by Tom Abrahams
“How old are you?” he asked.
A hint of a smirk flashed at one corner of her mouth. “I’ll give you one of two,” she said. “What do you want, my name or my age? You can’t have both.”
Without warning, Branch backhanded the girl across the face. The smack drew gasps and amplified the whimpers. The girl, however, said nothing. Her head hung to one side, jaw clenched, the right half of her face reddened.
Branch growled, “I’ll have whatever I want.”
With his hands, he pushed himself to his feet. Towering over the girl now, he paced along the kneeling row of islanders. His guards leveled their weapons at them.
Fifty yards inland, the rest of the villagers sat clustered together. Guards watched them too, keeping them in place. All of them, aside from the girl, carried their bodies in a way that told Branch he frightened them. They were weak, and they wouldn’t resist him.
He was also certain the girl’s parents weren’t among those on the island. He could see it on faces, in postures, as he studied the way the others reacted to his strike. The girl was alone. She had nothing to lose.
In his experience, Branch found people with everything to lose were cowards. They let fear govern their actions, their lives.
Those with nothing to lose were dangerous. They acted rashly. They defied conventional wisdom. They challenged authority.
“I am looking for a map,” he said. His voice boomed, carrying above the crash of the surf on the larger rocks at the coastline of the small island. “This map is old. It is special. I know the map is here.”
Branch paused and studied the islanders’ expressions. None of them except for the girl would look at him. Leaning into a step, he started moving along the rocky beach. His boots pushed against the smooth gray stones. They squeaked and ground against each other as he moved, his hands behind his back now.
“I have traveled this forsaken planet from archipelago to archipelago, from ship to ship, in search of this map,” he continued.
He stopped and spun to retrace his steps. With a sweeping wave, he accentuated the breadth of his quest.
“I have done whatever I know is necessary to unite me with this map. The map is here. Until I have it in my hands, you will die one at a time.”
Branch stopped walking and stood in front of the defiant girl. Pausing for effect, he sucked in a deep breath as a thick cold drop of rain hit his cheek. Then another and another.
Thunder boomed overhead and the downpour began anew. Sheets of rain washed over the island. The sound of it hitting the rocks, the surf, the roofs of poorly constructed huts was almost deafening. Branch motioned to one of his guards and pointed at the crusty man next to the girl.
“Start with him,” he said. “Then pick nine others. Leave the girl.”
The guard closest to Branch, a man named Limahong, marched toward the old man. He jabbed his weapon at him and ordered him to his feet. Instead of complying, the man raised his hands in defense.
“Take the girl,” the old man shrieked. “She knows about the map.”
Limahong looked at Branch for direction. The pirate captain raised his hand and flicked his fingers to order the guard back a step. Limahong retreated, but kept his weapon aimed at the old man.
The girl hadn’t reacted at all to the old man’s betrayal. This told Branch the traitor was right. She knew something. Branch’s smile returned.
“I’ve picked my question,” he said to her. “What’s your name?”
“Anaxi,” she replied, voice swelling with pride. “Anaxi Mander.”
“Ahhhh, Mander,” said Branch, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the ocean. “I just offed a Mander. Was he your—”
“Father. Lucius was my father.”
“And your mother?”
“I don’t have a mother.”
“Very good,” Branch said. He leaned down to stare straight into her eyes once more. “I thought your confidence was born of having nothing to lose. I was wrong.”
Chapter Four
Through the curtain of rain, Anaxi Mander watched the only home she’d known disappear over the horizon. Her body shivered in the cold. Her clothes, little more than rags, were soaked through and clung to her thin frame.
She was alone at the ship’s stern. Tears mixed with the rain on her face, and she tasted the salt on her lips. This was what she’d always feared, the time for which she’d always prepared.
Anaxi thought of her father, Lucius. She’d never met a kinder man. Sure, her experience was limited. The only people with whom she’d had contact were the ninety-six members of her tribe and the occasional visiting mariner.
