The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  “I am.” Packer nodded, and kept eating.

  “Told you he was,” Delaney nodded. Packer looked at him quizzically. “I saw you eyeing my cross here,” Delaney said by way of explanation, pointing to his upper arm. “Saw the light in your eyes. Sure did.”

  Marcus smiled at Delaney, happy and relieved. “So then,” the boy asked Packer, “what happened after you died? I mean when you were keelhauled. Did you see Jesus?”

  Packer coughed. He looked at Marcus carefully. “I don’t really remember.”

  Marcus looked disappointed. “Anything?”

  Packer realized this was very important to the young man. He thought. “Well, there was a lot of white light. I remember rising up through the water toward the light. I think there was more, but that’s all I can recall.”

  Marcus nodded, seeming satisfied. “The boys say you went to the Dead Lands. I just wondered what you saw.”

  Delaney lowered his eyes. “Some of ’em say that. Not all.”

  “What are the Dead Lands?” Packer asked. There was talk aboard ship, then. Of course there was; he would be the biggest news of the voyage. He hadn’t really thought about what they might be saying, but if he were to join them, it would matter greatly.

  “It’s what the Drammune believe. Another world much like this, but on the other side. Those who know how can pass back and forth. They think Talon knows how. After all, it was Talon who brought your spirit back, they say.”

  Packer took a deep breath. He set the pot down on the seat beside him. “I don’t know what happened. But I seriously doubt it was any of that.”

  “You still believe,” Marcus asked in a tone that implied agreement, “you still believe in Jesus?”

  “Yes, of course,” Packer said gently.

  “Then we’re with you, no matter what.” Marcus was determined, forthright. “It don’t matter what they say about you. God’s been with you. You can count on us to stick by you.”

  Packer was grateful, but his heart was pained. He didn’t want them to have any trouble on his account. Then Delaney spoke, in a tone of gravity to which he was clearly unaccustomed. “I have been a believer only just a couple of years. I have nothing for me on this earth no more. Never did have too much to begin with. But it doesn’t matter what they do to me. I’m with you, as you’re with God.”

  “You shouldn’t suffer on account of me,” Packer told them both. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me. I’ve earned it. I just don’t want anyone else to be hurt on my account.”

  Delaney looked surprised. “Anyone else? Who’s hurt? Not me.” He touched his skull above his ear. “This didn’t hurt me, it saved me.”

  Packer sat back. Delaney had an odd sort of faith, unsoiled somehow by his blind obedience to the scurrilous commands of a pirate captain. But even so, if these two knew who he was, what he’d done, surely they would not hold him in such high esteem. So he determined to tell them everything, in short order. And he did, starting with how he’d chosen Panna over God when fighting Delaney, then going back to how he’d completely caved in under Talon’s torture and betrayed first God, then Panna, Cap, Senslar Zendoda, and who knows who else to their certain deaths, then continuing backward until they knew how he’d struck the priest, Father Usher Fell, and ending with the final danger to which he was subjecting them all: how he’d given the Captain the coordinates to find the feeding waters, in the Achawuk territory.

  He unburdened his soul, making sure they understood his poor motives, his weakness, his bad judgment, his pride, all his stupidity. He held nothing back. Delaney and Marcus sat motionless, listening intently. Their faces were blank, then shocked, then deeply troubled. Then their demeanors diverged, Marcus remaining troubled, Delaney growing irritated. Packer pressed on. After ten minutes or so, he sat back and nodded at them. “So please. Don’t add to the long list of injuries I’ve inflicted by getting yourselves in trouble over me.”

  Then Packer and Marcus both looked over to Delaney, who seemed to be biting his tongue. “Well, say what’s on your heart,” Packer suggested.

  Delaney took a deep breath. “I will, then. Now, I’m a blunt man, without much practice softening a blow.”

  “Please do not soften any blows,” Packer said earnestly.

