Amare Bellamy is not a witch. Orphaned as a child and raised on a ship by the most dangerous men in the Caribbean, Amare is one thing and one thing alone: a pirate. And pirates hate magic.
After a fateful storm plunges her to the depths of the ocean, Amare wakes to find herself in a strange new world: an underwater kingdom, where magic exists, but is strictly outlawed by the Kingâa man who claims to be her true father.
As Amare struggles to fit into her new role as Princess of the Sunken City, she finds herself tangled in a web of love between two brothersâone good, one not so good. And as strange powers manifest within her, she must question everything she was raised to believeâespecially if she has any hope of stopping the evil brewing at the bottom of the ocean.
Amare Bellamy is not a witch. Orphaned as a child and raised on a ship by the most dangerous men in the Caribbean, Amare is one thing and one thing alone: a pirate. And pirates hate magic.
After a fateful storm plunges her to the depths of the ocean, Amare wakes to find herself in a strange new world: an underwater kingdom, where magic exists, but is strictly outlawed by the Kingâa man who claims to be her true father.
As Amare struggles to fit into her new role as Princess of the Sunken City, she finds herself tangled in a web of love between two brothersâone good, one not so good. And as strange powers manifest within her, she must question everything she was raised to believeâespecially if she has any hope of stopping the evil brewing at the bottom of the ocean.
On the day I ruin my mortal life, I think Iâve struck gold.
Itâs late spring, or perhaps early summer. Hard to know. Out on the water, we live not by the calendar prescribed by societyâthe one marked in weeks, months, yearsâbut by sunsets and sunrises, the passing of storms, the changing of tides. Time as dictated by Nature herself.
I know this: squall season is nigh upon us. The airâhumid even in the driest of seasonsâseems to drown in itself.
I slip out of my hammock and pad up the stairs, careful not to wake any of the men snoring around me. On the way out, I fetch a pair of wooden swimming goggles that hang from a notch on the railing. Hazy orange from the sunrise streams through the slats in the hatch. I push it open, snapping the goggles onto my head as I do.
This morning marks the 66th day in our search for the chest of Leigh Ashworth. Weâve combed over a dozen locations, landing hereâan inlet cut into some nameless isle south of Port Royalâlast week. We came here on good authorityâor as good of an authority as you can find in the seedy taverns of Tortuga Island. These coordinates, bought off a desperate sailor after several pints of ale, are the last known location of Ashworthâs vessel before the sea claimed her and everyone aboard.
This is a big moment for me. Iâve spent my entire life banned from participating in treasure dives. From all of the crewâs activities: raids, rescues, digs, parlays, visits to port. Never mind that I grew up on this ship. Never mind that I know her better than I know the inside of my own head. Never mind that my hands are as skilled at rigging and hoisting and tying as any othersâ, that I can read and write and add fractions, while most of them have never learned how to spell anything but R-U-M. Iâm still a girl. And a girl doesnât pillage and plunder.
Whenever it comes time to ransack a vessel, my uncle, the infamous Captain Omar, locks me in his quarters with nothing but a book and two freshly-sharpened daggersâjust in case the enemy gets aboard.
Oh, yes. I know how to fight. Of course I do. I started lessons at age nine, when Ibe, the First Mate, put two shaved branches in my hand and told me to fight back.
At first, Uncle Omar was furious. He called Ibe into his quarters, and I squatted just outside, ear to the door. I could picture them inside the cabin: Uncle Omar behind his desk, arms splayed wide to either side of the map at its center. Ibe in the corner, half listening, half staring through the porthole at the waves outside. I listened as my uncle wrung every last drop of dignity out of his First Mate.
When he finished, silence fell over the cabin.
Then, so quietly I almost could not hear: âYeâ canât protect âer forever, Captain.â
Another beat of silence.
Uncle Omarâs long sigh. âAt least teach âer with real daggers, if yeâ must.â
The next day, Ibe handed me twin daggers with hilts of deepest turquoise. They were made by my mother, he said. A gift from her to my Uncle Omar, back when my father, the legendary Jaguar âJames, was still Captain, and Omar the First Mate. Before the wave the swept both my parents out to sea.
The daggers are my loyal companions. I never take them off. Not even to swim.
âYer up early, lass,â says a voice behind me.
I jump and spin around, hands falling to the hilts of my motherâs daggers. If itâs Captain Omar behind me, Iâll merely be sent back to bed, but if itâs one of the newer recruitsâthe dirty, drunken men we pick up in New Providence or TortugaâI need to be on my guard. In their eyes, women do not belong at sea. It is not merely improper; it is a curse. A woman at sea always carries the risk of magic.
âTo ruin me would take just one word: witch. A whisper from one man to another. A curse upon my name, to be passed about the ship like a bottle of rum. A rumor that would surely end with my dead body being tossed into the sea.
I was raised to hate witchcraft. To fear it with every heartbeat, every inch of shivering skin. Before bed, the crew would sprawl in our hammocks and tell stories brought over from their homelandsâtales of evil, of cannibal covens and soul-snatching spells and pacts with dark spirits. Witches wield far worse than curses and potions; they cause earthquakes and epidemics, tidal waves, poverty, infertility. They gather in graveyards and feast upon the bones of the deceased. They hear voices. Make pacts with wicked spirits, trade their souls for curses upon those who wrong them. The only thing pirates fear more than the Royal Navyâs noose is magic aboard their vessel.
