Quintessence

by David Walton

  He found another ladder and descended it, then yet another. The ship was a maze of decks and ladders and cabins— the warrant officers' quarters, the officers' mess, the galley. Four decks down, Parris stopped. Here a single room stretched the whole length of the ship. It was packed with rolls of spare sails and rigging, casks of water and beer, tools and supplies they would need once they arrived, guns and gunpowder, and who knew what else. The sheer size of the ship was astonishing— there were more floors and rooms than in a king's palace.

  Realizing he must have missed the infirmary, he climbed back up again, and finally found it tucked behind the officers' mess, crowded with groaning, bloody men. It was stocked with supplies, and Parris set to work cutting and bandaging. One man's arm, riddled with bullet fragments, needed to be amputated at the elbow. Three of his fellows held him down while he screamed through a cloth rag. Parris hated barber- surgeon work, but he was the only one available who could do it. The procedure was bloody, but quick and clean. He swabbed the wound with hot water and bound it as tightly as he could.

  Only one person died. Captain Dryden had been hit in the lung, and had breathed his last before Parris had even found the infirmary. When Parris broke the news, Sinclair grunted and mumbled something about the quirks of fate. The next time Parris saw him, he was wearing Dryden's hat.

  THE ship left the Thames estuary and sailed into the more turbulent waters of the North Sea. For some reason, Parris had thought of it as a small body of water, tranquil compared to the wild ocean. Instead, the waves were like mountains, high enough to block view of the land. The ship scaled the side of each wave so steeply, he could fall over backward if he wasn't careful. They topped each crest with creaking sails and pitched downward into the next trough.

  The cannon shot had left a mess on the quarterdeck. The masts were not seriously harmed, and when they stopped at the Azores to reprovision, they could have the damage repaired with minimal delay to their journey, but the queen had made her point clear. They were renegades now, traitors to the crown. There was no going back. Parris wondered if he would ever see Joan again.

  Once the injured had been cared for, he returned to his cabin, where he was surprised to see Matthew Marcheford with Blanche, sitting over Catherine's motionless form. Parris sat with them, exhausted, and truthfully answered Matthew's questions as best he could, telling him about Catherine's sightings of the tamarin and fall from her horse, with Blanche adding details as necessary.

  Then he asked Matthew to leave so he could examine Catherine more closely. He pushed aside her dress and scrutinized her skin, looking for any unusual marks beyond the puncture wound in her back, but finding none. He touched her head, her hands, her feet, and thought her temperature seemed high. She had always been sanguine as a child, which had made her joyful and kind, but the excess of blood also made her prone to fever. He made a quick incision in her arm, not knowing what better to do, and attached a leech from his bag. It pulsed as it fed.

  Parris stroked her damp hair. "Be still. I'm here now. Be still."

  What else was there? Fever or not, the real problem had to do with an invisible creature that— presumably—was now hiding somewhere on the ship. Somehow it had reached inside her and pulled out some essential part of her consciousness. Her soul? Was that possible? He couldn't just wait until they arrived at the island. He had to study her, understand what had happened, and figure out how to free her. The trouble was, he had no idea how to start.

  CATHERINE couldn't wake up. She roamed the ship, but she had no control over her movements, and even her thoughts were barely her own. She clutched the high point of one of the masts, looking down over the ship from dizzying height as the sun sank into the Western Ocean.

  The girl- child could not separate her thoughts from his. Perhaps she was too young. She was physically larger than he was, so he had assumed she was old enough to handle a mind connection, but she flailed like a child, not holding a clear sense of her own mind as separate from his. He began to fear that she had not been a willing participant, that her offer of food had not been an offer of kinship, as he had thought. In fact, he was starting to suspect that the hairless ones had no mind communication at all. How they could be intelligent creatures without the ability to bond was hard to imagine. How would they pass learning from generation to generation? Such a race would necessarily be very primitive, and yet, the hairless ones seemed to have a complex civilization.

  Perhaps, if he could get the girl child to understand, she would still be able to help him. He needed to speak to her without the boundaries of language, to pull from her mind an understanding of the hairless ones and what they intended. Were they indeed returning to his home? What did they plan to do when they got there? Would they be friends to his people, or were they a threat?

  Without her help, he couldn't even break the bond. Perhaps he should try again with another, someone older, someone who could learn the picture communication and tell him the things he needed to know. It was vulgar to consider forcing a bond on another unwilling person, but he didn't know what else to do.

  For the moment, though, he had a more pressing concern. He was hungry.

  Thoughts flew through Catherine's head that she didn't understand, but one thing emerged clearly: she was hungry.

  She scrambled through the rigging, as natural as breathing, letting go of each rope entirely before grabbing the next. She jumped and slipped through decks and walls as if they were fog. She could smell food behind a storeroom door. A heavy bolt was drawn across it and locked, but she slipped through it as easily as through the others.

