So he decided to give himself tests to pass before his big swim. Out on the wide Cannonball Sea there would be no rock to rest on. He would stop and float when he needed to, but that wasn’t the same thing.
When he’d first rowed here from Devil Island, he remembered drifting, going wide, daydreaming, not sure at all where he was headed. He’d been past caring.
He calculated now that if he’d rowed directly to Turtle Island, it would have taken about two hours. To swim that distance, it could take twice as long. You’d need strength and breath and skill to do that. And he’d have to carry a weapon. There were killers in the sea, he knew too well, and he’d be a fool to swim such a distance unarmed. He’d tie the knife to the belt at his hip.
To swim such a length, he’d need to be able to make it first from one end of the island to the other. When he could do that without resting, he’d judge whether he was ready to swim all the way back to Devil Island.
It was good to have an aim. It made the days even more fun and purposeful. Swimming became so natural that his mind slipped off its leash, free to wander in and out of thoughts like the fish that flowed around him.
The morning Wicked was ready to swim to the other end of the island, he marked off his one hundred and thirteenth day. Because it was a special day, he made an extra-large cut with his knife on the wall of the cave. He liked to see the neat lines standing all in a row, marking out the path of his progress.
The sea was a deep sapphire blue when he set out at dawn. He headed west around the reef at a steady pace, only slowing a little now and then to rest his arms. When he swam into open sea, the water spread fathomless around him, but he kept his mind focused on his breath, each one a small stepping stone towards his goal. Once, for a few minutes, a school of sardines swirled in a silver cloud beneath him, keeping his pace. He’d settled into a rhythm so right it was like finding the path out of a maze.
When he reached his destination at the southern end, he let himself be carried by the waves, floating in like a piece of driftwood. He had never felt so weary. But he’d made it without stopping.
He rested in the green shade of ferns until the sun was high in the sky. Then he waded back into the sea. If he had kept going then, when the day was still dazzling, the journey back home might have gone as smoothly as the start.
But Wicked discovered dolphins. They were leaping in and out of the waves near the shore. He’d seen dolphins before, when the ship was heading for the Shipwreck Isles. He remembered pointing them out to the First Mate, who hadn’t bothered to take more than a squiz through the eyeglass. ‘Only good thing about dolphins is they ain’t sharks,’ he’d said.
Wicked didn’t agree. Now, when a dolphin took off on a wave, he took it too. He tried to keep up, his arms flung out ahead of him, his legs kicking, but it was only when he dared grab a fin that he felt what it was like to fly like a bird.
When a school of fish swam in – striped bass, he thought, just like Horrendo had once served – the dolphins herded them into a huddle and he was able to spear one with his knife. He forgot everything then … Devil Island, his training, his plans. He was just another part of the sea.
The water was darkening with dusk as he made his way back. It rocked and slapped before him, jagged as cut glass. He felt uneasy as he swam. ‘The end of days brings sharks, and sharks bring the end of days,’ he remembered Doomsday tolling.
He swam faster. How could he have delayed so long? At a reef, midway, he wondered if he should try to swim in to land. He felt for the knife at his belt, the fish he’d strapped in with it. Maybe he could make a fire, cook his dinner, spend the night there. But then he remembered the coral riddling the reef, and knew it would cut his legs to pieces.
He swam on.
He was rounding the point when he saw the fin.
Please, please let it be a dolphin.
But he knew it was not. The sickening thud in his heart told him. He watched the way it stalked him, a steady black triangle against the flaming sky. It was moving in slowly, surely, like a ship set on its course. Fear rose out of him like vapour from a swamp. Could a shark smell fear? He didn’t know. But it could smell the fish on him … the bloodied head where he’d banged it on a rock.
He tore the bass from its strap, and flung it wide. Without glancing back he sped through the sea, his breath tripping and tumbling inside him. Go for the fish, leave me alone. His heart was bursting when he opened his eyes underwater and saw a dark shape circling below. He slid the knife from his belt and drew up his feet. His eyes searched the depths for the shark. But when it came, he didn’t see it.
