by Jo Sparkes
The moonlight flickered and died as clouds boiled through the sky.
“Now,” the one-handed warrior shouted. The Africans raced to attack the surprised sailors.
The ship heaved, throwing Quash back inside. When he emerged again, the sailors were gone. Tossed over the side, he realized.
But more whites swarmed, these armed with cudgels, with blades. With bodies strong from doing men’s work instead of wasted away by starvation.
The vessel rolled, as if the sea herself joined the battle. And the one-handed African fought like the strongest tribal chief, screaming his defiance, felling three more whites before a blade sliced open his shoulder.
For an instant he saw Quash, still on the threshold.
“Fight!” he shouted. Their eyes locked.
Quash hesitated no more than an instant - but the battle turned just as fast. The warrior fell to his knees as an arcing blade sliced through the night, through his neck.
His head bounced across the deck, landing by Quash’s foot. The eyes gazed upward, accusing.
Lowering his blade, Jon stared at the slave he’d just killed. The creature had no hand - no way to defend himself. And yet he’d fought like a devil.
Dogs do not fight for freedom from the leash. These were men, no matter what the Spaniards claimed. Desperate men, aware of their fate. Willing to die rather than accept it.
“Fetch me that head,” Captain Sadico growled.
Jon tossed his blade at the Captain’s feet and walked away.
There’d be consequences, he knew. But he’d suffer them rather than take further part in this evil.
Watching the Englishman stride away, Sadico roared in anger. Slave bodies now littered the ship around him, each one representing lost coin. He strode to the head himself, and spied one alive and uninjured.
For some reason its name came to mind. Quash. The one with the pregnant female. Or without now, as Isabelle had claimed her.
“Sir,” Duerte, his first mate, pointed to the darkening night above. “The mainsail rope has torn apart. We need a new rope and quickly or we’ll find ourselves beam on.”
“Then do it, fool.”
“Leon - Go!”
“I cannot! Not in this sea,” an old seaman piped up. And they all ceased their motions, watching the Captain fearfully.
Sadico whirled and glared. And then slowly turned back, pointing. “Send him.”
His unnatural blue eyes burning a hole through Quash’s skull. “Send him,” said the evil Captain.
The smaller white shook his head. “There’s no time for this. Someone skilled, who knows what to do. And has strength to climb.”
The great ship itself was spinning, Quash realized. Lightning split the heavens, revealing the whirling tall tree with canvas sheets attached. Always, always these sailors had controlled the ships, making them do their bidding just as they made the Africans do.
Not now, he saw. Now the ship rebelled, just as they had rebelled. The sea and the sky sought to punish the whites as they liked to punish the Africans.
“Climb,” shouted the one called Leon, shoving a rope in Quash’s hands. When Quash didn’t move, Leon dug a blade point in his gut.
Backing away, Quash found himself against the largest tree growing from the low deck.
“CLIMB!”
Spinning, Quash did.
There were man-made handholds, he discovered, slick and cold. He sprinted upwards out of the blade’s reach.
“Throw it over the arm!” the man below shouted, pointing. Quash scurried higher, finding it easier not to look down. Not to look anywhere but straight in front of his nose. Maybe if he did this, they would not hurt him. Even let him go back to Juba.
“There! Go there!” Hearing the urgency - the panic - he glanced down.
Already dizzy from the heaving ship, Quash now saw raging sea water churning furiously, as the tree he clung to rolled towards it. For an instant he hovered so near the great ocean he could touch it.
Then he catapulted skyward, high above the boiling seas, only to roll back the other way. Foaming crests, deepening troughs filled his vision. The whole world was caving in around him. Punishment, for failing Juba and his unborn son. For not following the one-handed warrior when he’d had a chance to fight.
A tiny chance, he now realized, was so much better than accepting defeat.
His fingers slipped from the nail-hold as the sea rose up to greet him.
He crashed into the water and was swallowed by the dark.
Wall’s hand slipped - for an instant he dangled over the swelling waters below.