  The first thing she saw was a piece of fish. She snatched it and tore a piece off with her teeth. She hated herself for stealing it, but where else was she to find food? When she had finished it— even crunching its bones— she found some raisins, wonderfully sweet after the fish, which had been so salty it had burned her tongue. A block of cheese went down after the raisins, Her hunger satisfied, she retreated above deck, where at least she could see the sky and the distant stars.

  She wondered if she would live long enough to return home, to come once again within reach of the stars that breathed life into every creature and leaf and rock. She missed communing with her memory family, missed the land that was familiar to her, where things made sense. Ever since she had boarded the hairless ones' ship, everything had gone wrong.

  The way had been long, and food, scarce. The men caged him and prodded him. A woman had been there, among the men, who spoke kindly to him and wept for her own troubles. He had thought she might help him, and so he had tried to bond with her, but she was weak from sickness, and she had died. When that happened, the men had shouted at him and had given him no more food.

  He crossed the main deck and passed through another wall, this time into the small room where the girl- child's body lay with her sleeping father. At least this one had not died, not yet. Her mind was like a butterfly in a net, fluttering in panic, beautiful and fragile.

  Catherine struggled to regain her own thoughts. She was in her own cabin, looking at her own sleeping form. She tried to turn her head, to walk away, anything to get free, but she had no control. She couldn't even move her eyes. On the bunk, she saw her body twist from side to side. She stopped trying to move, and her body on the bed stopped moving, too. This was no dream. She was trapped in the tamarind's mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  AS the ship's physic, Parris was one of the six top-ranking officers on board. Sinclair summoned them into his stateroom: Collard, the first mate; Tilghman, the sailing master; Battersby, the boatswain; and Thorpe, the purser. All four had donned clean uniforms and stood at formal attention. Parris, wearing stained traveling clothes, joined the line uncomfortably. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be finding a way to wake Catherine.

  The stateroom had been Dryden's, but Sinclair had moved in. Instead of steering charts and compasses, the decor was exotic: a tiger- skin rug in the doorway, tall pitchers in strange, asy
mmetric shapes, a pair of curved, jeweled swords mounted above an enormous chest of black wood, and everywhere the trophies of alien animals: horns, tusks, teeth, claws, and skins. Candles illuminated this butchered menagerie, casting ghastly shadows. Maasha Kaatra lurked in the background, looking like one of the shadows himself.

  Sinclair remained seated. "I do not believe in frivolity or excessive intimacy in the running of a ship," he said. "I expect to be addressed as 'captain' or 'my lord' at all times, whether or not in the company of the petty officers and seamen. A casual attitude on the part of the officers leads to indolence on the part of the crew. Is that much clear?"

  The officers nodded assent.

  Collard cleared his throat. "My lord, will you be performing all the duties that Captain Dryden would have performed had he lived?"

  "Yes, Master Collard. I thought that was evident. I understand that, as the first mate, you had reason to expect the position might have passed to you, but given the nature of our mission and my unique knowledge of our destination . . ."

  Collard bowed. "I mean no disrespect, Captain. But Master Tilghman has been given no charts from which to navigate the vessel, nor any sailing plan to plot the course to our destination."

  "We sail west, gentleman," Sinclair said.

  The officers traded glances. Tilghman gave an embarrassed laugh. "My lord, it's not that simple. The prevailing winds, the currents, the depth of the water; all of these things must be—"

  "Don't patronize me," Sinclair said. "I've spent most of my life at sea, and I'm well aware of the nuances of sailing a vessel of this size. What I mean to say is, there are no charts. You will have to rely on me for your sailing plan. I will direct the arrangement of the sails and our navigational calculations. I will provide Master Tilghman the headings from day to day, without explanation, and you will simply have to trust me."

  The cabin was silent. Parris studied their faces, wondering how they would take it. It was hard enough that Sinclair, a civilian with no experience commanding a boat, had assumed the captaincy. Now he wanted them to follow his orders blindly?

  Battersby, an ungainly man with a conspicuous adam's apple, swallowed. "Sir—"

  "My lord," Sinclair corrected.

  "My lord." He dipped his head. "How will you know how to find this island? Even with charts, ships have been known to miss their mark by hundreds of miles when crossing open sea out of sight of land. Without a chart . . ."

  Sinclair stood. "Gentlemen, I will reveal my method on one condition. That knowledge of it does not leave this room. Can I rely on you?"

  "Of course, my lord," Collard said. Parris furrowed his eyebrows, suspicious, but he nodded with the others. He had no one to tell.

  "I received a vision," Sinclair said. "An angel appeared. He told me to bring his people to the ends of the earth, to the land he would show me. Then he placed his hands on my head, and immediately I knew the course we should take. Each night the angel returns, lays his hands on me, and gives me the knowledge I need for the next day."

  It was the boldest lie Parris had ever heard, even worse than telling the king that Sumatran gold had come from Horizon. He doubted these veteran sailors would be taken in. Battersby crossed himself and kissed a crucifix he fished out from under his shirt, but the others looked skeptical.

