pocket and the
bird from mine.
“Just as well we looked,
my handsome,” said Prospero, patting the
monkey’s head. “Now you kids,”
he said, gesturing to the four of us, “Get
in.”
Pat refused to move but Prospero
grabbed Vince and said; “In the raft or
Mr Vince here’s in the water.” First
Badger, then Pat climbed on board. Vince was thrown
in with them. As I climbed on to the stern Prospero
grabbed me by the shoulder.
“You don’t have to
go, Miss Bonny. You's a pirate like me. You drank
from the cup. The treasure’s half yours.
What do you say?”
For a fraction of a second I
hesitated, then said: “You can keep your
gold, but if you harm one hair of my mum and dad
I’ll hunt you down like the dog you are.”
The squall had risen into a full
blown storm and rain was lashing the bright orange
life-raft as I joined the others. Just before
I jumped I grabbed the yellow Eperb - the boat’s
emergency radio beacon - but it was washed out
of my hands in the scramble to get in the raft.
I looked out of the small entrance to see the
stern of the Endeavour disappearing in the murk.
A minute later and we were alone and adrift on
an unfriendly ocean.
Pat was sitting with his knees
up to his chin. Badger, his hair in scruffy wet
tufts, was spreading his weight to make the life-raft
more stable. Vince was curled upon the floor,
grasping his wet sniggly in one hand, sucking
his thumb and sobbing quietly. I was feeling sick
and began to retch out of the opening. As I looked
up, through the rain I could see two objects in
the waves. One had what looked like a white piece
of sea-weed streaming from its crown. It was Timor
and hooked in one arm he had Uncle Bob, spluttering
but clearly alive.
“Over here,” I cried.
Timor struck out for the raft and we hauled them
both aboard. No sooner had we told them of our
predicament than Timor looked at each of us and
sighed.
“Well my friends,”
he said, shaking his head, “this is another
fine mess you’ve got me into.”
Each of us looked at him, waiting
for some words of wisdom. Badger broke the silence.
“What now?” he said. “What are
we going to do?”
“What we’re going
to do,” said Timor, “is survive.”
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