Quintessence

by David Walton

  PARRIS noticed Collard and Tilghman slipping down a hatchway, which was odd. Neither had the night shift, so they should be heading to their bunks. The officers' cabins were on main deck level, under the raised quarterdeck. Why were they going below?

  Suspicious, Parris followed, choosing a different ladder and making his way toward the infirmary. He saw groups of sailors whispering intently instead of retiring to their bunks. They fell silent and drifted apart when they saw Parris coming. Spooked, Parris ducked into the infirmary and shut the door behind him.

  Trouble coming. He cracked the door and peered out. Far too much activity for sailors at the end of the day. He saw a gun being passed around, and then another.

  He closed the door again. What to do? Should he find Tate? But Tate's cabin was forward, on the other side of the sailors' sleeping compartments. Sinclair was closer, still up on deck. He had to be warned.

  But perhaps that wasn't wise. If he warned Sinclair, and mutiny broke out, he would be taken down with him, perhaps even killed. On the other hand, he was a known friend of Sinclair, and he'd defended him to Collard. He was likely to end up on the wrong side of the mutiny anyway, locked in the brig until they returned home. And with food in increasingly short supply, would they waste any on the prisoner? Better to do what he could while there was still time.

  He put his hand on the door, then another idea stopped him. He could join the mutiny. If he did it now, he would be on their side when it mattered, and perhaps they would spare him. After all, what could Sinclair do to stop it, even if he were warned? There was nowhere to hide. Maasha Kaatra would stand with him, but what good would that do? And yet, Sinclair had performed miracles before.

  It didn't matter. Parris knew what was right. Sinclair, for better or worse, was his friend. He believed in him. Despite his flaws, he believed Sinclair would succeed in leading them to the island.

  Parris swung open the door. Feigning nonchalance, he strode out of the infirmary, down the passageway away from the growing knot of sailors, and up the ladder. His neck prickled. Someone called his name, but he just kept climbing.

  CATHERINE didn't even hear them coming. Three sailors appeared around the corner, their bare feet making no noise on the wooden floor. They silently surrounded the soldier guarding the storeroom. Not recognizing the trouble until it was too late, the soldier drew his sword, but before it could clear its scabbard, the sailors fell on him, driving their knives into his body.

  Catherine screamed. Passengers jumped to their feet and scrambled away, but Matthew, like a reckless fool, shouted and ran toward them. With no weapon at all, he tackled the nearest attacker around the waist and pulled him away. They tumbled to the floor together.

  "No!" Catherine ran after him, frantic. "Matthew, don't!"

  The sailor was wiry and strong. He twisted easily in Matthew's grasp and thrust with his knife, stabbing Matthew in the thigh. Matthew cried out and released his hold. The sailor jumped to his feet and joined his comrades, who were pulling guns out of the storeroom. "Let's go!"

  They ran back the way they'd come, carrying the weapons. The soldier who had been left on guard lay in a pool of blood, his eyes staring sightlessly. Matthew was pale. A red patch soaked rapidly through his hose and flowed onto the floor. Catherine called for help and pressed her hands above the wound, trying to stop the flow. A passenger gave her a strip of cloth, which she tied as tightly as she could around Matthew's leg, as she'd seen her father do.

  Matthew lifted his head, trying weakly to get up. "I'm good," he said. "I'll be fine."

  "You're not fine, you idiot," Catherine said. "What did you think you were going to do?" She worried about what was happening upstairs. The sailors hadn't stolen those guns for target practice. Had they taken over the ship? Was Father safe?

  The pool of blood under Matthew grew rapidly. He kept trying to talk, but he seemed confused, and his words were gibberish. Catherine started to cry, and pressed on his wound as hard as she could.

  "Get my father," she said. "Please, someone! Get my father!"

  Matthew's eyes lost focus, and his head hit the floor.

  PARRIS scrambled out onto the main deck and slammed the hatchway cover down, afraid that sailors might be right behind him. It wasn't hard to find Sinclair. He was on the forecastle, right where he always was at night, gazing out to the west and leaning against his barrels. Parris could see him perfectly, since the seawater around them now glowed so brightly it illuminated the deck with a soft light.

  "They're coming," Parris said, breathless.

  Sinclair grinned. "Who? The mutineers?"

  Parris stared. This wasn't a joke. If Sinclair already knew, then why wasn't he below, trying to put a stop to it? If he could arrest the leaders before they were organized, he might prevail, though the chance seemed small. Had he given up, just like that? "They're coming right now," Parris said. "They mean to kill you."

  "I'm glad you're here," Sinclair said in a conversational tone. "I wanted to ask you: do you think a quintessence pearl is more like a container or a window? I can't figure it. Does it store its quintessence inside itself, or does the quintessence pass through it from some other place?"

  Parris threw up his hands. "Do you even hear what I'm saying?"

  That grin again. "I'm thinking more like a window. Otherwise, how could it increase as you described? In which case, perhaps the reaction with the mercury enlarged the opening, or somehow made it more potent."

  Parris tried to get his breathing under control. "They have guns. Any moment, they're going to push up through that hatch, and it will be the end. It won't matter what quintessence is like, because we'll never get to see it."

