by Jo Sparkes
He’d been afraid since the pumbeiros, the hawkers, had taken them to Luanda. All knew it was a bad thing to be taken. A very bad thing.
His last day on the soil of his birth a holy man had walked through their midst. The man bestowed a name on each of them, even giving them a token to remember it. Quash and the others had later tossed the flimsy things away, when the white masters were not watching. This holy man had placed salt on each tongue, sprinkled water upon them. “You will now go to the land of the Spaniards,” they’d been told. “You will learn the things of the Holy Faith. Now go with a good will.”
Quash had understood the words, having been born to a father from the land of Luanda. But the meaning behind those words alluded him. Beware of foreign men of foreign brow, the elders of the village had said. The road of the foreign men was a path straight to hell.
Juba, his woman now heavy with his unborn son, was both his salvation and his anguish. That he hadn’t lost her, that he could touch her, hold her, was a gift of the gods. And that he actually found some comfort that she was here with him was wrong.
White men worked the nearest ship at the docks below. Here in this land of the Spaniards they’d been bought by a man nearly as dark as himself, bartered in the same way ivory was bartered in Luanda. Now another sea voyage awaited them. So many of their number had died on the crossing, and many more were still sick from it. He wondered how many would live to walk on this final land. A place called Saint-Domingue.
Another Spanish Holy Man trudged up the hill. Instead of salt he carried bread, which he shared among them. Quash snagged a piece, and insisted Juba eat it, guarding her less one of the others try to steal it.
The Holy Man also carried water, but instead of tossing it over them they were allowed to drink. Juba gratefully sipped her portion, staring at him when he’d refuse his own. He didn’t want to take anything from these demons, but at her mute appeal he did accept a mouthful. Because, he acknowledged, he wanted to live.
“They say he is a true Saint of their God,” Juba whispered as the holy man passed. His robes were ragged and dirty, unlike the wealthy garb of the man in Luanda. And this white man touched each of their number, Quash realized. The other had carefully held his clothes away from contact, as if they were a muddy water hole.
The Holy Man gazed at them all, a sort of glowing light in his eyes. He laid a hand on Juba, and her shivering ceased. Then he moved on.
Juba clutched at his passing robe - and a piece came off in her hand. Quash prepared to shield her, expecting retribution. But the holy man did not notice or did not mind.
“This is sacred,” his wife told him, clutching the scrap of cloth. The heavy weave seemed to glow. “It has power. It will save us.”
Quash clasped her hand, lifting her palm to his cheek. Ever since they’d been taken she did not touch him. But when he touched her, raising her skin to his face, she would look at him and smile. The love was still there, shining in her eyes.
As long as there was that, he could survive whatever the gods flung at him.
Cries of fear rose. Quash looked up to see a small white man - this one’s skin so pale you could see the blood veins beneath - striding through their midst. The Holy Man had moved on to another huddling mass of slaves.
Juba hid her relic within her palm.
Late afternoon Jon received his first task - fetch a slave that had been sold.
His fear that he might not be able to handle them eased, as they seemed pretty docile. Besides, this one was a mere female.
He accompanied one of his fellow sailors to the Africans resting in the dirt beneath the sun’s heat. They were looking for a pregnant girl, the only pregnant girl they had, but with them all slumping like cowering dogs, she was difficult to spot.
It was feeding time. He watched for a moment, as bowls were set on the ground beside them. Most pounced on the offering just like his hounds at home, making him smile.
“There,” the sailor beside him nodded toward a very tall, very scrawny African. Jon realized the little thing next to him was indeed a pregnant female. The tall one handed a bowl to her.
Jon froze.
She accepted it, even smiling as she tilted the contents down her throat. When she was done, the African exchanged her empty bowl with his own still full of food. And she refused, uttering in some strange language. The African silenced her by a single finger pressed to her lips.
The gesture was so - intimate. So human.
The sailor stepped in to get the girl, plucking her up like a kitten and swinging her toward Jon. Immediately she screamed, grabbing on to her companion, who tried to hug her to him.
