Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

PROLOGUE

"Om mani padre hum," chanted the monk.
He sat alone, crosslegged, on the wooden floor of one of the many rooms in the Monastery of Small Footsteps. Morning sunlight came in from windows set high up on the walls. Apart from the monk, there was not a single thing in the room.
"Om mani padre hum," continued the chant.
It was the only sound in the Monastery. Everyone else, as far as the Monk knew, was off on a morning hike to one of the holier areas of Cutlass Island. This was well, because what the Monk was doing required immense reserves of concentration.
He was having an out-of-body experience.
It was one of a number of things devotees of the Way of Small Footsteps were able to do, after many years of training. The Monk was very good at it.
The years of training were necessary because there was always a slight risk associated with out-of-body experiences. At the one moment, you were in two places at once - sitting down somewhere in an empty room, and also flying around outside, a free spirit. If something might upset your concentration at a time like this, you could end up schizophrenic.
But the Monk was a master. Right now, while he was sitting on the bare wooden floor, he was also a zephyr of spirit energy, wafting across the sea on gentle, warm breezes. He looked down at the sea. There didn't seem to be anything down there, but the Monk remained confident. Sooner or later he would come across an animal, and then he could go a step further - he could do a mind-share.
A mind-share was, simply, occupying the mind of another animal. For as long as you wished, you could be a gazelle, a parrot, even a worm. Mind-shares were ostensibly illegal at the Monastery of Small Footsteps. In practice everybody did it sooner or later, usually somewhere private for politeness' sake. And if out-of-body experiences required super concentration, mind-shares required ultra concentration. Many a brother had died insane, thinking they were goats or crows.
As focused as he was, the Monk couldn't help but hear some noises nearby. Someone else was in the Monastery. Someone who, whenever they moved, couldn't help but make as much noise as possible.
The door opened, and in walked the acolyte.
There's one like him in every group. An eager, not so bright student who always has about a hundred ideas, each of which is guaranteed to fail. No doubt he'd been assigned some sort of punishment, but had gotten bored and was wandering about looking for company. Now he could see the Monk, and he beamed.
"Mr Monk!" he said happily. "I've been looking for you!"
The Monk didn't look around. He continued chanting.
"Oh... you're channelling again, are you?" said the acolyte, after a while. "Gee, it's a good thing everybody's away today. Channelling's really hard when you get distracted, isn't it? What with people TALKING over the CHANTING, making you LOSE YOUR PLACE... yeah, DISTRACTING."
This did not seem to be having any effect on the Monk. The acolyte waited for a response, then walked out into the hallway. The Monk, despite his best efforts at concentration, heard the distant echo of doors slamming open, cupboards being examined, and equipment dumped on the floor.
The Monk risked a quick swivel of one eyeball. He saw the open hallway, and a huge mass of stuff was walking toward him.
The acolyte re-entered the room. Anywhere there was room on his body, he was carrying an instrument. Steel drums and tambourines and broken guitars and metal things that went 'bing' when you hit them.
He started playing energetically. And while the acolyte didn't have the slightest idea of melody or rhythm, he could still raise enough noise to puncture eardrums at twenty paces. If there were any birds on the roof, they would have flown away at the first note.
The Monk didn't even blink.
The acolyte stopped playing. "Hello?" he said. "Mr. Monk? HELLLOOOO??"
He tried a few more seconds of noise. In an amazing display of self-control, not a muscle moved on the Monk's face.
The acolyte stopped. "You're no fun," he said sourly, and left in a huff.
The Monk silently exhaled, in a thousandth-sigh. He'd nearly lost himself out there over the sea, but now the acolyte was gone he was back in control.
And there was something down there, bobbing up and down on the water. The Monk zoomed in closer. It looked like a block of ice, and what was a block of ice doing in the Caribbean?
As he came close, the Monk saw that it wasn't just a block of ice. There was a body in there.
The Monk pulled up, his spirit less than twenty feet from the iceberg. He edged forward, slowly. What an ugly thing! It looked like the body of an old, fat pirate. Judging by the eternal sneer on its frozen face, he must have died swearing revenge.
The Monk came closer. Mind-shares with corpses were seldom interesting, but maybe he could find out how this pirate had died...
Ten feet out, he sensed something. The corpse remained still, but something inside had woken up. Something driven and malevolent. Intelligent.
The Monk tried to back away, but suddenly he was seized and pulled forward by a mighty, grasping force. He couldn't pull out. Somewhere, far way, his body was sitting crosslegged on a wooden floor, but he couldn't even open his eyes. The corpse was growing larger, and the Monk was dragged through the ice, passed through the skin, and into the rotting brain of the pirate.
Here was the presence, the malevolent intelligence. It turned on him, and in a horrible, indescribable way, began to feed.
Ravenous as it was, it took less than a second to consume the Monk's spirit. The meal finished, it rose into the air. The path the Monk's spirit had taken was still there in front of him, thin but visible.
He returned...
Inside the Monastery, the Monk's eyes burst open, revealing green discoloured irises. A huge, dirty black beard sprouted on his clean-shaven face. His skin went the mottled grey of the living undead. His mouth opened.
"Arrrr!" roared LeChuck.