In that instant he clung to wood, not rock. Lightning flashed above him, revealing waves in the cavern beneath, a whole raging sea reaching wildly up to him.
He was clinging to the mast of a ship, and that mast dove towards the ocean. His hand slipped from the iron nail.
“NO!”
Falling - he was falling, he realized. Flesh tore from his fingers as he clawed at the rocks, but he barely registered the pain. No matter what happened, he had to get Jill out. Saving her would mean something - a single gain yanked defiantly from disaster.
As that thought rose in his mind, he knew it for truth. Better to fight a losing battle, try to rescue some good from it, than bow to defeat. Win or lose, at least he made a choice.
It wasn’t a rock but a gap that saved them both. His hand dove in, fingers spreading instinctively to hold him there. Only for a second, but in that second he found purchase for his toes. Flattening against the wall, they were momentarily safe.
“Wall,” Jill’s broken sob was in his ear. If nothing else, she lived.
She lived.
Silencing his protesting muscles, he climbed. He countered the slickness by testing each grip, moving only one hand or foot at a time. Slow going when icy water pummeled the face.
And then his hand stabbed through the ledge opening. Pelted with rain, his fingers found an outside grip. Wall stepped up, looking out at the storm.
He’d never witnessed a hurricane until now.
The opening was too narrow to pass with Jill on his back. And there was so little time - the spurt of adrenal strength was fast waning.
Shrugging the cloth-sling off his shoulder, Wall caught the loop in one hand. Then, before he could think, he thrust his head outside. The howling gale nearly pushed him back.
A shout erupted from his gut as he fought through the opening, falling forward across the outside ledge, hugging it with the length of his torso as he rotated on his belly. Face down on the icy rock, storm slamming his back, he swung his legs out.
Pulling Jill through took his last ounce of energy.
First her head, dark hair drenched and clinging to her face. Then her shivering body. Somehow she seemed lighter - he realized she was helping him.
Dear God, she was helping him.
Her face rolled towards him as she lay on stone, blinking to clear her vision.
“Wall?”
He’d been certain he’d only imagined her voice. That wound...
“Run. Wall, run now.”
Shoving rainwater out of his face, he saw her staring beyond him. He glanced over his shoulder.
The Vortex from his nightmare was solid and very real. And rising up the chimney towards them.
Scrambling to her feet, Jill dove into the upper cave.
Wall was right behind.
Jon managed to rekindle the fire - somewhat. Enough to stare into its depths while clutching the bottle of tequila. Now, surely he was the lone survivor. Beyond that, he didn’t want to think.
So Jill shooting through the tunnel caught him off guard. She scrambled in the ashes, trying to right herself.
“Jill…”
Wall dove in behind her, landing awkwardly. Sprawling next to Jill.
“What the hell…” Jon couldn’t finish his question, which was just as well as neither paid him the slightest attention.
Wall actually pushed Jill over, lifting her
shirt off her stomach. No, not her shirt. A bandage.
Still unable to form a coherent sentence, Jon leaned closer.
The makeshift bandage on her abdomen scared the hell out of him - until the Brit pried it up, then ripped off the cloth none-to-gently.
“Nothing,” Wall said, feeling the area. “Barely a scratch.”
Jill seemed more interested in the bandage. When she clutched it protectively, Jon realized it was that stupid rag she’d found.
“I was injured,” she whispered. “She stabbed me…deep. So much blood, I blacked out.”
Wall shook his head. “That blood couldn’t have come from you. Was Melanie hurt?”
Jill stared at her cloth. “This! You put this on my wound…Wall! It healed me!”
Tired of waiting for answers, Jon leaned close to Jill’s injury. A tiny scratch marred the skin, tinged in red. “Just a graze,” he told them, glad to get a full sentence out. He must have drank more than he realized.
“It was a gaping hole. Lots of blood,” the Brit insisted, touching her stomach again.
Jon yanked her shirt back in place. “Hey! Watch where you put your hands.”