  “All right, then. Here’s what I see. I see a young man stowed away aboard the ship of the most famous pirate on earth, which it takes great guts or no brains to do, which this young man has brains. I see him survive a keelhauling, which thing I’ve never seen before, particularly if you consider he died or at least sure seemed to die, and then came back, with some help from a devil maybe involved, but I don’t know nothin’ about that. Anyways, he’s alive to the amazement of all. He’s hurt several ways, but not bad enough for the witch, who tortures him some more for good measure. He survives that too, which many a man has managed not to do. Not only he survives it, he does so while setting the Captain against the witch, which ends up the Captain gives her the boot! So this young man’s now done the whole ship a service.

  “Then, beat and bruised, he still manages to whip the second-best swordsman aboard, after Talon the witch, without hardly even trying, which is not a easy thing by no means. Not only that, he wins the confidence of the Captain while doing it and saves the life of that same swordsman, who is me. So…he’s got the witch gone, the Captain all busting with excitement about finding Firefish, and the whole ship buzzing about being freed of the witch and wondering what miracles might happen next and are they from God or the devil. And all this in two days time.”

  Packer sighed. Those were all the externals, and none of that addressed the darkness in his heart. But Delaney wasn’t through.

  “Now, some way it happens that person can’t see God is plainly working through him. And why? Cause he’s got too much Woe is me, I’m no good, I should be dead, which is because of sins everyone who’s ever lived has done, and which sins are all forgiven anyway, him being a Christian! So seems to me, beggin’ your pardon for being blunt, that person, who is you, should quit thinking about the bad in himself so much and start trustin’ God who done all those miracles I just mentioned, and quit thinkin’ God will just flat stop, and therefore let everyone die a horrible death. If God is good, which He is, He won’t let these horrible things happen. And if He does let them happen, what are you going to do about it anyway? He’s got His own plan and you can’t stop it.”

  It was not the assessment Packer had expected. But it was cold water to a dry soul. “Thank you,” was all he could say.

  “You’re welcome,” Delaney said with finality.

  After a moment’s pause, Marcus suggested cheerfully, “So let’s pray then.” And they all bowed their heads.

  “Our Father in heaven,” Marcus began, his voice betraying a slight tremor. “Our brother Packer here has been sent on this ship by Thee. We don’t know what Thou art doing, as we hardly ever do know. But we know that all trials are from Thy hand, because Thou hast said so in the Book, and told us we are to take joy in such hard times because they’re for a reason even if we don’t know it. Which we hardly ever do.

  “Forgive Packer our brother for his sins, and his faults, as he has confessed them here fully without hiding away or holding ’em back as far as I can tell, as true a Christian thing as I ever heard a soul do, and let him take joy in the pains Thou hast brought his way, rough though they have been for him to take, particularly in his shoulder. And protect his girl Panna and his friend the barkeeper, and all the others he loves, from the hand of Talon the evil witch, who hates about everyone as far as I can tell, and while you’re at it please see if you can work your way into her heart some, though it’s hard for me to figure how Thou might do that one. But Thou art God and we art not. And please God, by Thy grace, let Packer take joy in knowing that you art working in him, or, rather I mean to say, that Thou art working in him, and through him do Thy work. And let Delaney and me here do anything to help our good brother that we can do, at the cost even of our own li
ves, or of our own suffering, for we three are most certainly brothers, maybe the only ones on this ship, and we hope and pray he will do the same for us, which we know he will, push comes to punch, ’cause he already saved Delaney. We pray in the name of Thy Son our Savior, Jesus our Lord.”

  Delaney added a hearty, “Amen!” And then grinned through teary eyes at Packer. “He’s a real good prayer, ain’t he?”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Criminal

  Panna looked out over the ocean and felt a great longing to be there, somewhere in the middle of that sea, where Packer was. But she was not there, she was here, and so she took off her shoes and socks, rolled up Mr. Molander’s pant legs, and waded into the surf. She had climbed down to this small beach from the hill above. At this spot the cliffs had just begun to rise from the shoreline. They grew tall not a quarter of a mile north, where the beach dwindled to rocks and the cliffs sprang up twenty, then thirty, then fifty feet. She squatted down and began scrubbing her hands. Painful though it was, it was good to be getting them clean.

