by Jo Sparkes
Blinking, Jon suddenly moved, feeling the area around him. “The machete. It’s gone.”
“So is Jill.”
Roiling waters pummeled her ears, spinning her dizzily. For a few precious seconds, Jill wasn’t sure which way was up.
Her lungs screamed for oxygen.
Then her bare foot scraped the rock bottom. Gather knees to chest, Jill thrust against it, shooting for the surface. Swimming, kicking. Praying.
She broke through.
Gasping air, she sputtered, coughing up seawater she hadn’t known she’d swallowed. Her body shook violently; she had no idea how much was due to cold and how much to fear. Thank God the pool surface was relatively calm. Fleeting she wondered how that could be with the water raging just outside.
I can see, she realized. There was light shining from the second chamber. The one with the hole in the ceiling, where her shouts just might be heard.
Chills poured down her spine. How could there be light?
There was nothing else to do but swim across the pool and climb out.
Wall sat back on his heels. “She’s in the bloody cave.”
Jon slowly lifted his gaze to stare at him.
“The lower cave. The one underwater.”
“How the hell would she get there? Why the hell would she go?”
Wall leapt to his feet, sprinting for the pile of supplies. Tossing cans of food aside, he unearthed the mask and snorkel - and a length of line. He used the latter to tie the dive light to his belt loop - and prayed it would hold.
“Jill’s not stupid.” Jon tried to sit up, winced instead.
Something was snared in the mask strap. Jill’s cloth - her lucky artifact. Impulsively he shoved it deep in a pocket, before tugging the mask on, pushing it up his forehead.
“You’re insane. Wall, she can’t possibly be down there.”
“I saw a light through the chimney. She’s down there.” He moved to the tunnel, dropping to his hands and knees.
Jon grabbed his ankle. “This is lunacy.”
Wall almost smiled. “A good old British tradition.”
“I don’t want to be the only idiot left when my father gets here.”
Wall sped through the tunnel.
Cartagena 1648
Wednesday, October 14th
Jon trod the boards of the dock past all the ships, past all the men hauling cargo, replacing rope, swabbing decks. So many working bare-chested in the heat. That they were Spanish did not scare him; on this side of the world, a man willing to work was valuable no matter his country of birth.
He had left England the day after his father’s death - his father, the Earl of Staffordshire. Jon’s mother was not the Countess, and the Countess herself had never agreed with her husband’s recognition of his birth. Thus he became persona non grata.
So he’d pursued his thirst for adventure and set sail to see this new world with his own eyes. Now, with the flurry of men surrounding him, the sun blazing overhead, he thought he’d made a good choice. A better one, his new friend Tomas told him, was the island of Santo Domingo. “Cartagena is Spanish, thoroughly Spanish. But the islands - they are still developing. No one would frown on an Englishman there. You might even claim land, try your hand at a plantation. All of Europe wants sugar, and Brazil cannot keep up.”
“I have no money for passage, my friend.”
Tomas grinned. “But you have a strong back. Ships do not seek passengers these days - but they always need good men. That one,” he pointed to a four-masted galleon bustling with activity, “is the Catalan. She leaves within the week.”
Jon nodded toward a smaller ship at the end of the wharf. “She looks ready to sail now.”
“The Caridad. Captain Sadico’s craft. Avoid that one - you do not have the stomach for his methods.”
“I have a strong stomach,” Jon said.
“Not so much, my friend. They call his ship el Viento del Diablo. The Wind of the Devil.”
Another herd was being driven to the smaller ship, twenty of the creatures. Jon stared, unable to credit his eyes with what he saw. Hairless apes, Tomas called them.
“Come,” the Spaniard smiled, and led him to the herd. One of the sailors recognized Tomas and beckoned.
Tomas strode up to the tallest ape, grabbing its arm. Offering it to Jon. “Satisfy your curiosity,” he told him.
Jon touched the peculiar skin. The creatures were very similar to men, but their skin was ebony black, as if they’d been cooked in coal. Astonishing to behold.