He sensed a movement behind him, a quick swirl of water. Without thinking he kicked out, and his foot met something cold and massive. The shock of flesh hit him like lightning. He whirled around and saw a glistening eye, a strip of gill and he thrust at it with his knife. He kicked and stabbed at the churning water, staining red. He couldn’t feel his body; he was lost in a trance of survival.
And then, he was stabbing only cloudy water. His pulse boomed like a drum in his ears. He peered through the murky nothingness. The shark had gone.
He ran his hands over his feet, checked his legs and arms. Pirates claimed you couldn’t feel a shark bite – there was no pain, just a tug. He imagined bleeding to death out here, silently, half his body swallowed.
But it seemed he still had everything he came with into this world.
He floated on his back and took great thankful breaths.
He thanked his mother and Treasure and Doomsday. He thanked the father he’d never seen and the man who’d given him the knife. Tears ran out from the sides of his eyes and melted into the water. His chest heaved with sobs. He felt good. Clean.
Grateful.
Slowly, shuddering all the way, he swam home beneath a rising moon.
He was barely conscious when he dragged himself into the shallows of the bay. Perhaps that was why he ignored Doomsday, who came screaming in to meet him, the stick legs splashing, feathers wild. Wicked didn’t stop to wonder, either, why the bird clung so painfully to his shins, the sharp little claws pricking him as they waded awkwardly into shore together.
Wicked was too weary to walk all the way up to his hammock in the cave. He dropped down instead on the sand where he stood.
But Doomsday wouldn’t be quiet. He was cursing like a pirate, furious and terrified at the same time. He hopped up and down on Wicked’s chest. The feathers on his head stood to attention and he flapped a wing towards the cave, pointing wildly. He bit Wicked’s ear, tugged at his eyebrows, pulled his hair.
‘OW!’ cried Wicked. ‘You’re a proper little pest. Will you shut up and let me rest?’
‘No rest for the wicked!’ screamed Doomsday.
‘Oh, go to the devil.’
The last thing Wicked heard before he fell asleep on the sand was Doomsday’s chilling call, ‘Beware, the devil is here! The devil is here!’
Chapter 23
Wicked woke in the night when he turned over onto something sharp. Through the slit of his lids he glimpsed a pool of silver moonlight on the sand and there, floating in the middle, was his boat.
He closed his eyes again. He was dreaming. He must have been dreaming. Because even more impossible than the boat was the Captain’s face above it, white and cold in the moonlight.
In the morning, Wicked’s whole body ached. Sleeping on the beach had not been his best idea. His shoulders and arms groaned from the long swim, and his back was pock-marked with the dents of little shells.
‘Doomsday? Where are you?’
Only the waves sifted in and out. In a flash of memory he saw the frantic bird, and heard again his warning.
A shiver passed through him.
Gingerly, he sat up. His eyes travelled down the beach.
He hadn’t been dreaming.
A boat was hauled up on the sand, just like the one he’d sailed in from Devil Island. He wiped the sleep from his eyes. The boat was still there.
/> He crept down to the shore to inspect it. It was green, not blue, but his fingers traced the same deep grooves along the right side. He straightened up and looked around. Just sand, and palm trees.
‘Doomsday?’
There, on the sand, a feather. The edge was smeared with red. Wicked remembered the limp, the way the bird had staggered as it scuttled up and down his chest.
He started back up to the cave. Probably the parrot would be there, sleepy after all the fuss last night. He’d be perched as usual on the little ledge next to the hammock and they’d share a coconut juice as they always did first thing in the morning. Maybe he’d cut his foot on an oyster, or got nipped by a crab. Wicked would find a fresh strip of palm leaf to bandage it.
But as he hurried over the hill, a bad feeling gurgled in his guts. Last night, Doomsday had wanted his attention. A splinter of regret niggled. He wished he hadn’t told him to go to the devil. He wished he’d taken a look at that leg. He tried not to think about the rest of his dream.
He arrived panting at the mouth of the cave. Then he stopped short. Someone was crouched at the back wall, riffling through his pile of possessions.
