by Jo Sparkes
He was startled not because all women went for him - though a surprising number did - but because he recognized her attraction to him. She had a ‘good girl’ veneer, but a bad girl core. Wall, he well knew, couldn’t handle her.
Her timing was typically female. Any hint of her new allegiance would wreak havoc on the salvage, upsetting Jon and God knows what else. And Nita - who tolerated Mike’s little forays on the mainland - wouldn’t stand for it here. The blonde would just have to cool her jets till they got back to Delaware.
Stepping closer to the stern, he saw Jill cross-legged on the platform, busily screwing her regulator to her tank. Preparing to dive with Melanie.
“Jill,” he called. She sprang to her feet, grasped the tank he lowered and settled it down on the metal with a tinny clang. She reached for the second but he waved her off, carrying it down himself.
“Maybe you should skip this dive, mermaid. I’ll make it up to you later - promise.”
She gave him that look where her nose wrinkled, like a puppy being teased. “But we’re earning our percentage. Helping you - clearing the gap, checking for other entrances.”
Mike could hear activity behind him - the others gathering, preparing to dive. He spoke so they wouldn’t overhear. “Stay here instead. Blondes can be…unpredictable. This one more than most.”
If anything, the nose wrinkled more.
“Just be careful,” he sighed.
She nodded, but with that ‘yeah, yeah’ nod teenagers give their parents when their mind had already dismissed the discussion.
Melanie appeared at the bow, eyes sparkling as if she’d heard.
Before he could react, Jon hopped down the ladder, snatching his equipment to assemble. “Shake a leg, Muscle Man. Where’s our British hired help?”
“Sounds like our butler.” Mike attached his tank to his B.C.
“A butler?” Wall swung his leg over the stern, swinging down to crowd the platform. “You yanks have strange ideas about the British.”
As Wall maneuvered, Mike caught an odd reflection in the metal tank on his back. He saw his own hand - for a moment it was severed at the wrist.
Hoisting his gear in place, Mike leaned backwards and dropped into the sea. Just a trick of the eye, he told himself as he realized he was checking his hands. Why the hell let it bother him?
He donned his fins in the water, then pulled himself along the platform to Jill. “Just remember you gotta take care of yourself first,” he told her softly.
Jill fired up. “You told me she was fine - that last night was just confusion and my imagination.”
On the opposite side of the platform, Jon rolled into the water. It was almost show time. “I’m just saying be careful. Don’t risk your life to save another, as the limey says. Especially a blonde life.” Jill harrumphed and turned away.
Mike spit in his mask and dipped it into the water. His disquiet grew, reminding him of Nita for some reason. She’d no doubt tell him it was his psychic sense warning him.
Except Mike didn’t believe in psychic sense.
Jill tugged her reluctant wetsuit into place; rose to get her gear. Melanie jumped lightly down onto the platform - and sat squarely in front of him.
“Ladies - remember your dive buddy rules,” Jon announced in his best instructor voice. “Watch each other, watch your bottom time. Gap area only - no going farther afield.”
To Mike’s surprise, Melanie slapped her gear together fast, like a veteran. Seeing his interest, her lips curved in a wicked smile.
“We’ll be fine,” she murmured, and produced a plastic sandwich bag. Startled, Mike saw the ruby necklace gleaming within.
She stuffed it between her breasts with red-tipped fingernails - and then leaned closer to offer a tempting view. With her shoulders angled, he realized no one else had caught her act.
“I still don’t like two novices…” Wall began.
“We’re not sitting in the sun while you men have all the fun,” Melanie cut him off. “Right, mermaid?”
And she smiled at Mike, reminding him of that smile in the movies. The sexy curl of the lips the hot female bestows on the male - just before she vamps out and sucks his blood.
He shook himself literally to shake off the stupid thought.
“Sadicor!” he yelled, turning in the direction of the wreck. “Let’s do this.”
Nita had finished with her last appointment for the day.
