“God gave you freedom. He has no interest in puppetry.”
Dominic took another bite. As he chewed, he envisioned crushing Francisco’s body with his teeth. “And what has God done for you, old man?”
“He gave me life.” Francisco looked up at the sky. A dense flock of swallows streamed across it. “He grants eternity to those who desire it.”
“How can you be so certain he even exists?”
“How? Just look around you, commander. All of this… perfection. At every moment we are in him and among him, but most of us are too blind to see.” Francisco reached down and touched an oak sapling protruding from the ground. He massaged one of its waxy leaves between his fingers. “I tell you,” he continued, “if you lived long enough to sit and watch a tiny seed grow into a towering tree, you would surely see his persistent hand in the world. He teems in every grain of soil and every breath of air—he dwells in us and we in him—but our lives are simply too passing to recognize that.”
Dominic’s eyes became red and watery. He grabbed the sapling and ripped it out of the ground, infantile roots and all, and threw it into the fire. “And where is he when the young are dying?” The little tree wilted into a ball and burst into flame.
Francisco frowned. “I know where he is not.”
“Oh? And where is he not?
“In you.”
Both men watched with desolate eyes as the sapling disintegrated before them. They sat there for an hour saying nothing until darkness enshrouded them, prompting Francisco to prepare a bed of moss on which to sleep.
In the night, after their fire died, Dominic saw the buttery glow of the natives’ fire through the mangroves and heard the deep, muffled tones of their voices. Francisco had not been lying; the natives really were traveling with them and, each night, they had made their camp in closer proximity. As the days blurred by, it seemed that their cautiousness was waning, like wild animals acclimating to a settler.
The stars overhead pulsed. Dominic lay there and watched them. He had known the stars as navigation points and nothing else; this was the first time he had ever looked at them for any length of time without trying to establish his bearings. They appeared different now—more lurid, perhaps, and far more numerous. He focused on the brightest one and soon felt himself falling toward it and all the others moved past him slow and vacillating like the lamps of travelers on a dark road until it seemed he was surging through a cave toward its blinding opening. He felt a sudden pang of fear and closed his eyes.
“Old man?” he said.
Francisco rolled over on his bed of moss. “I should not answer to that, but, yes, what is it?”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Better than you, it seems.”
“Do you believe in forgiveness?”
Francisco pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Dominic. “Of course I do.”
“Even for horrible things?”
“No sin is too great for God’s mercy.”
“No sin?”
“Not as long as the sinner is truly remorseful.”
“Good. Then I forgive you.”
Francisco looked dumbstruck. “You forgive me?”
“Yes. For taking me captive. I forgive you.”
Francisco fell back onto his bed. “You forgive me.” He began laughing and seemed unable to stop.
“Nevermind. I withdraw it.” Dominic rolled over and turned away from Francisco. The old man laughed himself to sleep.
Morning came like a slap in the face and both men groaned as they stood. After a wordless breakfast of leftover raccoon meat and a few raw oysters—the similarity of the tastes shocked Dominic—they trudged north again. They came to the end of the mangrove swamp and entered a dense flat of scrub forest. Palmettos sliced their legs and the sparse tops of the sand pines provided little protection against the sun.
Dominic noticed a low, dense bush covered in clusters of red berries. Insects buzzed around and within it. He reached down and plucked a handful of the berries as he walked by. Squishing one between his fingers, a creamy sap leached out. It smelled sweet and plantlike. He put one in his mouth and chewed. The sweetness was there but so was a peculiar acridness he had not detected in the scent. Still, it tasted far better than the berries he tried earlier. He swallowed it and had just put another in his mouth when Francisco looked at him with alarm.
“Spit that out!” said Francisco.
Dominic did. “Why?” he asked, wiping saliva off his lips.
“Half of all the berries in these woods are poisonous. That was one of them.”
Dominic looked at the other berries in his hand. “How poisonous?”
“Deadly. Did you swallow any?”
Fear pressed down on him like a wet coat. “Only one.” He felt lightheaded but could not determine if it stemmed from poison or panic.