  "My lord," Collard said, "you ask us to trust our lives to this incredible tale. Do you have any proof?"

  "I do," Sinclair said. He lifted the captain's hat from his head. Underneath, his bare head glowed with swirling lines of light. In the dimness of the cabin, it was truly impressive. Parris could almost believe Sinclair had been touched by an angel.

  The officers gaped. Battersby clutched his crucifix with a trembling hand and murmured under his breath. Thorpe and Tilghman took several steps back, and Collard, though he held his ground, had no doubt left on his astonished face. Sinclair replaced his hat, and the light vanished.

  Collard bowed low. "My lord. Forgive me. I had no idea. . . ."

  "I understand the position this puts you in," Sinclair said, magnanimous now that he had their support. "Believe me, I do. But it is essential that I keep this a secret. I rely on your discipline to keep the men in hand."

  The officers bowed again and started to go, but Sinclair held up a hand. "One more thing," he said. "Maasha Kaatra holds no official rank on this ship, but he speaks with my voice." As he spoke, Maasha Kaatra stepped forward. Parris jumped; he had forgotten that the African was in the room. "If he gives you a command, you are to obey it immediately and completely, as if I had given it, with no questions asked," Sinclair said. "Is that clear?"

  The officers' faces were incredulous, but they nodded their assent.

  "Thank you," Sinclair said. "You may go."

  The men filed out, all except Parris, who could hardly keep his voice under control. "What do you think you're doing? You, touched by an angel? I've never heard such sacrilege in my life."

  "I need them to trust me."

  "And you do that by lying to them?

  Sinclair sat down again, unmoved, and began paging through a navigational log. "I can't tell them the truth. But there's no reason the story won't last. Can anyone prove that I haven't seen an angel?"

  "I know you haven't. So tell me. The truth this time."

  "You haven't figured that out yet?" Sinclair shook his head. "You disappoint me, Doctor."

  "You're bluffing. I don't believe it. You really don't know where you're going, do you?"

  With the air of a man sorely tried, Sinclair reached into a pocket and pulled out a familiar pale wooden box banded with iron. Carefully, he cracked it and showed Parris the contents. It was the beetle, still scrabbling against the wall of its prison. Sinclair slowly rotated the box, and the beetle changed direction to match. It always maneuvered to face directly toward the bow of the ship. The direction they were sailing.

  It took Parris a moment to realize what Sinclair was showing him. "This is it. Your secret. The beetle is the compass— it always points west."

  "Better. It always points toward Horizon. It's trying to get home."

  Incredible. Parris watched it marching incessantly toward its goal. Such a small, unimpressive- looking animal, yet it could fly through walls and somehow, across hundreds of miles of ocean, know which way to go. "But this is wonderful! Why keep it a secret? Let the men know."

  "How long do you think it would last, if I did? All it would take is one disgruntled person who wants to go back to England. The beetle would be dead, and we would be lost."

  "It's not so easy to kill."

  "But it's very easy to throw over the side."

  Sinclair snapped the box closed and returned it to his pocket. Parris's gaze drifted to the balcony and the miles of water behind them. He thought of the miles ahead of them, seemingly without end, and he had to admit that Sinclair was right. The beetle was too precious and too fragile to risk its loss.

  "There's no chance the officers will keep your glowing skin a secret," Parris said. "The whole ship will know by tomorrow morning."

  "I'm counting on it."

  "And Bishop Marcheford might have something to say about an angel visitation."

  Sinclair sighed. "Marcheford is a problem," he said. "He needs to remember that he's not a bishop anymore. He has no authority aboard this boat."

  "Unlike your African friend."

  "Yes. That bothers you?"

  "Do you really expect your officers to take orders from him?"

  "Why shouldn't they?" Sinclair said.

  "Well . . . because he's . . ."

  "Black? Heathen? Barbarian?" Sinclair shook his head. "You've got to

  get your head out of your provincial little island. When I told you Maasha Kaatra was a prince, I don't mean he was some local chieftain's son. His father ruled a nation hundreds of years old. He grew up in a palace, speaks eight languages, was educated in Persia— where, by the way, they've been doing experimental science for centuries."

  Parri
s wanted to object, but he knew it was true. Some of the best translations of Greek scientific texts came out of Persia, sometimes with remarkable improvements. "I don't care if he's the emperor of the world; they don't know him."

  "They don't know me, either. I still require their loyalty."

  "How about mine?"

  Sinclair looked up from his papers, his brow wrinkled. "I need yours, too, of course."

  The wrinkles cleared. Sinclair shut the logbook and stood. "Come with me."

  Parris followed him down several ladders into the storage compartments in the hold. Sinclair lifted a lantern from a hook, and they climbed down still farther into the darkness of the bilge. It was damp and hot and smelled of feces, probably from the rats. Barrels of non-perishable provisions leaned against the curved walls.

  Sinclair wended his way toward the bow, where he threw aside a canvas cover, revealing three long wooden boxes. Coffins.