A visiting mariner she’d never met was said to be her mother. Lucius rarely spoke of the woman, and only told Anaxi that her name was Josephine, and that she’d left the tribe seven days after giving birth.
No note. No explanation.
A tepid wind flapped across limp sails above and nearly drowned out the puttering sound of the motor at the ship’s aft. Anaxi looked down at the bubbling churn of water. She’d never seen a working motor. Her father had told her about engines and fuel. They seemed mystical to her, something from a dream. Now, she stood above one as it rumbled.
The Saladin had three masts: the mizzen toward the rear of the ship, the main mast at the ship’s center, and the foremast at the front. There was a large pole that extended diagonally up from the bow of the ship, which connected small jibs to the foremast. They served as small spinnakers, which gave the ship extra speed in the right conditions. At least that was what Anaxi understood from hearing bits and pieces of conversations amongst the sailors on board.
There were two catapults on the deck. One each on the starboard and port sides. The mangonel designs sat adjacent to standard wheeled cannons perched on short rails meant to absorb recoil. Both of the mangonels’ frames were anchored through the deck planks and into the crossbeams that ran below deck in the ship’s belly. Water slopped into the payload buckets. Anaxi thought about the catapults. It was an odd choice for a pirate ship.
Incessant tears blurred her vision, but she stared at the water. Somewhere beneath the surface was her father. He was gone. Like her mother, she would never see him again.
She closed her eyes and thought of him. It was only hours since the thugs had forced him aboard the skiff and she’d watched him drift away from her, knowing he wouldn’t come back. He’d warned her this day could come, when she would be separated from him—when her training would matter.
In her mind, she held a favorite memory of him. He stood on the beach, teaching her to skip flattened stones into the ocean. The sun shone. A breeze came along with the tide. He smiled and laughed with her as she tried side arming the rocks into the surf.
He picked up a rock of his own and held it between his thumb and forefinger. Instructing her to do the same, he used his free hand to adjust her grip.
Anaxi remembered the rock was cool in her hand. Her father’s touch was warm.
“Ana, hold it like this,” he’d said.
Lucius bent at his knees, took a step forward, and flung the rock spinning toward the water. It hit once and skipped off the surface twice more before plunking below the surf.
She tried again, mimicking his delivery. Dropping her right shoulder low, she flicked her wrist and released the stone. It hit the water and jumped once.
“You got it,” he said. “Great job.”
Lucius beamed with pride. She recalled the smile on her face was so wide it hurt her cheeks. Anaxi replayed that vision of her father’s smiling face again and again. She cataloged him; his windswept black hair, his bronze skin, amber eyes, toothy grin.
How long could she remember his face before it faded from memory? Days? Weeks?
Her father told her he could barely remember her mother’s appearance after so much time. He didn’t remember the color of her hair, her eyes, the shape of her face.
Was she tall or short? Thin or plump?
He didn’t recall
. And standing on the back of the ship, the stormy ocean playing with her balance, she didn’t want to forget.
She described him to herself on repeat within her mind. Windswept black hair. Bronze skin. Amber eyes. Toothy grin. Tall. Lean. Kind.
A hand touched her shoulder, shaking her from her moment and causing her to jump in fright. It was the pirate, Branch.
“What’s our heading?” he asked.
She willed away the tears. Anaxi didn’t want this man to see her cry.
“Our direction?” he said, incorrectly assuming she didn’t understand the question in its first iteration. “To find the map?”
“Wherever you want to go,” she said. “You can search every archipelago and every atoll in this part of the world, and you won’t get any closer to it.”
With a forceful jerk, the pirate spun her around to face him. The wind at his back blew his hair across his face, but she saw a flash of unbridled, desperate anger. He spoke through his yellowed teeth, spit spraying her face as he did.
“Don’t play games with me,” Branch said. “You have no power here. I can make you talk.”
