The Southwind Saga (Book 3): Flood Tide

by Kovacs, Jase

  "He's coming awful close," says Zac.

  "Don't worry," I reply. "He'll pass in front of us."

  He does, but only by about twenty metres. Jarrod waves sardonically at me as he cuts our line. Michael clutches rear deck rail. He looks awful; no shirt and his pale belly and forehead glimmers with a slick flop sweat. His comb over flips back in the wind, and his bald patch is pink from the sun. His words are snatched away by the breeze, but he furiously waves a handheld VHF.

  I stand so he can see me clearly and spread my arms. Sorry, something's wrong with my radio!

  He lifts his VHF, and I hear his panic blasting through the static. "Excelsior, Shiloh! You'll heave to off the island so we can talk! Copy that, over? Come in!!!"

  I continue mugging confusion back at him as Shiloh sails out the far side of the formation. Heaving to off the island was our plan anyway, so I don't bother to acknowledge his call. I just watch the boat sail to the west until I can no longer make out the two figures at the stern, Michael, pale and sick, and Big Kev, standing upright and solid behind him but with an unmistakable look of deep concern on his face.

  ***

  We're off Dalbarade by noon. This time, Michael didn't forge ahead, but instead headed so far downwind that he was still miles away when we put our bows to the wind, backed our jibs and come to a gentle, rolling drift. Enzo and I are within shouting distance of each other, and Razzmatazz is on the far side of him. Canoes approach our yachts, ready to take us aboard.

  Dalbarade is half a mile to the south, looking much as Abigail described. The eastern curve of the island is a low bar of palm trees fringing tall jungle that rises to shallow cliffs on the hidden south side. White breakers burst here and there as the swell spends itself on the fringing reef.

  The volcano dominates the scene. Its smooth cone rises two or three hundred metres to its jagged cratered summit. Thick jungle coats its lower slopes. The peak's cap of grey ash and bare rock shimmers with heat under the brilliant noonday sun.

  "Doesn't look like anyone is home," I say to Zac and Abigail, who stand with me at the shrouds, searching the shore for some sign of life.

  "You can't see the resort from here," says Abigail.

  "And you don't know if a deep passage cuts the reef?"

  "As I've said, I have absolutely no idea. We just ran straight in over the reef with canoes."

  I struggle to contain my annoyance at her officious tone. "Well, that surf is breaking on something. Come on. We're wasting daylight."

  I heft my daypack and lift my pump shotgun. Regret darts through me as I think of my poor M4, useless without its firing pin. I would have appreciated the M4's range and accuracy when landing on a potentially hostile shore. On the other hand, the shotgun will be more effective in the close quarters of the jungle and the resort. So I tell myself it isn't all bad.

  Roman sits at the helm, stoic despite his disappointment at being left behind. Blong is less happy. He sits with his arms crossed and his face set in a furious frown. He hasn't said a word to me since I told him he wasn't coming, sulking with an intensity that is impressive.

  I look over to Fidelio where Enzo helps Abella down into a canoe. Three members of the Watch already squeeze in with the canoe's four-man crew. I step up to Fidelio's stern just as Jacka coasts alongside. His men doused their sail and carefully finished their approach with paddles.

  "Ready, Jacka?"

  He looks brilliantly happy, utterly in his element. "Yes." His hand helps me aboard. "Let's go."

  Jacka's crew greet me with tired eyes, but their wide smiles show their appetite for action. An eight-year-old boy darts out of my way, the bailer he uses to keep the canoe dry gripped tightly in his hand. Zac and Abigail follow, awkwardly climbing down into the narrow canoe. They carry woven native bags known as billums that bulge with water canteens and food and other supplies.

  Jacka barks a command, and his men push off. One slacks their boom as the other two move onto the outrigger, ready to balance the canoe once the sail catches the wind. We drift away from Excelsior, and I tell Roman, yet again, "We'll be back by sundown!"

  Just then, Blong, his eyes dark with indignant fire, sees the boy bailing the canoe. He gives an incandescent squeak of rage and, ducking Roman's snatching hands, hurls himself over the stern. We shout as he splashes into the water, his hands grabbing at the canoe's bow as the wind catches us and spins us away from Excelsior. Blong disappears as foaming surf buries the bow, and I plunge waist deep over the gunwale. My hand feels the soft touch of his hair and I yank as hard as I can. He breaks the surface, screeching indignantly as I haul him aboard.

