by Tom Abrahams
Another blow, almost a whistle across the top of the stew. Another sip. This one a longer pull than the first. The taste dulled with each swallow until, surprisingly, Anaxi found herself hungrily downing the rest of her portion. She swiped the remnants from the bottom of the bowl with her fingers and sucked them dry. Her stomach was satisfied.
She walked the bowl back to the makeshift galley and tossed it into a pile near the boiling pot. With breakfast over, most of the men were up and readying themselves for the hike. The sun loomed well above the horizon now, warming the sand underneath her feet as she trekked back to the rocks. Le Grand stood with his back to her, but over his shoulder, Desmond Branch watched her every move.
From Le Grand’s body language, Anaxi could tell he was talking. His hands gesticulated wildly as his head tilted to one side and the other. Branch had his arms folded across his chest and nodded along like he was listening, but he wasn’t. Even as she avoided his glare, she felt it.
So Anaxi turned around and plopped onto the sand at the edge of the rocks. She pulled on her boots and laced them. Her fingers were stiff. She flexed them in and out before picking up a stray rock at her side. She brushed the sand from the stone with her thumb. She bounced it in her palm. It was lighter than it appeared and pocked with holes.
Shifting her body in the sand, Anaxi positioned herself so the carved peak of the volcano was in her peripheral vision. She lifted her open palm closer to her face and studied the rock. It was hard to conceive how the hardened lava once flowed hot along the path she’d now ascend.
She gripped the rock in a fist and then whipped it sidearm toward the surf. It plunked into the water and skipped once before sinking.
The Saladin was silhouetted beyond it, anchored off the coast. She wondered if she’d ever return to the ship. If not, would she live her life here on this island, trapped here and spending eternity in the shadow of the peaks? Like the stone she just sent free?
Anaxi put her hands flat onto the beach and pushed herself to her feet. Her boots sank into the sand as she took her first steps toward Branch. She met his gaze and wondered if he’d stared at her the entire time.
Le Grand must have sensed her approach. He faced her, took a step back on the rocks, and stood shoulder to shoulder with his taller, broader captain.
Branch rubbed his chin and set a hand on the top of his sword’s pommel. “You ready?”
Anaxi marched toward him, adjusting her gait to accommodate her boots on the rocks. She had her arms stretched out to her sides for balance, and didn’t answer him.
“Good for you,” said Branch. “You’re a quick learner. Silence is golden.”
Silence is golden. Anaxi hadn’t heard that before. So many things were gold to a pirate. She’d not thought silence would be among them. Still, she said nothing.
To her left, men marched up the rocks. Their steps were deliberate and heavy, walking off the weight of a fresh meal. They carried swords, machetes, spears, and long-barreled pistols.
Without waiting for them to reach him, Branch motioned at the peaks and started his march up the rocks toward the curtain of green foliage. It was thick and stretched from the rocks to the low altitude of both peaks.
Anaxi followed Branch, keeping pace, but staying behind him. Le Grand was to her right. She noticed, as they moved, they were the only two without weapons. Le Grand at least carried an unlit torch—they’d need it inside the volcanic crater—but Branch, nothing. Like him, Anaxi had nothing with which to defend herself.
She didn’t like it, but she knew there was no way Branch would give her something to protect herself again. The knife was a onetime offering in a time of crisis. She swallowed hard. Her eyes danced across the patches of dark that reached from branch to limb and trunk to bow. Her body shuddered involuntarily. Le Grand must have seen it.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded. There was no worth in telling him the truth. He’d learn it soon enough. They all would.
The rocks shifted underneath their feet. The crunch was the only sound as the party marched onward, closing in on the broadly veined fronds that served as natural gates to the dark jungle beyond.
As they approached, the rocks gave way to a thin carpet of spongy green and yellow ground cover. Branch paused, stroking a large heart-shaped leaf the size of a man’s head. He stretched it out of the way and turned to his men.