The sailor kicked him aside and marched off. After a second, Jon followed.
But heading back to town, he couldn’t forget the look on the African’s face. Despair. Horror.
What if these Africans really were more human than animal? What if this girl was his mate? That the babe she carried in her belly was his child was possible, but what if they both actually knew it?
It was not a comfortable thought.
The girl’s sobs ceased; she hung limp in defeat.
Jon would go on this voyage, as he’d given his word. But it would be both the first and the last time he ever ventured near such a ship.
Juba’s sobs subsided. Not because she feared punishment - in truth they had done the worse they could do. She simply ran out of strength.
She hung now, carried over this white man’s shoulder the same way they carried sacks of grain. That’s what she was to these devils - so much grain.
Opening her hand, she realized it was empty. She’d lost the holy cloth.
They were doomed.
With the roar of Matilda filling tanks, Mike could hear nothing else. So he was startled, when he switched off the compressor, to see the blonde posturing against the doorway.
“Want to come to my cabin?” she smiled.
“I’m wreck diving,” he told her warily.
“Better off exploring this treasure.” Melanie sashayed toward him. She had an enticing manner - a very enticing manner. He was pretty sure she hadn’t moved quite that way in Delaware.
Her choice of outfits also appeared different, more revealing. Her hair swung at her shoulders, a sort of fresh-from-the-bed disheveled thing. Even her voice sounded throatier - sexier. He’d always liked women who aggressively pursued what they wanted.
So why was he suddenly repelled?
He detached hoses from air tanks. “Didn’t you come here with Wall? In fact, didn’t he pay for your trip?”
He gave her a pointed look, expecting some embarrassment, a hasty justification. Instead her smile intensified in a manner that made his flesh crawl. “Didn’t Jon pay for yours? Doesn’t the little black man always pay your way?”
Wrapping his hands around a silver cylinder - instead of her throat - Mike hoisted his tanks and strode off.
Jon had waited for Jill.
He knew how upset she must be. He understood her mindset, her shock at the discovery. Her refusal to understand salvaging the wreck regardless. Talking to her was key.
And now that she sat alone in the cockpit, knees hugged tight to chest, back against the cabin wall, the words he sought wouldn’t come.
“Jill.”
She jerked in surprise. Turning to him, she actually blushed.
“You okay?”
The blush deepened; a soft smile curved her lips. “Fine.”
Mike climbed out of the boat as Wall made his way from the bow. Something in the way the Brit glanced at Jill startled Jon, but Melanie emerged before he could probe it.
“I want to dive,” the blonde announced.
Mike answered for them both. “You lost your dive privileges.”
The blonde merely looked him up and down, as if amused. Her gaze slid smoothly over to Jill. “Well, you haven’t. Surely you’re not going to cower up here now? Not the mermaid - the ‘best in dive class’ girl?”
Jon had wished
Mike has been more diplomatic; now he wished he’d been less so. “Jill can’t wreck-dive either.”
Wall set a hand on Jill’s shoulder. “Would you dive with me? We’ll remain outside the wreck, maybe scour the sand surrounding it. Who knows what treasure we’ll find?”
Certain Jill would refuse, Jon stepped in to tell him so. But she was already nodding. And smiling.
And blushing.
“I’ll get your tank.” Wall disappeared.
Mike dropped to the platform, setting his own tank among his gear. “Well, Sadicor? We diving or what?”
Suspicious of the soft look in Jill’s eyes, Jon finally climbed down. And froze.
Mike eyed him. “What?”
“Just for a moment, it looked odd the way the strap was wrapped about your wrist. Like you were missing a hand.”
With a sharp snort, the big man screwed in his hoses.
Forty minutes later - exactly twenty-five minutes behind Jon and Mike - Jill hit the water. Wall had first taken the time to remove a dive weight from her belt.
Hopefully she’d be able to hover a little better.
Bubbles percolating in her ears, she felt surprisingly calm. A little giddy, a blend of nerves and anticipation. Don’t anticipate, she warned herself, watching Wall adjust his air valve. Just take it as it comes.