  "What the hell are you playing at!?" I demand. "I said you weren't coming!"

  "He is!" he yells, his eyes brimming. He stabs his little fingers at the bailer, who watches his hysterics with alarm. "You said no boys! But he's coming!"

  Jacka looks at me questioningly, the sail half raised. We're over thirty metres from Fidelio by now, and the other canoes are already forming a line, ready to advance on Dalbarade. Getting a protesting Blong back on board Fidelio would waste time I don't have. "Let's go!" I shout at Jacka, who grins and takes up the steering oar.

  The sail snaps and billows as it catches the breeze. The canoe leaps like a dolphin. It has altogether a different motion to a yacht – far more lively and responsive. Jacka gestures for me to move back so the canoe is balanced. I drag a squeaking Blong by his ear. "You haven't heard the last of this!" I promise him, and he at least has the decency to try and look chastened. But then the canoe comes up to its best point of sail and races down to join its brothers. Blong shrieks with delight as the bow rives the waves into spray that mists our skin with the salty taste of the wind.

  "What's your canoe's name?" I ask Jacka.

  "Balus Pis!" He smiles broadly while carefully studying the oncoming shore.

  "Bird Fish?"

  "Flying Fish!"

  "Good name!"

  The other canoes part to let Jacka through. As per our plan, we adopt a rough formation of four rows of two canoes each. Jacka, leaning hard on his steering oar and with his crew out on the windward ama, drives Flying Fish as fast as he can. Effervescent water hisses down our side in a mad burble. The canoe heels as the wind drives the sail down and the ama rises above the water. Abigail looks back at me with alarm, little mollified by my mad grin as the wild exhilaration of our charge fills me.

  We rush the shore. I can see individual palm trees now and the burst where the swell crashes on the north-eastern reef. The bay opens up, the point curving back to provide the sheltered anchorage where Abigail says the resort lies.

  The other canoes hold their positions well, neat pairs of brown woven sails, patched here and there with strips of blue tarpaulin that I suspect were added for a bit of flair. A wild rush hits me: we're the tip of the spear, driving down onto shores unknown. A landing fleet, ready to battle. Machetes, spear guns, and stone axes lie at Jacka's feet, and he meets my eyes and gives me a feral grin that sets me laughing.

  The water darkens as we come up on shallows outside of the fringing reef. I look questioningly at Jacka. "What do you think? Ten metres deep?"

  He nods. The sand is black volcanic ash, but the water so clear that I can see the seaweed that blurs beneath our racing hull. We're still outside the sheltering reef, but at least it is shallow enough here for the yachts to anchor.

  I carefully stand, aware that this boat is so finely balanced that any movement could spoil its sailing trim and lean against the canting deck. The water darkens to a deep violet ahead: the reef. But there are no white breakers that would betray shallow rocks, and I nod back at Jacka. "Yumi go!" he shouts at me.

  We must be doing ten, twelve knots! Jacka realises he's outpacing his followers and gives a few quick orders to spill the wind. The ama drops a little but our rush is barely checked as suddenly the sea bottom comes up. Brilliantly colours flashes by as we fly over a living stone forest of stag horn and cabbage coral.

  The h
idden bay opens before us. The coral reef drops away, and we're back over deep, black sand. I think we have reached the anchorage but then another wall of reef races up and past us. "We just went over a channel," I shout to Jacka.

  He nods. "We'll mark it later!"

  More coral passes beneath our keel, but now it is strangely dark. What should be a colourful riot is a monochromatic graveyard of dead reef. The wind flickers as we pass into the lee of the north-eastern headland and the ama dips again. But Jacka sees our objective; the resort. He draws the sail tight and once again we leap ahead like a guard dog scenting an intruder.

  I feel a cool chill despite the brilliant day. There are two traditional style huts over the water and then a cluster of large buildings behind them, hidden beneath mighty fig trees and ironbarks that spread vast shading arms high overhead.