THE SPECTRE OF MONKEY ISLAND

PART 1: TRANSPORT

Several days later...
It was another lazy summer day on Booty Island. Outside the Governor's Mansion, Guybrush and Elaine were lying down on deckchairs, in the early afternoon sunshine. Elaine was reading a novel.
Guybrush opened the root beer in his hand and took a swig. "Aaah," he said contentedly, as the blessed fluid swam down his throat. "That really hit the spot." He turned to Elaine. "Do you want some?"
"No," said Elaine, not looking up from her novel.
"You sure? This is great stuff."
Elaine didn't say anything. Guybrush could just make out the cover of the book from this distance. Some huge muscular pirate whose shirt buttons weren't working held close a simpering, well-endowed woman with doting eyes. They were standing on the deck of a pirate ship, and the wind seemed to be doing stuff to their hair.
"Suit yourself," said Guybrush. He had another swill, and looked around. In the distance they could hear Filbert toiling away, working the back forty. Birds twittered in the jungle foliage.
Several seconds passed.
Elaine sighed, and shut the novel. "Guybrush..." she began.
Guybrush turned to her. "What?"
Elaine stared right at him. "When are you going to get off your backside and do some work?"
The sudden attack startled Guybrush. "What?" he blurted. "What are you talking about?"
"It's been months of laziness," continued Elaine, in a you're-not-really-worth-getting-angry-over voice. "You're slumming off my riches. I'm starting to wonder, Guybrush, if you're really a pirate."
"I am!" protested Guybrush.
"In fact," continued Elaine relentlessly, "I don't think you ever were a pirate."
"I was so! You just-"
Guybrush broke off, because Elaine wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking up into the sky. Guybrush followed her gaze.
Pieces of paper were falling from the sky. Tiny scraps, the size of a child's palm, fluttered onto the ground around them.
Guybrush stood up and picked up one of the pieces of paper. There was writing on it. Guybrush read it.
He breathed in sharply. "Oh, no!" he exclaimed. "It says LeChuck has become Governor of Cutlass Island! I've got to go and stop him!"
"Good luck," said Elaine sceptically.
Guybrush looked at her. "You don't think I can do it?" he asked.
"Guybrush, you have trouble killing spiders. A pirate who tucks his shirt into his underpants is not the kind of pirate I'd trust with a task like this."
"That's not true!"
"Face it. You'll be crawling back here in twenty four hours begging for help and a wad of cash."
Guybrush drew himself together. With injured dignity, he said, "I don't think so. In fact, I think I'll just get rid of LeChuck once and for all. And then I want an apology."
Without another word he stalked off, root beer in hand.
Elaine picked up the novel. "Touchy."

Guybrush was fuming as he crossed the spit connecting the Mansion to the mainland. He was steaming as he walked the jungle paths to Ville de la Booty, and by the time he got to the township he was merely simmering. And even that evaporated when he realised he'd forgotten his wallet.
Guybrush ground his teeth. Of all the stupid damn things he could have gone and done, forgetting his wallet was up near the top of the list. With no money he couldn't charter a ship, and without a ship he couldn't get to Cutlass Island. Guybrush kicked a stone on the ground, annoyed.
Well, that settled that. He'd just have to turn back and-
Guybrush stopped in mid-turn. He couldn't go back now - it would be an admission of defeat. Crawling back within twenty-four hours, begging for help and a wad of cash.
Elaine's words still rankled with him. Guybrush's resolve hardened. He wasn't going back until LeChuck was six feet under. That'd show her, all right!
Satisfied now he'd made up his mind, Guybrush looked around.
Ville de la Booty was having that rarest of events - a quiet day. All the shops were shut, except for the antique place. There was just the one ship docked at the pier. And nobody in sight, except for a small kid sitting on the ground near the antique shop, listlessly playing with some fireworks.
Guybrush set out for the ship. Maybe the captain might be an understanding, credit-giving kind of guy.