It was her turn to smile. She did. Then she laughed at him. His face flushed crimson. His grip tightened on her shoulders.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m not playing games. You can’t get closer to the map than you already are.”
The pirate’s expression hardened. His mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. His grip loosened on her shoulders and he stepped back. Rain whipped between them. The ship’s hull creaked as it swayed in the intensifying swells.
Lightning strobed above them and flashed in the pirate’s eyes. Thunder cracked and deepened into a boom that reverberated through Anaxi’s shivering body. She was sure he understood now. An epiphany.
The ship lurched to one side and it changed course. Anaxi lost her balance and grabbed onto a gunnel on the port side. Branch held his balance, unfazed by the sudden shift.
The mainsail boom rattled and the patchwork sail lost its billow. It flapped back and forth for a moment until it caught wind again and snapped taut. The ship righted itself.
A man called from behind the helm, “Apologies. Trying to keep the wind. It’s tricky with the storm. Had to come about.”
Branch waved him off without taking his eyes from Anaxi. He folded his arms across his chest and scratched the scruff along the underside of his jaw with clawlike fingers.
“You have the map now?” he asked.
His eyes drifted across her, studying her. His brows twitched with confusion when she didn’t answer.
“How could you have the map?” he said.
Anaxi considered how to answer the question. She saw a crack in the pirate’s confidence. It was infinitesimal, but it was there. Now the epiphany belonged to her.
I can work with this, she thought.
As much as she was a prisoner, there was opportunity. She knew where the map led and what treasure the pirate sought. As far back as she could remember, her father had lulled her to sleep with the same fantastic tale. It was a story of her mother, of hidden treasure, of a map that guided a seeker through dangerous waters and onto equally precarious land. Lucius had insisted she memorize every bit of the story word for word. She had.
Never in a million lifetimes did she believe her father when he said she’d someday leave their home. Never did she expect to use the bedtime story or think she would have the chance to find the treasure herself. This wicked pirate was her chance. He wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. While brutal, she could do him worse. And if the challenges that lay ahead didn’t end him, she would.
Anaxi wiped a sheen of water, sweat, and tears from her face and ran her finger through her hair. She lifted her chin and locked her gaze on his. Adrenaline surged through her body and she balled her small hands into fists.
“I don’t have the map,” she said. “I am the map.”
Chapter Five
Zeke checked his hole cards. A pair of queens stared back at him. A third queen gave him three of a kind on the flop. He upgraded to a full house with a pair of threes on the turn. Only he and Gabe were left in the game when the dealer added the river. Five cards, faceup. It was Gabe’s move, his turn to bet.
Gabe grunted. Phil, sitting between the two, chuckled.
Uriel sat across from Zeke, biting her nails. She’d folded on the flop, as she did every hand.
She withdrew her finger from her mouth and smirked. Her hand slapped against the table, knocking over the small pile of chips in front of Gabe.
“It’s not a life-or-death decision,” she said with no hint of irony. “It’s a single hand.”
Gabe frowned at her. He scanned the table again. Shifting in his chair, its feet scraping against the floor, he lifted the corner of his hole cards.
“Those aren’t changing,” groaned Uriel. “They’re the same two you were dealt.”
Zeke watched Gabe intently. There was the possibility his opponent had four of a kind. He might hold the other threes in his hand. It was unlikely. Gabe, however, had no idea Zeke was holding a pair of queens.
Risk averse, Zeke had played his hand conservatively and not bet the farm. He’d offered small raises or called the bets, nothing obvious. He was stone faced and hoped Gabe couldn’t see the rapid pulse in his chest and at his neck.
Gabe exhaled. He tossed his cards into the center of the table. “I’m out.”
Zeke couldn’t suppress his grin. Without turning over his winning hand, he slid the cards into a mess of them to his left. He wrapped his hands around his loot and pooled it toward him.
Gabe raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to tell me what you had?”
“Nope.”
