“Hey! Where’s he going?” she asked, not really expecting a coherent answer, but knowing no other way to get the girl’s attention. Paska simply looked up and made a dismissive gesture, her scathing diatribe never slowing as she continued bailing.
“Well, I hope he comes back soon,” Cynthia said, her gaze drifting around the wide beach and the forbidding jungle, wondering if any other tribes lived here and just how friendly they might be. She sat down in the shade of a driftwood stump, the bleached white roots arrayed above her like the bones of some deep dwelling sea monster. Eventually, the soft sand, warm sun, and the hypnotic roar-hiss of surf soothed her into a peaceful sleep.
*
One knock on Brelak’s cabin door and Rowland entered, grinning widely.
“We’ve raised the smoke of Fire Isle on the horizon, sir. We’re on course. Speed’s a steady fourteen knots.”
“Bloody fine. Thanks.” The waning light through the deck prisms shone down on a thick black book and a chart beneath it. He scratched notes on the chart while keeping his place in the book with a finger. Sighing, he rubbed his tired eyes and said, “Could ya light my lamp and send down another pot o’ that poison you call blackbrew?”
“You should sleep some, Capt’n. I know yer wound as tight as that catapult bolted to the foredeck, but you won’t be much good in a fight if you don’t get some rest.” Both concern and frustration colored Rowland’s tone.
“Not bloody likely. I’ll sleep when we make the Fathomless Reaches. Call me fer the midnight watch.”
“Aye, sir.” He left, closing the door softly.
“Bloody privacy’s what I really need, ya mother hen,” he muttered, referring back to the leather-bound tome. The book had come aboard with Cynthia’s man Brolen, who had said it was her father’s journal, but that he didn’t think she’d mind him putting it to use, under the circumstances.
“Bloody amazin’,” he muttered, examining the hand-drawn renderings on the journal’s pages. The information here would be worth a king’s ransom to any captain plying the waters of the Southern Ocean. The book showed many details of the undersea that Feldrin had never known nor cared about. Notations of “Undine-home” and “Bunodosoma grove” left him scratching his head, but the details of depths, currents and tidal forces throughout the cuts of the Shattered Isles were priceless.
“Who the hell’s Whuafa?” Rowland asked, putting the blackbrew pot into its gimbaled cradle.
“What?” Brelak looked up and glared at the interruption. “Don’t you ever knock, Row?”
“I did. You didn’t answer, so I came in, thinkin’ you’d fallen asleep, which you should be doin’, not drinkin’ more of this stuff.” The cook filled the captain’s cup and scowled back. “Sorry I interrupted.”
“And what are you talkin’ about, anyway? Who’s who?”
“Saw the name Whuafa there in that book, and wondered if you knew who it was, is all. Didn’t know anybody lived out on Vulture Isle.”
“Vulture Isle? What the…”
Brelak inspected the drawing once more, finding the bit Rowland was referring to, a tiny notation in a flowing hand that read:
Whuafa’s people, Southeast coast.
Ware the Others, northeast highlands.
“So who the hell is Whuafa?” he wondered aloud, sipping his blackbrew as Rowland shrugged and left the cabin.
*
Cynthia drifted awake to the smell of wood smoke and cooking meat, a warm bed of sand that conformed to her shape perfectly, and the light breeze that played over her skin in a delicate caress. She opened her eyes slowly, smiling at the subdued azure of the evening sky.
Evening?
She sat bolt upright, hitting her head on the low fronds that had been placed to shade her from the sun. Chula and Paska sat silently tending a driftwood fire surrounded by skewers of sizzling meat, utterly unconcerned that she’d slept through the entire day.
“Bloody hell!” She levered herself up and snatched her dry clothes. She pulled her chemise over her head, but it rasped painfully over her sand-covered skin. She growled as she stripped off the garment and began brushing herself off. Sand and salt clung everywhere, an abrasive mixture which, on top of a slight sunburn, left her itchy and frustrated after several minutes of futile effort.
She sat back down and sighed. “There’s got to be an easier way.”