“We had better get the doctor.” Francisco cupped his hands and put them to his mouth and made a piercing, hornlike sound. A gaggle of pheasants erupted from the palmettos. Moments later, the natives bounded out of the scrub. They stood there panting, morose with concern.
Francisco and the natives exchanged frantic words and flung panicky hand gestures at the forest. The oldest native—the one who had killed the moccasin—gave an order to the youngest native who then bolted into the scrub. Dominic sat on the ground and held his knees, his stomach tossing and his dizziness escalating.
“Am I going to die?” he asked.
“Maybe,” said Francisco.
The young native returned with a sprig of leaves and red berries that he held high, as one would carry a holy relic. The berries on this plant were larger and rounder and altogether different than the poisonous ones.
“Cassina,” said Francisco. He took the plant and bent his head solemnly toward it. The natives bowed as well. “The black drink. To my friends here, there is no means of purification more sacred.”
The older native prepared a fire which sprang up quickly due to its kindling of pine needles and dry palmetto leaves. He filled a clay bowl with water from an animal skin pouch, and then he took the cassina plant from Francisco’s hands and laid it inside. The natives lowered their heads and chanted.
Dominic coughed. He could not get any satisfaction from his breaths. In only minutes, they had become short and painful. Francisco and the natives looked down at him with grave, stone-like faces.
“Is there anything you want to say in case we cannot save you?” said Francisco.
“Yes.” Dominic hugged his knees. “Is dying like this part of God’s plan for me, too?”
Francisco looked disrespected. “Dying is part of his plan for everyone. Do not think you are special.”
The water simmering in the bowl had turned black and the fire hissed every time a drop of it spilled over the side. The older native used a green palmetto leaf to lift the steaming bowl. He put it beneath his nose and inhaled the vapor. It seemed to satisfy him because he quickly handed it to Dominic.
“Ucu,” said the native.
“Drink,” said Francisco.
Dominic took a sip and gagged. “It’s revolting.”
“If you want to live,” said Francisco, “you must drink.”
The natives sat around Dominic and watched. He sipped again and tried to make the fluid bypass his tongue but the caustic smell filled his sinuses. He gagged and pursed his lips in an attempt to not throw up.
“All of it,” said Francisco.
Dominic looked into the inky blackness of the drink. His reflection—gaunt, dirty, corpselike—stared back. It was like looking at some other man. He took a breath, opened his mouth wide, and tilted the bowl. The bitter liquid poured in and he gulped it down until only a few shriveled berries and some sediment remained. He handed the bowl to Francisco.
“Finished,” said Dominic.
Perspiration suddenly broke out on Dominic’s forehead. His stomach churned and he vomited all over himself. The drink, it seemed, had not worked. He retched severa
l more times until it felt like his insides should have come out as well. Exhausted and sullied, he collapsed on the ground and gazed up at the men standing around him.
“You did well,” said Francisco.
“But I could not keep it down,” said Dominic.
Francisco’s mouth curved up into a toothless grin. “That was the intention.”
Chapter Eight
The wave rose and bent toward Zane. This was surely the one. He turned toward the beach and extended the bale in front of his body. He held tight and kicked. Soon he heard the roar of the wave and felt its warm breath on his back and, glancing to his side, saw its cylindrical barrel curling in upon itself. The water pushed him, slowly at first, but then it released him like a slingshot and he surged forward with exhilarating speed.
He smiled and savored the salty air in his face. But then the bale angled down and caught the front of the wave like a lipped lure and suddenly he was tumbling underwater. His skin grated against the sandy bottom. Water filled his nose. He came up gasping and coughing, but his distress changed to delight when he realized that it was shallow enough to stand. Solid ground under his feet had never felt so pleasing.
The bale had surfed ahead to the beach and he could see it now sinking into the sand as seawater gushed around it. He waded to the beach and fell to his knees in the foam. He wanted to rest, but he knew he was not safe yet. The man he had seen in the rocket light would not be far behind.
