by James Axler
"There is thy mark, heathen," said the old man, who seemed to be in charge of the friendly competition.
"May thy gods strike firm," said one of the young local harpooneers. "A deep strike and a rich harvest to thee."
"And to thee, brother," the Apache replied, balancing himself carefully, fixing his eye on the small white blob upon the door.
Ryan was uncomfortable, surrounded by so many strangers, many of them hostile. But Donfil's eager participation had made it even more hazardous for them to try to pass on by.
Ryan was a reasonable hand at throwing a knife, as was J.B. Jak was the best with his concealed blades that Ryan had ever known, but none of them had ever thrown spears.
There was a blur of movement, the only sound the exhalation of breath from the Apache as he released the iron. Then the gasp from the onlookers as the harpoon struck trembling in the center of the paint mark on the oaken door.
"Four-ace lucky!" shouted one of the middle-aged men watching. "Do it again, outlander!"
Donfil More did it again, five times from five casts.
Nine times out of nine throws.
The cheer nearly raised the steep-sloping roofs of the houses of Claggartville, the noise sending a flock of feeding gulls screeching from the calm waters of the harbor.
The watchers broke ranks and pressed in on the strangers, but Ryan and the rest were almost forgotten. It was only as friends of the Mescalero that they were slapped on the back, their hands pumped, grins shining in their direction.
"I'll give thee a twentieth part of a voyage if thou wilt ship with me as harpooneer!"
"An eighteenth!" a second captain yelled, jumping up and down in his anxiety to secure the services of this amazing giant who could thread the iron through the eye of a needle.
"No. No, thank you all. But I am here with my friends."
"Thou needest work. All of ye," warned a chubby man with a stovepipe hat, tarnished green with age. "I'll find labor for all seven of ye. E'en the snow-head mutie and the wenches, if thou signest on for a year's hunting the right whale."
"Aye, Boaz, but what lay dost thou offer the heathen ironman?"
"Enough, I'll warrant."
The sailor who'd pressed the question bellowed with laughter. "Best lay thou hast ever offered a harpooneer was one-seventieth." He paused to make his point stronger. "And that was for thy wife's sister's oldest son, was it not, Boaz?"
The plump captain was not in the least set back by the gibing. "Aye, that be so, neighbor. And the worst hand with an iron I ever did see. When he fell from the top foreyard ten days from harbor, it was for the best."
The crowd joined in the general merriment.
But beyond them all, at the farthest end of the crowded quay, Ryan could see the quarterdeck of the Salvation. And the dark-clothed figure of its sinister skipper was leaning on a rail, smoking a white clay pipe. When her glance met Ryan's the woman straightened and spit in the water, turned away and vanished down the nearest companionway.
It cast a chill over the cheeriness of the moment for Ryan, though he said nothing to any of his friends.
Back at the Rising Flukes, while they waited for Rodriguez to call them down to their supper, everyone congratulated Donfil on his uncanny skill with the unwieldy harpoon.
"I swear it was the most stunning example of skill I ever did see!" Doc exclaimed, trying to flatten his straggling gray locks over the planes of his skull with the palm of his hand.
"Bastard double-chiller," Jak said, sitting cross-legged on a bed, honing one of his knives on the sole of his boot.
"How'd you get that good, Donfil?" Krysty asked, leaning against the wall by the window, one arm across Ryan's shoulders.
"Hunting. The war spear is not as long as the whaling iron, but it requires much the same skill. I have always had a good eye."
"Ten out of ten," J.B. said quietly. "Most men couldn't do that with a handblaster."
"Wins the gentleman a ten-cent stogie or a Kewpie doll of his choice," Doc barked, banging on the floor of their room with his swordstick.
"What's a Kewpie doll, Doc?" Lori asked.
"I fear I... I don't recall, my dear child."
They were interrupted by the landlord of the Rising Flukes calling them down to eat.
Unless something went dreadfully wrong with their plans, it would be their last meal in Claggartville.