She brushed at her sandy legs with her sandy hands, but the sugar-fine granules adhered to her skin like iron filings to a lodestone. Eventually, the soothing roar-hiss of the surf intruded on her thoughts, the call of the sea drawing her to the crystalline waters of the lagoon.
“I could just take a bath, but then I’d be…” A crazy idea clicked into her mind. She stood and headed for the water.
“Shambata daroo!” Paska chimed, smiling and rattling off several more sentences, gesturing to their fire and the food.
“Paska. Chula.” She smiled at them, but walked right past, down the beach and into the warm crystalline water.
Swimming had not been one of the skills she’d been taught as a young lady, but as she waded forward she felt the sea surround her and every motion became easy, smooth and right. In moments she moved comfortably through the deep water, willing the sea to buoy her up, push her along, and rinse away all the sweat and sand that clung to her skin. She ruffled her hair and surfaced, creating a small wave to carry her into shallow water. Finally free of sand, she strode forward until she stood in ankle deep water.
“Now, let’s see if I can…”
Cynthia closed her eyes, feeling the thin film of the sea covering her skin chill in the breeze. But the water was still part of the sea; all she had to do was send it back where it belonged. Back down, she thought, willing the water away.
A rippling wavelet started at the crown of her head and coursed down her skin, leaving no trace behind. She opened her eyes and shook out her dry hair, laughing and grinning as she strode ashore. “Well, maybe I’m a seamage after all.”
She shook out her sandy clothes and joined her friends, smiling at their slack-jawed stares. Chula muttered something, and Paska snapped an admonishing retort. The meat proved to be some type of bird and two spiny lobsters which, accompanied by fresh fruit and water from one of their skins, sated her deliciously. When they finished, however, the sun hung only a hand-span above the horizon—she had wasted the day.
Then Chula began loading their meager gear into the dugout.
“Chula. Stop! It’s getting dark. We can’t go now.”
He said something she didn’t understand, gestured toward the sky and the open sea, and continued to load their gear. Paska also helped, evidently agreeing with him.
“No! Not until morning.” Cynthia grabbed Chula’s arm, but he just smiled at her, nodded, and continued. Paska gently pulled her aside, motioning to the flat hard-packed portion of the beach. Here she took a stick and drew some simple pictographs. The first was a disc with rays radiating in all directions; under it she drew several lines of sharply peaked waves. Next to that she drew a crescent moon, and several lines of lesser peaked waves. The meaning was clear—the seas were calmer at night.
“Yes, I know, Paska, but we can’t see.” She pantomimed squinting into the distance.
“Na, na…” Paska made a waving motion overhead, and pointed to the crescent moon pictograph. “Daroo, daroo!”
“The moon? You think the moon is bright enough?” She thought about it for a bit and realized that Chula and Paska certainly knew what they were doing. Besides, sailing at night had never impeded a merchant captain, unless the waters were dangerous or unknown.
“Okay,” she decided, trying to swallow her trepidation. “Okay, we go now.”
Less than half an hour later they were paddling along the leeward side of the island, heading northwest inside the lagoon. As the last light of day faded, they paddled through a break in the reef and into open water. The trade winds were indeed less powerful at this hour, and the swells had diminis
hed correspondingly. She reached out with her mind to the sea around them and calmed the waters further, urging the tiny craft gently forward.
“So far, so good.”
Each time she used her new skills she learned more, often the hard way. Calming the water didn’t tire her physically, but it required her constant concentration. As she became distracted by the beautiful bluish luminescence trailing behind them, she felt the control slip away. A rogue wave slapped the side of the canoe, splashing her with a warm spray, as if to chastise her for forgetting her duty. She relaxed once again and expanded her mind to encompass the ocean surrounding the small boat.
Ahead, the plume of Fire Isle lit the sky in a ruddy glow. Three other islands, dark by comparison, could be seen on the horizon. It would be several hours before the waning moon rose, but the active volcano shone better than any lighthouse, and the stars glowed brightly overhead.
