by David Walton
He saw one of the living boat creatures, which a Scottish sailor had named a kelpie, swimming rapidly toward them. Matthew and Sinclair were already aboard, along with a red tamarin he recognized as Chichirico.
"Quietly," Catherine whispered. "Climb in."
Resting in the kelpie's concave back were loaves of sand bread, which Parris and Joan attacked greedily. Catherine lifted the circle of wood out of the water and fitted it back into the gap. She splashed handfuls of water against it and smoothed her hands over the surface, transforming the water into wood and sealing the opening. The kelpie pulled away from the galleon, silent and— so far— unseen.
Parris's mind was clearing now that his immediate hunger and thirst were satisfied. "So you can walk through walls."
"Yes," Catherine said.
"And alter your weight."
"Yes."
"What else can you do?"
She lifted her arm and concentrated. Her hand transformed to iron and then back to flesh again. She vanished and then reappeared.
"Does it . . . make you tired, or hurt, or anything?"
She shook her head. "I just think what I want to do, and it happens."
The ease of it disturbed Parris. It was a tremendous amount of power, and he found it hard to believe it could be had at no cost. "Where are we going?"
"Back to Chichirico's village. But Father . . ." Her face was strained and anxious.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
Her eyes welled with tears, and suddenly Parris saw an image, fully formed in his mind as if he had experienced it himself: the ground cracking and crumbling and falling in huge pieces off the Edge. In a moment he knew the whole of her visit to the reds, her connection to Chichirico, and what she had learned.
He clutched at his head, unused to processing such an avalanche of information in so short a time. He had been Catherine's surrogate, and they were still connected, still tied to life by the same strands of quintessence that Sinclair had wrapped around them both. It must be operating in a similar way to the tamarin bond.
He tried to come to grips with this new knowledge. The island, doomed to destruction. His own responsibility in bringing it about. And worst of all, the knowledge that Catherine's new life was only a borrowed one. She still belonged to the grave, and the whole universe was bending to send her back again.
They glided farther and farther from the galleon, propelled by the kelpie's powerful tail, until they slipped around a bend and out of sight. Parris moved closer to Sinclair and whispered some of what he had learned from Catherine.
"I don't understand it," Parris said. "How could what we did be pushing the island over the Edge?"
"We played with the fundamental energies of the universe," Sinclair said. "Quintessence is the energy that gives atoms their structure and coherence, that makes them form lead or gold, solid or liquid. It's the skeleton of the world. That our interference would destabilize it seemed unlikely . . ."
"But not impossible."
"No. Consider how this island got to be here, perched at the very end of the world. What if, long ago, it broke off from a continent— West Africa, maybe— and floated with the currents? When it reached the Edge, propelled by the water gushing over the side, it was caught by the network of quintessence strands from the sun and stars and held fast."
"Wait a minute. Caught? How would it be caught?"
"I don't know. I'm just suggesting a theory that seems to fit the facts. The animals— once simple African beasts, perhaps— changed over time to make use of the quintessence, and those which did so best survived. Until we upset the balance that kept the island in place."
"But a single human soul? That little change, and the whole island rushes over the Edge?"
Sinclair shrugged. "Who knows how significant a human soul is? We're talking about quintessence here, the essence of life. In quintessential terms, a human soul might be the heaviest thing in the universe. Usually a soul has its own anchor to balance it, but remember that hers is connected to yours. Two souls on one anchor. It must be enough to throw off the balance."
Parris shook his head, still not wanting to believe it. "The boarcats do it. They don't upset the balance of the universe. There must be another way, some step we overlooked."
"If we had time, we could research, study, try to understand more. But we don't have time."
Parris lowered his voice to an angry hiss. "You're saying she has to die again."
"There's no other way. Unless . . ."
"Unless what?"
"Unless you die first."
THE kelpie beached itself on the sand, and they all clambered out, half a league away from the dock and out of sight of the Spanish. The moment everyone had disembarked, however, ten Spanish soldiers stepped out of the trees, matchlocks raised to their shoulders.
"Don't move!" their captain called.
"Run!" Parris shouted. Capture just meant more torture, and likely death; running was worth the risk. They scattered as the guns erupted in flame and noise, and Chichirico went down with a hole in his chest.
"No!" Catherine screamed. She stopped and knelt by his body.
Parris turned to go back for her. They had scant moments while the soldiers either reloaded or charged them, but if he didn't get her out of there soon, she would be next.
Catherine, her face contorted with rage, vanished. Parris watched in terror, unable to flee. A moment later, a soldier went down. He imagined her clubbing them with her iron fist. The soldiers had skink tears, though, didn't they? That meant they could see her. He saw a soldier with a reloaded matchlock tracking his gun on something he couldn't see. The conversation with Sinclair still fresh in his mind, Parris let go of Joan's hand and ran toward the soldiers. Please, God, let her be safe. If one of us has to die, let it be me instead.