The large woman’s husband had been angry. Wasted money, he’d said. The large woman knew better.
Cleaning the room, tossing the sheet into the laundry basket, she reflected on the result. The woman who had seen her own sister pull the trigger, had finally realized she’d always hated her sibling for killing their father - in Nazi Germany.
Past lives revealed present life answers, often to questions you didn’t know you had. She’d seen it time and time again, watched tears of the heart bathe the cheeks, cleansing away a lifetime of resentment and fear.
She had seen the understanding suddenly bloom, lifting a person up out of darkness, out of ignorance. Knowledge truly is power, she knew. It helped you understand your feelings, to more easily overcome them. Even more important, it helped you forgive yourself for those feelings.
Some on the island thought she preyed upon weak people, silly tourists or needy women. Ignorance blinded the doubters. Or fear - there were those that thought it insane to toy with past darkness.
For the most part, she’d accepted that foolishness as part of her calling. None were so blind, her mother often and loudly explained, as those who refused to see. Her mother had died before the age of forty. Nita wondered if the disdain of so many had shortened her life.
Naturally her thoughts turned to Mike. He had that same trait as her mother, a genuine unconcern for others opinions. He was Mike - the world could chose to love him or hate him as it willed. He honestly didn’t see what difference it made.
She’d been worried about him, about that blonde on the Sadicor with him. The woman had clung to the tall man, suppressing her true desires. That, Nita foresaw, was a path to trouble on a small boat.
Closing her eyes, she checked in with Mike. Thought about him, sought his feelings at that moment, wherever he was. He felt - determined. Excited.
He’d be here tonight, she realized. He didn’t even know it yet, but he’d be here tonight.
Slowly, inevitably, an idea crept into her brain.
Jill watched the three men prepare to sink below the sea.
Heads turned to each other, exchanging approaches and ideas. Mike sending her one last concerned look before slapping in his mouthpiece and the water swallowed them all.
She felt abandoned.
“Shall we?” Melanie murmured, eyes sparkling knowingly. Already in her gear, the blonde slipped backwards, easing into the water without a splash. She looked as confident as the men.
For an instant, Jill thought she glimpsed bright red - like blood - between the woman’s breasts.
Realizing she was last - something Jill had never been in class - she buckled her B.C. while trying that roll entry Melanie had just performed. Her fin caught in a slat and flew off, slapping the water before her face.
Blinded, she wiped her eyes. To see Melanie giggling. “You okay?” the blonde asked sweetly.
Jill tugged her fin back on. “Let’s go.”
They descended.
The wreck lay poised on the sand like an artist’s drawing of a wreck. With the last remnants of coral now faded to brown, the ship appeared fully constructed of wood planks. The deck area between the two cabins, though still bathed in a thin sandy layer, now sported the rectangular edge of the cargo hold, perfectly framed.
How had they ever doubted this was a galleon?
Melanie’s pink form shot downward past Jill’s mask, startling her. Divers were supposed to descend slowly, giving the body a chance to adjust to the pressure change. And the ears - Melanie always had trouble clearing her ears.
Until now.
Jill alighted beside her, near the black ring handle. When the woman made no movement, Jill pointed to the cabin on the stern half, and then swam to the one on the bow. They still sought doorways.
The inside wall of the structure was crusted with dead coral. Pulling out her dive knife, she tapped the handle against it as she’d seen Mike do. But dead or not, the stuff clung to the surface, denying any entry. Either this was a different type of coral, or in a different part of the death cycle.
This is useless, Jill decided. She turned to see if Melanie had better luck.
The blonde was nowhere in sight.
Turning completely around, Jill saw no sign of her. Keep calm, she told herself, follow procedure.
She swam higher, looking over the wreck. As her eyes swept the area she ceased swimming, and sank back down to the gap. Annoyed, she firmly suppressed a spurt of fear, grabbed her console in one hand and air valve in the other, and rose.
