by Tom Abrahams
Anaxi opened her eyes. She regarded Branch without expression. Her dry lips were pressed into a straight line. Her lids hung heavy on her eyes. It was as dispassionate a look as she could affect.
Branch’s eyes shifted back and forth between Anaxi and Le Grand. The pilot shrugged. Anaxi inhaled deeply through her nose and slowly let it out.
The pirate cursed. “Fine. Go ahead. Finish the rhyme.”
Anaxi, being too clever, started from the beginning. This time Branch was silent until she finished.
Across the sea, through sun and shower
There is a sword of heavenly power
Its blade honed sharp, its grip is true,
in the hand of the righteous, its strength glows blue
Many shall seek, one shall find
This gift and curse, this fruit and rind.
Hunt with warning, all who dare
The course is rough, the challenge unfair.
Sail south until the seas are calm,
The bright sun melts, the light is gone.
A moon shall rise, blood red and full,
All your strength this feat shall pull.
Smoke and flame are in your path,
To reach the next, extinguish its wrath.
She opened her eyes and looked at Branch. His exaggerated frown glared back at her.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “What is that supposed to mean? Blood moon? Smoke and flame?”
Le Grand answered before Anaxi could speak. “It means there will be a fire. We’ll have to put it out and—”
Branch exploded, his voice echoing from its volume. “I know it means fire! I know it means we have to put it out. I’m looking for a little more than the obvious.”
There was saliva on his chin. His face reddened again. The pulse in his neck visibly throbbed.
Anaxi shrugged. “Should we turn back? Is this too much for you?”
Branch’s jaw clenched. The muscles flexed. He growled and jabbed his finger at Anaxi’s chest.
He started to speak, but pulled back his hand and formed a fist. His eyes drifted past Anaxi and toward the sky. Then his jaw slackened.
A smile twitched at the corners of Anaxi’s mouth. “You see it, don’t you?”
Off the port side of the ship, the moon hung in the darkening sky. It was full, the curvature of the Earth making it appear larger than usual, and it was red. Deep, blood red. A shiver ran along his spine.
He’d seen a moon like this before. Years earlier, before he’d commandeered the Saladin. Before he was a pirate. Before he’d even met Le Grand…
Desmond Branch lived on a long narrow island on the far side of the flooded Earth. He was the younger of two boys to an angry father and an obedient mother. His older brother, Derek, was stronger, better looking, and smarter. At least, that was what Desmond’s gut told him. He believed it. Everybody did.
His village was large by post-melt standards. Two hundred men, women, and children lived in rusted, two-hundred-year-old Quonset huts, tents, and in the many caves that populated the island. The people sustained themselves on fish, tree fruits, and cultivated amaranth. They called their island Thiaki.
The Thiakians were mostly peaceful, living under a definitive patriarchal structure. Men ruled. The stronger the man, the greater his proverbial plumage, the more stature and power he held.
Derek Branch was destined to be the Thiakians’ de facto ruler. His cult of personality was a magnet. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. Desmond lived in the darkest, farthest reaches of his brother’s shadow.
Derek seemed to know this. He always encouraged Desmond to work harder, to fulfill his unlimited potential. The words rang hollow against the constant berating from their father. And no matter how supportive Derek might be, Desmond resented him.
But even if Derek sensed Desmond’s distaste, he never expressed it. His brother was always in Desmond’s corner. He was too good in every way.
Thiaki, the southernmost in a chain of fertile islands, was rimmed with an expansive coral reef. The waters around the island were calm, almost placid. Beyond the coral was a break where a constant barrage of waves built and crashed. Conquering them was a rite of passage of young Thiakian boys. They had to swim beyond the reef, past the break, and back; to meet the waves as boys and return as men.
On the night of his challenge, Desmond stood on the beach with his toes curled into the sand. His heart pounded in his chest. The pulse in his ears was deafening. All the village’s men and many of the young women stood behind him. Some were there to cheer his success, but more of them were there to celebrate his failure.