The soldiers were all looking the other direction, toward Catherine, and they didn't see him coming. Parris reached the nearest soldier and tackled him to the ground. He wrested the gun away and ran on, firing it at the next soldier, but missing. The soldiers wheeled to aim at him, but Parris ran on, shouting like a maniac and waving his hands, trying to distract them from Catherine.
Like an answer to prayer, a final shot echoed, and Parris felt fire tear through his thigh. He collapsed into the sand. Joan reached him and tried to pull him up, but he couldn't run. The soldiers surrounded them.
By the time they hauled him to his feet, the wound was already beginning to heal, but it was too late to get away. He scanned the beach for signs of the others, but saw only Chichirico's body still lying like a crumpled coat at the waterline. Catherine and the others had escaped.
Chapter Thirty-two
CHICHIRICO was plead, and it was all Catherine's fault. She knew what she had to do; she should have done it right away. It was only friendship for her that had prompted him to help rescue her family. Now that friendship had cost him his life.
Catherine led Matthew and Master Sinclair to the red tamarin village, barely aware of her surroundings. She felt like a part of herself had been torn away. She'd lived life from inside Chichirico's perspective, shared his memories, dreamed his dreams. The whole journey from England, he had been there with her. Even though she hadn't known him all that long, she felt his loss keenly.
Tearfully, she told the tribe about Chichirico's death. There was no family to inform; the whole tribe was his family. The reds could spare no time for grief; they were evacuating. The island was slipping farther each hour, bringing the crumbling Edge ever closer to their home. Catherine found it hard to care. She didn't know any of these tamarins. She couldn't even remember their names, except for his brother, Tanakiki, who seemed to be back in charge. She wanted Chichirico.
Enough. Too late for grief. She knew what she had to do. She slipped away from Matthew and Sinclair, hoping they would have the sense to save themselves.
SINCLAIR let her go. He knew, or at least suspected, what she planned to do. The whole situation was his own fault. It was har
d to admit it, but he had experimented too quickly, with things he didn't begin to under stand. And yet, what should he have done? Given Catherine back to her parents with a bullet hole in her head?
"Do you know what they've done with my father?" Matthew asked. "Is he still alive?"
"Last I knew, they had him imprisoned in the church," Sinclair said. He didn't say what he had heard: that Tavera was offering him only bread and wine from the Roman Eucharist, which Marcheford— despite starving for food and drink— refused to take. The old fool. Too stubborn to save his own neck.
And now Catherine was going off to die. That wasn't stubbornness, but true self- sacrifice, the necessary giving of her life for many. It was the right thing to do. But Sinclair wasn't certain that in her place he could have made the same choice.
"Where did Catherine go?" Matthew said. "We need to leave. We should get as far east as we can."
"She might be able to stop the quake," Sinclair said.
Matthew looked surprised. He was so naive, despite his cleverness. "How can she do that?"
"Her soul doesn't have an anchor of its own; she's only able to stay alive by hanging on to her father's. As best as we can tell, that's what's causing this. Her soul is dragging us all into the void."
Realization dawned on Matthew's face.
"Wait," Sinclair said, but Matthew took off running westward, toward the Edge.
"It's too late!" Sinclair called. "You'll never catch her!"
Matthew kept running.
TAVERA took Parris and Joan to his own house. Parris didn't understand why at first, but when Tavera began asking them questions about Catherine's quintessence powers, he understood. Tavera wanted to learn the secret of her abilities without sharing it with anyone else. Not even the other Spaniards.
Blanca was there. Parris hadn't seen her since Tavera had taken her away to work for him, and now he hardly recognized her. Her normally animated face was blank, her gaze perpetually aimed at the floor. Her bare feet were shackled, forcing her to shuffle in little steps. Her body looked unharmed, as of course it would with quintessence water in her veins, but there were rings under her eyes. She didn't look at Parris or Joan. Tavera dropped his cloak at her feet, and she picked it up without a word and carried it away.
Tavera locked Joan in one room— for safekeeping, he said— and led Parris to another. Inside, John Gibbs sat tied to a chair, looking worn and beaten and even more gaunt than usual. A ball of cloth was stuffed into his mouth as a gag.
"We'll start with a little test," Tavera said.
Blanca returned, carrying a box. She set it on a table and opened it, revealing the pair of boarcat claws Sinclair had used in the cave. She curtsied low to Tavera, backed away, and stood in the corner like a shadow.
"You will give Master Gibbs the same powers your daughter enjoys," Tavera said. "You will explain every step so that I understand it. If you try any tricks, your wife will be killed, little by little, while you watch."