The wreck looked quiet, deserted. And getting smaller - Jill had put too much air in her jacket. Grabbing the valve, she reversed direction.
Something flickered near the bowsprit.
She lost sight of it as she dropped. And it was only a flash - but then there was no other sign anywhere. So she kicked her feet and swam towards it.
Rounding the edge of the wreck, the ocean seemed eerily still. No sound of the men, no sign of the blonde. She glanced at her gauges - still plenty of air - and realized her hand was shaking.
I must be cold.
As she cleared the bow a flicker - a pink flicker - shot into the hole. The same shade of pink as Melanie’s gear. Surely she wouldn’t go in there - that must have been a fish or something.
Except no sea life had been spotted near the wreck in days.
Jill finned her way to the hole, grabbing the edges. She could see nothing inside. And then an odd purr enveloped her. Jill whirled, eyes sweeping the Caribbean above her, behind her. She was alone.
Fumbling with her dive light, she tugged it free. The beam shook as she scanned the inside. I must be very cold.
Three taut ropes stretched through the ghostly stillness, disappearing into the black void. The ropes of the men, she realized. If she yanked on one…
Something fluttered at the edge of the beam.
She heard purring again - this time ending in a whimper. The flutter increased, becoming a whirl. And catching a flash of pink, she heard one distinct word.
“Help.”
Jill hauled herself over the rim and inside.
Dark enveloped her - disorienting her. She didn’t even know which way was up until her feet set down against the floor.
Glancing behind, Jill saw the opening. She released her breath and turned toward the spot of the flicker.
The whirling was still there, growing weaker. Worried, Jill walked towards it in her fins. Aimed her beam.
Two glittering eyes stared back.
The manta shot straight for her, knocking the flashlight from her hand. The beam rotated wildly as it fell and bounced off the floor, revealing the giant ray streaking toward her again.
It slammed her. Jill somersaulted, losing her mask, her regulator. In the final bounce of the beam she glimpsed the creature shoot through the opening before the light died.
Pitch black.
She shoved against the floor, trying to free her face from the silt, one hand frantically clawing for her mouthpiece. A throaty whimpering echoed in her ears, and she realized it was her own.
It’s the panic that kills you. Jon had said that in class. Losing your air, losing your mask, you can survive all those things. If only you didn’t panic.
Jill pushed up on her knees, forcing herself to move slowly. Deliberately.
Upright, her fingers sought her B.C, then reached behind her, scooping as she’d been taught. As some of the students used to joke about. But she felt nothing; no hose nor regulator. Her hands brushed her jacket again and this time she felt the spare.
Her octopus rig - the second regulator clamped to her jacket. Fumbling, she freed it and slapped it into her mouth.
She savored a long, deep breath. We’re living, she told herself, echoing some movie memory. We’re living, gentlemen.
Now she had time.
She looked around. Without her faceplate things would look different, but in truth the loss of mask didn’t matter. Because everything was pitch black. She was completely disoriented - no idea how far in she was, or in which direction lay the opening. Only her knees resting on the floor told her which way was the surface. Which did her no good, because she had a literal ceiling.
Panic welled in her throat, and she forced herself to swallow it. There’s oxygen, she reminded herself. But how much? Her hand flailed around for her console of its own accord.
Snagging it, she brought the thing close to her face, finding it hard to read without her mask, with her eyes stinging. She had less than a quarter of a tank - and Jesus if the gauge wasn’t visibly dropping before her eyes.
On inspiration she tilted the panel, to see if its light helped. It didn’t. Jill tossed it aside, her eyes sweeping the area, trying to find a lightening in the water. Surely the opening must be lighter - the silt couldn’t be stirred up that much.
But no matter where she looked, black void surrounded her.
Well, she couldn’t stay here. Forcing herself to turn around, she felt something brush her face - she jerked back.
Okay she thought, deliberately taking a calming breath. God knows how many of those she had left. Her hands swept the area before her, trying to find a wall, and she crawled forward.