  "If the mercury did enlarge the opening," Sinclair said, "we could reproduce the effect. We might even learn to tap that energy for our own purposes."

  A hatch on the main deck opened with a creak and a bang, followed by fast footfalls. Parris ran back to the rail to see a dozen sailors climbing both ladders onto the forecastle, each with a matchlock, and behind them, Collard.

  Parris looked for a way out, but found none. He'd risked his life to warn Sinclair, but Sinclair had ignored him. He should have stayed in the infirmary.

  The sailors formed a semicircle around them and aimed their weapons. Collard took his place at one end, nearest Sinclair, and leveled a pistol.

  The sailors' faces were set. Collard's was twisted with unconcealed contempt. Parris raised his hands, shaking slightly, but Sinclair didn't move.

  "You are relieved of command," Collard said.

  Sinclair actually laughed. To Parris's amazement, he seemed totally at ease and genuinely amused. He made a show of counting the sailors arrayed around him. "Come, now," he said. "Did you really need to bring twelve armed men to subdue me? You must be more afraid of me than I thought."

  "This voyage is over," Collard said. "We will turn around and sail for the Netherlands. If you don't resist, you will be imprisoned in the brig until we hold a sea trial to determine the extent of your guilt."

  "And if I do resist?"

  "We will execute you now."

  Sinclair shook his head, a teacher disappointed in a misbehaving pupil. "Look around you," he said. "Look at the water, the sky, the creatures we've seen. We're close. You've come far and sacrificed much. Will you go back home with nothing?"

  Collard's lip curled. His pistol trembled, and Parris feared he would shoot Sinclair right there. "No more discussion. There is nothing to the west but our certain deaths."

  Sinclair's eyes swept the sailors, ignoring Collard. His voice was stern and confident. "Any one of you who lays down his weapon now will be spared the lash."

  "Silence," Collard said, his voice rising in pitch. "Step forward and raise your hands in the air, or you will be shot."

  Sinclair shut his mouth, but the corners curved in a wicked smile. He stepped forward. Very slowly, he spread his arms wide in a gesture of surrender. As he did so, he opened his hands, and a stream of glittering parti
cles tumbled to the deck.

  The sailors gasped. They rushed forward, a few of them abandoning their matchlocks, and scooped up what Sinclair had dropped. Diamonds.

  "Leave them!" Collard said, but no one paid any attention.

  "Check the barrels," Sinclair said.

  The sailors raced to the barrels and wrenched the top off the first. With cheers, they pushed it over, pouring thousands of diamonds onto the deck in a coruscating flood. Another barrel came crashing down, and gold nuggets littered the boards. Men from below, hearing the cheers, poured onto the deck like rats, and the sailors in the rigging scrambled down.

  Sinclair laughed loud and hard, watching the men scuffle over the treasure. Collard's face was mottled with fury. Parris saw the look in his eye and shouted a warning, but it was too late. Collard pressed the firing mechanism on his pistol, and it erupted in a cloud of gunpowder smoke and noise. In a frozen second, Parris saw Sinclair, mouth open and eyes wide, as his stomach erupted in red. He collapsed, clutching the wound, his clothing already soaked with blood. His captain's hat fell to the boards.

  "I relieve you of command!" Collard shrieked. He threw the spent pistol away and pulled a second one from his belt, aiming again at Sinclair, but before he could fire, Maasha Kaatra appeared. His curved sword swung in a graceful arc that buried itself deep between Collard's neck and shoulder.

  Parris rushed to Sinclair's side. Blood was everywhere. Parris had seen many wounds in his life, and he knew instantly that this one was fatal. Sinclair's hands twitched feebly at his sides. His eyes rolled up and glazed over.

  The fool. Sinclair could have told the sailors about the diamonds as soon as he knew; he could have stopped Collard before he spoke a word. Instead, he had played with them, manipulating as he always did, creating volatile situations to turn them to his advantage. No one else Parris had ever known could lie and swindle as much as Sinclair and come out of every situation on top. He was lucky, more than anything, but this time his luck had run out.

  Parris stripped off his doublet and jammed it into the wound, trying to stop the flow of blood, but he knew it was futile. This was the end, despite the diamonds. No one else could lead them to the island. Parris knew the secret of the beetle, but he could never command the vessel. No one would follow him. The remaining officers would take command and turn the ship for home.

  The sailors' celebration had stopped cold. Men with handfuls of diamonds watched in shock as Sinclair's lifeblood poured out onto the deck. Maasha Kaatra dropped his sword and knelt at Sinclair's side. Wind ripped through the sails, Sinclair's hat skidding away. His bare head still glowed.

  In fact, his blood glowed, too. Not as brightly, but it gleamed with a clear light which grew brighter as they watched. Soon it was obvious to everyone, dazzling, shimmering around the edges of the wound. It grew in strength, until the men had to shield their eyes. A bright flash, and then the light began to fade again. When they lowered their hands, they saw Sinclair climbing to his feet.

  He stood before them, a triumphant smile on his face. His uncovered head blazed. The bullet wound in his stomach was completely gone.

