Sammy was aboard the sloop, flipping through the journal Cody's aunt had given her. Several sections were written in Elvish symbols she clearly didn't understand. Among the pages were puzzling drawings: an island, living skeletons, a treasure, and at the top, a skeletal pirate wearing a helmet that covered his face. There was also a description of this character, but she couldn't decipher it. On one of the pages, in her grandfather's unmistakable handwriting, was a name:
Aunt H.
Sammy decided to head to Kingsport immediately. She began navigating using her basic orientation skills. As time passed, the storm intensified, making the journey increasingly difficult. She tied a rope to the tiller to fix the heading while she ran to secure the sail, pulling the sheets and trying to prevent the wind from tearing it.
A couple of hours later, the storm broke loose. The wind howled, raising a powerful swell that slammed the small vessel violently. At times, Sammy feared for her life; still, her survival instinct kept her clinging to the tiller. During one of those violent blows, a gust of wind released the halyard, forcing her to run and re-tie it. But in a sudden lurch of the boat, the boom broke free and struck her, knocking her to the bottom of the vessel. She hit her head and lost consciousness.
******
When she awoke, she was inside a cabin. A cat was purring on the headboard beside her, watching her. In the corner of the room, an old man was leafing through the journal. Alarmed, Sammy searched for something to defend herself, fearing he might be a pirate or someone dangerous. However, noticing she was awake, the old man closed the journal and handed it back to her.
"Where am I? What am I doing here?" she asked, still confused.
"You're in my house. I found you in the sloop, which had run aground on the nearby beach. You were very lucky. You should thank whatever watched over and guided you here."
"Where are we?"
"In Jamaica... if that was your intended destination. Try to rest. That hit you took was no small thing."
Sammy leaned back a bit, but her instincts remained alert.
"How did this notebook end up in your hands?" the old man asked.
Sammy stared at him, but the old man was already by the stove, preparing clam soup. Her silence made him glance back at her.
"You can relax. I'm far too old for conspiracies or wicked schemes... I'm François Percy, from Normandy," he said as he opened and cleaned the shellfish.
"I'm Sammy Van Buuren, from Isla Negra," Sammy began.
"Tell me, girl, how did you end up on these shores?"
Sammy bit her lip and recounted everything: her grandfather's abduction, how the journal had come through Cody's aunt, and how everything seemed tied to a book her grandfather had written.
"Who is your grandfather?" the old man asked.
"Balin Van Buuren," Sammy replied.
"Ah, yes. I know his works... I've read all his novels. Though I must say, I didn't like the last one."
"Heart of the Caribbean?"
"That's the one. A rather unconvincing romantic plot," said the old man. "No offense, but I didn't know he'd written another book."
"My grandfather used a pseudonym... and apparently, it stirred up trouble among the Spaniards. Hawk had me arrested and locked in a dungeon, threatening to execute me if it didn't show up."
"He did that? That damned bastard!" the old man exclaimed. "Why would he do such a thing?"
"He was after that journal. Somehow, it's tied to some navigation charts he had, I think."
The old man paused at her words.
"Luckily, the Spaniards began shelling Fort Queen Anne, and I managed to escape," Sammy said.
"One man's misfortune is another's salvation," the old man commented, tossing the clams into the pot.
"What do you mean?"
"If the Spaniards hadn't attacked Tiburón Bay, you wouldn't be here telling me this story."
"I hadn't thought of it that way... but I'm worried about my grandfather. He just vanished," Sammy said, a lump forming in her throat.
"Stay calm. Just pray to the same force that protected you in the storm to guide you to your grandfather's whereabouts," the old man replied, stirring the soup. "Well, young lady, get some rest, and then we'll have some clam soup."
Later, the two sat at a rickety table. In the center, the steaming pot released a comforting aroma. The old man served her in a tin plate, and they ate in silence as the rain pounded the roof.
"I'm sure your grandfather was kidnapped by some influential group interested in that journal," the old man said after a pause.
"It was the Spaniards, obviously," Sammy replied.
"Let's think logically. If the Spaniards already had him, why bombard the port? Why spend all those resources? Unless they were after something else."
Sammy nodded, but she remembered the navigation charts Cody had taken.