He struggled to his feet. His limbs felt weak and gelatinous, but he managed to drag the bale up the beach and into the tall, powdery dunes. He found a small dell on the back side of the dunes where he concealed himself and looked out at the beach through the sea oats. He sat there and watched the waves pile in, scanning for any signs of Miguel. A movement soon caught his eye—little bursts of sand were shooting up from the other side of the dune—and he heard a sound like digging.
He crawled to the edge of the dune and peered over. It took a moment to recognize what he saw. It was a loggerhead sea turtle, massive and encrusted in barnacles, excavating a pit with its hind flippers. The turtle turned its head and regarded Zane with a massive eye. It breathed through its nostrils, emitting a wet hiss.
“Don’t mind me,” said Zane.
The turtle turned away and continued digging. Zane receded into the dune and put his hand on the bale beside him. He shivered. A yearning burned inside him. He had not felt such a forceful craving in years. The boat collision was a “trigger event” if there ever was one. He thought of the protocol he had been taught for resisting temptation.
I admit that I am an addict.
I admit that I am powerless over my addiction.
I believe in a power greater than myself.
But did he? Where was this so-called greater power when Miguel hired him for a fake fishing charter, and when his boat inadvertently crushed another? If ever there existed a reality worth escaping, this was it. He looked at the bale with hunger in his eyes. What the hell was in it? It didn’t matter—it was surely something good. He clawed at the bale like a digging dog, shredding off layers of plastic wrap in long strips. He needed something to fill the void, and he was certain that the bale contained some form of an antidote to his longing.
When he pierced through the last sheet of plastic skin and was breaking apart the inner layer of Styrofoam, a bright light shone down from above. God’s searchlight, he thought, but with Jupiter more than a hundred miles away, he knew that was impossible. He followed the beam. It did indeed originate at a lighthouse, but this one looked different from the one he knew from home. It stood on the coast like a lonely watchman, its lamp slowly scanning the sea. He realized that he had seen it from the water but from that vantage it looked like another launch pad. Only from the beach could he now see its features. Unlike the Jupiter Lighthouse which always gave Zane a feeling of security, this one—painted white with black stripes like a convict—was foreboding.
He continued ripping into the bale. When he had broken through the Styrofoam he came to a black duffel bag stuffed with a mystery. His hands quivered. He found the zipper. As he pulled it open, a strange sheen emanated from inside. What exotic delight awaited him? He would know soon. Movement, however, caught his eye; he glanced toward the beach and saw Miguel standing in the surf, bent over with his hands on his knees. Something in Miguel’s hand glinted.
“No,” whispered Zane.
He watched Miguel look down the beach in both directions and then at the ground in front of him. Zane’s heart sank when he saw what Miguel was looking at—there, preserved in the sand, were Zane’s footprints and, between them, the line left behind where he had dragged the bale. Miguel set off following them.
Zane smacked himself in the forehead. How could he have been so stupid? He looked down at the bale and, aware that only seconds remained, ripped open the zipper. Yellow luster bathed his face.
“Holy—” he said. The beam of the lighthouse crept across the dune and in the radiance he saw the full glory of what lay inside the bag: stacks upon stacks of gold rounds. There had to be a thousand coins, all shrink-wrapped together in stacks of ten. Someone had taken great care in their preparation. He sat there mesmerized. It was too dark to see the features of the coins, but he assumed them to be rounds of bullion. Gold bullion, he knew, was the latest trend in trafficking because—unlike currency—it was anonymous and untraceable. Now he understood Miguel’s determination, and it made him even more afraid. But despite the riches that lay before him, he felt an ache of disappointment. He would have preferred drugs. He hated himself for thinking that way.
Zane rubbed his eyes and peered through the sea oats. Miguel had almost reached the dunes. The thing in Miguel’s hand, he could now see, was a dive knife, typically carried by scuba divers as a safety precaution but certainly sharp enough to be a weapon. If Zane tried to run now, he would undoubtedly be seen. He felt angry at himself for not fleeing when he had the chance, but his curiosity about the contents of the bale—or, more accurately, his hunger for narcotics—had been too great.