Chapter Sixteen
The clam chowder was superb, rich and thick, steaming in the handmade pottery bowls. Rodriguez brought in a great pot of it, glowing from the fire, ladling it out in giant portions. A serving girl brought over a loaf of new-baked bread and a crock of salted butter.
The tavern was oddly empty, with the exception of a dozen hard-faced men who'd commandeered the two tables on either side of the main door into the Rising Flukes. They spoke little, concentrating on their tankards of ale. Ryan hadn't noticed them before and tugged Rodriguez by the sleeve.
"Outlanders?" he asked.
"Who, master?"
"Near the door."
The landlord glanced around, rather too casually, thought Ryan. "Oh, the lads. Just a few honest whaling men."
"From which vessel?"
"Which vessel?" Rodriguez repeated, trying to paste a smile more firmly in place on his pale face. And failing.
"Would it help your hearing if I cut off your damned ears?" J.B. asked in a penetrating whisper.
"No, no, masters. I'm not certain sure which sailer they hale from."
"But?" Krysty prompted, wiping a dribble of chowder from her chin with a linen napkin.
"I think it may be the..." His voice dropped so much that all they could hear was an indeterminate mumbling.
"I believe that our jovial host mentioned a name not unlike that of the Salvation," Doc said, tipping up his bowl to drain the last of the chowder.
"Is it that?" Donfil hissed. "They are all from the Salvation!"
Rodriguez nodded. "They be."
Ryan glanced around again, finding that every single man jack of them was looking at him. He raised his mug of beer to them with a half bow. "They look no worse or better than any other men around the ville."
Rodriguez couldn't wait to explain things to them, his tongue tripping over the words.
"Don't think that 'cause of Pyra Quadde bein' the sort of a... she's got the best record any skipper from Nantucket and beyond ever got. She can catch the scent of a whale across a hundred leagues of sweating ocean, and that's... Some men sails with her year in an' out. Taking all the goods like the jack she brings to... and the bad an' all an' there's plenty of that and some don't come back."
"There's a spar breaker of a hurricane from thy flapping gob, Rodriguez," said one of the men near the door.
"Aye, masters, aye. Don't rock the boat is what Jededian Hernando Rodriguez always says and always does."
"You say some don't come back?" Doc asked. "Why would that be, my jovial host? Some accident of the seas?"
"Rodriguez," warned the man by the door.
"I cannot say, lords, masters..." the man muttered. Despite his pretty clothes, he suddenly looked old, tired and drab, like a guttered whore. "There's many returns and a few as doesn't. But that's the way with many a vessel out of Claggartville when the large seas rise and the creatures rage from the sweltering deeps."
He saw that the bowls of chowder were finished, and he made haste to clear the table himself, not bothering to call on any of his serving girls. He bustled out, reappearing almost immediately with the main course of the supper.
He was still nervous and avoided eye contact with Ryan or any of the others as he laid out clean plates, hand-decorated with blue patterns of shark fins and whales' tails. "Finest in the house. From before the long winters came. Only for special guests. Food's coming. More ale?"
Taking their lead from Ryan's shake of the head, everyone refused more of the cool beer.
The chicken had been cooked in a way that Ryan had never seen before, in tender portion
s covered in bread crumbs, with baked potatoes and turnips. But when Ryan poked his knife into the side of the chicken piece, hot butter, laced with herbs, came spurting scaldingly out.
"Fireblast!"
Rodriguez couldn't conceal his amusement as Ryan wiped molten grease off his hands and jerkin.
"You think that's rad-fire funny?" Ryan asked, readying himself to stand and reach for the landlord's throat.
"It's just that the dish is so well named, as thou has found out. It is a very old recipe, masters, very old."
"What's it called?" Lori asked, cutting more carefully into her own portion.
"Chicken surprise, mistress." Rodriguez giggled delightedly.
Once they managed to slice the pale meat apart, the meal was delicious, the butter delicately flavored. A second helping was offered and accepted by everyone at the table, though Ryan began to worry whether any of them would be capable of running away from sec patrols after such a heavy supper if the need arose.
"I think we'll all go up to our room now, Rodriguez," he finally said. "Good food."
