Arrive on the beach

Alice checked the journal one final time. She had acquired the aged book from the same Spanish officer who so kindly gave up the fine justacorps she now wore over her white blouse and green trousers. The pirate captain pushed up her tricorn hat as she surveyed the terrain. The pink sand beach, the half-moon shaped bay, a hill with the silhouette of a sleeping jaguar - the landmarks were all here. This had to be the island.

"You sure about this Cap'n?" first mate, Mr. Molloy, asked in his flowing Irish lilt. He shifted his powerful frame, uneasily kicking at the sand. "I'd rather be gett'n my gold the old fashioned way, with a proper fight."

"My Spanish may not be perfect, but this," Alice slapped the old leather cover, "is plain as day. The conquistador who wrote this journal tells how tribes hereabouts leave golden offerings in a temple on a sacred island, this island, and they've been doing it for generations. They won't even build a village here for fear it'll offend their gods or nature spirits or whatever." She waved her hand dismissively. "This place is deserted. It's gold free for the taking."

Molloy frowned. "If'n it were so free, why didn't the Spaniards take it?" He shook his head. "You know me cap'n. I'll face any man or beast without pause, but I'm warning ya'. You shouldn't cross the fey. Not the ones on this island, my island, or any other."

"You're afraid of fairies and spirits?!" The lady pirate doubled over laughing. Her hat hit the sand, leaving the red-head's ponytail to swing free. "My, my - Marauding Colm Molloy, chicken of the Irish Isle!" She hooked her thumbs in her wide sword belt and flapped her elbows like wings. "Cluck! Cluck! Cluck!"

Molloy clenched his jaw so hard it made his teeth ache. If any man had said half that to him he'd gut the fool where he stood, but Molloy had never seen the captain's equal with either a blade or a musket. Instead he spun to the men pulling the row boat ashore with white knuckled fists. "Smith, Halimi - you two stop acting the maggot and start cutt'n a path through that jungle! Renaurd," he pointed to the lanky Haitian sailor, "you'll be carrying the gear!"

High on the hill overlooking the bay, the shaman watched the new arrivals to the sacred island. They came with no offerings, only weapons. He had not spent so many years sequestered here that he could not recognize invaders when he saw them. And the woman with the flame-colored hair had mocked the island spirits without fear. She would learn of their power. The spirits had given him magic enough to humble all of them, most especially her.