Desmond wasn’t well liked. He lacked the magnetism of his brother. He wasn’t as skilled or as smart. Yet every advantage was handed to Desmond. Not because of who he was, but because of who his family was. At least, this was Desmond’s warped perception. It was his justification for wallowing in the negativity that threatened to consume him.
The reality was that nobody on Thiaki thought about Desmond at all. They neither liked him nor disliked him. They were too consumed with their own lives to consider Desmond Branch. Occasionally, someone might pick on him. They’d belittle his size or strength or wit. This was the type of hazing all young men weathered on Thiaki. Desmond Branch wasn’t like all young men.
Desmond stared out at the dark water. The sun was setting and only the whitewash of the crashing waves was visible beyond the reef.
Derek stood behind Desmond. His hands squeezed Desmond’s bare shoulders. His voice was confident and reassuring. “You can do this, Desmond. I believe in you.”
Saying nothing, Desmond stepped forward toward the water. His feet squeaked on the soft, dry sand. Whispers behind him carried in the still, humid air. They were doubts, judgments, jeers. Desmond couldn’t make out the words, but he was sure of this as the sand hardened into the ground packed hard by the ebb and flow of tides.
The ocean washed over his toes, then his ankles, and his calves. Goosebumps prickled across his body as the ocean reached his upper thighs.
Someone called from behind him, “Just do it already.”
A chorus of laughs followed the directive. Desmond’s face flushed. He didn’t turn around. Instead, he pushed off from the floor and swam along the surface above the coral. The water splashed onto his face, the salt stinging his nostrils and eyes, as he swam chest up across the stretch of shallow water.
He worked to keep his breathing even as he lazily kicked his feet. His arms did most of the work, his elbows arcing high and behind him as he lifted them from the water. Then he drove his cupped hands below the surface and pulled them along his sides, propelling himself closer to the rougher waters ahead.
All Desmond could hear was his own breath and the splash of water. The world behind him was silent. The crowd. The doubters. They were invisible to him now as he reached the break. The crash of waves ahead of him drowned out his own thoughts. He couldn’t see them. It was too dark now. The faintest hint of red glow danced on the surface of the water as he hesitated.
He reminded himself of Derek’s words. “You can do this.”
At least his brother believed in him. If nobody else did, there was that consolation. He couldn’t lose his brother’s faith. Even if he loathed to admit it, Desmond needed his brother’s support, his approval.
Desmond lifted himself out of the water and then dove to propel himself through the rougher current. The churn hit him and drove him back and down. The top of his foot scraped against a coral outcropping. He reflexively let out his breath in pain and grabbed for his foot.
That disoriented him. He was under the water, surrounded by darkness. Was he right side up? Was he on his side? His heartbeat quickened. Eyes open, he searched for the bubbles coming from his nose. They traveled past his eyes.
Desmond extended his body and reached up with both hands. He pulled down alongside his body and lifted himself to the surface.
He popped up and sucked down a deep breath
of salty air. He coughed and treaded water. His hands waved back and forth. His eyes stung. His chest hurt.
A wall of water slapped the back of his head. And again.
Desmond faced the island now. It was far, and in the dark all he could make out was the dim collection of lights beyond the beach. The torches flickered, sparks lifting into the sky like glowing bugs.
He didn’t see anyone on the beach. Were they there? Had they left him? Even Derek? Was he gone? Did his brother give up on him?
Desmond gritted his teeth, lifted his arms above his head, and slapped the water with the heels of his balled fists. He spun around in the water and tried again.
This time, he dove headfirst beneath the surface and swam forward using a wide pull. He kicked his legs out and back in unison. Above his head, he sensed the waves crashing. His body moved forward with each pull but drifted to the side and back between efforts. He wasn’t making much progress. He blew out the stored air through his nose, his lips pressed closed.