"Pay your reckoning on the morrow, won't ye? Won't ye all?"
"Yeah. Give us the check in the morning and we'll make sure it's settled," Ryan replied, pushing back his chair, carefully watching the group from the Salvation, who sat quietly at their table near the door.
Jak led the way toward the stairs. Jedediah Rodriguez, mouth working nervously, suddenly called out to Ryan, "Master?"
"What?"
"A word in thy ear." He glanced over his shoulder toward the sailors.
"What is it?"
Only the seven-foot-tall Mescalero remained in the barroom. J.B. paused with one foot on the stairs, looking back at Ryan, who waved him on.
"It's only for thee," the landlord repeated to Ryan.
"I'll go up with the others," Donfil said, ducking beneath the low beams of the room.
"No, stay. Can't be that secret that it has to be kept from the ears of a good friend," Ryan insisted. "What is it?"
Rodriguez seemed thrown by someone else remaining behind, Ryan saw him look again at the table of whalers, and thought he caught a slight nod from one of them. But the light from the guttering oil lamps wasn't that strong, and he couldn't be sure.
"Over here," He beckoned Ryan and Donfil to a small round table, close to the piano. They both sat down, looking expectantly at Rodriguez.
"Yeah?" Ryan prompted.
"It's that I've heard of threats made 'gainst thee and thy fellow outlanders." His voice was low and confidential.
"Threats?"
"Aye. Now rocking the boat is not the way of Jedediah Hernando Rodriguez. But I cannot stand by and watch thee..."
Ryan sighed. "Will you get the trigger of the blaster and not step all around the muzzle? Who made threats?"
"Captain Quadde." The tone of his voice made it appear like a great surprise.
"I'm tired, and it's late. If that's all that?.."
"I can..." Rodriguez had a great coughing fit, doubled over the table, face buried in his hands. Ryan heard muffled laughter from near the door. He eased his chair around so that he could more comfortably keep an eye on the group, his hand falling by reflex to the butt of his pistol.
But most of his concentration was occupied in planning their escape from the ville. Out the window and over the roof, cutting through the damp alleyways into the open ground to the north. Move fast and in file, parallel to the road east. Watch for the patrols of sec men, and if possible avoid them. If not... chill them. It was vital that they get away to the island where the gateway was hidden before any pursuers got close to them.
Ryan was drawn from his thoughts by something the landlord was saying.
"What? I was thinking about something else. What did you say?"
"I said I felt a chill and was going to take a schooner of fine old port. The very best, Master Cawdor. Only a dozen bottles left now from the dead days beyond recall. Thou and thy harpooneer friend will join me, I trust?"
Ryan was still locked into the details of their escape, hardly even listening to the nervous chatter of Rodriguez. But Donfil waslistening.
"Not port wine, thanks. Too sweet. Too sickly. Drink for soft women. Have you nothing sharper to offer us?"
"Sharper? I have... Oh, I believe I take thy meaning. Sharper for a hand with a sharp iron. Is that not the manner of it? I have some drink made in the hills close by."
"In the hills?" Ryan asked, the thread of the conversation crossing with his own thoughts. "What of the hills?"
"A drink, Master Cawdor. Like to what is called 'whiskey' by some. Here it is made in stills in the old family ways. We call it 'usquebaugh.' It has the kick of a heart-struck whale."
Ryan was anxious to get upstairs and join the others. But the insistence of Rodriguez that they share a drink with him meant that a refusal could be more troublesome than acceptance. Knock back the usquebaugh quickly and then up and away.
"Very well."
"Something's not right," Donfil whispered, leaning across the table, covering his mouth with his hands. He watched Rodriguez mince away behind the bar, wringing his long, delicate fingers. The purple shirt seeming to glow in the half-light of the lamps.
The group of men from the Salvationwas completely silent, sitting with the air of men waiting for some great event to take place before their eyes.
"What?"
"Landlord's sweating like a hog. Man's scared out of his flesh."
"Why?"
The Indian shook his head. "Can't tell. Wish Krysty was here. She'd 'see' it. I can't do that like she can."