Sunlight streamed from the surface, bathing the sandy floor that rose to meet them. It seemed brighter than usual - but that was probably more her mood than weather. Her breath rasped in her ears as the wreck slowly rose into the frame of her mask.
Jill gasped.
The galleon’s short stub of a bowsprit was now completely free of coral. So free, in fact, that she could honestly see a rope wrapped round it. For an instant she even saw sails fluttering above.
When she blinked, the sails were gone.
Even without the extra weight, her fins sank inexorably amongst some broken shells on the sea bed. With the wreck stretched out before them, it felt more like a Disneyland adventure ride than an actual dive. All that was missing were the fish.
Even the manta ray was absent.
Wall turned her attention to several mounds in the sand, just a short distance from the galleon. For a moment she panicked, as they reminded her of the other mounds. But these were small, and outside the ship in sparkling blue water. So she dug.
Digging with their backs to the galleon, her eyes slid to study Wall. Was it coincidence that they faced away from the wreck - or deliberate? The man could do odd things in the name of safety, and if he believed…
Abruptly she stopped that line of thought. Because he was a decent man.
She ought to feel shame for what had happened between them on the beach. Instead, a sort of tightness gripped her stomach - a happy tightness, as if her body knew something her mind hadn’t yet puzzled out.
The Brit looked at her over a large pile of sand, shoveling enthusiastically. More for her entertainment than any expectation of discovery. Grinning around her mouthpiece, Jill shifted closer, matching his pace and his mood.
Her fingers found something. Wall noticed her reaction, and helped her dig.
Together they unearthed a metallic lump, twice the size of her fist, heavy and obscure. It looked fused, more like what she’d expect to find in an old wreck. A genuine artifact, as Jon would say.
As she tried to decipher its true shape, Wall nodded to the wreck.
Jill was reluctant to look. In fact she suddenly dreaded it. But before she could find a way to let him know Wall pushed off the sand, swimming for the bow.
So she had to follow.
Jon popped out of the hole beneath the bowsprit. Freeing his line, reeling the last bit in, he gave her a nod brimming with excitement.
The ropes. The ropes weren’t remnants from the wreck at all - but the tied-off lines of the divers. Really, this stupid ship was getting to her.
She tried to ask what they’d seen inside, what treasure they’d found, but of course it was a waste of air. Amused, Jon gave her a double ‘okay’ signal, dropping to hover beside her. Excited indeed, she saw in his eyes. They must have found something good.
Over their heads Mike popped through the hole, turning to free his line. Something glittered from his dive bag, and Jill nudged Wall and pointed.
Still struggling with his rope, Mike drew his machete. The long blade caught on the wreck, he lost his grip.
The knife drifted slowly to the sand.
Mike also dropped to follow - and jerked to a halt, as if the bowsprit had grabbed his tanks. He dangled like a prize marlin on a fisherman’s hook.
Jon doubled over with laughter. When even Wall chuckled, she knew everything was fine. Mike strained to reach back behind his tanks, but couldn’t do anything. His arms folded in front of him, the picture of patience in the face of his friend’s amusement.
Wall floated higher, latching onto the sprit and leaning close to peer at the problem. After a minute Mike gestured in mock annoyance.
The Brit slid his dive knife from an ankle sheath.
Jill saw it in her peripheral vision - soaring down like an eagle attacking its prey. So the manta hadn’t vanished after all. Watching in wonder, mesmerized by its grace, she was glad it hadn’t vanished with the rest of the fish. Her wonder died in a wave of fear as the thing seemed to aim for her head.
It flew past, in a beeline for Mike.
For a split second Mike froze.
He’d killed it, felt it die. In the instant before it passed he glimpsed traces of white cartilage where the skin had begun to decompose.
The very violence of his scream ought to have shaken him loose - but the surrounding sea muffled the energy as it muffled the noise.
Images more than thought raced through his mind. Of Jon, of the Crusty Porthole. Of Nita, smiling provocatively beneath him, naked in her bed. He knew he could lose all these things.
