image [https://i.imgur.com/oQvdmap.png]

Picaro and Valgur stood before the rock effigy. The captain began to pace. “The cache is here, this confirms it. But where exactly.”

A melodic call similar to the one they heard when they first made landfall wafted to their ears. More earnest, this time, tinged with greater sadness, though still as sweet. A call for help, of concern. Picaro could not pick up its exact direction, though it seemed much closer now, as if it resounded out from beneath the pile of stone rubble, ricocheting from stoneface to stoneface.

Heeding it, Valgur clutched the key and bent his ear to it keenly. At the very end of the call, Picaro thought he heard the faintest hint of snickering laughter. "Hear that, boy? Beneath the stone. What's that? Someone trapped? It must be here. Quick, get the crew. Spare not a man, go." Valgur cast out a hand to him, urging him to act. Looking at him, Picaro saw a certain sheen glinting in his pupil, a mournful look hinging on desperation. It was a peculiar sight to see his captain in such a way, eager only to heed the obsession growing in his bosom.

Picaro tried to grab at Valgur's coat. "But, captain what if-"

Valgur spun on him. "Belay that, boy. Do as yer bid or you'll find a lashing from me waiting for ye.” A dangerous look flashed across the captain’s face. Picaro could only turn tail and run back out along the trail towards the beach, making the call of the seabird as he went, the crew's telltale sign to come to each other's aid.

Along the path, a shadow shifted between the trees and Grit stepped onto the path. "What happened, any trouble?"

"Not yet. Valgur said he found something, but he seems off," said Picaro, panting. "Gather the men and I’ll lead you to him."

Soon, Scuttle, Atrocius and the others found them, and they emerged onto the beach to see the rest of the crew milling about, seemingly looking for something. "You heard it again, too?" asked Silvertime when they approached.

"Aye, and the boy says they may have found the source," said Grit. "We need every able bodied man. Bring picks and shovels, rope and carts. Quicklike!" Grit began barking orders to organize the men on the beach. They all answered with a certain subservient and hurried nature that seemed uncanny to the boy, as if their task in this hour was most precious to them. And all the while each man would glance up to the sky or bend an inclining ear to the wind as if searching for the call once more, yearning for its sweet and sorrowful embrace.

When the men and supplies were gathered, they rendezvoused with their captain inland. They saw some small boulders had been cast aside from the pile of rubble. Their captain stood strained and soaked with sweat, panting heavily. "At last y’made it. Quick, move the stones. It's here, I tell ye. Look," he pointed to the carving in the rockface and the men all nodded eagerly.

Again the call wafted up around them like rising heat. Men's hearts jumped in their chest. Some caught their breath, hanging onto its resonance for as long as they could. Then each man moved entranced, like glad slaves held in some lustful bond, bending their backs fervently to uncover the source of the call. "Must be some woman lost herself here under there."

"I'll rescue her before all of ye. Fer true, it if it's the last thing I do," said Mord, gritting his teeth and driving the edge of his shovel into the ground. The call lingered in the air another moment. When it waned Picaro again heard the unmistakable trailing laughter that seemed to mock him and turn his heart cold. A chill like a bead of cold sweat ran down his spine, making him shiver.

He looked out across all the men. They all had a similar grey sheen to their eyes as if they were looking far ahead, not seeing what was truly before them. Picaro tried to rouse Grit with an effort. "There's something weird going on," said the boy, but Grit merely shrugged him off. Picaro saw the same emptiness in the first mate’s face.

Someone pulled the remains of a dead man's arm from the rubble and cast it aside as if it were a piece of driftwood. "It must be here. Other men been looking. But she’s mine, it’s all mine."

Men nodded their heads and did not look at each other, all so engrossed in their task. The blanket of the spell had covered them all. Picaro began to back away. Then the call came again, more piercing this time. It made the boy's ears ring, and his head pounded. White flashed before his eyes as he clenched his jaw. A sudden madness threatened to overtake him. He wanted to scream. He fought it, and the more he did the malicious laughter he heard at its end was unmistakable, mocking him.

They’re lost to madness, Picaro thought, why won't they wake up? In fact, the crew seemed to drink it in like sweet wine. It bade them to push harder, move faster. Their breaths were ragged, but they moved stones with greater fervor, straining in the afternoon heat.

Atrocius heaved a particularly large stone from the pile and uncovered the wooden wreckage of an old crew's supplies. Picaro saw a skull among the rubble, and it shook him to his core. He turned and ran back toward the ship, fully convinced of the crew's madness. He had to do something.

As he reached the beach, he heard the call again. It still sounded as if it were coming from all around him, as if it came out from the entire island, concentrated fully on torturing his young mind. He groaned and heaved himself onto the ship, searching desperately for something to blot out the sound. He burst into the mess hall and stuffed handkerchiefs into his ears.

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He staggered back onto the main deck and saw Onion at the rails. He ran up to the man, grabbing his sleeve. "Onion, they've gone mad. There's something evil here, driving the men to desperation. We have to help them." But when he looked up into Onion's eyes, the same grey sheen covered them.

"You hear it, eh? Such a sweet sound. I wonder where she is. Do you know? Tell me, then. Tell me where she is," said Onion, and he clutched the boy's shoulders tightly, pressing his face into his.

Picaro shook his head and cried out. "Onion, stop. This thing is trying to control your mind and bring you to madness."