Ryan looked at Rodriguez as the landlord came back in, carrying a metal tray with three small glasses. Two were plain, and one had a faded red flower painted on it. All three glasses were three-quarters filled with amber liquid. As he placed the tray on the table, the glasses chinked and rattled.
"The usquebaugh, my masters. The water of life is what it's called. Gives a man great strength."
Donfil took one of the two glasses, and Ryan reached for the one with the flower. But Rodriguez stayed his hand. "That's my own, if thou mindest not. My lucky glass, as it were. Drink the crystal-clear spirits and part as friends."
Ryan thought that the moonshine liquor was a way off being clear as crystal. Milky as a chem cloud, more like.
"A stern wind, a short chase, a clean strike and the try-pots brimming," toasted the tavern keeper, downing his shot in a single gulp.
"A clean shaft and a swift passing for my brother the deer," Donfil responded, sinking the glass in a long swallow.
"A better tomorrow," Ryan said quietly, draining the glass of spirit.
It was fiery and bitter, scorching as it scalded its way down his throat. There was also a slightly dull, unpleasant aftertaste, like the cold ashes of a dead fire.
"Another?" Rodriguez asked.
"No," Ryan replied, feeling the liquor eventually find its way into the pit of his stomach, where it lay in a sullen, curdled pool.
"Can't say I care for this water of life." Donfil pulled a face at the flavor. "Hot enough, I'll give you that. But a taste like a vulture's claws. No more for me. I'm for bed. You, Ryan?"
"Yeah."
Ryan started to rise, but he suddenly felt sick. He blinked, putting a hand to his forehead. The light from the flickering oil lamps was dimmer than earlier in the evening, and his first thought was that the clam chowder might have gone off. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the whaling hands at the far table were all standing up, drawing cudgels and belaying pins from their belts, grinning to one another.
"Ryan," Donfil warned, his voice vibrating from a long way off.
"Gently, Master Cawdor. Gently..." said Jedediah Rodriguez.
Then Ryan knew. Knew with the bitterness of cold iron. And he carried that raging knowledge with him into the careening deeps of a great blackness.
Chapter Seventeen
While I was yet all a-rush to encounter the whale, I could
see naught in that brute but the deadliest ill.
Moby Dick, by Herman Melville
Darkness, pierced by the needle point of a slim silver dagger; noises, soft and muffled, like the distant beating of a slack-skinned drum; movement, pitching and regular, like being in some giant's cradle; the smell, cramping and sickly, overlaid with the unmistakable stench of death and the sea.
Consciousness was slowly coming back to Ryan Cawdor.
The dreams seemed to have lasted for all of a dismal, bleak eternity. Swaying, pitching dreams that carried Ryan across gray mountain passes where his breath smoked like fire, through featureless swamps of turgid brown water, broken only by the gnarled roots of dead trees. Occasionally a bubble of foul gas would plop to the surface, leaving a tiny circle of frozen ripples in the scum.
Ryan had fallen by the wayside, and he had watched a parade of the hopeless and damned file past him with scarcely a glance in his direction. There had been a tall man in black, white collared, riding a great raw-boned stallion whose head was a fiery-eyed skull.
A pair of women, both of them slender and barefoot, swayed along the center of the dreary highway through a steady fall of drizzle. Their faces were covered in masks of black muslin, and they were singing in a foreign tongue. But Ryan could recognize the word "death" repeated again and again.
A child, with golden hair and the sweetest smile, was herding along a flock of bedraggled sheep, aided by two slavering hounds. If any of the bleating creatures attempted to delay, or go to the side of the track and nibble the rank grasses, the dogs would pounce on them, rip open their bellies and claw out greasy loops of intestines, letting them dangle in the dust.
And all the time, the little boy smiled innocently and whistled a merry tune.
"Ryan. You..."
Two ragged men, sitting on a slope, were both staring at Ryan as he swayed with exhaustion. They were in the shade of a stump of a tree bearing only a handful of curling leaves. One of the men had his boots unlaced, and the other was nibbling on the end of a scrawny carrot. Eventually they looked away from him and carried on with their own waiting.