Wicked squinted into the gloom. He made out a man with a hat … maybe this was the sailor who’d left the precious things! He wanted to shake his hand. But when the figure straightened up, shock made Wicked gasp.
‘Well, well, sleeping in till noon like a lazy landlubber, eh?’
It was the Captain’s voice, sure enough. How was that possible? Wicked took a step closer.
The same hooded eyes, dull and weatherworn as wood. The Captain stood just as he always had, tall as a mast, straight-backed, swayed by nothing.
But something was different. As Wicked watched the man lift his hat in greeting, he saw the hair on his head was gone, and the bushy black eyebrows had been burnt to stubble.
Wicked cleared his throat. ‘Is it … you?’
The Captain smiled, his jaws cracking into dangerous lines. His eyes didn’t change. As he smoothed down his jacket Wicked noticed his nails were singed black.
‘Are you a ghost?’ With a shaking hand, Wicked reached out to touch him.
But before he could, the Captain flicked him away with the spear. ‘Show some respect,’ he spat. ‘I’m still your Captain.’
Wicked cringed as if he’d been hit. That tone took him back to the ship, to all the years of cruelty and harsh commands. Without thinking he blurted, ‘Yes sir!’
The Captain’s face relaxed. ‘You still have so much to learn, Wicked. A badly tied knot cost you your freedom. Bad manners may cost you still more.’
Wicked looked down at his feet.
The Captain tapped the spear lightly on Wicked’s chest. ‘Now, let us start again. As you see, your Captain is hale and hearty, even though you squabs committed the worst of crimes against me.’
‘I never had any part in that mutiny,’ cried Wicked. ‘I swear!’
‘But you were silent. You were lily-livered. You, in particular, should have been loyal.’ The Captain gave him a thin smile, even though the point of his spear lay directly over Wicked’s heart. ‘Still, you are young. I am prepared to overlook your cowardice. So, tell me then, are you pleased to see your Captain?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Wicked automatically. ‘But how did you…?’
‘You doubted me? Shame on you. As you see, I possess powers far greater than those of mere men. Now, you are lucky, Wicked. You were my apprentice from the time you were a nipper. There are things I know, things I can do, that ordinary folk only dream of. Wouldn’t you like to continue your education?’
Wicked met his eyes, and looked away. The man had saved Wicked’s life, shown mercy when he was sick. So why now did the Captain’s gaze feel so crushing, his attention like the weight of the ocean pressing down on him?
‘Well?’ the Captain barked.
Wicked felt himself shrinking inside. Not since he’d come to Turtle Island had there been a moment like this. In his mind, the smaller he became, the taller the Captain grew. He was no longer a child but even so, the illusion of the man’s height and power lingered like a stain that couldn’t be removed.
‘Things aren’t always what they seem,’ a voice piped up from the folds of the hammock.
‘Doomsday!’ cried Wicked. Like a wand breaking a spell, the bird woke Wicked from his dread. He started for the hammock but the Captain stepped into his path.
‘Talking to the birds now, are you?’ he said. ‘You’ve gone soft in the head, lad, like those other jellies you left behind. We can’t have that.’ The Captain turned and kicked the hammock hard so that it swung crazily in the gloom.
‘Oi, watch out!’ cried Wicked.
‘WHAT?’ bellowed the Captain. Wicked had never heard him shout so loud. ‘You’re giving me orders now? I’ll have to teach you some manners, like this bird here.’ In one swift movement he upturned the hammock and thud, Doomsday fell out on the stony ground.
Doomsday tried to stand, trembling. Wicked saw the cut on his leg, jagged and open. He reached down but the Captain barred his way with the spear.
‘When folk step out of place,’ he said silkily, ‘they get hurt. All you have to do is listen, Wicked, and learn.’ He ran a finger over the point of the spear, testing its sharpness.
‘Now, we were having a nice chat, just the two of us, before windbag here interrupted. I imagine you’re as happy as a pig in mud to see your old boat again, lad. Spruced up, a new coat of paint, eh?’ The Captain’s tone had changed completely. ‘By Jove, you must have been convinced you’d die in this godforsaken place, no one to talk to but feathers-for-brains! Now, I have an excellent business deal for you.’