“Ready?”
The men cheered and pumped their weapons in the air.
They thought they were ready.
They were wrong.
If what her father told Anaxi about this island was true, they couldn’t be ready for what awaited them in the jungle. Nobody could…
Chapter Twenty-Five
Zeke studied the back of his hand, flipping it over and back again as if anything would change. His fingers flexed, curling into a fist and extending straight. He studied the veins, the thin wisps of hair, the wrinkles that defined his knuckles.
He sat in the salon below deck of the Riva Cantata. It really was a magnificent yacht, finely appointed with rich materials and soothing textures. Uriel sat nearby, curled into the corner of the long sofa-like seating area that ran along both sides of the salon. Her eyes were closed, her face resting against her hands, which were pressed together in prayer. Her body jostled with the movement of the boat.
Zeke assumed she was asleep. Lucius was deep inside in a bunk. Phil was at the helm, as he’d been since they’d left the cantina. He’d not abandoned his position, even when Gabe had succumbed to the flaming arrows.
From his hip, Zeke pulled his revolver and tested its weight in his hand. He could feel the stored energy in the weapon. It was almost as if the electricity transferred itself from the grip to his fingers and then up his arm. He turned it over and studied it, as he had his hand. Then he set it on the seat next to him. The sensation in his arm dissipated.
The energy wasn’t something he’d noticed before. Not really. He thought about it and reconsidered. What he’d long thought was adrenaline, the rush of excitement spiking through his body and into his hands, clearly wasn’t adrenaline at all. It was the otherworldly pulse energy contained with the weapon Pedro had provided him.
Zeke looked again at Uriel. This time he stared. His eyes traveled her sleek body, curled as it was, tracing the lines of her muscles, her curves. She had no weapon other than herself. Had it always been that way, or had she learned to take the energy imbued into her weapon and use it with no external help, rendering her far more powerful than she might have been otherwise?
He replayed the image of Uriel launching herself into the sky, using sheer force to stop the threats against them. What had she summoned to make this happen? Was it contained within the colorful art that painted her body, or was it something else?
More questions without answers. More questions that might lead to more questions.
Zeke scooted on the sofa until he was beside Uriel. She must have sensed his movement. One eye opened to a slit.
“What do you want?” she mumbled.
Zeke removed his hat. He ran his fingers through his hair and put the hat back on his head.
“Did you ever have a weapon?” he asked. No point in beating around the bush. Uriel could smell obfuscation like he could smell the sweet citrus of her intoxicating perfume.
Her other eye opened. Her head remained on her folded hands. She didn’t answer.
Zeke tried again. “Other than your body, I mean. Did Pedro give you some—”
“A hatchet.”
Zeke’s eyes widened. He was doubly surprised, by the admission and by the weapon choice itself. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he repeated her. “A hatchet.”
Uriel rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. She untucked her feet and sat up. A yawn stretched her face, which was odd because Watchers needed neither sleep nor oxygen.
“Sorry,” she said through the end of the yawn. “Habit. An echo from when I was alive. You’ll carry some of those with yo
u too. They fade with time, but crop up every now and then.”
“Crop up?”
She faced him, twisting her hips against the leather. “Happens. ‘Crop up’ means happens every so often. Colloquialisms are another echo. They’re part of the vernacular from the time you lived. But I digress.”
“Why a hatchet?” Zeke asked.
She motioned to his pistol. “Why a pistol?”
“I don’t know,” Zeke said. “It’s what he gave me.”
Uriel raised an eyebrow. She puckered her lips and twisted her mouth to one side.
“And the tattoos?” Zeke asked.
“He didn’t give those to me,” she replied.
Her hand touched her bare skin at her hip, where, peeking above the waistline of her low-slung leather pants, was a tattoo of a flaming sword diagonally atop a sun. Her finger dragged across the orange rays.
“I would have thought a sword,” he said. “Instead of a hatchet.”