It was a nice ship, thought Guybrush as he boarded the deck. Smallish, but clean, and sturdy-looking.
The ship captain stood on the deck, looking at him. Unlike most pirates, there wasn't a cloud of tiny insects and revolting smells revolving around him. He had a beard, but it was neatly kept and presentable in polite company. The clothes were all pressed and no stains were visible. In short, not your average pirate captain.
"Ahoy there, young man," said the captain as Guybrush approached. "What can I do for you?"
"I need someone to take me to Cutlass Island," said Guybrush.
"Cutlass Island, eh?" mused the ship captain. "Hmmm... that's a long way away." He looked at Guybrush. "Cutlass is a pretty dangerous island, lad. Are you sure you're up to it?"
Normally this sort of comment wouldn't have worried Guybrush, but the argument with Elaine had put him on edge somewhat. "Yes, I'm sure!" he said hotly.
"Okay..." said the ship captain, slowly. "Well, it's going to cost you."
This was what Guybrush had been dreading. For the benefit of the ship captain, he reached into his pocket, saying, "That's all right. I've got money." The hand searching the pocket stopped, and Guybrush looked stricken. "Oh, no! I've forgotten my wallet!"
"You better go get in then, hadn't you?" advised the ship captain.
Guybrush looked twice as stricken. "I... can't. Not yet."
"Well then, you ain't got a ship," said the ship captain firmly. "A thousand pieces of eight, or no journey."
"Don't you offer credit?" said Guybrush despairingly.
The ship captain shook his head. "A few years ago I used to. Then I heard about a shopkeeper on Melee Island. Seems he gave away five thousand gold pieces in credit and didn't see a cent back. Some annoying wannabe pirate with a ponytail tricked him out of the money. Nearly bankrupted the guy. I guess you could say it sort of scared me off."
It was time to leave. "Well, thanks anyway," said Guybrush, wasting no time in heading down the ramp to the pier.

On the ground, he thought about his options. Returning to the Mansion was impossible. He needed money to get off Booty Island, and the only place nearby that might be able to help was the Antique store.
Guybrush wandered over and opened the door. As always, the interior of Booty Island's Antique store was dim, smoky and packed full of merchandise. Even before Guybrush had taken a step inside he could see the pirate tools hanging from the walls, the rare and probably useless merchandise perched on thin shelves.
The antique guy was behind the counter, in perhaps the only brightly lit spot in the whole store. He looked inscrutably at Guybrush. "Hello there," he said. "How can I help you?"
Hesitantly, Guybrush said, "Er... I need some money."
"What do I look like, a bank?"
"Don't you buy old antiques?" asked Guybrush.
"Yeah, I do," said the antique guy. "What have you got?"
Even before he began rummaging through his pockets, Guybrush knew the search was fruitless. He only had one thing - a half-empty bottle of root beer. Still, this guy had been stupid enough to buy a Spitmaster plaque from him last time. Maybe he could pull a fast one again.
Guybrush pulled the bottle out of his pants, as if handling a very cultured and fragile wine. "Would you be interested in this rare root beer?" he said.
"No," said the antique guy. Seeing Guybrush's crestfallen face, he added, "Actually there is something I might give you some money for. There's an old treasure up in the northern corner of the island that nobody has managed to dig up. It'd probably be worth a lot these days."
"All right!" said Guybrush. A lost treasure - this was right up his street. "Where is this treasure?"
"The treasure of Bony Legs Pedro," said the antique guy. "I don't know exactly, but I have managed to make a rough map. Here." He gave Guybrush a small scrap of paper.
Guybrush scanned the walls. Hanging there on his right was something that looked just perfect for a treasure hunt. He pointed at a shovel. "I'd like to buy that shovel," said Guybrush.
"That'll be thirty pieces of eight," said the antique guy.
Guybrush suddenly remembered his predicament. "Ummm... the thing is..." he stalled.
"You don't have any money," finished the antique guy.
"Well... yes."
"Then you can't have the shovel," said the antique guy, calmly but implacably.

Guybrush wandered outside, frustrated but thinking hard.
No, he didn't have any money. But it felt like there was a solution to his problem, and the pieces were all around him. He only had to arrange them properly.
Guybrush looked down, and saw the kid playing with the fireworks. This was an oddly shaped piece, all right. Guybrush had no idea how it might fit into the puzzle, but he might as well talk to the kid anyway.
For a kid with fireworks, he was having a remarkable lack of fun. "What's happening?" said Guybrush.
The kid looked up at him, disgusted. "Nothing. Can you believe it? I've got this great pile of fireworks here and no matches!"
"Why don't you just buy some matches?" said Guybrush.
"Because the guy in the antique store is a ripoff merchant, that's why," said the kid evenly.
There was a pause. The kid shrugged his shoulders in an admission of defeat. "Oh, this is useless," he said. "I'm going home." He stood up and looked at Guybrush. "You can take the fireworks, if you want." Then he left.
Guybrush looked down again. A large pile of fireworks was there in front of him. Think, Guybrush, think...
He had it. This was going to be good...

