The first light of day jolted Cody awake. He was still inside the ancient Mayan enclosure, and the first thing he saw was the painted ceiling above him: a constellation marking three stars. He lowered his gaze and, nearby, discovered Yax sleeping deeply.

  Then he understood it had not been a nightmare.

  He was about to sit up when a figure appeared at the entrance of the sanctuary, making him flatten himself against the wall in sheer terror. The stranger wore a loose white blouse and, over it, a long vest crossed by bandoliers loaded with pistols and cartridge belts. A wide sash held a cutlass at her side; tall boots reached her knees, and a tricorn crowned her head. Her face was hidden behind a bandana.

  “Good morning,” a female voice said.

  Cody slid over to Yax and shook him awake. The boy stretched—then, upon seeing the intruder, sprang upright and pressed himself against the wall as well.

  “Which one of you fired at my trap?”

  They looked at each other, saying nothing.

  A short while later, they stood at the base of the ancient pyramid, facing the stranger, who studied them with open curiosity. At last, she lowered the bandana. She was a young Black woman.

  “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”

  “I’m Yax,” the Mayan boy replied. “I lived in the citadel of Xul-Kan until the Spaniards took it. They arrested everyone.”

  “Bloody hell… that’s top-tier shit,” she muttered. “Did anyone else get out?”

  “Only me… and Kwame.”

  “I know Kwame. Bad luck,” she said. “And you, blondie? You from the San Jorge redoubt?”

  Still shaken, Cody shook his head like a frightened child.

  “Then where are you from?”

  “I’m… I’m Cody Harris. I’m… crew on a ship.”

  She examined him with a probing gaze.

  “Which ship?” she began, then stopped when she saw how rattled he was. “Never mind.”

  “How did you find us?” Yax asked.

  “I checked my traps. One was completely burned out—that’s never a good sign, so I went to investigate. Lucky for you, it wasn’t Spaniards or people from the redoubt.”

  “Last night a kisin—or a camazotz—was hunting him,” Yax said, pointing at Cody. “I used a flare gun to scare it off.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “You were lucky to be near a sacred enclosure. Otherwise, you’d be hanging from the branches like laundry,” she said. “So—what’s your plan?”

  “I want to speak with the leader of the maroons,” Yax said.

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Are you one of them?”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “No point denying it. What do you want, boy?”

  “I want… help rescuing my family, and the people from the redoubt.”

  “You’re wasting your time. That won’t happen. You’d need something truly special to convince King Checo Saloum.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “King?”

  “That’s right. Our leader descends from a noble lineage in the Congo. He was defeated by a rival tribe and sold to the Portuguese as a slave.”

  Yax fell silent, desperately searching for something to offer.

  “There are runaway slaves—men, women, and children, both Mayan and Black,” he said. “They could join you and swell your ranks to fight the Spaniards.”

  She smiled at the proposal.

  “We already have enough warriors in our maroon clan. More people just means more mouths to feed,” she replied. Then she turned to Cody. “And you? You look like the kisin’s still got its claws in you.”

  “Me?” Cody stammered. “I just want to get back to my ship… and rescue members of my crew.”

  She looked at Yax. He shrugged.

  “It was a perfect Spanish ambush,” he explained.

  “Damn…” she murmured.

  She sighed deeply, looked up at the sky, and clicked her tongue.

  “I can take you to the camp, but I promise nothing. And if you don’t come out alive, don’t blame me. King Checo isn’t an easy man.”

  “It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Yax said.

  “Fine. But first, you’ll help me carry the morning’s catch,” she added, pointing toward the undergrowth. “Come on. Oh—and my name’s Kenda.”

  Minutes later, the boys followed her through the jungle, carrying a wild boar tied by its legs to a pole slung across their shoulders. Sweat poured down their faces beneath the weight.

  “Where are we going?” Cody asked, panting.

  “To play our cards,” Yax replied.

  *****

  Meanwhile, at the Caleta del Hundido, the tide had dropped at dawn, leaving the Garnor settled firmly on the sand. The work crew immediately braced the hull on the starboard side with logs to prevent any unwanted tilt. Exterior repairs began at once: damaged planks were replaced, using timber salvaged from the nearby wreck whenever it could be reused.

  “That’s going to bring the ship terrible luck,” some of the pirates muttered.

  Beneath the awning, Sammy remained beside the pilot, who fanned his face with a banana leaf she had fetched from the mangroves. After the events of the night, she felt she needed to watch her back more than ever. She couldn’t help casting resentful glances at the boatswain, fully aware that he had already revealed his true nature. Every word, every gesture now had to be measured; even those who seemed close could no longer be trusted.

  While Trumper was focused on the repairs, Sammy slipped away toward where Kwame was being held under guard. The watch had just changed, and Kayin—after barely a couple of hours of sleep—had returned to his post.

  When he saw her approach, he immediately sensed something was wrong.

  “What happened?” he asked quietly. “Did you see the ghost again?”

  Sammy shook her head slightly.

  “Let’s just say I saw something… so disturbing that, by comparison, a ghost would seem harmless. I’ll tell you later. Listen—will there be a chance to speak with… the troublesome guest?”

  Kayin glanced around. Pete was dozing against a stack of crates not far away.

  “You know I can’t say no to you,” he whispered. “Just be discreet.”

  Sammy approached Kwame, who remained seated on the sand with his hands bound.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Kwame…”

  “Well now,” he replied. “And who might you be?”

  “I’m Sam Worthy… the one who saw the signals.”

  “I understand. You explained that last night. What is it?”

  “I wanted to know if, among the captives still alive, you remember a boy my age… tall, skinny, blond hair, blue eyes… nervous, unable to hold anyone’s gaze.”

  Kwame smiled.

  “Oh, lad… I can’t say I recall anyone like that.”

  “But then you did see the survivors.”

  Kwame blinked twice, then smiled more broadly.

  “I saw them—just as clearly as I see you now. After making the signals, I was able to spy on the Spaniards.”

  Sammy exchanged a quick look with Kayin.

  “You said you had a rescue plan,” she continued. “How do you intend to carry it out?”

  “That, my dear boy,” Kwame replied, “is something to be discussed directly with the captain.”

  Behind him, Kayin muttered under his breath:

  “He’s an ass.”

  Sammy couldn’t help smiling.

  “You might be surprised to learn that sometimes the most insignificant members of the Garnor’s crew can contribute to important plans.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Kwame replied with a half-smile. “The boatswain certainly paid you plenty of attention. Which reminds me—he’s coming. Watch yourself.”

  Trumper appeared then, striding forward with a scowl. His eyes locked onto Sammy.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped.

  “I came to speak with Mr. King. Personal matter.”

  “I allowed them to speak,” Pete interjected, now standing beneath the awning.

  Trumper looked from the two boys to Pete, who met his stare without flinching.

  “Mr. Nightingale,” Trumper warned, “let this be the last time you allow anyone near a prisoner without my authorization.”

  “Mr. Worthy was clear,” Pete replied calmly. “He came to speak with Mr. King.”

  “Consider yourself warned, Mr. Nightingale. And as for you, Worthy,” he added, turning back to Sammy, “return to the pilot. He’s complained that you keep wandering off into the mangroves.”

  “That’s true,” Sammy replied evenly. “They’re dangerous places. One never knows when a band of heartless scoundrels might strike.”

  Trumper held her gaze for several seconds, fury burning in his eyes, then motioned curtly for her to leave.

  “And you,” he barked at the guards, “take this Black man to the captain’s tent. He’s wanted—now.”

  Pete and Kayin stepped forward with their muskets, but Kwame rose on his own and began walking, escorted by several men, toward where Skippy awaited.