"Maybe someone got ahead of the Spaniards, and when they couldn't find the journal, they assumed Hawk had it..." Sammy pondered.
"That actually makes more sense," the old man commented.
"I want to know where my grandfather is. He's all I have... and not knowing is torture. Mr. Percy, what do you suggest I do?"
"Your situation is difficult," said the old man. After a brief pause, he added, "But maybe there's someone who could help."
"Really?" said Sammy, looking at old Percy with hopeful eyes. "How can I find this person?"
The old man let out a sigh, as if fearing he might share something that could either save or doom her.
"In Kingsport, on the other side of the island, lives a woman named Betty Handers. She has a reputation as a seer. She might be able to discover your grandfather's whereabouts through her divinations."
The girl listened intently.
"Handers... that name rings a bell. My grandfather seems to have had contact with an Aunt H... Could it be the same woman?"
"She has many connections, runs a major smuggling ring, and also runs a very profitable business."
"Besides smuggling?"
"Prostitution... She's a feared woman, but if you're willing to risk it all, she's a good option."
The old man looked at her seriously.
"But be careful. And don't mention the journal. I'm sure she can read it. Maybe that's why your grandfather contacted her in the first place. It's best not to bring it up."
Sammy frowned, intrigued.
"Why?"
The old man avoided the question and changed the subject.
"Wait until the rain stops. When the weather clears, you can walk to the port on the other side of the island."
They continued eating the rest of their dinner while the storm battered the region.
******
After midnight, the storm raged across the coastline. The wind howled through the gaps in the small wooden cabin, and rain lashed against the panes of the only window. Sammy slept soundly, while the cat, curled up comfortably beside her, watched with half-closed eyes, purring softly. The old man, for his part, sat at the table, illuminated by an oil lamp. He was reading a book with yellowed, crinkled pages—pages that had clearly been exposed to water many years before. From among them, he pulled out an old letter, its ink faded and several passages nearly illegible.
The old man glanced toward Sammy, who was still deeply asleep, guarded by the cat. Then, putting on a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles, he began to read the letter:
"To Fathers B.M., J.P., and F.P.,
Receive greetings from the Father General, who wishes you success in this mission, which must be carried out with the utmost secrecy, given the importance it holds for our order. According to the latest reports, the existence of (illegible) Guzob is real, and it must not fall into the hands of the Institution or the King.
(Illegible section)
Your safe-conducts for operating in New Spain are secured, and you are to report to the Father General in Mexico City, who will assign you the necessary support.
(Illegible section)
You must remain strong and focused. They may be ahead of us, but we have solid leads. If we act with diligence, we can get there first and claim the object. May the light of the Almighty guide you in the search for the truth."
The document bore a seal with the Jesuit monogram IHS, though it was a variant of the traditional form—twelve runic rays extended outward from the circle containing the monogram. The paper was so worn that many of the details were hard to make out, yet the barely visible symbol was enough to remind the old man of the oath he had sworn decades ago. He folded the letter carefully, slid it back into the book, and closed it. The title could still be read on the cover: Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius of Loyola.
He then pulled out a medallion, which bore the same partially visible monogram from the letter's seal. At the base of the symbol, three letters could be read: O.A.
Holding it between both hands, he pressed them together in prayer and murmured with closed eyes:
"Fiat voluntas Altissimi et des viez deus des montagnes… la mission doit estre faicte, bone ou malle."
(Let it be the will of the Most High and of the ancient gods of the mountains... the mission must be fulfilled, for better or worse.)
"Fiat ut sacrificium nostrum aut vindicetur aut praemietur; omnis honor et gloria ei qui nos ducit."
(May our sacrifice be avenged or rewarded; all honor and glory to the one who leads us.)
With that, he made the sign of the cross, kissed the medallion, and placed it back around his neck. He closed the book, returned it to a chest, pulled out a felt pouch, and from it took a few gold doubloons before putting it back in the same place.
Once done, he lay down on his cot, where the cat soon joined him. With a leap, it nestled at his side, and the old man stroked its back.
"Strange are the designs of the gods," he whispered, giving one last look toward where Sammy lay. "And you still don't know the mess your grandfather got us into with that journal…"
With that, he closed his eyes as the storm continued to rage outside.