The antique guy's eagle eyes saw some rather strange behaviour in the next few minutes.
Standing behind the counter, watching the door, he saw it open and a short silhouette was outlined in the doorway. It was that Guybrush person. The antique guy watched as Guybrush nonchalantly wandered into the store. This was the word that immediately occurred to the antique guy - there was an air of very consciously studied nonchalance about Guybrush's walk.
This nonchalant, meandering walk brought Guybrush, as if quite by accident, to the counter. He brought his hands up to the bench and said, looking at the antique guy, "Don't you take credit?"
"Oh, no," said the antique guy immediately. "Well, I used to about three years ago, but then I heard about another antique dealer on Melee Island. Seems he gave some young pirate five thousand gold pieces of credit, and the guy went and defaulted on him. The antique dealer just about went broke. Had to pay it to Stan, poor guy, which just about killed him. So no, sorry, no credit."
He'd been looking at Guybrush the whole time, and he was satisfied nothing untoward had happened. But he was wrong. There was a large display case on the bench, and in front of it a small box full of matches. The display case blocked the antique guy's view, and so Guybrush had helped himself to a handful.
Nonchalantly, he walked away. The antique guy saw him wander into the darkest area of the store, and stop, as if entranced by some item.
Nothing much happened in the next five seconds. Then there was a rustle and some motion. Then Guybrush bent down and coughed noisily. Underneath the coughing, the antique guy heard something else.
Guybrush stood up, and in that same nonchalant style, walked away, his interest suddenly taken by a rack of pirate tools on one wall.
The antique guy was following his progress when there was a sudden loud 'bang!' on his right. Involuntarily his head whipped around. "What the..." The formerly dark corner of his store was filled with light, as a collection of streamers and roman candles burst merrily on the ground. The noise, and light, in this confined space was deafening. The antique guy ducked.
The last firework went off. As the dust settled, the antique guy rose and looked suspiciously at Guybrush. He was standing by the pirate tool rack, both hands behind his back, and smiling inanely.
The antique guy's eyebrows narrowed.
Guybrush started to back away, still smiling furiously.
The antique guy stared straight at him.
It was like a Mexican standoff.
With a jolt, Guybrush backed into the door, and found he had a problem. How could you open a door with your hands full and while you were facing the other way? The antique guy was staring at him harder than ever and Guybrush knew he was waiting for a slipup.
Guybrush kept smiling, backed up against the door, and tried to manoeuvre some spare fingers around the doorknob. A very tense five seconds passed, in which the only sound was the faint scratching sound of Guybrush failing to open the door, and the antique guy's low breathing.
Finally he found a grip. The door opened behind him. Guybrush gratefully backed into the space, smiling one final time at the antique guy. "Be seeing you," he said, then he was gone.

