The Darkening Archipelago

by Stephen Legault

  In ten minutes he was adjacent to Deep Water Cove, the massive bluffs that guarded the opening black through the shadowless night.

  Ravenwing spoke calmly into the handset. “Rising Moon, this is Inlet Dancer. Can you see my running lights?”

  There was no response. He peered at his sonar and radar, watching the rocky coast weave its white line along the left side of the screen, searching for rocks and logs in his path, scanning for the tell-tale shape of a boat. “Rising Moon, this is Inlet Dancer….”

  “I see you, Archie,” came the voice, clear through the radio.

  “What’s your location?”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  Archie turned in the pilothouse and saw the Rising Moon’s running lights emerge from the cove.

  “I found some shelter to wait in. Can you come alongside me?”

  “Yup,” Archie said, turning again in the roiling waters. Another wave broke over his boat, and he was slammed hard into the fibreglass wall of the pilothouse. He stayed standing, his fingers locked on the wheel and the throttle.

  The Rising Moon was a small pleasure craft that had seen better days. Archie cut his throttle as much as he dared so close to the shore and eased toward the smaller boat. The canopy was up, the pilot eclipsed by the windshield and the rain that drove down on the inlet like an angry fist.

  “Do you want me to tow you into the cove, Rising Moon?” Archie asked into the handset.

  “Can you come alongside, and we’ll talk it through?”

  Archie cursed. It was always the same with this guy it seemed. “Sure, but let’s make it quick, as it’s fixing to blow pretty good and I don’t want to be out longer than need be.” He put the handset down and guided the Inlet Dancer alongside the drifting Rising Moon.

  When the two boats were just ten feet apart, Archie killed his motor and stepped out from the pilothouse, grabbing a gaff hook from the wall. He stepped onto the narrow deck of the boat and peered through the storm, holding onto the gunwale for support. “Jesus Christ, man, come on deck and let’s get this over with,” Archie cursed into the howling night.

  Finally a shape emerged from beneath the canopy of the Rising Moon. The man waved and moved to the stern of his vessel, holding on for dear life. Over the clamour of the storm he yelled, “Imagine me needing help from you.”

  “Imagine,” mocked Ravenwing. “So what exactly are you doing out on a night like this? And in that little tub?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” replied the man, who was using a gaff of his own to hook the stern gunwale of Ravenwing’s boat. Ravenwing used his tool to reach for the Rising Moon’s fore cleats. The boats rose and fell, waves surging against them, and they came together with a crash of the Inlet Dancer’s sturdy, fibreglass-covered wood against the Rising Moon’s aging hull.

  “Your boat is going to be crushed if we stay out like this,” Ravenwing yelled. “Let’s hook a line and I’ll tow you into the cove. We can find a place to secure this tub and we’ll motor back to Lostcoast on the Dancer.”

  The man on the Rising Moon gave a thumbs up and manoeuvred himself to the bow of his boat on hands and knees, clinging to the craft. He tossed his bowline to Archie. Ravenwing secured the line from the Rising Moon to a cleat on the port side of the Inlet Dancer’s stern. The man on the Rising Moon held on to his line with his left hand, the three-foot gaff in his right, made a knot fast on the bow cleat, then turned and clambered for the safety of the stern of his boat.

  “Permission to come aboard, Captain,” he barked to Ravenwing, who had stepped back into the pilothouse to crank up the boat’s powerful motors.

  “You know the way,” Ravenwing yelled, shaking his head.

  The man, gaff still clenched in his hands, stepped onto the Inlet Dancer and grabbed the handrail on the side of the pilothouse for stability. Ravenwing engaged the throttle and the boats began to cut into the cresting waves again.

  “What the hell were you doing out on a night like this?” Ravenwing asked, his voice disappearing into the storm.

  “I have my reasons.”

  “They must have been good ones. Only a fool would venture out on a night like this.”

  “Well, you’re out.”

  “I am. But everyone around here knows I’m a fool.”

  The two men stood side by side as the Inlet Dancer began west toward the mouth of Deep Water Cove.

  “You said you took shelter. Where?”

  “I just set the throttle to keep abreast of the cove and waited for you.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “I was there.”

  “What happened to that nice E-Tec 115 you bought last year?”

  “Don’t know. Think I took on too much water. Washed it out. Maybe water in the fuel line. I couldn’t get that thing going.”

  Ravenwing looked at the man, who looked straight ahead, his face hidden by the bill of his cap, his body snug in an orange float coat.

  “But you could use the 25 to keep abreast of this storm?”

  “You’re not the only one in this country who can pilot a boat, Archie.”

  “Who’s towing who?” Ravenwing spat. Then he sighed and said, “Okay, let’s see if we can’t find a place to leave this tub for the night and make for home.” He looked at his sonar for the depth of the water beneath him, and then at his radar to search the shore for a safe harbour.

  “You’re still pissed at me,” the man said through the pelting rain.

  “You done anything that would change my mind otherwise?”

  “That’s the thing with you, Archie. You hold everybody to such a high standard, no one can ever live up to your expectations.”

  “That isn’t true and you know it. But I do expect some common sense. And what you’ve done is beyond the pale. You know it, so don’t play dumb with me. I know you got plenty of brains in that thick head of yours. You’ve got a responsibility.”

  “You can be a real jackass, Archie.”

  “Don’t I know it. But at least I know when I’ve done something wrong. I aim to fix it. You? I just never figured this sort of thing from you. But then I should have guessed this was coming.”