“In Africa, these things run wild. They are a step above the other animals - strong, yes, but can also learn. These, my friend, are the secret to the sugar plantations.”
Jon rubbed his own skin for comparison. “They don’t seem that different from us.”
“Across the ocean,” Tomas explained, “They prey on each other. Wild and dangerous, until we tame them. We give them a purpose under God.”
“Can they talk?”
“They bark, like dogs. But they cannot understand us.”
Jon nodded. “Santo Domingo,” he said aloud. “Sounds very exotic.”
“It is.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Jon noticed the glaring eyes of the creature he’d touched. Almost a look of…hatred. “You are sure they are animals? With no intelligence - no understanding?”
Tomas nodded reassuringly. “They are like dogs - but not as friendly,” he said.
So Jon sought out the Caridad’s first mate.
The ship was leaving on tomorrow’s tide, and Jon was granted free passage in exchange for serving as second mate. So he spent his last day taking leave of those who had helped him.
Tomas had merely shook his head. Father Miguel, the priest who had first befriended him, smiled warmly. “I have been to several of the islands. They are God’s best creation.”
Overhearing them, Father Peter paused. “Do not travel on a ship of evil.”
Father Miguel sent Jon an apologetic look. “Father, this young man wishes to see an island or two. God has provided passage for him.”
“Choose a vessel ladened with sugar. One of the Dutch ships perhaps.”
Jon didn’t understand. “Is it Captain Sadico? I should not travel with him?”
“The trading of men is evil. It taints everything around it. And that Captain is worse than most.”
Father Miguel disagreed. “Jon works for his passage, Father. He does no harm. None of this ‘karma’.”
“What is karma?” Jon asked.
“It is a silly word from the India Spice traders. They see everything in terms of debt, including bad deeds. Only a trader could believe such a concept.”
“It comes not from the traders, but the teachings of India,” Father Peter said. “We Spanish are not the only spiritual men. Some of us lack the Spirit of God altogether.”
“Only a merchant could talk of a ‘soul’s indebtedness’.”
Later Father Miguel would assure him there was no harm done. And Tomas insisted the Africans were nowhere near human. “Just like dogs,” he insisted. “We train them.”
Still, Jon could never dismiss Father Peter’s words. Especially that foreign word ‘karma’.
If the wind on the ledge had buffeted him before, it now pounded with such force Wall doubted he could even crawl. Instead he sat, legs dangling over the edge, gasping in his first deep breath.
Lightning revealed the seething waters below. For an instant he saw the seas rushing up dizzyingly. Wall shook his head and blew the air from his lungs. The ocean returned to its proper distance.
Setting his mask in place, he drew his second breath.
Another flash - this was memory from an old nightmare. Clinging desperately to a ship’s mast, His fingers clawing at the ropes.
He expelled all the oxygen in a single huff.
Drawing in his third breath, the image in his mind added sound. Male laughter as he hovered above his doom.
His lungs could hold no more. Wall
jumped.
For seconds he fell through the storm, before his body sliced through the waves, aiming for the sand floor. The raging currents stopped him, flinging him like jetsam away from the cliff face. Away from the cave.
Out towards the open ocean.
He swam for the surface, breaking through as a monster wave lifted him high, then crashed. Hurling him backwards, ripping his mask off. His body smacked granite, scraping down the cliff face, flesh tearing from his back. Wall gasped another mouth of air before rocketing under to smash the bottom. Feet and hands embedded in the sand, holding him in place as the current tried to suck him away.
Lightning momentarily lit the undersea, and he glimpsed the cave entrance meters to his left. It reminded him of a sketch in an old book - of the gates of hell.
His lungs reminded him he needed air.
Clenching his jaw, he waited for the strong current to ebb. There should be a tiny pause before the waves surged again. Hopefully.
The pulling ceased. He yanked his hands free, launching himself toward the opening. His feet remained stuck.