Outside, Guybrush ran until he was a safe distance away. Then he dropped the axe and shovel on the ground and took some very deep breaths.
Finally his heart dropped back into its normal rhythm. Out of sight of peering locals, he spread the map on the ground and studied it.
The north of Booty Island was mostly untamed jungle and swampland. There was only one main feature, a huge tree upon which was built a multi-room house, formerly the home of the island cartographer. It afforded magnificent views of the whole island. However, the X on this map was a point somewhat west of the tree. Still, it would be a useful starting point to his quest.
Lugging the tools, Guybrush started north. That sun was right above, and it was the hottest part of the day. The clouds of flies and gnats grew around his head, as he passed swampland and marshland and stinking green bogs.
He was following a thin path, the only way in and out of Booty Island's most desolate corner. And soon, straight above like a beacon for weary travellers, he saw the thick, gnarled branches of the Big Tree.
Guybrush stopped at the base of the Tree, beside a trunk nearly thirty feet in diameter. High above, he saw the grey planks bolted together, the floor of the cartographer's hut. At one stage a staircase had led up around the trunk of the Tree to the hut, but now most of the logs were gone. There was just a series of holes drilled into the trunk, and two small planks in the bottom two holes.
Guybrush wasn't worried - he'd done this before. Coming forward, he stood on the second plank. Kneeling down, he pulled the first plank out of the trunk, and slotted it into the next hole. Then he stood on this plank, knelt down and pulled out the second plank. And so on. Proceeding laboriously one step at a time, Guybrush finally reached the main hut.
It was built right on the trunk, at a point where it split into several thick, almost horizontal branches. Steps were cut into one gradually sloping branch, leading to a smaller, higher hut. A thin ladder led up to a tiny observation hut, built right at the top of the tree.
It was the observation hut Guybrush wanted. He climbed carefully, coming through the gently swaying leaves of the tree, and emerged out the top, standing on a circular floor barely three feet wide.
The view was incredible. Rolling forests and croaking wetlands surrounded him, and beyond them was the sea, tiny thin noiseless white waves crashing into the yellow sand.
Guybrush got out the map, and found Ville de la Booty. He turned until he was looking at Booty Island's principal township. Let's see... this X was on his right, at about one hundred and thirty degrees. Not too far distant, either.
He turned, and looked down. The map seemed to be indicating a tiny clearing in the jungle, a clearing that looked a bit to Guybrush like muddy swampland. Guybrush could see nothing that might indicate the presence of treasure.
It was time to come down. Guybrush did so, and ten minutes later was back at the foot of the Tree. Picking up the axe and shovel, he set out for his quarry.
It was cooler in the shade of the forest. Here there were no paths to follow, but Guybrush remembered his direction - almost directly toward the sun - and followed it slavishly, pushing aside ferns, low-lying vines and other native fauna.
Soon the trees pulled aside, and he was in a circular clearing.
The circular clearing, brilliantly lit from above, was nothing more than a deep, muddy bog. Guybrush knew, looking at that wet, bubbling surface, that to take one step into the bog was to forever vanish from the face of the earth. Frogs croaked and crickets whistled.
It wasn't all bog, however. Right in the centre of the bog was an upraised mound of what looked like normal soil. It had to be, because it supported a wooden sign. Guybrush strained his eyes to read the writing.
"'Congratulations!'" he read. "'You've found the long lost treasure of Booty Island. What do you want, a medal? Start digging.'"
So he'd found it after all. Now he just had to get it.
Guybrush looked around, momentarily indecisive, then picked up the axe. He chose a slender, weak-looking tree at the edge of the bog and began pounding at the trunk.
The first blow shook every leaf in the tree, causing a massive exodus of birds. Guybrush kept pounding. From the way the whole tree shook at his blows, it wasn't very strong.
The seventh stroke caused the trunk to crack. The tree began to keel over. With a gradual tearing sound, the crack deepened. The keel became more pronounced. Finally, like an old man giving up the ghost, the tree crashed to earth.
Guybrush dropped the axe. He picked up the trunk, and with a loud series of heaves, began pulling it around onto the bog. Pushing and pulling with all his might, Guybrush was able to line up the trunk with the sign in the middle. The gap was bridged.
Shovel in hand, a freely sweating Guybrush crossed the gap. The tree trunk, though it was soft and weak, was also wide, and it held under his weight. With relief he stepped onto the dry soil in the middle.
The sign came out of the ground at the first pull - it was in his way - and Guybrush began digging. It was absurdly easy work. The dirt was so soft and damp it just about leapt out of the ground as he dug.
Two feet down the shovel struck wood. Guybrush knelt down and brushed away soil. He could feel the edges of a wooden chest, reinforced with brass - a fairly small chest, at that. Guybrush was able to grasp its edges and lever it out of the ground.
The antique guy might be interested in this.

The antique guy, standing behind the counter, glared suspiciously at Guybrush as he entered. The glare melted away instantly, however, when Guybrush dropped a small dirty chest on the counter.
"Wow!" enthused the antique guy. "The treasure of Bony Legs Pedro! You found it!" And beneath the enthusiasm, he was thinking: I can shortchange this guy and make up for the stuff he undoubtedly stole.
As if on cue, Guybrush asked, "How much is it worth?"
"How much?" The antique guy crossed his eyes, as if in deep thought, as indeed he was - how much could he fleece off this guy? "I'll give you a thousand pieces of eight," he said.
That was exactly enough to pay the ship captain. "Done," said Guybrush with a smile.
The antique guy beamed back. He handed over the money - a thousand gold pieces in a single hessian sack. "Nice working with you," he said. "Come back anytime."
Guybrush left.
The antique guy restrained an urge to shout. What a killing.

In high spirits, Guybrush boarded the ship.
The ship captain was still about, standing on deck and looking at him as if he didn't expect very much. Guybrush changed that by handing over the money. He loved the way that made people's expressions change.
Not only the captain's expression, but his whole personality changed. "All right, mon!" he said, breaking into Jamaican. "Consider my ship chartered!"
"That was Monkey Island II," said Guybrush impatiently.
The ship captain blinked. "Er... really? Sorry... don't know what came over me then. Let's cast off!"

Part 2