The warrior within him rose and fought.
Whirling, Jill saw the ray skim over Mike’s head, clanging into the top of his tanks. Wall jerked back, losing his knife as the manta streaked past. The creature never even slowed as it vanished in the distance.
The blue handle of Wall’s knife slowly buried in the sand; tiny air bubbles boiled around the top of Mike’s trapped tank. The ray must have damaged the air hose.
All the men hung frozen in the sea.
Until Mike erupted.
He thrashed violently, as if to yank himself free, but the bowsprit held fast. Bare chest heaving as he flailed, powerful legs kicking furiously. Utter panic - from the man who’d lectured class that the vast majority of diver deaths stem from panic alone.
He had to know there was air. They had spare regulators, sharp knives. They had procedures, skills, knowledge. He had to know they’d rescue him.
Even now, as Wall dove down to recover his knife, Jon shot up to Mike’s mask level. Trying to get close, to grab Mike’s mask - but the frenzied writhing held him at bay.
Wall bolted back to position, hands working furiously to free the man. Jon waved his spare regulator. Offering it, but the muscle man seemed oblivious. His wild twists made an impenetrable barrier.
She could see Wall’s head shaking even as his fingers pried, twisted, and pummeled. He couldn’t free the tanks.
Jon hovered a second more before diving in between Mike’s arms, grabbing his head to force eye contact - an instant before a clawing arm struck. Knocking the slight figure backwards, flipping fins over head. Jon’s mask and regulator fell away; his hands clutched his face.
To Jill’s horror, a dark trickle slipped up from between his fingers. She’d kept out of reach of Mike’s wild thrashing, but Jon was still - and damned if she’d let him drown.
Wall was there before her, snagging Jon’s bubbling mouthpiece. Gently he pushed it back in place.
Jon had air, at least, while Mike’s struggles grew feeble. Her hands unhooked her octopus rig before her mind had made the decision. But with Wall tending to a stunned Jon, she was t
he trapped man’s only hope.
Flexing her knees, she pushed off the bottom.
She rose up to see his eyes, wide and frozen within the black frame. Almost as if he’d seen a ghost. Squelching that image, she finned closer.
He didn’t move.
Cautiously she tugged his mouthpiece free, and slipped her spare in its place. Just as slowly his hands lifted, touched her shoulders. Relief swamped her - it was going to be okay.
And then he grabbed her throat.
Hatred burned from his eyes as he choked her. His strength had returned in full. Struggling as best she could, she felt like a tiny mouse in the big cat’s teeth.
She felt, rather than saw, Wall at her side, grabbing Mike’s muscular arm, yanking. In no way lessening the grip on her neck.
She doubted Mike even felt it.
Her knees had drawn up to her body protectively. Instinctively she kicked out, wedging her feet against his chest. One fin popped off - making it easier to plant and push. His clawing fingers scraped down to her shoulders, allowing precious air to flow. Filling her lungs.
Jill breathed. And pushed harder, levering her throat out of range. Hands skidded down her wetsuit.
She sprang free.
Hovering, gasping, she noticed something large beside her - and whirled to see Jon, still and drifting. She kicked towards him, grabbing hold, shaking him. No reaction.
When her spare regulator floated between them she impatiently swept it clear. And in doing so saw Wall, holding his own regulator at Mike’s mouth - who also hung limp.
In a moment of clarity she knew - she knew - they could only save one man. Jon. She gestured frantically at Wall.
He hesitated - she felt his indecision. Relief overwhelmed her when he swam to them.
Checking her cousin’s face, Wall linked their B.C.s and pointed up. And waited. Realizing what he was waiting for, Jill quickly nodded.
Holding the small man, Wall ascended.
The bowsprit lay so close, Mike dangling in the current like a macabre rag-doll.
If I leave now, he’s dead.
But if she stayed, Wall would be forced to return. And that might kill Jon. Even if she stayed, how could she free him now when Jon and Wall could not?