âFor seventeen years, Iâve done everything I can to downplay my own womanhood. I cut my curls to my ears. Dressed in dirty slacks. Took swigs of rum whenever Omar wasnât looking. Hauled barrels until my arms bulged with muscle. Itâs a game of camouflage. How quickly can I absorb a manâs lifestyle? How thoroughly can âI blend in? How long does it take to make them forget my womanhood altogether?
Mercifully, the man behind me is not one of the newer recruits. Itâs Ian, one of the two Scottish brothers who make up my favorite pair of men aboard the Moonshadow. He must have drawn watch last night. âOut fer one last pass at the chest?â he asks, smiling.
I nod.
He winks. âGood girl.â
Almost no one is on deck that morning. Weâre in friendly waters, which means we only need a light crew to keep watch throughout the night. I cast about, scanning the helm and forecastle for signs of Uncle Omar, but all areas are clear. Asleep in his quarters, then.
He isnât really my uncle. As far as I know, I have no living relatives. But Omar was my fatherâs First Mate, and that made them as good as brothers.
âIt also meant that, when a torrential storm washed half the crew of the Moonshadow overboardâmy parents includedâOmar became both Captain and my official guardian.
We donât always get along. Omar believes his first job is to protect me from a life of pirating, and I believe my first job is to one day become the shipâs captain.
So. Here I am: two feet on the gunwale, goggles strapped to my face, one-piece cotton bathing costume flapping in the wind.
For now, Iâm strictly forbidden from becoming an official member of this crew. But I still dream. I still lie awake in my hammock and imagine my mother and father appearing on their own ship, one just like the Moonshadow. We strike out on our own. We comb every isle in the Caribbean, filling our hold with so much treasure our ship might sink.
But it can never be. My parents are dead, and the only family I have left is a crew of scallywags who would sooner lock me in a âhipâs hold than let me roam free. Mostly, I see the Caribbean through the windows of the Moonshadowâtight, circular depictions of paradise. A limited view of the life I could be living.
But Iâm seventeen now. This is my moment. My chance to prove that I deserve to be freed from my belowdecks holding cell and allowed to roam free, to join the men in their adventures. Yesterday, I spent six hours scouring the bottom of the ocean, only to come up with nothing. Last night, rather than sleep, I combed over and over my mental image of the sand. Did I check under those rocks? Between that patch of kelp, over by the reef?
âIâm going to get in trouble. I know I am. Omar doesnât like it when I swim unsupervised. He doesnât like it when I do anything unsupervised, really. He might run a crew full of scourges and buccaneers, of men who answer to no officer nor government nor book of maritime law, but when it comes to me, he is suddenly Constable of the Seven Seas.
âYeâ never know, in these waters,â he always says. âYeâ just never know.â
But I have a feeling about this particular patch of water. I do. I have no evidence to back this feeling upânothing more than a tingle at my fingertips, the same one I get every time we draw near to a big findâso if I tell Omar to stay, he will just furrow his brow and say, Feelinâs donât find buried treasure.
But they do. Iâm certain they do.
And Iâm going to prove it.
Amare Bellamy is a seventeen year old girl, who has spent her entire life aboard the greatly feared pirate ship, The Moonshadow. Her parents (the pirate, 'Jaguar' James Bellamy, captain of the Moonshadow and Mira, his wife), drowned in a storm when she was a babe in arms, and Amare was rescued by her father's first mate - Omar Rodriguez.
Omar raises Amare as though she's his own daughter. He offers her as much protection as he can, considering they're pirates. Whenever there's a raid, he'll lock her away in his cabin and very rarely allows her to leave the ship. While Amare appreciates his efforts, she also feels stifled, wishing she could show that she's much more than just a little, weak girl. So, when she's absolutely certain there's a chest hidden on the sea bed, she dives down to claim it. In a bid of recklessness, Amare opens the chest, desperate to know what's inside, and feeling that as she found it, she has the right to see it before anyone else. Inside it, she finds a beautiful, porcelain-like shell, which she is impelled to blow. And that's when her life changes, forever.
What Noyes has done with this novel is mix the heady life of an 18th century pirate (sprinkling in the names of real life pirates of the time. Amare dives for Leigh Ashworth's chest), with the almost modern day atmosphere of life below the waves. She brings in Amare's ignorance for modern terms (like chlorophyl) without making her sound ignorant. You completely understand why Amare would be completely oblivious to the technological advances and the jargon used by the folk below the sea, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie with her - almost wanting to shake those talking down to her to make them realise she's completely new to this.
It's a fantastic story, sprinkled with historical accuracy, amidst a whimsical and dangerous hidden world. The Sunken City manages to discuss the themes of anger, abandonment and grief without overloading the reader. There's a darkness in Amare, a darkness that isn't necessarily evil - something which many people should remember.
Definitely worth a read. I can't wait to read more of Amare's adventures.