Parris hesitated. If Tavera gained those powers, there would be no stopping him. And yet, how much worse could it be? He could already kill anyone in the settlement as he pleased. If he did as Tavera asked, then there might yet be a chance to defeat him. If he didn't, Tavera would kill Joan, and then he would kill someone else, until Parris did what he wanted anyway.
Slowly, Parris nodded. He could do it; the boarcat paws should be all he needed. Gibbs wasn't dead, so no void was necessary. Parris simply had to wrap Gibbs's body in a mesh made from quintessence, and everything should work as it did before, at least according to Sinclair.
Tavera, using skink tears so he could see the process, asked questions at every step, wanting explanations of the strands and what Parris was doing to them. Parris used himself as the surrogate this time, choosing strands from his own body to build a mesh around Gibbs. The process might have worked with Gibbs's own strands, but Parris didn't want to take the chance.
Without the void to deal with, the process was straightforward, and it didn't take long.
"Is it finished?" Tavera said.
"As well as I know how."
"Then we shall test your workmanship. Blanca, my sword."
Blanca retrieved a sheathed sword from its place on the wall and
brought it to him. He drew it, leaving her with the sheath, and advanced on Gibbs, who paled and tried to stand. He shook his head and made muffled protests through the gag.
"No!" Parris said. "You'll kill him."
Tavera smiled. "But he can pass through walls now. Surely he can pass through a sword. Unless you were unsuccessful?"
"Catherine didn't know she could do it at first," Parris said. "She had to figure it out. It took time and practice."
"He had better learn fast. One!" Tavera raised the sword.
"Don't! At least let him try it with a wall first."
"Insufficient motivation. Two!"
"Please!"
"Three!" Tavera's sword sang through the air. Gibbs shut his eyes, but the sword passed through his body as if he were nothing but air. Tavera, thrown off balance by his own swing, fell down. He looked up at Gibbs with wonder and avarice painted clearly on his face.
Gibbs tried to run, but although his body had passed through the sword, the ropes around his arms and legs still held him fast.
"Fortunately, I planned for success," Tavera said, standing. "That rope is waxed with beetlewood oil. Quite impassable." He drew a pistol from under his cloak. "As is this bullet, I'm afraid."
He shot Gibbs in the head from close range. The body jerked and then slumped, still held up by the ropes.
Tavera's eyes were bright as he faced Parris. "Now you will give these powers to me."
THE closer Catherine got to the Edge, the louder the rumbling sound became, and the more the ground shook under her feet. It was crumbling away more quickly now. She tried to walk out farther, but the tremors made it impossible to stay upright.
She tried not to think of what she was about to do. She wasn't sure she'd have the courage to actually throw herself off , so she just sat down where she was. It wouldn't take long. The Edge was advancing swiftly as more and more of the island fell away. A nearby tree toppled, its roots tearing loose from the ground.
Her heart thudded wildly. She didn't want to die, but she believed Chichirico, and Master Sinclair had said essentially the same thing. It was her stolen life that was causing this, and so only her death could stop it.
The truth was, as much as she wanted to live, she was already dead. She'd been shot in the head by Diego de Tavera. Her temporary return was the result of a valiant effort by Father and Sinclair to bring her back, but in the end, it hadn't worked. She only wished she could have rescued her parents and somehow said good- bye before she left. Though that might have been worse. They would have tried to stop her, and that would have made it even harder to do what she knew she had to do.
She waited, shaking as much from fear as from the earthquakes, as the rapidly eroding cliff 's edge approached her position. A piece almost within reach slid away, revealing a view of the endless drop into darkness. The sound of rending rock hurt her ears. She covered her eyes.
Just as the ground underneath her began to tilt forward, a strong arm wrapped around her waist and jerked her back. She coughed in the swirling dust. Her rescuer dragged her farther until she pulled away to look at him.
It was Matthew, looking angrier than she'd ever seen him. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I have to," Catherine said, starting to cry. "I should have done it already."
Matthew took her hand and pulled her east, away from the Edge. He didn't let go until the sounds of breaking rock faded. Finally, she sat, and he sat next to her, clasping his arms around his knees.
Catherine took a ragged breath. "The island is doomed while I live. There's a . . . a kind of balance between our world and the other side. Souls aren't supposed to come back again. My soul is attached to Father's anchor, holding me here, but it's thrown everything
off balance. I'm pulling the whole island over with me."
"Leave the island, then. Sail back home. Run away from it."
"And what if the problem follows me? Chichirico is dead. How many more people need to die so that I get a second life?"
Matthew grabbed her shoulders and shook her. She finally looked at him, and saw the tears running down his face. "I won't lose you," he said. "There has to be another way."
Catherine rocked back and looked at the sky. "I'm already dead, either way. If I fight it, everyone on the island will die, too. What choice do I have?"