Wicked squirmed. He’d have sworn the Captain was trying to be … friendly. As if the man were standing at the door of his house, inviting him in. But the welcome was brittle, and Wicked knew he’d crumble into a thousand pieces if he stepped in.
‘Aye,’ nodded the Captain, agreeing with himself. ‘You’re a lucky young rascal indeed. Your Captain has come to the rescue, again. You can tell me how grateful you are when we set sail.’
Wicked felt a hot storm rise inside him. ‘I wouldn’t have to be grateful if you hadn’t stolen the boat in the first place!’
The Captain’s eyes fixed on him, unflinching. ‘Your boat? You mean the boat you stole from Devil Island? It was floating in the ocean, nitwit.’ His voice was hushed with menace. ‘You’ve made free use of my possessions, I see. Fishing with my spear, sleeping in my hammock. But don’t mention it, lad, glad to be of help. Now it’s time for you to get off this island. And your Captain here will provide your escape.’
Wicked wrenched his gaze away. Escape? If this was escape, why did it feel like prison? Like being kidnapped all over again?
‘Say your prayers, this ship is going down!’ came a muffled cry from the corner of the cave.
‘Shut your beak or I’ll shut it for you!’ the Captain hissed, giving the bird a jab with his spear.
Wicked froze. The blade rested on Doomsday’s head and suddenly Wicked understood, with a terrible certainty, that it was the Captain who had clipped the bird’s wings.
Wicked scooped him up and put him on his shoulder. He could feel the bird trembling.
‘Sink or swim,’ Doomsday whispered in his ear.
Wicked drew himself up to his full height. He squared his shoulders and the muscles rippled in his arms. The bird was right. He was grown now. Everything was different. He wouldn’t drown, he wouldn’t go under. He could swim.
Wicked took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive deep. ‘I’ve made my own plans. I’m gunna swim back to Devil Island.’
The Captain laughed. ‘Swim? Are you mad? Do you have a death wish?’
Wicked bit his cheek. ‘I taught myself. I’ve trained hard.’
‘Oh, dear,’ sighed the Captain. ‘Your ignorance never fails to amaze me. I gather you haven’t made the acquaintance of the sharks that patrol these waters?’
‘I have, but I’ve found ways to deal with ’em.’ Wicked couldn’t help a small swell of pride.
The Captain shook his head. ‘You might have been lucky once. You can’t bank on a second time. Don’t be such a fool – what kind of poxy lunatic chooses to swim in shark-infested waters when there’s the offer of a boat? I’ve never heard such a crack-brained scheme in all my life.’
Wicked flushed red. Put like that, his plan did sound crazed. And it was a risk, truth to tell. Perhaps too big a risk. But if he accepted the Captain’s offer, the price he’d have to pay was more than he could bear. He’d rather die free than live as a slave. That much he’d worked out for himself.
‘You can kill a man,’ Wicked said, lifting his gaze to the Captain, ‘but you can’t kill an idea.’
The Captain rolled his eyes. ‘Oh don’t start boiling your brain, you’ll hurt yourself.’ He paused, then looked at Wicked with mild curiosity. ‘Tell me something. If this bird has become such a friend, why are you planning to desert him? The parrot can’t swim, even if you can. You’re willing to leave him where you found him, on the island? Is that your idea of how to treat your friends?’
Wicked blushed to the roots of his hair.
Doomsday was silent.
The truth was, it struck Wicked now, that he hadn’t even thought about the bird. Not yet. So taken up was he with his swimming that he hadn’t …
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered to Doomsday. ‘I just didn’t think.’
‘No, you only thought about yourself,’ the Captain said cheerfully. ‘Bravo! You had the right idea this time. You know, Wicked, you and I are more alike than you realise. The sooner you learn that, and start taking lessons from me, the better. Devil Island is where we’re both headed. I’ve got a bit of business to take care of there. We can begin lesson number one on the way.’
Wicked said nothing. He felt Doomsday quivering, the bloodied foot sticky on his shoulder. Some friend he’d been to the bird. No better than useless.
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