image [https://i.imgur.com/of5O15s.png]

Picaro fit the teeth of the skeleton key into the keyhole. He did not need to turn the lock, for there was none in the smooth stoneface. Yet as if by some mechanism, the stone rumble, sliding inward and then to the side, revealing a yawning mouth of blackness. Picaro heard a desperate splash from behind him as one of the crew was emerging from the pool. He darted into the passageway, but not before pulling the skeleton key from the keyhole.

The passage was dark, and he could see only what the flickering light of the torch was was able to make out in the gloom. He found himself in a twisting tunnel. Behind him, he heard scrambling steps. The crew were moving blindly into the passage, following the torchlight like moths to a flame. Picaro suddenly felt trapped. The key had opened the door, but what was to say Vagabon Doughty, whose treasure it housed, had not laid for them one last trick?

He was nervous also to draw so close to what he thought must be the source of the melodic call, which had unmistakably become a mournful wail to him as he drew closer. Whatever banshee or foul spirit had inhabited the island was calling them closer to itself. Picaro was leading them to it. He wondered if it was a wise choice. A twisting sense of foreboding gripped him as the passage opened up into a sprawling, glittering cavern with a high ceiling.

The light from the torch was suddenly magnified by the facets of hundreds of glittering gems. An assortment of diamonds, pearls, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and flickering gold. Droves of them littered the floor, some in chests, other nestled at the bottom of shallow pools. A glittering, refracting kaleidoscope of color shone onto the walls, though the ceiling was so high it could not be illuminated.

Picaro stood in awe for a moment. Then he heard rough voices from behind him. Reflexively, he tossed the torch to the stone, looking back fearfully. He needed to disappear. He glanced around for some corner or crevice, some place he might go unnoticed. His eyes passed over section of the floor that seemed to be wreathed in shadow. Inspecting it, he found it to be a piece of fabric that seemed as if it were even made from shadows. A cloak, it shimmered purple before fading into black before his very eyes. Even in the illusory light, it seemed to almost disappear. He stared at it in wonder.

Then the call split the air, reverberating off the cavern walls. Now piercing, shrieking, disparaging. It shot ice into his bones. He clutched his head, the pain striking like a nail between his ears, splitting him in two. Feebly, he managed to tear off a piece of cloth from his shirt and stuff it in his ear. He sat taking deep breaths as the ringing in his ears slowly dissipated. Then the voices of the crew sounded as though they were nearly upon him. Desperately, he took the cloak about himself and skittered to one side.

The rampant crew of Ye ‘Ol Marigold flooded the room. They were nearly blinded by the many glittering gems. The men whooped in celebration, their mouths agape, pupils wide and hungry. They rushed forward, sticking their hands in piles of gold coins, holding large rubies up to the light. Valgur strode forward to the center of the room. He looked around triumphantly. “We did it lads, the treasure’s ours,” he said with a toothy grin. Quietly, Picaro edged along the back of the cavern.

Curiously, Valgur walked among the piles of treasure, stooping at one point to pick up a beautiful, golden amulet. A single bright emerald was set in its center, held in the golden jaws of some terrific beast. Valgur inspected it with great care, turning it over in his hands, holding it up to the light. And then there came a malevolent giggle. The captain heeded the voice, stuffing the amulet into the pocket of his trench coat.

It came from the center of the cavern, from an item covered with cloth. Valgur uncovered it, revealing a painting standing on an easel, prominently displayed. The object in the painting seemed to be moving. Valgur admired it, drinking in the beauty of a woman with the tail of a fish, swimming in the ocean deep. Valgur marveled. The woman’s eyes flicked up to meet his. They were two brilliant amber orbs. She smiled and made her simple laugh again, coaxing him forward with a wave of her hand. Valgur took the side of the painting in his hands, admiring it. “Well, yer a beauty, ain’t ye,” he said. “Are you the one’s been calling to us? You needed rescuing, aye? Don’t fret, I’m here now.”

The mermaid in the painting blushed and giggled. She bade Valgur to incline his ear to her so she might whisper something to him. In the corner of the cavern, Picaro shifted uncomfortably. He needed to do something, he knew, for he realized the spell was coming from the painting. Suddenly, the mermaid’s eyes grew cold as she shot a glance to the side to where Picaro was crouched there in the dark. She hissed and began another cry, this time a formless word dripping from her lips, which could only be interpreted by those under her spell.

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At once, more than twenty sets of eyes looked into Picaro’s direction. Valgur nodded. “The boy’s gotta go, I know,” he said. “Don’t worry, my sweet. Me and the lads’ll keep you safe and sound.”

