ALEC: An Action & Adventure Fantasy Novel (Alexander Trilogy)

by Stan I. S. Law

  They were approaching the narrow entry that separated the Outer bay from the lake proper. Dad must have remembered that once they cleared the Outer Bay, they would face the full wrath of the southern wind, which could build up the waves along the entire length of the lake. The crossing from the Malletts to Valcour was said to be the most choppy on the lake. Not something he would choose to do, given an alternative under the present conditions. But the south shore of the Outer Bay was flat. No hills to afford any shelter from the southern wind.

  Dad went below, handing the tiller to his son. In spite of the wind, Alec could just hear the radio that dad had switched on to get the latest forecast. Not that it cheered them up. Quite the opposite.

  “There is a gale warning for central and northern Vermont and New York states. Winds up to 25 knots are expected with gusts up to 35. This is a gale warning for...”

  Dad cut the radio. Alec supposed they should be grateful. He knew that gales on the lake didn’t last too long, too many mountains around; but on the open sea, a gale force wind can range from 25 to 75 miles an hour. That’s a lot more than their little ship could take, under the best conditions, and their hull had been built some twenty years ago.

  “That’s living, Sandra,” he whispered under his breath. How come I only think of Sandra when I’m a bit, well, a bit lost? For some unexplained reason he felt that she didn’t mind. After all, she had told him to live his life to the fullest. Right now the fullest was getting pretty wet.

  “Take her into the wind, son,” dad commanded.

  You don’t argue with the captain. Never. Not even to find out why.

  “Take her in, easy now, hold her pointing due south,” dad added.

  Alicia creaked as Alec carried out dad’s order.

  “Now hold her steady...”

  Dad was already at the mast, lowering the main another notch. They would be double-reefed for the rest of the trip. Then he hoisted the main sheet tight again and staggered back into the cockpit.

  Or almost.

  At the very last moment he was thrown against the life line, almost lost his balance, righted himself, and with the next heave he fell crashing on top of Alec. A deep-throated groan gave Alec the jitters. His dad seemed to be in agony. His right arm was bent backwards, not the way arms are supposed to bend. Alec, his father still half splattered on top of one of his own legs, swung his free leg over the tiller, to free his arms. Then, biting his lip and thankful for the first-aid course he’d taken, he jerked his father’s arm back into position. His dad did not take time to thank him. He fainted instead. The setting of a dislocated elbow is much more painful than the dislocation itself.

  “Mom!”

  Mom was right there, frozen in total immobility.

  “Mom, get dad off me!” he screamed over the wind. “NOW!” he added when mother still didn’t move.

  This worked. Mother’s lithe body had a lot more strength than was apparent. She half lifted and half dragged dad’s limp body down onto the floor of the cockpit and into a half-sitting position. By now dad was coming to, his eyes trying to make sense of what was going on. Then the pain in the arm hit him, and he did all he could not to pass out once again.

  By now mother had her shirt off and was making a makeshift sling for dad’s arms. Once mom got going, she was the best. She then propped him up so as to protect his right arm.

  “Thank you, daaaah...” The ‘darling’ came out as a whimper.

  Alec steered the boat back to face the outlet from the Outer Bay. He made the narrow passage through dead center. Luckily there were no other boats competing for the space. And then the full force of the wind hit them.

  Holding on to the tiller with one hand, Alec reached forward and let out the main sheet another two feet. The boat righted herself by about five degrees. Then he did the same with the jib. Another degree or two. Now he had to steer the boat as best he could till they got into the lee of Valcour Island, some two hours away. Two hours in these conditions would feel more like six. The sloop pranced on her stern, tried to veer into the wind, then danced away as though giving up. Alicia was looking after dad who, it transpired, had also cut his knee and lost some skin from his other hand. Dad would be useless for the return trip.

  “How the devil am I going to throw the anchor?” Alec wondered. “I could hardly lift it the last time I tried...”

  He decided to keep the thought to himself. If Sandra wanted him to live, here and now, then he had a lot of living to do right now before facing that problem. “One thing at a time...” he told himself. “One thing at a time.”

  Every few minutes Alec had to change hands just to hold the tiller on a good heading. Not just the sails, but the hull itself caught the wind, pushing the sloop diagonally across the waves, which in the middle of the crossing mounted to four, maybe five feet. That’s one foot over the gunwale. Alec had no choice but to release the sails still further, slowing down progress but righting the boat. The sloop only carried a four-foot draft and the keel was a mere five feet long. Not much to balance the forces the hull was taking from the gale-force wind.

  “Easy, boy,” he whispered, his face covered with spray. “You faced harder conditions on the moons of Jupiter…”

  A vague memory of one of his jaunts crossed his mind. There, too, his lieutenants had been lying at his feet even as dad was now. He clenched his teeth and jutted his chin towards his destination. Where no man has gone before…

  He lost all sensation of time. The rocking-twisting motion of the boat would have given him seasickness, had he been below. Here, facing the elements, constant spray blinding his eyes, he had no time to be sick. He was at the helm. Alec Baldwin Jr., the Sea Captain.

