The Southwind Saga (Book 3): Flood Tide

by Kovacs, Jase

  I laugh awkwardly and take the canteen. It doesn't burn so much this time. She watches me drink with a smile and then says, "Your turn."

  "Mine don't compare to yours." I hand the canteen back. "Sorry for bringing it up."

  "Don't wimp out on me. You owe me."

  "All right. You know when they were about to crucify me? Dan had the nail on my wrist and the hammer lifted, ready to strike."

  "Then Piper took his head off." There is no small pride in Matty's voice.

  "Yeah. But, in the second before the shot, I felt... it was a peace. There was a storm raging and a mob chanting for my blood, but I felt at peace. Because I had failed. I had tried to talk our way out of there, and I had failed and knew that that was the end. There was no escape from my death, and I was relieved. I only hoped that there would be some value in my death, that how somehow it would help you and the others." My voice breaks, and I can't find the words that will paper the cracks.

  Matty points her index finger at me like a pistol, and I suddenly realise she's quite drunk. "You know what I've got that you don't. Besides the obvious, of course. Both of us were debased by those creatures."

  "It was Deborah and the Lost Tribe that did that to me."

  "The Green Lord put you on that cross – Deborah was just the method. What I have — and you don't — is closure. I killed the Pale King. I cut that asshole in two and threw him into the sea. But your one is still out there. All you're doing, every time you come out here and read these stupid books, is putting yourself back on that cross." She snatches the logbook out of my hands and flicks through the pages. It’s too dark to read, but she pretends to anyway and then tosses it over her shoulder. It slips into the water with barely a splash. The fact that I don't react surprises me more than her actions. But something makes my skin tingle and my face feel numb, and it isn't the swipe. She shakes her head at me. "You're the smartest bloke I know. And also the most stupid. Ya bloody dumb ass."

  "So, what—"

  "I'll tell ya what we're gonna do. We're going to go out there and kill this monster. And then we'll kill the next one and then the next one. Until they're all gone. Cause killing monsters is what we do." She closes one eye and takes a second to focus on me. "But first, you're going to row me back into shore. Cause I'm a little sleepy and friends don't let friends row drunk."

  "All right then."

  Her loose bandanna droops over one eye, and she shoves it back as she smirks at me. "And Zac, ya know what?”

  "What?"

  "Yer a bloody dumb ass."

  I shake my head and look away afraid she'll see the flood of affection that fills me. Love for this woman, who has gone into the mouth of death again and again, and who will lead me to my redemption. When I look back at her, I match her smile. "Yeah, I guess I am."

  ***

  Heavy rainclouds break over us before we are halfway to shore. A sudden sharp wind builds chaotic peaks out of the rising tide, and Matty laughs herself hoarse as I miss stroke after stroke, the oars leaping as the waves slink away. "Give it over, ya dumb ass. Let me do it," she says.

  "You're pissed."

  "Pissing myself watching you fall over. Come on." We swap seats, and she takes the oars in hand. "Just tell me if I'm going the wrong way."

  The drifts of rain come and go as clouds fly across the sky. During a break in the downpour, I catch Matty's quietly singing to herself. Perhaps it is the night, or the creak of the oars as she keeps time to the song, but her voice is quite lovely. "And I sold my soul for some cigarettes... to the black market, man... and the long-forgotten dock side guarantee. There were no V-day heroes in 1973—"

  She breaks off suddenly, as if she had forgotten I was there and is now embarrassed. I make a show of not noticing, peering over her shoulder to check our course.

  "That was my father's favourite song," she says.

  "It's nice. You sing well."

  "Shut up. Don't make fun."

  "I mean it."

  She dips and pulls the oars. Although the bay is still choppy and confused, she never misses a stroke. "It was my Dad's favourite song."

  "I'd like to hear the rest of it."

  "You know, I killed that guy today. I had to do it. But I didn't have to enjoy it. Does that make me a monster?"

  Her abrupt question leaves me stumbling for an adequate response. "Matty, no. God, no."