The crew drew their blades and crept forward like a pack of hungry wolves, cackling softly. “Come out, come out, ye little weasel. It’s time to say goodbye.”

Valgur returned his attention to the painting, leaning in to hear the mermaid’s whispers. He chuckled softly, and whispered back to her like some secret lover. She giggled and he swooned. Valgur found he could not look away. His gaze was wrapped in the woman’s eyes.

And then, her visage twisted before him. Her soft eyes became sharp as a viper’s. Her smile curled into a reptilian sneer, and her teeth became fangs. A grey mist surrounded him and began to pour off of him like sweat. His skin began to sallow and he grow gaunt as if the youth was being stripped away from it. His black beard grew grey, and his cheeks sunk into his face. Realizing what was happening, he cried out, but still he could not look away. “Give your all to me,” said the wailing voice, flying up into the top of the cavern.

Meanwhile, Picaro had inched his way along the wall, keeping himself low. The men were darting behind open chests or jumping into pools, trying to grab for him. He took a moment of surprise to see that the crew had not yet noticed him, though one man was only a few feet from him. He could smell his sweat in the dark. But when the man walked passed him, Picaro realized the cloak he had taken truly held some magic of its own.

Only he could see what was happening to their captain. The painting was eating away at his spirit as if as a form of sustenance. Once it took Valgur, it would take them all and the boy would be left marooned on the Mournful Isle. Just another reminder of how the isle had earned its name. Men who came here seemed willingly to die, and now he knew why.

He searched for something, anything he could use. It’s a painting, he thought. What can destroy a painting? He padded his belt, feeling for his knife, but it wasn’t there. He looked around for a weapon, anything. But among the riches there was no ornamented blade. His eyes went back to the torch. It was nearly out, but some flames still licked the wick.

Holding his breath, he waited for the right moment, then leapt from his hiding place. His passing shadow alerted a man, and a knife flashed in his direction. Picaro rolled aside, and the cloak slipped from his shoulder. “Oi! There he is.” Picaro dashed passed the painting, casting a sidelong glance at the mermaid’s twisted visage and Valgur’s shrinking frame.

He dove for the torch, turned, and threw it. The torch turned over on itself in the air, nearly going out as someone tackled Picaro to the stone. The torch passed just over Valgur’s shoulder. Picaro saw the siren’s eyes break their focus for a short moment as the head of the torch struck the canvas, tearing a flaming hole.

Picaro took a blow to the face for his trouble. The blade was descending upon him for the death blow when a shattering scream seemed to crack the cavern in half. It was a cry of surprise and anger. The man on top of him keeled over, howling, covering his ears. What was before a sweet sound to him was now painful. Picaro opened one eye and grit his teeth against the pain. He saw flames lick up the sides of the painting, slowly engulfing it.

Yet, as the canvas burned away, water began to pour out it in powerful streams. The force of the current washed Picaro into a shallow pool. His ears rung. He forced himself onto his elbows and blinked. The cavern was quickly filling with water. He dragged himself to his knees. All around him, men staggered as if waking from a terrible dream. Some cried out in relief to see themselves amidst piles of treasure, and in their greed laughed heartily, scooping up large piles into their arms, oblivious to their impending doom. But soon, their toothy grins turned to cries of alarm when they realized the entirety of the cavern was being washed away.

The painting was no more. Only a smoldered, gold lacquered frame remained, now a portal that opened into the depths of the sea. The water rose to waist level, and Picaro saw a scaled form slip out of the painting into the water. Just then, some quake beneath the ground shook the cavern.

"We have to get out of here," Grit cried as he helped Valgur to his feet. Their captain was still woozy, but he had come to his own as well. He stared about himself, beleaguered, a bitter look in his eye. Here was finally all the treasure he could have ask for, and it was being washed away.

"Take what you can and flee," said Valgur, coughing up water, spluttering. He staggered upright, helped by Grit. "To the ship with all speed.” A terrible current rippled around the cavern and back out through the winding passage that marked its entrance. There was another form there, too, in the water. The siren swam and danced among the many flailing limbs. Picaro saw the ripple dangerously close to a man's leg, and then suddenly he went under.

"The siren is here," he said. "There's an enemy in the water."

"We have to go, lads," said Grit.

The threat of danger roused every man from his reverie. Men piled treasure into any container they could, from cloth sacks to small chests, to their own clothes. Yet those that weighed themselves down soon found themselves unable to swim. Men had to choose between riches or their lives.