The wind howled, drowning any further words. To Jon’s amazement, both Wall and Jill both scrambled back, away from the tunnel opening. They dove behind the natural half-wall of the cave.
“Jon!” the Brit shouted. And then the world exploded.
The tunnel - the entire wall around it - vanished. In its place a whirling vortex hovered, a dark tornado of…rage. Inside the black smoke spun glimpses of cloth, of machete. A hand with pink fingernails.
Jon backed away, dropping his bottle. It flew straight into the Vortex. “What - the hell - is that!?”
From deep within two lights flickered, eyes blazing from the Thing. Ice cold blue eyes.
They focused on Wall. “Quash,” it rumbled, and his blood chilled.
Memory hit him - an image so strong Wall couldn’t fathom it. Alone in a raging sea, fighting to stay afloat. Dark sky, high waves, horrible storm. And a giant ship beside him, teetering. Sinking.
A man stood at the rails, glaring. He couldn’t see them, but Wall knew his eyes were ice cold blue. That man never stopped glaring hatred, even as the ocean swallowed them both.
Wall shook himself back to the present. The Vortex swelled, howling with laughter.
“JESUS!” Jon’s feet slid towards it. He threw himself backwards, diving behind the half-wall ridge.
Wall braced himself with his heels, looking to join Jon. Then Jill’s body slid towards it - he grabbed her, holding her tight.
She was staring at the thing with a peculiar frown. Had she also heard it speak?
“Give her to me,” the Vortex purred.
His arms tightened around her.
“Give her to me and I’ll let you live,” it rumbled, sounding more like thunder than human. “You know I’ll take her anyway.”
Jill turned to him, her eyes swimming in tears. Those soft brown eyes. She could hear it. She knew what it wanted.
Her lips parted - he placed a finger there to silence her. “I won’t let you go.”
“Then die and remain here with me forever,” the Vortex roared, in fury and laughter and something more. Hate - its hate filled what was left of the cavern.
Hate is the essence of evil, Wall recalled from somewhere.
The Vortex swelled. Pebbles and dirt and embers of the dying fire flew into it, firefly specks prickling the black whirl.
Wall’s feet slid towards it - Jill buried her head in his shoulder.
“You’re crazy to try to save me,” she cried.
He wanted to set her straight - make her understand. His need was to defy this monster, to stand up to it. He must, more than anything, fight back.
But when he glanced at her - at those soft brown eyes, at the light reflected there in the midst of this hell - it hit him that he did need to save her. Not as a symbol of defiance - but for the girl herself.
Jon said the only thing real in life was people. Not places, not things. People. For the first time Wall felt the truth in that.
This was what life was about. This was worth fighting for.
Jill still stared at him. Jill, who’d gallantly fought her own dragons, with no doubts nor hesitation.
He kissed the tip of her nose.
The Vortex swelled furiously as she reached up, stroked his face. The bit of cloth flew from her hand.
Straight into the Vortex.
And the pitch changed. The cloth settled in the center, floating calmly among frantically whirling obstacles. Hovering for precious seconds…before slowly turning in the opposite direction.
The Monster howled.
Gray cloth spun faster, countering the Whirlwind, reversing its direction. Unraveling its coil. A dive light flew out, smacking the cave just above their heads. Wind whistled shrilly as pebbles pummeled them.
The whistle reached a pitch beyond human ears. Wall winced away, chin in Jill’s hair. And then silence.
He turned back.
Where the Vortex had raged, a man now stood. With a dark beard and watery blue eyes. Gazing at Wall, the man smiled and saluted. And vanished.
“Did you see…?” Wall croaked. But Jill’s head was buried in his shoulder, so of course she hadn’t seen.
Jon crawled past to something glittering in the now bright moonlight. The storm itself had vanished with the Vortex.
Lifting the glittering thing - the half-empty bottle of tequila - Jon drank.
Aftermath
The rescue boat arrived before they’d eaten a dozen cans of Spam.