  I point and shout, "Straight at them!" I squint to pierce the gloomy shadows lurking beneath the buildings and trees. No boats, no people, no animals. No signs of life. Nothing but trees and buildings that look far too well maintained.

  I carefully edge forward past Zac and Abigail. I hide my smile when I notice Blong competing furiously with the boy for who can bail faster. One of Jacka's men lifts me with a grip of iron against the tipped overwing. His name comes to me, Solomon, a fisherman. The machete in his hand is pitted with age, the words TRAMOTINA – BRAZIL barely visible but its freshly honed edge gleams wickedly.

  Onwards we rush. There is no swell in the sheltered bay and our hull cuts through the glass smooth water like a knife. Our brother canoe closes in. Rod, another member of the power station crew, crouches at the bow, his hands wrapped tightly around an old Lee Enfield bolt action rifle. Rod catches my gaze, and I tip him a wink that makes him smile in a way both confused and pleased. I've never thought much of Rod; just another one of Big Kev's lads, but today we'll be stepping ashore together, and I feel a rough kinship that surprises me as much as my wink did him.

  The shoreline comes as things always do; seemingly never and then all at once. Jacka shouts "Reeaadddy!" as the black sand rises beneath the crystal water like a hillside. He lets the sheet fly and spills the wind. There's a soft grind as our keel hisses the shore. I'm off before we've even stopped.

  The water comes up to my thighs. Things are very sharp and beautiful. I can see every detail of everything. Tiny flecks of obsidian glitter like stars in a night of black volcanic sand. I know this memory is one I will carry for the rest of my days.

  We've landed just to the west of the resort. The shore here has been cleared of underbrush, and buildings are visible through the trees, dark doors and windows gaping like the mouths and eyes of skulls. Behind me Jacka belts out orders as his men shove the canoes back, out of the shallow water. Zac flounders with Abigail, but they don't need any help. Solomon comes abreast of me as I splash forward, driving myself towards the shore.

  Nothing. No shots, no shouts. A hum fills my skull; not cicadas, not the wind. It's blood rushing in my ears. Solomon next to me. Soft sand slips under my feet as we rush forward. My shotgun at high port arms to keep it from the water.

  Then the water is gone, and we are above the tide line. The heat rising from the beach hits me like an open oven. I push on. Over the sand. Ahead the safety of the trees: cover, shelter, shade. Out of the corner of my eye I see Rod converging, two men at his side. Jacka is underway, clearing the beach as the second wave approaches.

  Into the shade. I kneel, taking cover between the wide buttress roots of a fig tree. Something stinks. The shotgun in my shoulder.

  Scanning — doors — the spaces beneath raised huts — the far side of the clearing.

  Solomon at my left, and then Rod kneels to my right. A panting besides me — Blong, his face alive with glee, a short fish knife in his hand. The other kid too, clutching his bailer as a tiny club.

  "Hold here," I say. "Wait for the others."

  "Pispis," says Solomon with distaste. That's what the smell is; the harsh acid tone of urine. But no, there's something wrong about it. Not urine. I know it. The smell is very familiar. Not to worry now.

  The second wave of canoes come ashore. Men and women of both communities drop from them and wade onto the beach. Abella leads the way, her backpack heavy with medical supplies. Larry stands in the shallows, bellowing commands, clearing the beach before the third and fourth waves land.

  I'm ashore. I'm here. The resort is before us; utterly still except for the black sand shimmering beneath the noonday sun, and the palms swaying in the breeze.

  The place is what was once called an eco-resort; traditionally designed, low impact, emphasising a natural experience over a luxurious one. The buildings are a pseudo-traditional style; woven walls of sak-sak and thatch roofs, but with heavy, squared off beams that betray its westernised construction. The buildings are well maintained – definitely not the cyclone wrecked shells I would expect to find on a resort abandoned since the fall. Abigail is right; there have been people living here within the last few months.

  But there is no sign of anyone now.

  I breathe. Slow down the world.

  In—

  and—

  out.

  I shut out the noise, the men bellowing in the shallows, the excited calls of our people as they come ashore.

  In. Out. Push away the excitement. Look at this with virgin eyes.