  "I always try not to kill. It seems sick to do their work for them. But today... Today was different. He cursed my father, Zac. He taunted me over the manner of Dad's death. That I could not abide."

  "Then why do you feel so terrible?"

  "Because it would’ve broken my parents’ hearts."

  "Maybe. I can't speak for them. But I believe they’d have faith you’d do what was necessary. I know I do."

  "Zac." Her face is pale in the fleeting starlight and shimmering trails trace her cheeks.

  "Yes, Matty."

  "Shut up." Then, softly, kindly. "Ya bloody dumb ass."

  ***

  I leave Matty on the beach sitting under a tree, with an empty canteen and an overflowing heart. She needs some space, so I wander aimlessly through First Landing. The settlement is quiet; a few candles and lanterns burn low in windows. At the far end of the street, I can see the huddled forms of the Watch, sheltering from the rain beneath an overhang. I see others, unnerved by abrupt voiding of our community's contract, sitting on their porches, unready to face sleep — or perhaps not ready to let their guard down.

  I find myself outside her house. I didn't mean to come here but here I am. I am about to move on when I hear her voice. "Zac. Wait."

  Abigail has dragged her mattress onto the veranda. Her shape is gauzy behind her mosquito net. "Where are you going?"

  "Nowhere special. I was just wandering—"I catch myself and stop. No. How could I dishonour Matty's honesty by hiding behind my own lies? "I want to see you."

  "Come up here then. Sit with me a while."

  She lifts the net as if it was a veil and lets me in. I sit on her mattress, my back to the wall and feel about ten sizes too big for my skin. "I want to apologise," I say. "You don’t owe me any explanation for what happened on Woodlark. I do truly understand. But that's not what I want to apologise to you about. You are right. I'm afraid. All the time. I'm afraid of everything, and for years I have hidden from the world. When you saw me on Woodlark, when you spoke of seeing something different, that was just a shield I put up. So I didn't fall to pieces. That's why I said I'm not who you think I am."

  "You're still being stupid," Abigail says. But not unkindly. "I know you're afraid. We all are. You still don't understand."

  "So tell me please."

  "Your shield, your scars; they're just a facade. Your shield broke on Woodlark, and I saw what hides beneath. When you put yourself between Deborah and your own people and called for peace. I saw the true man."

  "That's why I pulled away from you. I can't see what you saw. But I ask you. Please show me."

  She leans into me and kisses me. She smells of coconut.

  Then she reaches past my scars to where I am raw and carries me to a place where I am safe and warm and all sins are forgiven. She takes me into herself and there I find sanctuary.

  And later, when we are done, she holds me, and I hold her, and we listen to the night cries of jungle birds and sigh of palm trees as they shed the rain.

  The earth may betray us, and the night may be full of monsters but, right there, with her in this moment, everything is perfect.

  CHAPTER SIX: MATTY

  We're just off East Island when I first see the tall volcanic cone of Dalbarade Island rising like a dark pyramid from over the horizon. A pitch-black cloud sits on its peak like a cap, ignoring the steady easterly that drives high, fluffy, white cumulus across the deep blue sky. A palatable hunger for action fills me as I yearn for some sign of our adversary.

  The winds have been steady and true since we left Madau yesterday, and we've barely touched sheet o
r sail as we easily covered the ninety miles to our present position. Excelsior is by far the slowest vessel in our fleet; she has not disgraced herself by holding a steady seven knots, but she did that under full sail, whereas Larry's Razzmatazz, the other monohull, kept pace with us under staysail and reefed main. Fidelio, with Enzo at the helm, has, together with the local's sailing canoes, adopted a serpentine course, crossing and recrossing our wake to keep their faster boats in position.

  Shiloh, on the other hand, broke formation as soon as we left Madau, racing ahead under full sail, Michael either unwilling or unable to moderate his speed.

  Roman is behind the helm, gripping the wheel firmly with his big, calloused hands. His thick, black beard splits in a grin as I come aft, his teeth red from the betel nut and lime he chews. After Alan, I refused to sail with anyone but my first choice of crew. Enzo now skippers his own boat, so I was glad that the local leadership did not object to Roman rejoining me. He previously sailed with me on our Woodlark expedition, and I found him to be a steady, resourceful man.