She shrugged. “I had that tattoo before I, you know, crossed over. It was a name thing. Ever hear the story of Uriel?”
Zeke shook his head.
She lifted her fingers to the side of her head. They grazed the fine hairs of her buzzed haircut. Then they found the braid and twirled its pink-bowed end around.
“Uriel was an archangel,” she said. “He was the angel who watched over thunder and terror. He carried a flaming sword. He was the angel of repentance. At least, originally he was. That’s changed with time. Still, he was a badass. Not one to mess with, you know?”
Zeke nodded. “Uriel was your name in life too?”
“Just like yours was Zeke.”
“Coincidental then, right?” he asked. “I mean, aside from being a dude and Pedro giving you a sword. You being an angel now? Someone who helps others redeem themselves?”
Her features darkened. Her tone shifted. “I don’t think coincidence has anything to do with it,” she said. “I know it doesn’t. Coincidence is for people who can’t accept the plain truth of their circumstance. It’s a weak-minded reconciliation of a greater power beyond their control. I think everything is a mix of free will and preordainment. I was meant to do what I’m doing. There was a plan set in motion before my parents named me Uriel, before I died, before I became…whatever it is that I am.”
Zeke tried to interrupt. “I didn’t mean—”
She didn’t let him clarify. “Ezekiel, I can’t put too fine a point on it. And I mean that, pun intended. There is no coincidence. That you think there is, after what you’ve seen and done since crossing over, makes me think you weren’t the right man for this job. Pedro might have put too much faith in you.”
Zeke waited for her to breathe. She kept rolling.
“The ink on my body tells a story. If you pay close enough attention to all of it, and chances are you’ll never see all of it, you’ll see the path of my existence before and after I became a Watcher. It’s there to remind me who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. None of that is coincidence. None of it is unexplained if you truly believe in our mission.”
He studied the frustration in her tight expression. It bordered on disappointment. Or was it anger? Zeke considered it might be both.
He offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.”
Uriel huffed out a breath and used her fists to push herself to her feet. Extending her arms from her sides for balance as the speeding yacht cruised, she maneuvered the short distance to the knee-high refrigerator in the corner of the salon.
She reached inside and plucked a pair of long-neck amber bottles. Holding them as a bird of prey would grasp a rodent with its talons, she elbowed the fridge shut and brought the bottles back to the sofa. Using the corner of a waist-high counter, she uncapped the bottles and handed one to Zeke.
She clinked his bottle with her own and said, “Peace offering.”
The aroma lifting from the open bottle was somewhere between bourbon and beer—the same Kentucky Bourbon Ale they’d drank together at the cantina. Zeke took a pull. The earthy flavors dueled in his mouth.
He swallowed. “How’d you do that?”
“Offer peace?” she asked coyly. “It took a lot. Don’t get used to it. And accept the offer without condition.”
He chuckled and used his thumb to wipe the rapidly forming condensation from the bottle. It was warmer in the cabin than he’d realized. It might have been Uriel’s iciness that fooled his senses.
“No,” he said. Then he shook his head. “I mean, yes, I accept the peace offering without condition. And no, that’s not what I meant. I was asking how you had my new favorite drink on board the yacht. I’d say it was a coincidence, but you’d bite off my head.”
She scowled. “Too soon, Ezekiel Watson. Way. Too. Soon.”
He took a second swig. She took a third. Several drops dribbled onto her chin and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. It was at once sloppy and endearing.
“I didn’t do it,” she said. “Pedro stocks the yacht. Or the truck. Or the RV. Or the dogsled. Or the—”
“Dogsled?”
“You’d be surprised.”
They laughed. It felt good. Zeke tried to count the number of times he’d experienced a genuine laugh lately. He couldn’t remember them. Sure, he knew he’d chuckled or found levity in things since he’d crossed over and begun the redemptive work of a Watcher’s apprentice, but he couldn’t place any time when it felt so sincere.