“Okay, Cynthia,” she told herself, gripping the sides of the canoe and feeling the power of the sea around them, “let’s see if you can do more than make waves and dry yourself without a towel.”
She slipped her hands down into the warm water, and felt the power of the sea swell under them. She called to the power, shaping it carefully and letting it build. A wide swell formed behind them, high enough to block out the island they had just left. The tiny craft rose up and raced down its face. Chula whooped in glee, digging his paddle hard into the water while Paska steered their nose down the wave, using her paddle like a rudder.
Cynthia adjusted the speed of the wave delicately, keeping track of the other waves coming in at oblique angles, flattening them one by one. In short order they reached the perfect speed, the canoe sliding down the wave with only occasional paddling by Chula, and only minor steering from Paska. Cynthia found that she could maintain their course and speed with little effort, adjusting from time to time for changes in the swells and chop. She immersed herself in the power of the sea, letting it envelop and course through her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, though she didn’t know exactly who she was thanking, her father, Odea, or the sea itself.
Maybe, she thought soulfully, they’re the same thing.
CHAPTER Thirty-Eight
Chula’s Choice
Cynthia woke to the high-pitched buzz of wings. She waved her hand to shoo Mouse away, but it turned out to be nothing but a monstrous mosquito. Wakefulness and memory returned: Mouse was gone and she was somewhere in the Shattered Isles.
When exhaustion forced them ashore in the early hours of the morning, Cynthia curled up in the bow of the outrigger and tried to cover every exposed bit of flesh with her threadbare garments. The giant mangroves protected them from the sun, but also harbored a whole population of biting and stinging insects.
She successfully swatted the offending bug, but the motion only seemed to attract more. A glance through the canopy showed the sun at its zenith edging behind a looming column of cloud. She adjusted her clothing and watched the cloud billow, and realized that it wasn’t a cloud at all, but a plume of volcanic smoke.
“Plume Isle,” she said, sitting up and looking around. A line of human skulls prominently displayed atop bamboo poles along the length of the beach confirmed her suspicions.
“A ruse to run off visitors,” she said, wondering just how many rumors of cannibals had been fostered by Bloodwind and his pirates. She had to admit, it was an effective deterrent. “Nobody in his right mind would go ashore with that as a welcome.”
She peered up at the jungle-clad mountainside, looking for any sign of the island’s true denizens, but the canopy was impenetrable. She had little doubt that Bloodwind had lookouts.
“Lucky we weren’t spotted,” she muttered, moving to ease herself into the water to evade the ravenous insects.
“Shambata daroo,” Chula said sleepily, his voice pitched low. He rattled off something that sounded like a question then said a single word that she knew all too well. “Pirate.” He punctuated the word by pointing to the skull-decorated beach. “Pirate imba. Shambata daroo na eriki. Pirate.”
The meaning seemed simple enough: this was the home of pirates, and she should not go walking around, or swimming around for that matter. She had to admire his economy of words.
“Yes, Chula. Pirates.” She swatted futilely at mosquitoes, hastily donning her grimy clothes. “We go?” She made a motion as if paddling, then pointed to them all and then out to sea. “We leave?”
“Na, na!” He pointed up at the sky, at the sun, and shook his head, voicing and pantomiming his worry that the sun would show them to the pirates. The hissing motion he made while passing his thumb across his throat needed no translation.
She had just about resigned herself to a day sweltering in the shade of the mangroves swatting bugs, when a thought came to her: this would be the only opportunity to find anything out about Bloodwind’s home base. It would not be easy talking Chula into letting her look around, but they had all day. If they were careful and kept to the dense undergrowth, she felt sure they could get in and out without anyone the wiser.
*
Orin’s Pride cut a flawless line parallel to the outer reef of Vulture Island no more than a hundred yards from the razor-sharp coral. They had rounded the Fathomless Reaches and now planned to run a zig-zag course up the archipelago, cutting between the islands while the light of midday gave them perfect visibility.
“Lookout! Tell me what ya see, man! I’m not a bloody mind reader!”
