History Keepers: Nightship to China Read Online Free
Author: Dibben Damian
flipped him right over, about to start on the rest of him . . .
Jake lunged forward, picked up the gun and took aim. But an ear-splitting shot rang out from behind him; a cloud of acrid smoke rose into the air. Josephine froze in surprise. Then blood started to seep out of a black hole in her chest – just trickling at first; then pouring, as thick as oil, down the steps. She looked around in confusion, then her legs gave way and her body thumped to the floor. As Jake gazed into her eye, it grew cloudy, flickered one last time, and then she was still.
Josephine was dead. On this day of celebration, death had come to the Mont St Michel.
Jake turned to see Oceane Noire coming down the steps. In her hand she held a shotgun – for it was she who had killed Josephine, her own pet. Her face was expressionless as she knelt down and picked up a limp paw. She closed her eyes and then let out a cry of pain, low at first, but building to a crescendo.
Jake went over to Charlie. His face was pale, but he managed to ask: ‘Mr Drake? Is he . . .?’
Jake looked round at the lifeless coloured bundle. Topaz was tending to the fallen parrot. He was moving, but it didn’t look good.
Then he turned to see the wedding party standing in silence at the bottom of the staircase, Rose at the front in her torn wedding gown.
Oceane picked herself up and, like a zombie, made her way down the steps. Jake had never seen her look so dishevelled, an old shawl thrown over her bony shoulders. At the foot of the stairs she reached out her hand to Rose and stroked her cheek, smearing it with vivid blood.
Her lips trembled as she asked bitterly, ‘Happy now?’
3 M ONSTER FROM THE D EEP
ON THE OTHER side of the world, in a far-off part of history, a ship was sailing through the night in the South China Sea. It was a trading junk – in 1612, one of the largest vessels in the world: two hundred feet long, with five masts supporting a cluster of giant fin-shaped sails. The vessel had set off from Canton two nights previously, bound for the ports of Persia and Arabia.
In a candlelit cabin at the stern of the ship, three distinguished-looking merchants, the owners, sipped tea and pored over maps, charting their route around the world.
Beneath them, in the many compartments of the hold, was an extremely precious cargo: chests of jade, jet and lapis lazuli; porcelain and ebony; rolls of fine silk and crates of tea, ginger, cinnamon and peppercorns. Guards patrolled the narrow corridors between the compartments.
Meanwhile, on deck, bare-footed sailors checked the rigging, their brows beading with sweat against the humid night; others sat cross-legged, playing dice. Watchmen in breastplates and pointed helmets kept a lookout across the dark sea for anything dangerous – pirates in particular.
All was quiet . . . when suddenly there was a huge jolt.
In the merchants’ cabin, candles were overturned and a cup of tea spilled on a chart of the Indian Ocean. Above them, the sailors froze, some halfway up the rigging, and looked round at their shipmates. The watchmen held their lanterns out over the water to see if they had hit anything. But the vessel was now continuing normally, with the wind in its sails.
In the hold, one of the guards went along a corridor to investigate a strange sound – a heavy insistent tap coming from the hull. He bent down, his ear to the floor. All at once there was a surge of noise. The wood shattered and a metal tentacle, sharp-tipped, and as thick as a human leg, punched through the timbers, just missing him. A torrent of water gushed in. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the tentacle retreated, sliding back through the hole.
The three merchants stumbled out of their cabin and looked down into the hold, stunned. They heard a deep rasp from beneath the hull, and suddenly a second steel arm smashed through, cracking open the wall of a compartment; its precious cargo tumbled out. Terrified, the merchants hurried the other
Jake lunged forward, picked up the gun and took aim. But an ear-splitting shot rang out from behind him; a cloud of acrid smoke rose into the air. Josephine froze in surprise. Then blood started to seep out of a black hole in her chest – just trickling at first; then pouring, as thick as oil, down the steps. She looked around in confusion, then her legs gave way and her body thumped to the floor. As Jake gazed into her eye, it grew cloudy, flickered one last time, and then she was still.
Josephine was dead. On this day of celebration, death had come to the Mont St Michel.
Jake turned to see Oceane Noire coming down the steps. In her hand she held a shotgun – for it was she who had killed Josephine, her own pet. Her face was expressionless as she knelt down and picked up a limp paw. She closed her eyes and then let out a cry of pain, low at first, but building to a crescendo.
Jake went over to Charlie. His face was pale, but he managed to ask: ‘Mr Drake? Is he . . .?’
Jake looked round at the lifeless coloured bundle. Topaz was tending to the fallen parrot. He was moving, but it didn’t look good.
Then he turned to see the wedding party standing in silence at the bottom of the staircase, Rose at the front in her torn wedding gown.
Oceane picked herself up and, like a zombie, made her way down the steps. Jake had never seen her look so dishevelled, an old shawl thrown over her bony shoulders. At the foot of the stairs she reached out her hand to Rose and stroked her cheek, smearing it with vivid blood.
Her lips trembled as she asked bitterly, ‘Happy now?’
3 M ONSTER FROM THE D EEP
ON THE OTHER side of the world, in a far-off part of history, a ship was sailing through the night in the South China Sea. It was a trading junk – in 1612, one of the largest vessels in the world: two hundred feet long, with five masts supporting a cluster of giant fin-shaped sails. The vessel had set off from Canton two nights previously, bound for the ports of Persia and Arabia.
In a candlelit cabin at the stern of the ship, three distinguished-looking merchants, the owners, sipped tea and pored over maps, charting their route around the world.
Beneath them, in the many compartments of the hold, was an extremely precious cargo: chests of jade, jet and lapis lazuli; porcelain and ebony; rolls of fine silk and crates of tea, ginger, cinnamon and peppercorns. Guards patrolled the narrow corridors between the compartments.
Meanwhile, on deck, bare-footed sailors checked the rigging, their brows beading with sweat against the humid night; others sat cross-legged, playing dice. Watchmen in breastplates and pointed helmets kept a lookout across the dark sea for anything dangerous – pirates in particular.
All was quiet . . . when suddenly there was a huge jolt.
In the merchants’ cabin, candles were overturned and a cup of tea spilled on a chart of the Indian Ocean. Above them, the sailors froze, some halfway up the rigging, and looked round at their shipmates. The watchmen held their lanterns out over the water to see if they had hit anything. But the vessel was now continuing normally, with the wind in its sails.
In the hold, one of the guards went along a corridor to investigate a strange sound – a heavy insistent tap coming from the hull. He bent down, his ear to the floor. All at once there was a surge of noise. The wood shattered and a metal tentacle, sharp-tipped, and as thick as a human leg, punched through the timbers, just missing him. A torrent of water gushed in. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the tentacle retreated, sliding back through the hole.
The three merchants stumbled out of their cabin and looked down into the hold, stunned. They heard a deep rasp from beneath the hull, and suddenly a second steel arm smashed through, cracking open the wall of a compartment; its precious cargo tumbled out. Terrified, the merchants hurried the other
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