“Where are you, boy?” Miguel’s voice was eerily singsong.
Something in Zane urged him to jump out and surrender. If he gave up, maybe Miguel would be merciful. But then he remembered the insane look in Miguel’s eyes when the IRS boat had approached, and he crouched lower.
“I know you’re up there,” Miguel said from the other side of the dune. Zane could hear the shuffle of his feet in the sand, but the sound stopped.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Miguel. “A damn turtle?”
Miguel stormed away down the beach. Zane looked at the tracks in the sand again and realized that they were not even his. What he had mistaken for his own footprints were actually made by the turtle’s flippers as it scuttled up the beach; the drag mark was from the turtle’s shell, not the bale. Still, Miguel would soon find his real tracks, which were only a little farther down the beach.
Zane looked at the coins. What should he do with them? With this kind of fortune he’d be set for life—a new boat, a new truck, and a big mansion on the water. This was, he figured, the only chance at serious wealth he’d ever get. He had to at least try.
He strained to lift the bag but realized that he would not get far with so much weight. He looked around; his eyes came to the turtle. An idea struck him—he was not sure if it was ludicrous or ingenious but he could think of nothing better.
This is it, Zane thought. Make it happen, captain.
He flung himself over the peak of the dune and rolled down its steep face, dragging the duffel with him. He landed right where he wanted—just behind the turtle. She had finished digging her nest and was now dropping eggs from a pink, fleshy orifice protruding from beneath her tail. Zane had hoped that the eggs would not yet be coming; to prevent crushing them, he would have to improvise. He scooped out the half dozen she had already laid, but they kept coming and he could not clear them fast enough. He looked at their source. There was only one way to
stop them—one appalling, disgusting way—and so he stuffed his hand into her chute.
It was slimy and hot inside her and he could feel more eggs pressing down on his knuckles but the turtle did not seem to notice the intrusion. With his free hand he tipped the duffel bag and dumped the stacks of coins into the nest. They fit nicely and left plenty of room. He reached in and pulled out two stacks of coins, hesitated, and pulled out one more. He then pushed a pile of sand into the nest and replaced the eggs he had removed. When he pulled his hand out of the turtle, a large globule of mucous and eggs surged out. Moments later, she continued laying them one by one.
“Sorry, girl.” Zane shook his head. He could hardly believe he had just violated a turtle.
He jumped to his feet and tossed the three stacks of coins into the duffel bag. Then he flung the bag over his back, scaled the dune and, crouching on its summit, reached over and stuffed pieces of Styrofoam into the bag until it looked full. He scanned the beach for a landmark—to his left, rising out of the dunes, stood a solitary coconut palm, and to his west he saw a massive structure silhouetted against the stars.
He turned and looked in the opposite direction. Miguel had reached the other tracks in the sand; his head slowly turned as he followed them up the beach with his eyes. For Zane, it was like watching a fuse burn rapidly toward him, with no time to get away. As Miguel’s gaze reached the dune, the lighthouse beam found Zane and set him aglow. He felt like a stage performer blinded by a spotlight. When the beam left, he saw Miguel sprinting at him.
“Drop that bag!” screamed Miguel.
Zane bounded across the ridge of the first dune and then turned away from the beach and barreled into the sea oats. Sharp reeds sliced his limbs as he ran. The dunes, and the rhythm of loping over them, reminded him of ocean swells. Each time he reached the top of one he would glance back and, each time, Miguel was a few steps closer.
“You’re dead!” shouted Miguel.
The dunes ended at a thick wall of forest. As he approached, Zane scanned it for the clearest entry point. There did not, however, seem to be one—the entire thing looked like an impenetrable tangle of oaks and vines and cabbage palms. He buried his fear and raced headlong into the blackness with one hand outstretched as a probe. Once inside, he could not even see his arm in front of him. Disoriented, he staggered through the dark jumble, tripping over logs, squeezing through bushes, and bouncing off tree trunks like a running back.
The Sound of Many Waters Page 6
