Thunder from the Sea by Joan Hiatt Harlow

death.”
    â€œTell us!” Tom and Eddie yelled together.
    â€œWell, first off
this
is what became of the pirate who was chosen to guard the treasure.” Ken made a sweeping slash across his neck with his finger. Then he crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
    â€œThey killed him?” Tom asked.
    â€œTheir own crewmate?” Eddie’s eyes were huge.
    â€œAye! That’s how the gold is guarded forever. The ghost stays with the treasure … wherever Capt’n Kidd planted it.”
    â€œWe wouldn’t be ascared of any ol’ ghosts, would we, Tom?” Eddie said.
    â€œN’arn! There ain’t no such thing as ghosts,” Tom agreed. “But where did Capt’n Kidd plant the treasure anyways?”
    â€œI hears tell it might be at Cape Race,” Enoch said. “Or on Signal Hill in St. John’s.”
    â€œI’ve heard Cape Spear or Freshwater Bay,” Ken joined in.
    â€œBut—and this is the best part—on stormy nights when the wind is right, you can hear the
hollies
, the ghost cries of the pirate who’s guardin’ the treasure”—Enoch lowered his voice and motioned the boys closer—“right here in Back o’ the Moon!”
    Both boys gasped and their mouths dropped open.
    â€œâ€™Tis the gospel truth,” Ken whispered. “Listen when the wind is blowin’ and you’ll hear the hollies.”
    â€œGood morrow to you! I don’t believe a word,” Tom said, but his voice trembled.
    â€œThat’s all pishogue,” Eddie said. “Ain’t it?”
    At that moment a piercing whistle came from the kitchen. The boys jumped and Thunder, who’d been sitting by the stove, leaped up with a bark. Enoch and Ken doubled over, laughing.
    It was only the kettle!
    After tea and bakeapple tarts, the Rideouts went out into the dark night. Eddie turned before leaving and said, “There ain’t no such thing as ghosts, right, Tom?”
    â€œIt’s foolish blather,” Tom answered. “That’s all it is.”
    During these winter evenings, Fiona sat listening to the stories while her knitting needles clicked and clicked and the fire snapped and hissed.
    As her belly swelled, Fiona took to wearing bungalows—loose-fitting clothes—including old flannel shirts of Enoch’s. “He must be a little roly-poly,” Enoch often said, patting Fiona’s tummy.
    â€œHe? And what if it’s a little girl?” Fiona would respond.
    â€œWell, if so our wee maid is a roly-poly, like her mother!” was Enoch’s teasing answer. Then he’d duck as Fiona threw a pillow at him.
    Tom wondered if Enoch and Fiona hoped the baby would be a boy. And if so, would they still want him … or need him? This was a foolish thought. Tom chided himself. Of course Enoch and Fiona would still want him. Hadn’t they said so a dozen times?
    Besides, a little boy would be right wonderful! Tom could teach him to play ball and to fish. Still, Tom wasn’t Enoch and Fiona’s true son. And the baby wouldn’t be his true brother or sister, either.
    On one of these nights, Tom pressed his face into the white lightning streak on Thunder’s chest. “Fiona and Enoch will still need us when the baby comes, you know,” he told the dog. “And the baby will need us too. Sure they will. So don’t you worry, boy. We’ll be okay, Thunder, just as long as we stick together.”
    Christmas was coming and Tom recalled the holiday festivities at the mission when everyonegathered around the tree and sang carols. There were presents, too. Not one child went without a gift.
    Tom wondered what he should give to Fiona and Enoch. He couldn’t get to the stores at Chance-Along, and even if he could, he had no money. So Tom was relieved when Enoch said, “Tom, we won’t be celebrating Christmas the way you’re probably used to celebrating.