  What amazed her, now that she had some time to think about it, was not that the events of the night had happened the way they had. Panna understood them better, understood herself better now. Her sheltered existence had deceived her about her own strength, her ability to defend herself, and that was that. The rest was predictable enough, given that simple miscalculation.

  What amazed her most was the quickness with which it had all changed. Yesterday morning she’d awakened to a day exactly like a thousand days before. She’d washed, scrubbed, cooked, cleaned, and longed to be doing all those things for Packer Throme and their children, rather than for her father. She was a part of the village, loved and accepted, pitied by some, perhaps, but that was the warp to go along with the woof. One day later, she awakes a criminal, hiding in the woods from the same villagers.

  She still felt concern for the fisherman she’d hurt, but not remorse. He was among those who had deceived her, keeping her sheltered from the society of men, convincing her she was helpless and small. He simply drew the short straw, and felt her fury when she learned otherwise. It was wrong to have let her, and thousands of other young women just like her, believe they had no power, no strength, and therefore could have no place or position. Now that she had found out she was strong, she was an outlaw. That couldn’t be right. There must be a way for women to be strong within the law, and it was worth finding. If only she had been able to learn about her strength some other way.

  Her father would be missing her by now, and within a few hours he would have spoken to Hen Hillis, and perhaps Mrs. Molander. He would likely not join the search parties. He would stay home and pray. That was like him. And she took comfort from the thought that he would plead with God for her safety.

  Panna’s raw and swollen knuckles stung, but they were at last clean. She glanced up and down the beach again, to be certain she was alone. Then she leaned over and splashed water onto her face, scrubbing that, too.

  Here was the true source of her amazement: She wasn’t going back. Somehow, in the span of a day, she had become far more the dark-cloaked criminal than the pining maiden. Maybe she always had been, and this is what it took to bring it out.

  She finished scrubbing up and trudged back toward the woods. She stayed just in sight of the sea, just inside the woods, as she walked south toward Inbenigh. Once she reached the village, she would find a spot far enough up the beach to be safe, and there she would wait for nightfall. Then she would get a boat, steal it if she had to, and set out after Packer Throme. She didn’t know how to sail, but she now firmly believed that if all these frail old fishermen could do it, certainly she could figure it out.

  Henrietta Hillis beckoned him to lean down. She was stretching up on tiptoes to get within an arm’s reach of his shoulder. She looked frightened. “I talked to her last night,” she whispered.

  Dog looked around him. No one else was paying them any attention. “What time last night?”

  “Long about midnight, I suppose,” she answered, and covered her mouth. She felt guilty about saying it, guilty about having done it.

  Dog turned to face her, put his hands on her shoulders, and leaned down. He spoke gently but urgently. “Go into the kitchen and wait for me. Don’t say anything to anyone else.”

  She nodded.

  The crowd in Pastor Seline’s parlor and dining room was still buzzing, growing in size and number, at mid-morning. They had a lot to talk about. Not only had Panna disappeared, but word had now come that the battered man was Riley Odoms, a fisherman from Red Point. Pirates and Packer Throme were the leading suspects in both cases, but Dog had been doing his best to make sure everyone understood who the better candidate was. Packer had clearly become unbalanced and dangerous, he told anyone who would listen. Many witnesses had seen how violent and unpredictable he had become, and for those who hadn’t seen, Dog carried the wounds on his hands and throat, enough to convince them.

  Hen Hillis trembled noticeably. Her hands, her knees, her chins all shook. Extracting details in a coherent and fruitful manner might be difficult. Dog closed the kitchen door and leaned against it.

  “Now, Hen. Everything’s going to be fine. Just tell me what happened.”

  “I didn’t think she’d go! She said she wouldn’t!” Big tears welled and flowed, splattering on her calico bosom.