  "Morning, Captain." He nods over towards Fidelio, who crosses our path half a mile ahead. Behind him come the canoes. Their amas, the outrigger stabilising float which is always to windward, are all out of the water and crewmembers lie out on spars to keep their boats from tipping. This is the first big voyage most of their sailors have ever done and, although they must be tired after the non-stop journey, the men on the amas wave and gesture in high spirits as they cut across our bow. "The Frenchman has many children now!"

  "Your sailing canoes are fast, like his catamaran."

  "And we are like a turtle. Slow!" Roman raps on the steel hull. "But with a strong shell."

  The VHF below squawks and even before I hear his voice, I know who is transmitting. "Excelsior, this is Shiloh. You will increase speed – you're holding us all back!"

  "I've told that idiot a million times-" I snap before I can stop myself. Roman has heard it all before, but he is good natured enough to listen as I vent. "Every time he transmits, he increases the chance of an electrical failure. We've been over this – VHF is for emergencies only. Like we went over the sailing directions before departure; we're in a bloody monohull. This is our maximum speed. Everyone else gets that – why doesn't he?"

  Roman is too polite to criticise anyone, so his silence speaks volumes. Thankfully, I can count on Blong, who comes the companionway, a steaming mug of island tea in his hands. "Here you go, lady," he says as he passes it to me. "Who you cranky at now?"

  "That bloody idiot Michael. He goes charging off by himself and now—"

  "Excelsior, respond! Excelsior, this is Shiloh, respond!"

  "—and now he won't shut up!"

  "Oh, Michael," says Blong, nodding seriously. "He's a bloody idiot."

  I can't help but laugh at the way his mimics my accent perfectly. "You're a cheeky bugger."

  "You swear more now, lady. I don't think these other peoples are good for you."

  "Which peoples?"

  He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "The Australians. They swear lots and get cross with little Blong all the time."

  "And why would they do that?"

  "I don't know! I didn’t do it! I never go near the power stations, and they didn't see me do it anyway." Blong gasps and claps his hands over his mouth as he realises he has incriminated himself in some... well, I've got no idea what he's talking about but I'm sure Big Kev would. He turns and dives back down the companionway before he can get himself in more trouble.

  "Do you want me to turn off the radio?" asks Roman.

  "No. Receiving isn't really the problem – it's when you transmit that there is a big power drain that can cause a fault."

  "Excelsior, Excelsior, Excelsior! This is Shiloh, Shiloh, Shiloh! Come in Excelsior!"

  "Maybe I'll turn it down a little," I say. I look over at Shiloh, hove to a mile away in the lee of East island. I'm still surprised Michael actually came — he did very little to prepare his boat, despite it not having sailed over a decade. His shakedown cruise was a perfunctory afternoon sail out of the bay and back again and, not surprisingly, he picked his crew from Big Kev's lads; either strong, hardy fellas who have no sailing experience, or old salties well past their prime. I remember Alan and shudder at the thought of a boat load of his type.

  Zac believes Michael is avoiding the difficult negotiations with the locals that were well underway when we left. That makes sense to me; Michael is far more interested in criticising others than making any meaningful contribution himself. But, truth be told, I couldn't care less about Michael's motivations. What bothers me is that he's unreliable, headstrong and well out of his depth. Larry and Enzo I can count on. I'm worried the locals will get carried away, taking their canoes into unnecessary danger in their eagerness to fight. But I feel a sense of dread whenever I consider Michael in a crisis. I shared my concerns with Duncan before we left, who agreed with me — and then gave me that look that said his reasons were political, and I would not like to hear them.

  Zac comes up the companionway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Hey, you know Michael is calling you—"

  "Yes, I do!"

  "Geez, bite a guy's head off, why don't you? Is there any tea left?"

  "Ask Blong."

  "I did, but he's lying on his bunk with his hands over his mouth, refusing to talk."