“What would you know about it? You’ve never been with a woman,” said the cook, digging his nails into the boy's shoulder. Wincing, Picaro wriggling like an eel in his grasp. He finally managed to get free, allowing Onion to tear the collar of his shirt as the price for his freedom. Picaro jumped the rail onto the beach, and he was running. Onion roared his displeasure.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Onion as he clambered down off the side of the ship. And then he was lumbering across the beach. Picaro stumbled to a rocky outcropping where the tide met the stones. He slipped over the wet stones, jumping across dangerous gaps where sharp edges waited for him below, just above the frothing surf.

Onion tried to climb up the stones, but he was too large himself to make it. He continued to slip, and then he howled again before lumbering off into the jungle. Picaro watched him go, grieving for his dear friend.

He stood there collecting himself, heaving in deep breaths. He nearly went after Onion into the jungle to try and help him. But then something caught his eye. Beside him, along a stone face that bent inward to the belly of a shallow cove, Picaro saw another carving on the stone. It was a seahorse etched into the stone, its nose pointing in toward the shadowed alcove.

Curious, Picaro followed the path with his eyes. There was a ledge barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast snaking the edge of the wall, leveled as if made by human hands. Carefully, Picaro followed it, minding the walls for signs. He followed the wall to its end, nearly abandoning his course as the ledge ended at the base of a pool hollowed into the stone. Picaro test the water with his arm, and he could not touch the bottom. It seemed deep, and also a dead end.

He would have left then and there had it not been for the image he saw carved into the stone just above the pool. Another of Vagabon Doughty’s, no doubt. It was the whale once more. Yet this time the gold coin that had so eluded its jaw’s in the other carving, and marked the spot the rest of the crew were digging, was now safely in the whale’s belly. Picaro understood what that meant without meaning to. Curious, he stole back to the ship in search of a particular item.

Silvertime would have it, he knew. Tears of the sun. A special oil that would be most useful for such a situation. An oil that when lit aflame does not go out, even under water. Picaro found it in the man’s belongings, a small container of black paste that shimmered like the rainbow as it caught the light. Picaro smeared it over the wick of a torch and lit it. The flames crackled as if commanded, a brilliant yellow.

With the torch, Picaro minded the ledge once more and brought himself to the edge of the pool. He stared at the glassy water, bringing the torch down low. Still, he could not see clearly into its depths. The boy whistled, and the sounded echoed back to him many times over. “Let’s have at it then,” he said and plunged into the water.

It went down several feet, and them seemed to curve into the shape of a tunnel. The boy followed it, the light from the magical oil spilling yellows and greens across the porous rock around him. The tunnel went for twenty yards or so, and then curved upward. Picaro surfaced and pulled himself from the pool, thoroughly suspicious.

He was in a large alcove. Directly ahead of him was a sloping stone wall. Its ceiling went so high he could not illuminate its top. Yet he did not need to look that high, for carved into the rockface was not another image, but a door with a single key hole.

Without another breath, he scrambled from the cove and staggered through the jungle, understanding now what he must do. He found the crew had moved away a large portion of the stone, and now Valgur was barking at them to dig out a large hole in the ground. No one looked at Picaro as he went up to Valgur. Picaro reached up to touch Valgur on the shoulder. “Cap’n, come quick. I found the place, come and see.”

Valgur swung on him in surprise, still in his stupor. “What ye mean? It’s here lad. Buried treasure. Now start digging.”

Picaro shook his head. “Not here, captain. I found the entrance and the keyhole. Bring the men. You’ll see.” Yet again the call came, now a desperate wail. Picaro cringed from it, but Valgur expanded his chest and took a deep breath.

“We need to help her,” he whispered. He pushed Picaro roughly. “Grab a shovel and start digging.”

Frustrated, Picaro saw no other option. He slipped quietly to the side. Valgur seemed not to notice as he strode forward to inspect a spot Mord had found in the dirt. Picaro crept up and pilfered the skeleton key from its place in Valgur’s coatpocket. Then he kicked Valgur in the back of the leg and held the key up for him to see. “What are you going to do without this?”

Valgur wheeled, his eyes full of bloody rage. “Ye filthy little bastard,” he roared, lumbering toward him. Picaro dashed back into the jungle, careful not to lose sight of the captain and his crew. “The boy took the key. Without it, we’ll never find the treasure, or the girl,” he heard Valgur call behind him.

The thunder of many stamping feet followed Picaro through the jungle. He glanced back to ensure that they were still following him. He burst out onto the beach where he found Onion still pacing. Onion turned in surprise as a riot of free men burst out onto the beach in pursuit.

Picaro scrambled onto the rocks and waited just before the entrance to the cove. He looked back and flashed the key into the air. “Looking for this?” Then he disappeared along the ledge.

Mord was the first to make the outcropping. “I’ll skin the flesh from his hide. I’ll tear out his eyes. You’ll pay for this. You’ll see.”

Valgur was not the first to clear the rocks and make the cove, but when he did he saw the brilliant yellow flame of a torch in the boy’s hand, illuminating a carving of the whale above them.

“The boy wants the treasure for himself,” he heard a man call.

“Well, after him then,” said Valgur. “We’ll still get what we came for.”

Then Picaro dove into a dark pool, and he was gone.