  He looked around, found a dishcloth, offered it to her. He smiled as gently as he could. She dabbed her eyes. “Everything’s going to be just fine,” he repeated. “I just need to know the truth. Tell me exactly what happened, and what she said, and what you told her.”

  She smiled back. “Well,” she began. “I was sound asleep when I heard this banging on the door below…” she knocked on the counter. “Startled me out of the deepest sleep. I was frightened, and I always worry anyway, and this time I was thinking those pirates had come back. So of course I was having bad dreams…”

  The floodgates were opened. Every detail would be forthcoming. Eventually. Dog nodded, impatient to get to the facts that would condemn Packer Throme.

  The piece of ship that carried Talon washed ashore on a desolate stretch of beach. The waves were just large enough that when they broke over her, she opened her eyes. She heard and felt sand scraping wood, reached out with a hand to test the depth. How long had she been unconscious? She remembered desperately trying to work her way onto the board, on her back, as the ocean tried to suck her under. She had known she needed to lie on her back so her head would remain out of the water, but she didn’t remember succeeding. Her hands were numb, but the sandy bottom was there. She turned over, off the board, and splashed face first into the saltwater. She raised her head and looked around her. The beach was empty.

  She looked for the sun, but it was obscured by heavy cloud cover. The wind was blowing in cold from the sea, and the smell of rain was in it. She recalled the red sunrise that had promised a storm. When was that? She could hardly feel anything, hands, legs, or feet. She had to get warm and dry. With a huge effort, she stood up in the sand. She lurched forward, barely keeping herself from falling. The beach was rocking under her. She staggered toward the woods, toward a dry gray tree trunk lying just outside the woods in the sand, parallel with the shoreline. Her body was dragging her back into sleep. She fell over the tree trunk and lay down on the other side, concealed now from the wind and from anyone on the beach.

  She needed rest. Her mouth was dry, and it occurred to her, vaguely, that she should be thirsty. But she didn’t feel a great need for anything but sleep. She put her head on the sand and closed her eyes.

  In the woods, a cloaked figure watched.

  When it was obvious that the stranger was asleep, Panna crept closer. She didn’t know who this person might be, but she hoped he was a sailor. Panna had spent all day here, half a mile or so north of Inbenigh, waiting for the cover of night. She had been praying, rather weakly, she thought, for some help from above.

  It was astonishing to her
, even miraculous, that a stranger should wash up on the beach within her sight, and collapse not twenty yards away. If this was a sailor, and one who could be persuaded one way or another to help, then this was the answer to her prayer. If she could assist the sailor somehow, bring him back to health, perhaps he would feel a sense of gratitude. She would have her guide, and would need only a boat. Regardless of who it was, what harm could possibly come of doing good, and coming to the aid of a half-drowned man?

  “He may fight like the devil, but he’s a good man,” Delaney swore to his rapt listeners, one hand raised. The entire watch had gathered in the forecastle, awaiting the start of the evening shift, lounging in hammocks, sitting on the floor, smoking pipes, and hanging on his every word. “You’ve seen me swinging steel, most of you. You know I can hold my own.”

  “You’re the best I’ve seen,” one piped in. Others murmured agreement. No one mentioned Talon, though more than one thought of her.

  “I swear to you, he hardly moved a muscle from his head to his foot except what was needed in his arm and hand to fend my every stroke, and all the while he looks at me with them deep blue eyes like the sea itself, calm as the eye of the hurricane.”

  Delaney did not fancy himself much of a storyteller, and rarely joined in the spinning of yarns that often passed the time in the dark, cramped world of the forecastle. He was glad of it now. That he wasn’t a teller of tales made his words stick deeper, somehow, with more meaning. And Delaney was quite pleased with his words, the part about the eye of the hurricane particularly.

  “He’s got the devil in him,” a sailor suggested.

  Delaney let out a short laugh. “No, no. Less than you or me. He’s just got a sword that don’t allow for comparison. And a heart of compassion to boot.”

  “So how is it he’s alive, except he’s got the devil in him?” another asked. “We all saw him dead. We saw what the witch done.”