Wall kicked, thrashing with strength born of panic. One foot tore free, the other stayed. The sea gathered itself, preparing for the next surge.
Lungs screaming, he kicked his free foot down, yanking his other clear. Immediately he swam for the cave. The current drove him at an up angle, aiming for the solid stone above the entrance. Grimly he dove lower.
His cheek smashed rock, but his fingers gripped the tunnel edge. He pulled himself down, down … and in.
And shot straight up for the cave pool surface. Wall broke through just as his lungs overrode his brain, sucking in a spray of water along with the cold air.
His choking gasps rang out through the cavern.
As his coughing subsided, Wall felt the unnatural stillness of the cavern. Like a tomb, he thought - and instantly regretted the image.
His fingers found the rope on his belt loop; somehow the light was still attached. Gratefully he clicked the switch, sweeping the beam across the flickering pool surface, and the large dome overhead. The beam refused to penetrate the more distant shadows.
“JILL?”
A slow drip of water echoed. Reluctantly he swam to the ledge and hoisted himself out.
And realized, as he watched the ledge more carefully, that the pool water was rising. In fact, rising fast.
“Melanie? ARE YOU HERE?”
No answer. Wall strode to the second chamber.
On the hard stone floor a softer lump appeared in the flashlight. Somehow he knew before his mind puzzled out the contours. “Jill!”
He sprinted, knelt. Rolling her over, he saw the gaping wound in her abdomen - harsh, uneven. Deep. With his own pulse pounding in his ears it took precious seconds to establish she was still alive, if barely.
“There was an accident,” Melanie said behind him.
He turned to find her watching him calmly, as if they were discussing dinner menus. “She fell.”
The ruby necklace he thought she’d lost glittered on her throat; Mike’s machete glittered in her hand. Observing the direction of Wall’s gaze, she tossed the latter aside.
The blade never touched the ground.
It flew backwards, sucked into some sort of…disturbance. A whirlwind of debris, a sort of hurricane microburst, humming as it swelled and then shrank, as if breathing. Noting his interest, Melanie smiled, and he had the bizarre impression the dust devil stood at her command. Or she at its.
Yanking his shirt off, Wall turned his back on both. “Why are you doing this?”
“He commanded it,” she sighed. “He’s furious at all of you. Especially you.”
His shirt was soaked - not the best of bandages.
“Here.” Cloth appeared over his shoulder, perfectly dry. Her shirt. Wall suppressed an impulse to ask how she’d gotten here; he honestly didn’t care anymore.
“Mike led that rebellion; Jon betrayed him. And you - eternally useless. You failed to help Mike. You failed to help him. Always the best intentions; always falling short.”
Seawater trickled through the chamber opening.
“And then you all abandoned him here.”
He ripped the shirt, making a thick pad bandage and a strip long enough to tie around Jill’s body. “And what did Jill do?”
“She’s nothing. Just a lever.”
Ahead of him a flash of light lit the area, bright, flickering, then vanished. Lightning - from the top hole.
Jon’s hatchway - the dangerous rock climb beneath the ledge opening. The last ten feet sloped backwards, requiring an arm strength Wall lacked; requiring bouldering techniques he didn’t know. Jon swore he’d never attempt it again. But then Jon didn’t have this motivation. Already Jill lay in six inches of water.
“I wonder what happened to my bra.” Amusement laced the blonde’s purr. If she’d expected him to turn around to see, she’d be disappointed.
Impulsively he fished in his pocket, finding Jill’s treasured cloth and placing it against her wound. He then tied the wadded shirt over it, sacrificing gentleness for security.
“It’ll bleed through,” Melanie said.
Ignoring her, Wall studied the climb out of the cave. There was no question of trying to swim; even if he somehow got Jill through without drowning, they’d never make it to the beach.
The water rose to Jill’s ears - he pulled her up before it could reach her nose. Thinking rapidly, he grabbed the line he’d used for the flashlight and looped it round her leg and his shoulder. Without more rope, it was the best idea he had: an improvised sling.