  By ten o’clock they’d made it to the lee of Valcour Island, where the waves were a mere foot high. Outside the lee all hell was breaking loose. The white crests seemed bent on overtaking each other; the wind was swirling in irregular gusts, as though to discourage the intrepid sailors from braving their fortunes. There was no need. They hadn’t seen a single boat on the way back from the Malletts. Not one. No one was crazy enough to venture into the angry sea.

  Exhausted from the two-hour battle, Alec switched on the engine and dropped the main. His father’s head appeared from below. Mother had taken him there to keep him dry. Alec hadn’t even noticed when. Now, with the boat behaving like a boat should rather than a tin can bobbing in a pool full of rowdy children, dad could hold his balance pretty well. He sat, somewhat heavily, next to Alec.

  “You need some help, son?”

  No. Dad wasn’t himself yet. Alec would have to steer the boat, tie the main, furl the jib and drop the anchor. Apart from that he was free just to sit around.

  “Thanks, dad,” Alec actually managed a smile. “How’s your arm?”

  “Arm?” Alex Senior looked down at his arm as if it belonged to somebody else. “That old thing? Ha, ha, it’s quite useless, I’m afraid, son. At least I think so. Can’t move it at all.”

  “Can you take the tiller?”

  “Sure can.” Dad reached out with his good arm and grabbed the tiller. “You do what you have to, son. I’ll be fine right here.”

  Alec did what he had to do.

  To give himself more time, he reduced gas to idling. Then he steadily walked to the bow. And, yes, he did lift the anchor himself, and did let out the requisite length of scope, and did tie the other end to a cleat. Then he went about putting things in order. He switched off the engine, cut the main switch to disable the depth sounder and the speedometer. He then pulled the cover, just partially, over the main to let it dry once the rain stopped, and arranged all the sheets so as not to trip over them lying loosely all over the place. He was grateful he didn’t have to pay out the fenders, as he would have, had they been mooring at a finger dock. All in all, it took him about a half-hour, and by the time he had finished, the boat was shipshape and Alec was covered in sweat.

  “Bet you’re wetter on the inside than the outside,” his dad qu
ipped, his eyes unable to hide the admiration for his son.

  Had dad accomplished all this, he would have given himself a healthy shot of Scotch. Alec, smiling at his own thoughts, did the next best thing he could think of. He jumped overboard. The water was exactly what the doctor ordered. The first shock washed all the sweat away. He dove again and again through the water, working his stiff arms and legs. Recharging himself. Eventually he just floated on his back. His arms and legs felt massaged by the gentlest hands that ever touched him. Actually, he’d never had a real massage. But, now that he thought about it, he decided to have one the moment he grew up. He wondered why boys didn’t have massages. Mr. Grimm, the gym/tennis pro, once gave him a massage before an important match. He remembered enjoying it.

  The wind was dying down. Or so it seemed. The open waters were still covered with crests, but they didn’t seem to be roaring with vengeance. They seemed to skim the surface of the water, as though chasing each other just for fun. Anyway, in the lee of the Island they were in quiet waters. Hardly a ripple close to shore. And… they had the whole bay to themselves!

  “How about some breakfast, mom?” he asked before he even dried himself.

  Mom didn’t hear his plea for breakfast. She was preoccupied with dad, still feeding him all the painkillers she carried in her bag. Knowing mom, dad wouldn’t feel much for quite a while. Luckily dad did not get his scotch. Not even a snifter. He tumbled jerkily down and stretched himself on the cabin berth. A minute later he was asleep. Just as well, Alec thought. Sleep is a good healer.

  She climbed down to sit opposite dad, looking at him as though he were about to die. Then she leaned back, drew her legs under her chin and also dozed off. Alec didn’t really mind. He could make himself a sandwich.

  20

  You Called?

  “You called?”

  Alec heard the same question for the second time. He hadn’t heard Sandra’s voice for a while. Or at least it seemed so. Then he laughed. He remembered calling her name when he was, or imagined he was, drowning in Gail’s Cove. Just before the real problems started.

  “Time doesn’t matter to you much, does it?” he almost giggled, and quickly stopped short when he remembered that men don’t giggle.

  Alec removed his bed-sheets from the fo’c’sle and laid them out over the boom to dry. Then he stretched out on the v-berth foam-rubber mattress with the hatch wide open. He was tired. He had absolutely no idea what he had accomplished today. He’d fought the elements in so many of his dreams, his imaginary jaunts, that he wouldn’t dream, sorry, wouldn’t think of taking credit for any of this morning’s accomplishments.

  “You looked rather busy,” Sandra said contritely.

  He’d never heard anyone who had so many vocal—or really tonal—intonations as Sandra. She could laugh, giggle, express sorrow, admiration, concentration, and even frivolity, all without saying a word. It was the tone that gave all her moods or intentions their value. Alec loved that.

  “Well, sort of....” Alec admitted.

  “You’ve done rather well,” she said.

  “Thanks.” Alec couldn’t take applause on the tennis court, either. And there were never any accolades in his inner travels. He just did them.

  “You saved their lives, just like you did mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “In the dungeon,” she affirmed gravely.