His muscles burned. His chest tightened. His head buzzed.
Desmond resurfaced and found himself in the middle of two breaks. He was amidst the wash, tossed and hit repeatedly by powerful waves.
His body was racked with exhaustion.
This was as far as he could go.
He couldn’t make it.
But how would they know? It was dark. If he couldn’t see the beach, they couldn’t see him. He could tell them he’d made it. He’d tell them about crossing the second break and making it back. He could do that. They’d be no more or less likely to believe he accomplished the task.
All of this ran through his mind in fractions of a second. He didn’t have time to debate the merits or morality of his decision. He sucked in another breath through his nose, coughed on the remnant saltwater in his sinuses, and turned back. He surrendered to the might of the ocean.
Desmond took a single stroke when a wave hit him from behind. The water slammed into the back of his head and shoulders and knocked him underwater.
His body spun under the surface, tumbling deeper and deeper. He reached up toward what he thought was the surface. The last of his air leaked from his lungs. His chest hurt. His hands and feet tingled from the lack of oxygen.
No light shone into the water. Desmond was in a black shroud. His fingers splayed. His legs kicked. Nothing. He was stuck under the water. Flashes of white light strobed across his vision. The world was fading.
And then he felt something grip his arm and pull him from the depths. He surfaced. Air filled his lungs. He coughed. He was on his back, a strong arm wrapped across his chest from his shoulder. Someone was behind him, doing all the work to keep him from sinking.
The man’s voice was breathless. “You okay?”
Even in his fog, Desmond knew his savior. It was his brother.
Desmond coughed again. He choked out an answer. “Yes.”
Derek’s feet scissored underneath Desmond’s back. He pulled him along, through the violent churn of the breaking waves.
Derek huffed, spitting water from his mouth. “I followed you out. Just to be safe.”
And there it was. Proof that his brother hadn’t believed in him. Desmond closed his eyes. He wanted to sink beneath the surface. He clutched his brother’s arm.
“Let go of me, Derek,” Desmond groaned. He was disoriented and on the verge of allowing panic to consume him.
Derek didn’t oblige. He kept pulling Desmond toward shore.
“We’re almost there,” Derek said. “Just hang—”
With what little strength remained, Desmond wrenched his brother’s arm from his chest. He pulled away, kicking his feet to free himself.
Derek was close enough his features were visible. His face was twisted with confusion. He treaded water, his shoulders bobbing at the surface.
“What are you doing, Desmond?” he asked.
“I don’t want your help! I don’t need it.”
Even in the relative darkness, the hurt on Derek’s face was clear. His chin dropped. His brow furrowed. Then he lifted his head and his expression shifted. He was angry now.
“You would have drowned,” he said. “Would you rather have that? If I hadn’t been there—”
Desmond spoke before he considered what he was saying. “I would rather die than have you save me.”
Derek opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, he turned to swim away from Desmond. But before he’d completed his first stroke, his body seized. Derek cried out in pain. It was an unearthly grunt. He threw back his head.
Desmond called out, “Derek? What are you doing?”
The older brother growled, “My leg. It’s cramped. I can’t. It won’t—”
Derek’s head dipped under the water, resurfaced briefly, and dropped again. His arms splashed. The water roiled.
Frozen in disbelief, Desmond did nothing. He treaded water and watched his brother struggle. This couldn’t be happening. The water was calm here. It was shallow. Derek was immortal. Except that he wasn’t.
By the time Desmond reacted, his brother was gone beneath the surface. It was too dark for him to see. No matter how many times he dove under the water, searching blindly with wide sweeps of his arms, he couldn’t reach his brother.
He searched until his body was too exhausted and all he could do was float. Dejected, sobbing, struggling to breathe, Desmond let the gentle tide carry him to shore. When he reached the shallows, he dragged himself onto the dry sand and lay on his back. High above him in the sky sat a red moon. Not orange. Blood red.