“You’ll never make it, you know.” Melanie slid around him, half-naked, fingers spreading out against his chest. “Better leave her here...you might make it without extra weight. She’s dead either way.”
Wall stepped through the loop, pulling the unconscious girl against his back. He moved his shoulders, testing its security, and then strode through the rising water for the hatchway.
Melanie followed at his side, a fingernail digging a circle on his shoulder. “Don’t risk one to save another. Remember?”
Water at his knees, he studied the climb. Marking his first handholds, he balanced the flashlight atop a rough stalagmite.
“You’ll fall again,” the blonde cooed.
“If you try to climb out of here, it’d be best to wait till I’ve gone, one way or the other.” Wall tossed over his shoulder. “Or stay here and drown. I don’t give a damn.”
Feeling his first handhold, he climbed.
Jill must be drifting in a small boat.
Rocking motion, staccato movements, her head smacking against the side. Smacking against something. She pried her eyelids open.
Dreams, she thought hazily, should disappear when you open your eyes. This one did not, for she saw below - far below - Melanie watching her, laughing. The blonde stood naked in water up to her waist.
And behind her was a…dust devil. Whirling debris.
The Whirl advanced.
Still grinning, Melanie was pulled backwards towards it. Blond hair lifted, sucked in before her head rolled back. Her body followed.
The Vortex swelled to double its size. Jill clearly saw a dive light flying around within. And a t-shirt.
And human feet. “Oh dear God.”
“Jill?” it was Wall’s voice. She was somehow on his back. And he was climbing. “Don’t move,” he grunted.
Having engulfed Melanie, the Vortex glided closer.
Within the debris twin lights flickered. Eyes - not Melanie’s green, but blue. Pale, icy blue.
“Hurry,” Jill croaked. “Wall, hurry.”
A rumble shook the cavern, the rock face they climbed. Jill shut her own eyes - but it didn’t matter. She saw the Monster either way.
500 Miles Southeast of Santo Domingo 1648
Monday, October 19th
A bowl set beside him slid away even as the sailor let it go. The ship’s roll was wilder than any time during the
first crossing. Whimpers of fear filled the vessel’s belly, and Quash was glad Juba was safe on land.
As the sailor set bowls in the next row, the one-handed African fell against the man’s leg. The sailor kicked him, chains clanking over the sounds of the sea, yelling something in his foul language. He moved on without giving that one food.
The one-handed African watched him walk away, catching Quash’s sliding bowl with a subtle gesture. Raising it to his lips, he stopped when he saw Quash watching him.
And offered him his bowl back. “You should eat.”
Quash made no response. Waiting a second more, the man downed the contents in a single motion.
Other sailors gathered the empties, disappearing up the ladder and taking the light with them.
“Do not give in so easily,” the one-handed African said. “They’ve chained your body, not your spirit.”
Quash closed his eyes, leaning again the rough wood side of the ship. “They have taken my heart,” he heard himself whisper.
He felt the chains moving, the iron anklet on his foot suddenly lighter of weight. Startled, his fingers explored the circlet and found himself free.
“I took the key while he was busy kicking me,” the one-handed man said.
“I cannot swim,” Quash worried.
“Let us see if the white devils can.”
It took time to free them all. But once the chains fell away their energy returned. Men who had sleep-walked through the last few months suddenly sprang to their feet. Backs straightened, chins lifted with purpose.
With determination.
The evil vessel heaved side to side, rolling as the waves slapped the wood. Unused to walking on heaving decks in the dark, the Africans made their way slowly up the ladder to the hated door.
It was not locked.
The one-handed man beckoned them through as the wind and rippling canvas muffled their sounds. The Africans rushed out, shoving Quash aside. Anxious to flee the black hell they’d occupied for days.
When the last man passed - the last that would leave, for many still cowered below - Quash approached the open doorway. The moon peeped through the clouds, reflecting off the rolling sea, the wood deck. There was no place to go, he saw. They merely exchanged one hell for another.