Was that what he was, a Watcher’s apprentice? He didn’t know. He wouldn’t ask.
“Look,” she said. “I apologize for snapping at you. You meant nothing by the question. Truth is, this life begs a lot of questions.” She waved her beer around the salon. “Most of those questions don’t come with answers. I shouldn’t blame you for not understanding everything about your place. You’ve only been here a short time.”
“Time is relative,” Zeke said.
She nodded as she took another swig and held in her cheeks, swishing it around.
“So Pedro sets up everything for every mission?” Zeke asked.
Uriel tipped her bottle and her head. “He does. Don’t ask me how. He just does. We’re always well provisioned. He anticipates our needs.”
Zeke sipped. “Like Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Beer.”
“Like Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Beer.”
Both finished off their drinks. Zeke took the empties and dropped them into a trash receptacle recessed into the cabinetry surrounding the refrigerator.
Uriel thanked him. He thanked her for the drinks.
“Coincidence is for those who have no faith in their ability or inability to affect their paths,” she said as he returned. “We strongly believe that fate and destiny matter. The things we did, the things we do, all guide the things we will do. We determine our own fate. Chance is the refuge of the uninspired, the spiritually bankrupt.”
Zeke now understood her previous anger. He’d offended her. Still, he had questions.
“Are you talking about religion?” he asked. “Because I—”
She shook him off. “No. Not religion. A spiritual belief in the balance of all things and faith that we are empowered to keep that balance. Everything you’ve done up until now, Zeke, matters. It’s like a snowball rolling downhill. It—”
“A snowball?”
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s cumulative, I mean. All your experiences make you who you are. All your future experiences make you who you will be.”
Zeke flexed his hand and again studied the back of it. He thought about the electric sensation that transferred from his pistol to his fingers and up his arms.
Uriel shrugged. “You get it?”
He watched her triceps flex. The overhead cabin lights reflected off the leather that stretched across the muscles, defining them. It did the same as she bent her arm to touch the side of her face. The tight ball of her bicep strained against the fabric. Her body was a weapon. No doubt.
“I
get it,” he said.
He thought he understood something else too. An idea, a belief, niggled in the back of his mind. It wasn’t formed. Zeke flexed his hand again and touched the grip of his pistol.
Both of them studied one another. It was if they were on the verge of revealing something. Neither spoke. Then Phil shouted down from the helm and interrupted the moment.
“I think we’re there! We need Lucius to confirm.”
The boat slowed under Zeke’s weight as he stood. He took a careful forward step to steady himself from the sudden deceleration.
He started toward the opening into the back cabin. “I’ll check.”
Uriel nodded. She said nothing.
The path to the cabin was tight. Zeke put his hands on the walls to guide himself. The cabin’s door was closed. He knocked twice and opened it without waiting for Lucius to respond.
Zeke’s eyes adjusted to the low light in the cramped, dark room. Formless shadows took shape. A bunk to his right was pressed against the interior hull. It curved to fit against the wall and bowed out, giving it the shape of a flattened hammock.
Lucius lay on his side, leaning on an elbow. He blinked blearily.
Sleep wasn’t something people in this world needed. Though, under the right conditions, it happened. Sleep was another echo from a former life. Uriel had told Zeke that the longer he served Pedro, the fewer of his habits or needs from his previous life would manifest themselves.
Lucius cleared his throat. His voice was scratchy. “What is it?”
“We’re here,” Zeke said. “We think. Phil needs you to confirm.”
Lucius cleared his throat again. He swung his feet around to the floor and stood. In the dim gray light of the cabin, he looked older somehow. More frail.
“What does he need me to confirm?” Lucius asked.
“I don’t know,” said Zeke. “C’mon up. Let’s find out together.”
Zeke motioned for Lucius to exit first. He waited and followed. They made their way to the helm. Uriel was already there, seated in the captain’s chair next to Phil.