  And now I start to notice the little things. Like that the grass has been cut recently. The urine-like stench that rankled Solomon's nose is also familiar to me. I've smelt it many times in the deserted cities and storehouses of the old world. It is the smell of damp corruption.

  And then my eyes finally pierce the brilliant day and the deep shadows of the overhanging thatch roofs. My breath catches in my throat and I freeze. Zac drops down hard next to me. His words tumble over each other with excitement. "Matty, do you see? Over there, and there! And there."

  Spirals and swirls are painted and carved into every bare surface. The patterns of the Green Lord, as we saw etched into Aotea's bulkheads and tattooed into his followers’ flesh, mark every wall of this place.

  "I see it, Zac." I look past him, to where Abigail crouches, her cheeks pale and tight, her eyes wide with something that seems beyond fear. "Looks like nobody's home."

  "That's what you were expecting, wasn't it?" asks Abigail.

  Larry strides up the beach, shepherding the last of the landing party before him. The canoes sail back and forth offshore, ready to dart in and pick us up when we're ready. Two break away; one heading out to update the waiting yachts and the other to mark the reef passage.

  Larry comes over. "All twenty of us are ashore. All good here?"

  "Haven't seen anyone yet. Okay, let's clear this place." I look from him to Rod and the other gunslinger, an old white bearded bloke named Ian. "Remember, stick with your local crews. They've only got handheld weapons. One gunman for every two locals. Don't get sloppy. Keep them covered. Keep your mates safe. Rod, go left and clear the accommodation. I'll take the big houses on the right. Abella, Zac, you stay with Larry."

  A few tense nods punctuate the end of my orders and then we're up and moving. I've tried to pass on as much of my father's training as I can to the others — I'm not expecting them to achieve miracles, but I'm gratified to see that the gunslingers keep their weapons up and their machete men covered as we push into the resort.

  Rod takes his guys to the left. They kick in the cabin doors and plunge within. I head towards my target, a low building with an open doorway and wide stilts lifting the thatch roof high over knee-high walls. The open plan allows me to see right through; A few tables and low benches cut out palm tree trunks and on the far side is a gleaming wall of bottles. A faded towel hangs at the window, and I can still read the printing: SP – OUR BEER.

  This was the bar.

  It's hard to make out details; outside is so bright that my eyes need to adjust to the gloom of the shadows. Solomon pushes forward to the wide door; running too fast. I can't co
ver him!

  "Solomon, wait up!" I call but he ducks into the building.

  He's freezes just inside. I run hard into his back, sending both of us staggering.

  The pillars that raise the roof are carved with elegant hunters and fishermen. Shards of jade have been crudely hammered into their eyes and their cheeks and backs have been scratched with swirls. But that is not what stopped Solomon and stills my breath.

  A giant mural has been painted with white swirls of paint on the back wall. The centrepiece is a naked figure, a woman floating, her face to the sky, her legs and arms hanging loose as her back arcs. I can't tell if she is floating up or sinking. Beneath her is a field of bare trees, long branches twisting up.

  And above is a giant spiral that...

  I squint. There is something. I can't make it out. I can only take it a piece at a time.

  Solomon says something to me, but I can't understand his words. I look to the picture.

  The branches.

  The spiral... it's not a spiral. It's a whirlpool.

  In the sky.

  It's a maelstrom.

  And the tree branches...

  They're fingers.

  It's not a forest of trees. They're hands, reaching up to the figure which floats...

  Up or down? Is she falling from the maelstrom into the hands below or have they delivered her up as a sacrifice to the vortex? The spiral, the maelstrom that is in the heart of our galaxy where the Dark Star waits.

  The Dark Star waits.

  The woman looks so familiar.

  The hands reach up, and she falls, and she falls, and it is like my dream.

  Oh god.

  Not like my dream.

  The painting is my dream.

  My head spins and my vision narrows to dark cones like I stood up too quickly. A voice rises up from my darkest places to caress me: MATAI... SLEEP.

  I drift in night. I kick out, but the aether through which I fall dissipates like mist. I breathe it in and my lungs fill with mortal cold. Above me a twisted spider of milky clouds swirls around a dark abyss orbited by tiny galaxies like moths flirting with a candle.