Uriel laughed. “Good for you,” she said. “You might be one of us yet.”
“Might be one of what?” someone asked.
The voice came from behind Zeke. It was masculine but meek and unsure. The man cleared his throat, and Zeke spun around. It was Lucius Mander.
Zeke recognized the wide-eyed disorientation on the man’s face. His skin was pale. His hair was slicked back against his scalp. He wore a loose-fitting cotton shirt and baggy pants that had zippers wrapped around the thighs. His feet were bare. Abandoning the first question, he asked a second. His voice was stronger this time.
“Where am I?”
Uriel answered him. “Not sure you’d believe us if we told you.”
Lucius shrugged. “About which?”
“Either,” said Gabe.
“Both,” said Phil.
Zeke scooted his chair back and stood. He offered a hand to Lucius. “I’m Zeke Watson.”
Lucius hesitantly took his hand and shook it, distrust in the movement. “Lucius Mander.”
“We know,” said Uriel. “You’re the new guy. Quite a dramatic entrance. Impressive. I’m Uriel. This is Phil. And Gabe. And everyone else.”
Lucius’s eyes darted around the room. He released Zeke’s hand and crossed his arms over his chest. His shoulders drew inward. His gaze narrowed and he scanned the table now, studying each of the card players.
“I don’t remember much of anything,” he said. “I mean, I remember swimming here. I remember being chased by those—by the—”
“Horde,” said Uriel. “Cute, aren’t they? I like the tall, dark, and handsome type, but two out of three does the trick.”
She winked at Lucius, who clearly wasn’t sure how to take her. His brow furrowed with confusion. He didn’t reply to her. Instead, he looked to Zeke.
“The bartender told me to find you and get a drink,” he said. “That’s what I’m doing. I mean, what I did.”
“How did you know it was me?” asked Zeke.
“The hat.”
Zeke touched the Stetson atop his head. It was a gift from Pedro. The hat had become part of him in the short time he’d worn it. He ran his fingers along the brim and tugged down to adjust the fit.
“Let’s go,” he said, leading Luc
ius from the table toward the bar.
“Can I come?” asked Uriel as they passed her. Her hand brushed across Zeke’s chest, her fingernails scratching him.
“Maybe later.”
A few steps from the table, Lucius leaned into Zeke. He whispered above the din, “Who is she?”
“Uriel,” Zeke said.
“Right. But who is she?”
“Who are any of us?” Zeke said. He wasn’t sure what he was allowed to tell the newcomer and what he had to keep secret. Being vague seemed the best option.
They reached the bar and Zeke pointed to an empty stool. Lucius climbed up and Zeke took the seat next to him.
Pedro, who was busy drying a glass, had his back to them. He glanced up and eyed their reflections in the back mirror.
“What’ll it be?” he asked. “First round is on the house.”
Lucius swallowed hard and pressed his palms flat against the bar. When he lifted them, the moisture left behind slowly evaporated. The newcomer was nervous. Not surprising. All of this was confusing. Zeke knew that firsthand. He leaned toward Lucius.
“It’s not a trick question,” he said. “You can have whatever you want.”
“Water?” Lucius ordered it as if water might not be on the menu. Or perhaps it was that he wasn’t sure if that’s what he wanted.
Pedro turned around, empty glass in hand. He slapped his rag over the shoulder of his leather vest. One large step had him bellied up to the bar.
“Ice or no ice?” he asked.
Lucius looked at Zeke the way children look at parents for permission. Zeke shrugged.
Lucius cleared his throat and said, “Ice.”
Pedro nodded. Then he smiled, a hint of mischief washing across his face. “And nothing in the water…with the ice?”
Lucius shook his head. “Just the ice water.”
“And you, Zeke? Whisky? Bourbon?”
Zeke rapped his knuckles on the bar. He scanned the shelves of liquor, stopping for a moment on the spine of the large book about Watchers, which was back in its place, and then he pointed at Pedro.