He wanted to sleep. He wanted to dream good dreams and awake with his brother next to him. Instead, he saw the shadows of the waiting crowd creep into his field of view until they eclipsed the moon.
“Where’s your brother?” someone asked.
“What did you do to him?” accused another.
“Why did you survive?”
“He should have lived. You should have died.”
“You’re worthless.”
“He died for nothing.”
Presently, Desmond stared at that same red moon, thinking about the years of isolation on that island. His regret. His boiling anger. The day the Saladin anchored beyond the reef and his father had sold him to the captain for a bushel of bananas and a fishing net. The plotting insurrection. The mutiny. The return to Thiaki. The looks on their faces. The shock. The horror. The false penance. The revenge. His father at the center of a pyre.
You’re worthless.
Died for nothing.
Desmond thought about these things and glowered at the pompous little girl who knew nothing of sacrifice or sheer force of will.
He looked back at the moon, the flicker of flames on the horizon, and answered Anaxi’s question about whether he saw.
“I see everything I need to see,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Bring on the next challenge. I’m ready for it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Zeke couldn’t hear himself think. The moment lightning flashed overhead, rolling cracks of thunder whipped through his body. One after another, percussive booms pealed from the sky. It was late in the day, but the sky darkened in a way that prevented sunset.
His hands gripped their boat’s slick wheel. He felt the thunder vibrate in his fingertips.
Despite the dark shelf of clouds on the horizon, the storm hit the Fittipaldi with an impossible suddenness. An instantaneous gale of wind and torrent of rain smashed them head-on as if someone had thrown the storm at them.
Now in the belly, the Fittipaldi’s twin engines whined against the lifting surf. The speedboat raced up and down the cresting succession of waves. On each descent, the fiberglass shell shook like it was slamming against asphalt. It jarred Zeke’s teeth. Each rise and fall tossed his stomach. He swallowed the onset of bile and focused on the path ahead.
Uriel gripped the console from the seat next to him. Their passenger, Lucius, was below deck, lying flat on the curved sectional, which wrapped both si
des of the salon.
Zeke understood they needed Lucius alive. They couldn’t risk losing him to the angry sea. Without him, their mission was over. They would fail. None of them wanted that.
To the starboard side, the larger Riva Cantata appeared to handle the storm far better. It powered through the rough water almost unaffected.
The Fittipaldi lifted underneath Zeke and dropped, another slam against the ocean’s surface. Zeke’s bones ached. Water clouded his vision, and he wiped it from his face with shoulder shrugs. He feared letting go of the wheel with even one hand might toss them out of control.
He wasn’t a sailor. He’d never seen an ocean until this mission. The raw power of the undulating, angry turbid mix of seawater, rain, and jetsam made this as frightening as any bootlegging run with authorities tailgating his bumper.
To the port side, a wave swelled as if a monster might surface. It was four stories high as it neared the boat.
Uriel yelled something at him, but Zeke couldn’t hear it. The cymbal crash of water deafened him.
He tightened his grip on the wheel, wishing he were at the controls of his Superbird instead, pushing hard on the pedal to accelerate, the engine rumbling as it promptly responded to his touch. He wanted back on dry land. He turned into the wave, hoping they could ride the crest and emerge on the other side.
Instead, he hit the bottom of the immense swell at an angle. The Fittipaldi pitched. Zeke lost his grip and the wheel spun. Uriel lost her footing and dropped to the deck. Her body lifted, as if weightless, and she flew to the stern. She was gone, cast into the wave and unable to empower herself with her otherworldly gifts.
Zeke called out, “Uriel!” He couldn’t hear himself.
Jaw clenched, he reached out and took hold of the wheel. It fought against him, but he maintained his grip. To his right, all he saw was a wall of water rising above him, curling with froth.
The Fittipaldi rode the crest on its side. Only his hold of the wheel kept him inside the boat. His feet lifted from underneath him. Zeke held his breath, certain the wave would swallow him.