  No one moved or spoke. Sinclair laughed, his voice echoing eerily in the shocked silence. He raised his hands and spun before them, showing his perfectly whole body. He bent and scooped up handfuls of gold and diamonds from the deck and threw them high into the air. "Wonders beyond your imagination!" he shouted.

  The shout broke them out of their trance. Men erupted into cheers and danced and hugged and poured diamonds over each other's heads. Sinclair stood over them all like a god, a halo shining from his head, the picture of supernatural strength. No one would dare cross him now.

  A few good-natured fights broke out, and one man lost a tooth, but the scraps weren't serious. They all knew it was true now. Miracles could happen. There was an island, and all the treasures Sinclair had promised them would soon be theirs. The fact that they had no idea how to get them back to England seemed a minor point with diamonds shining in their fists.

  CATHERINE searched Matthew's face for some sign of life. There was so much blood. What was happening above? Blanca had run up to find Father, but neither had returned. Had there been more murders? She bent and laid her head against Matthew's chest. She could hear him breathing, but faintly. Where was Father?

  Finally, he came, leaning over Matthew, lifting his head and cradling it in his arms. He produced a vial of glowing liquid. "Here," he said. "Drink this."

  Chapter Seventeen

  PARRIS'S skills as a physic were no longer needed. He spent the day distributing glowing vials of Horizon seawater, drawn right from the ocean. It now tasted fresh and delicious instead of salty, and men hauled up bucketfuls and filled empty beer barrels. They cut themselves with their knives, marveling as each wound glowed and knit together again, not even leaving a scar. Those in the infirmary for malnutrition were suddenly strong and energetic. Most ecstatic of all was the blind cook, Piggott, who responded to his drink by leaping madly across the deck, shouting profanities and smacking things with his cane. When they finally calmed him down enough to get some sense out of him, the reason for his mad dance became obvious. His mutilated eyes were round and clear and alive in their sockets. He could see again.

  But all was not right. Relatively few sailors had actually participated in the mutiny, but the cultural rift between them and the passengers spread into a wide gulf of mistrust. Two of Tate's soldiers had been killed. The others had been attacked and injured, but the injuries had been quickly repaired by the miraculous water.

  Those five sailors who had participated in murder were executed. There were plenty of witnesses, so there was no question of their guilt. Instead of hanging them, or even dragging them through the water behind the boat, as was common on sailing ships as a lesson to others, Sinclair had them shot by firing squad at the stern rail, their bodies falling backward over the rail and into the sea.

  It was a good choice, Parris thought. It allowed the men whose colleagues had been killed to carry out the punishment, but it was over quickly and privately, leaving no evidence behind to increase the tension between passengers and crew. Though it did occur to Parris to wonder if the soldiers would aim for the heart. After all, a shot in the stomach or shoulder would pitch the killer into the sea just as effectively, but there the miraculous water would heal the wound, leaving him stranded in the ocean, hundreds of miles from land, with plenty to drink but nothing to eat. A death that an angry soldier might think more appropriate. He didn't ask, however, and the soldiers never mentioned it.

  There was a sense on board now that Horizon was close. Passengers and sailors alike strained their eyes for sight of land, but now it was with eager expectation instead of despair. When the sailors addressed Sinclair, their salutes were lively and their voices awed. Far from hurting Sinclair's godlike reputation, his revelation of how he had been miraculously healed had raised him even higher in the reverent affection of the passengers and crew. They were invincible now. He'd made them all gods.

  "I thought it might work that way," Sinclair said. He paced the quarterdeck, bouncing on the balls of his feet, unable to stand still. "Chelsey told me the water had healing properties."

  "Healing properties?" Parris said. "It made a bullet wound evaporate!"

  "I thought that since the rocks had turned back to diamonds, the water's properties might return as well."

  "Just in time, too."

  Parris worried about the water, though. Chelsey and his crew had drunk that water, and it had turned back to salt in their bodies on the voyage home. They were now committed to Horizon. The only way they could go home again was by solving the mystery of its transformation.

  Sinclair rolled his sleeves into precise folds. "Are you ready to begin?"

  The mountain of dead ironfish heaped against the mizzenmast had already begun to decay in the heat, and the stench was overpowering. No one was willing to cook and eat the meat, for fear it would turn to iron again in their
stomachs, but Sinclair had forbidden anyone to throw the corpses overboard, in order to preserve them for study.

  "As I'll ever be," Parris said. He spread out a length of sailcloth, selected one of the fish, and sat down. Sinclair sat opposite and took another. With boning knives borrowed from the fishing tackle, they set to work dissecting.

  Parris took careful notes, setting each organ aside in orderly fashion and drawing it in his notebook before continuing. Sinclair hacked into each with abandon, tearing away bones and muscle. He had dismembered three of them before Parris was halfway through his first.

  "Slow down," Parris said. "You'll never discover anything that way."

  "I don't care about fish anatomy. I only care about this." Sinclair held up three faintly glowing pearls. So that was what he was doing. He wasn't trying to understand the fish at all; just shelling them to get the quintessence pearls.