Feldrin’s impatience with the inexperienced crew had become a silent joke among the seasoned sailors. He tried very hard not to show his temper, but most of the landsmen were afraid of him, which was just as well.
“Uh, there’s a coral reef about two boat lengths to the right, er starboard, Capt’n. It runs straight ahead. No sails on the horizon. No sign of anyone ashore.”
“Bloody lubbers,” he muttered, ignoring the smirk from the helmsman. “Give her a point to leeward, Jacob. I don’t trust that landsman to spot a whale in a ballroom, let alone a coral head. Horace, would you please climb up there an’ give that lubber a once over on the finer points of lookout duty?”
“Aye, sir.” He scampered up the ratlines to join the lookout.
“Rowland, gimme my glass.” He held out his hand and the bronze telescope popped into his palm.
“Marta’s got some fried pork sandwiches and toasted cheese made up for ya, sir,” Rowland said, concern adding a timbre to his voice.
“Bloody fine. Bring it up on a tray with another pot of blackbrew. I’ll eat on deck.” He brought the glass up and swept the western horizon from south to north, his jaw clenched as he strained to catch the faintest glimpse of a sail. His eyes had rarely left that horizon since they made their northerly turn, but they had yet to see anything but whitecaps.
“Here’s your lunch, Captain!” Marta’s cheery tone cut through the clatter and chatter of the deck like a cutlass through linen. “Now tuck in before the cheese gets cold. I put a cup of ale on the plate to wash it down. Blackbrew’ll be half a moment as I just put the kettle on.”
“That’ll be fine, Marta. Thank you.” He did not lower the glass, and did not take his eye from the horizon.
“Ahem.”
He ignored her. She was getting as bad as Rowland. In fact, he thought the two were in cahoots.
“Captain, if you don’t eat this right now, I’m going to bank the stove fires and refuse to feed the crew their midday meal until you do.” Her tone had gone from motherly to shrewish. “The word mutiny comes to mind.”
“Bloody mother hen,” he muttered, lowering the glass and taking one of the sandwiches. He ate mechanically, chewing and swallowing without really tasting the spicy pork and sharp cheese. Marta watched every bite. He drained the cup of ale and placed it carefully back on the tray. “Thank you, Marta. Please bring the blackbrew up when it’s ready.”
“I will if you promise to get some sleep tonight. I wouldn’t give a good God’s damn, except
that your pacing is keeping me awake.” She scowled and descended the companionway, not waiting for his answer.
Feldrin hadn’t really heard her scolding, for he was already scanning the horizon again, searching for any sign of the ship that had taken Cynthia Flaxal away from him.
*
Chula had a problem.
The Scimitar Moon would not listen to him. She had insisted on leaving the boat, though she could not tell him why; she knew this was the home of the pirates, and knew they would kill them if caught. What she evidently did not know, and what he couldn’t make her understand, was that the evil witch watched the beaches, and no matter how careful they were, the blood drinker would know they had intruded.
Chula could not physically restrain her, for she was the Scimitar Moon; she was his mistress. He could only follow and try to protect her when the pirates attacked. He told Paska to stay with the boat and be ready to flee when they returned. For once, the combative woman did not argue.
“Come back with her, Chula. Just come back,” was all she said. He reluctantly took his war club, bow and knife, and followed his mistress into the jungle.
The Scimitar Moon might be able to move wind and water, but she knew absolutely nothing about moving quietly through the jungle. This, at least, he could do something about.
“Quiet!” he hissed as she stepped into a pile of dry leaves. He pointed to the leaves and shook his head, making a low “ssst” sound. She seemed to understand this, and did not complain when he took the lead, pointing at the places he put his feet, and making it clear she should follow exactly where he stepped.
They climbed slowly, keeping to game trails and remaining fairly silent. Finally, they reached a real trail near the top of the ridge. Chula stopped, motioning for her to crouch down. Her white blouse and blue skirt were almost as bad as the noise she made, so keeping her out of sight seemed the best course.
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