Ray Sadicor, it turned out, was more aware of Jon’s activities then Jon knew. Being distracted, neither he nor Mike had checked in with the Antigua dive shop in the days before the fire. Such lapses were not uncommon, but what Jon never realized was his father not only checked in with the shop, he pushed the shop to check in with the boat.
Jon had always assumed the Antiguans were just overly curious about his whereabouts.
Ray had flown down the second day, later riding to the rescue on a sixty foot predator - a yacht complete with three cabins and two heads. And for once, instead of disparaging his father’s extravagance, Jon savored the luxury of hot water.
Now, sitting alone in the stern, clutching a coffee for the sheer warmth, Jon stared at the sea.
His father had quietly asked Wall about bodies, and the Brit had shook his head. Neither man knew what Jon had seen, walking the island at dawn because he couldn’t sit still. Neither man had tramped past the hibiscus bush, blooming with the white flowers, to see the still whiter hand on the beach. Such a cold, unnatural white. Melanie, tangled in storm debris. That stupid necklace beside her, the gemstone shattered. Her treasured ruby must have been fake after all.
Jon could have told them where to find her body, but he had not. If Mikey don’t go home…
“Jon.” Wall appeared, carrying his own mug and smiling a little too broadly for Jon’s taste. The Brit stretched out on the nearby lounge. “Ray said there’s no sign of the wreck. Due to the storm?”
Jon grimaced at hearing Wall say his father’s name. “He didn’t say no sign of the wreck - he said there was no wreck. As if we all suffered a mass mirage.”
“I don’t think he meant it that way.”
“You don’t know my father.” Jon lifted his cup to his mouth - but didn’t drink. He didn’t want coffee, he realized. He wanted tea. Proper good tea, like Earl Grey. “That grandfather of a storm destroyed the bottom…wreck’s buried in a ton of sand. Or pummeled into oblivion. Either way, it’s gone.”
“Apparently they were unaware of a storm.”
“My father,” Jon stated firmly, “is frequently unaware of anything.”
Hearing his own words, the tone in his voice, startled him. Here he was still at it - his personal rebellion against his dad. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to give the old man a break.
“Your dad offered to look, you
know. Pay for equipment, expert…”
Jon tossed the contents of his mug overboard. “I know. And…and I appreciate it. I just doubt we’d find anything. Even if we did, I don’t have the stomach for it.”
Jill burst from the cabin, arms wrapped around an old book with fancy binding. “Saint Peter Claver!” Heaving the volume over, Jon saw the title: A Collection of Catholic Saints.
“He ministered to the slaves until 1654. The Spanish Slave Trade!”
“1654? Isn’t that early for slaves?” Wall frowned.
Her eyes sparkled. “Apparently not! Saint Peter was in Cartagena - the hub of the trade. The Spanish used them to work sugarcane. He - the saint - would throw his cloak over them,” she hastily found the passage, “over the worst of the lot, despite open sores, vermin, disease.”
Jon plucked the book from her hands. “Pillow for the sick, pall for the dead, shield for the leprous.”
She was so excited she almost tripped over Wall’s long legs. “His cloak was old and ragged - pieces of it were holy relics. They say the cloth’s very touch could cure! And you,” she turned to the Brit, “put it over my stomach.”
“You weren’t injured,” Jon shut the book.
“It cured that - that thing. It … unraveled the evil within it.”
Shoving the tome at her, Jon jumped to his feet. “That was a storm phenomenon. The Caribbean version of a desert dust devil.”
“A dust devil with eyes? C’mon - you’re the one with the karmic vortexes.”
“Theories, Jill. Theories of subtle energies. They don’t spin flashlights.”
Jill retreated a step from her cousin’s derision, this time tripping over Wall’s legs and landing in his lap.
She shifted to stand up, but the man held her still.
“Storm-caused microburst,” Jon told her. “And the rapid dissolving proves it.” With that parting shot, he disappeared into the cabin.
“Dust devil my ass,” Jill called after him, springing up to follow.
Wall snagged her wrist. “Let him go, Jill.”