  Well, that was different. He had saved her life down there. But this was just a sail. Anyone could have done it. Yet, despite himself, he felt a very distinct pleasure from Sandra’s words, or from the way she said them. She always knew exactly what to say. Even if others didn’t.

  “They will. Once they realize it,” Sandra assured.

  Alec felt ashamed. He knew that they were both talking about his mom and dad. He also knew that dad was under sedation, and mom was scared stiff. He also knew that they would thank him for his efforts once they’d recovered from their present condition. It was different for him. It’s always different for whoever’s at the wheel. Or the tiller, in this case. When you have to make all the decisions, you don’t have time to worry. You really don’t.

  He felt another caress from Sandra. No words, just a caress. A sort of warmth spreading all over his body. How did she do that, he wondered. She could make you feel good even when you were tired, or lonely, or sad, or just about anything. Maybe she really is always with me. All the time. I mean I know she is, but it doesn’t always feel like it. Maybe she was also holding onto the tiller when my arm was hurting from the effort. Maybe...

  “It was all you, Alec. I never interfere when not invited,” she insisted.

  She would never interfere. He knew that. But she was there to give him confidence. Even when he didn’t actually think of her presence. He knew that, too.

  “What do other people do?” he asked.

  “How do they find challenges?”

  “Well, yes. I mean you can’t always sail through gales, and you said that I should just live. I mean—not dream all the time.”

  “There are as many challenges as you care to look for. You’re right that all people can’t sail the seven seas, but challenges can be found in every walk of life.”

  “Like tennis?”

  “If you like. But I was thinking more of a surgeon attempting to save someone’s life, an architect designing the best, the most beautiful building in the world, a scientist splitting the atom and resolving its inner structure... there is no end to extremely challenging opportunities for those who look for them.”

  Alec thought about that. She sounded right. She always did. If you really dug in, just about everything was fascinating. You really had to dig in, though. You couldn’t just skim the surface. Then his mind turned to a matter that had been bothering him for some time.

  “Remember telling me, on that first occasion, that the Home Planet is two galaxies away? How come we don’t have one in our own Milky Way?”

  “Perhaps we will, one day,” she smiled again.

  “When?”

  “When people are ready.”

  So we’re too young for such a… such a place.

  “So how come you took me?”

  “You really like asking questions, don’t you?” Alec still seemed frustrated. As he would not be so easily dissuaded, she continued. “The Home Planet doesn’t just happen. It is the sum total, the product of racial effort. Often of many races from as many different planets.”

  “You mean there are other Home Planets?”

  “Of course. That’s why I always call it our Home Planet. Remember?”

  He did. He remembered every single word she had ever told him. Every single word.

  “So there are many races?”

  “As many as there are stars in the sky.”

  “WHAT!”

  “Shhh...”

  “Sorry. But that’s an awful lot of people.” Then, after a moment’s silence another thought struck him. “Do they all have legs and arms, you know, do they look like us, or are they all sorts of monsters?”

  “People are not defined by the number of extremities, heads or digits on their hands. Those change with the requirements of the environment. Like being short or tall, or black or pink or yellow, or any other local characteristic.”

  “Then how come I did not see any two-headed monst... I mean people, on the Home planet?” he asked triumphantly.

  “You saw what you wanted to see. That’s what Home Planet is all about. As for the people there, they are all united by the same interest. They looked like you because they share your purpose.”

  “You mean they look different on their own planets?”

  “Home planet is their own planet.” Then she relented. “I know what you mean. Yes, on the planet on which they have their physical being they look very different. But don’t forget that on the Home planet you looked quite different to them.”

  “Is that why you looked… about eighteen years old?” he asked, and for some unknown reason he blushed.


  “Yes, exactly like that.” She didn’t seem to notice.

  ***

  They couldn’t hold back any longer. She only had a few days in Montreal to get things done. By Friday they would be back on Alicia, on Lake Champlain. Now that there was seven of them, and five already had eight and ten canvasses each, it was time. If there were any more, there wouldn’t be enough room to exhibit them.

  “The guy on Sherbrook Street said he’d let us have a joint exhibition for two weeks. But… as we are apparently unknowns, we’d have to pay for the space,” Joan announced, not looking very happy.

  “Would he also take a cut from our sales?”

  “What sales?” Pat whispered. She was painting just for the fun of it. “Not like Zaza,” she mused, but didn’t say it. She had her suspicions though.

  “Forty percent. That’s about the going rate in the city,” Joan affirmed. “It’s up to us. We can just continue painting and look for our own opportunities.”

  “But if we did exhibit, it would look good in our curriculum vitae,” Alicia added.

  “In our what?” This was Zaza.

  “Our bio, you know…”

  “I am not stupid, Alicia. I know what a bio is. I just don’t speak French.”

  Alicia didn’t say anything. Zaza’s linguistic skills did not match her obvious talents with the brush. She was really good if on the very edge of eroticism. After all, so did some of the great masters of the past. Zaza was also an ardent federalist, a rarity in Quebec. For her ‘French’ was a dirty word, but her husband had been transferred here from the head office in Ontario. He was still climbing the corporate ladder. She had enough money of her own to stay in Toronto but she enjoyed what she called: “fringe benefits”, by accompanying her husband to Montreal.