Again something flicked her cheek. She flinched, startled that it didn’t give. And reached for it.
A rope, she realized. A firm, steady lifeline. Leading from one of the men to the outside of the wreck.
Relief swamped her, but she shoved that aside as fast as she had the fear. Peering in both directions, she could not guess which would lead her out, which way would take her deeper inside.
Her air approached critical.
Wrapping fingers around the line, Jill drove forward. Thoughts of keeping her head against the rope while using both hands made sense, but her hand refused to let go. So she continued, feeling the floor before her, crawling. Feeling, crawling.
Then her hand felt a wall. Her fingers slid up it, finding an opening. The rope lead through it, arcing up. The way it should if the rope was tied to the bowsprit. But the water before her was as black as ever. Shouldn’t she see light?
Shouldn’t she turn around?
The mere thought of turning, of crawling that distance again, made her stomach clench. And then her breath spluttered.
Her air tank was running dry.
Eyes closing, she pitched forward through the hole.
When she opened them daylight surrounded her. She was outside the wreck.
Her feet paddled frantically, hands stabbing her air valve. Would there be enough air to lift her, she wondered.
The surface loomed too fast. Jill blew all the air out of her lungs - and broke through into the sunshine.
She was shaking so hard she couldn’t swim to the platform.
Jill sat on the platform, legs dangling in the sea. A single drop of water escaped her hair, trailing down her nose to gather at its tip. And fell back into the Caribbean.
She’d managed, after an eternity, to climb onto the platform. Telling herself that Mike keeps a spare tank ready, that she’d grab it and go back for Melanie. But as soon as she cleared the ladder, her legs had collapsed.
What in the name of God had happened? The wreck hadn’t just silted up - the whole interior went dark. Pitch black, even right in front of the opening.
And where was Melanie? How much air could possibly remain in her tank?
Bubbles peppered the sea at her feet. She barely registered them.
Three heads popped through the waves, masks lifting, regulators yanked free.
“You can dive, y
ou limey!” Mike pounded Wall’s back as Jon struck out for the platform ladder.
“Being sensible doesn’t mean lack of ability, you bugger.” The Brit removed his fins, slapping them onto the platform. “Where’s Melanie?”
Jill couldn’t find the energy to speak.
Another flurry of bubbles, and the blonde rose from the sea, mask in hand, mouthpiece trailing behind in a frothy cloud.
Locking eyes with Jill, she trilled with laughter.
“You took your time,” Wall frowned. “Where the hell…”
Jill toppled into the sea.
Vessel San Dicaro, west of Saint-Domingue, 1648
He stood tall and lanky, as did all in his family. Unruly hair, too much humor. Or so his father said. He had no humor now.
Quash leaned his head against the planked wall. He felt weary, bone-numbing weary. There is a point where a man quits fighting. Drowning, sinking, his body finally surrenders. Often the muscles acknowledge defeat before the mind can fully accept it.
“We cannot fight them,” he whispered in reply. “It is death to fight them.”
“To accept this fate is death,” the warrior answered. “He is the one they speak of - the Sadico. He pleasures in torture.” The warrior stepped out of shadow, naked and bruised more deeply than Quash had once thought any man could be and still draw breath. Beneath the harsh, swelling lumps the warrior’s ebony skin was slick with blood and sweat.
Yet he looked more alive than Quash felt.
The vessel pitched in the ocean, waves thrashing in the storm, echoing the violence on the ship. All nightmares are shamed by this day, he thought.
In the long flash of lightening, he watched two sailors haul the old man across the pitching deck. The strawberry on his face marked him, the one who’d been kind to Juba. His hands bound, a grinning sailor threaded a rope through those bonds. Others tossed the end of that rope up over the spear that pointed the way of the ship.
The bowsprit, the white men called it.
The Captain strode through them all, hauling the girl behind him. While the old man watched, the Sadico tossed her to the deck - a child barely of nine summers.