  I bite down on the rebuke that rises to my lips. Zac has done nothing wrong, and my sudden annoyance has nothing to do with him or his innocent question. I hide my expression by taking a long sip of my tea; the warm brew of dried jungle herbs has a strange bitter minty flavour. I haven't tasted sugar in a decade, and we carry no honey. But it's fine. It'll do.

  It's been less than a year since the Black Harvest. I've was a solo sailor then; beholden to no man, answerable to no authority save the whims of wind and waves. Now look at me. Skipper of a crew, a ranking member of a war party out to confront an ascendant enemy. Bothered by lubbers demanding compliance, weekend sailors who have no business being out here. But at the same time, I'm supported by good people like Enzo and Abella on Fidelio, Larry on Razzmatazz, Roman on my boat and Jacka who commands the canoes.

  All this has happened so quickly and sometimes my emotions get left behind as I play catchup to the events that I myself are responsible for. Things were so easy on Voodoo, in the days and weeks and years before I stuck my nose into that cursed graveyard bay on the island that graced no chart. No, not easy. That's the wrong word. Solo sailing is hard work. No one to rely on but yourself. Simple is a better word for it. Simple, uncomplicated by the stupidly dynamic web of egos and responsibility that is society.

  Sometimes it all threatens to overwhelm me, and I guess this is one of those moments. But I know it's what I need to do and what Mum and Dad would have me do, so I push away these feelings and remind myself, yet again, that I am the skipper.

  I put on a smile and say to Zac, "Your girlfriend still asleep?"

  "She's not my—" he says automatically, then relaxes. "Yeah, Abigail is in her bunk."

  "I want to go over the layout of Dalbarade Island one more time when she wakes."

  "Again?"

  "Again."

  Dalbarade Island is a volcanic spire that rises from the sea almost directly between the Conflict Group atoll and Misama island. None of us, save the members of the Lost Tribe, have ever been to Dalbarade before. Before the plague came, it was rented on a ninety-nine year lease to a rich group of Australian and American businessmen who established a private resort there, and they didn't like random cruisers dropping in.

  None of us have detailed charts of the island. I tried to get in there about four years ago, but the south side of the island is steep, exposed cliffs, and the northern bay, while surrounded by a protective fringing reef, was the lee shore in the north-east monsoon blowing at the time. I decided it was too risky; if I couldn't find a passage I would have been pinned on the reef. But now, the winds are from the east, and we hope to anchor in the
sheltered lagoon beyond the reef.

  Abigail described the general layout sufficiently that we could draw a sketch map, but she has no idea about depths, passages, leading marks or waypoints. Copies of the sketch map are with each boat in our fleet. It shows a fat banana shaped island that runs east to west. At the western end rises an extinct volcano that hasn't emitted so much as a squeak since it was first charted by the French in the late 1700s. At the eastern end, the 'stem' of the banana fishhooks around to form a sheltered bay. This is where we'll find the resort where the Lost Tribe lived before they came to Woodlark Island eight months ago. Elsewhere on the island are a scattering of old villages and hamlets, and Abigail says that old Japanese bunkers honeycomb the volcano's slopes.

  "Matty, look." Roman points to Shiloh, running directly towards us under full sail. Her white hull gleams brilliantly under the morning sun, and her twin hulls kick up plumes of spray every time she crests the waves.

  "He's got too much sail forward," I say automatically. "See how the bows dig in? He wants to furl in his genoa about ten wraps."

  Shiloh plunges through the canoes, scattering them as a cat does pigeons. Shiloh is a Lagoon 445, a great, fat catamaran that I used to think dismissively as floating apartments. They are comfortable – luxurious even – in an anchorage but aren't great for ocean sailing. The helmsman sits in a flying bridge above the saloon. I'm surprised that it isn't Michael at the helm; instead it's Jarrod, one of Fat Kev's young lads, looking like some Viking of old with his red beard and bare chest. I had no idea he had any sailing experience. Then again, judging from his over-pressed sail plan and the arrogant way he made the canoes give way, he probably doesn't.