  The man turned to regard Archie Ravenwing, who was watching his sonar, the vhf still crackling. He said, “Don’t you think that your people deserve better? Don’t you think that I deserve better?”

  “Of course we do. Of course you do!” Archie’s voice was coarse over the din. “So act that way. Act like you deserve better. Stop waiting around for someone to hand you things. Go out and get what you want.”

  The man stepped back a few feet from Archie. “I’m goin’ to.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you say it….”

  But Archie didn’t finish the sentence. The gaff hook caught him in the side of his head, just above the ear, behind the softness of the temple. The blow made no sound over the clamour of the storm. The curved hook pierced Ravenwing’s skull and he fell sideways and down, hard, onto the pilothouse floor. There he lay as the water washed into the pilothouse. In the darkness, the deep pool of blood from where the gaff pierced Ravenwing’s skull was indiscernible from the dark water that sluiced across the deck of the Inlet Dancer.

  The assailant dropped the gaff on top of the body and took control of the fishing boat. He pulled back on the throttle, easing the boat’s speed, and turned off its running lights so it could not be seen. He set the wheel to veer the boat into the inlet, toward open water. He flipped open the seat top in the pilothouse and found what he was looking for — a short, stout bungee cord. He used it to secure the wheel of the boat so that it maintained its current course. There was no time to set the boat’s autopilot.

  The killer dropped to one knee and looked at the body of Archie Ravenwing on the deck of the boat. His eyes open, lifeless. He then dragged Ravenwing from the pilothouse onto the narrow aft deck, pulling him to the lee side gunwales and heaving him into the ocean. He threw the gaff hook overboard.

  The man too
k hold of the rope that connected the Inlet Dancer to the Rising Moon and reeled in the smaller craft. When the pleasure boat was close enough, he tied a clove hitch in the rope and fastened it to the aft cleat. Then he lowered himself onto the bow of his own craft, holding on to the boat’s safety rail. He turned and tried to untie the ropes from the cleat on the stern of the Inlet Dancer. His clove hitch came loose, but the second knot wouldn’t come free with the weight of both boats on it.

  He slid on his belly down the length of the bow of the Rising Moon and scrambled under the canopy. Moments later he emerged with a hatchet in his right hand and felt his way back toward the bow. As he reached the tip of his boat, he pulled again so that the two boats were bow to stern, and began to chop where Archie had made the rope fast around a metal cleat. A giant wave broke over the bow of the Inlet Dancer and then the Rising Moon, sending a wall of white foam and black ocean into the man’s face, washing him down the slick nose of his boat. He managed to grab the safety rail with his left hand, his right hand still clinging to the hatchet. The water streamed from the bow of the pleasure craft, pushing the man’s legs over the port side as he scrambled to hold on to the boat. Eyes wild with panic, he heaved himself back on to the bow and slid back to the fore of the craft. He pulled the boats together again, raised his right hand, and hacked at the rope on the stern cleat — once, twice, three times — and then he was free. He threw the remnant tatters of the rope into the ocean and slid back to the cockpit, under the canopy. Then he fired up the boat’s 115 outboard motor, switched on the craft’s running lights, and made for home.

  2

  Through the greasy light, Cole Blackwater eyed Frankie “Fingers” Delarosa. Circling his opponent, Cole shuffled sideways, bouncing, always trying to keep his feet moving. Hands up in front of him, he tracked the glistening form of the man in front of him, who travelled the perimeter of the ring, bouncing lightly. They traded punches, each absorbing the force of the blows in his gloves as they circled. Fingers threw a left-right combination that caught Cole on the chin, and he stepped back heavily but kept moving. Sweat poured from Cole’s curly brow into his eyes, and he winced, his vision blurring. Waiting for the bell again.

  Fingers feignted left, and as Blackwater stepped to the right, he caught a solid blow to the cheek. A spray of sweat leaped from his face and speckled the dingy canvas as Blackwater stumbled toward the mat.

  Fingers dropped his hands but remained vigilant as Cole caught himself on the ropes, his arms behind him. Frankie stepped side to side, waiting. Breathing heavily, Cole shook off the sting from the solid right-hand blow, his hair wet against his forehead, his eyes dark and focused.

  He raised his gloves and motioned for Fingers to begin again.

  The men circled in the pool of light from four lamps that hung from the low ceiling, its shadows accentuated by the network of pipes and ducts that crossed it. The long, squat room was filled with the sounds of fists on heavy bags and speed bags and bodies shuffling, moving, colliding. In the corners, the shapes of men glistening with sweat could be seen jumping rope and doing push-ups and sit-ups, holding up punch mitts while their training partners worked through a combination. The sound of a tinny radio rattled in a far corner, where no one listened to it.

  Cole Blackwater stepped in, gloves up, and Frankie Fingers began to circle again. They traded punches, Cole landing a blow to Frankie’s belly, which didn’t move the man at all. Their shoulders touched and the two men stepped back. More punches. Fingers tried to feint again, but this time Cole saw it and, instead of stepping to the right, stepped forward and caught Fingers with a left-right combination. But he still took Fingers’ roundhouse on the cheek.

  The bell sounded and both men retreated.

  “Pretty good, pretty good,” came a voice from the darkness beyond the ring. “Grab a seat.” Cole stepped back into his corner. Frankie Fingers did the same, his smile exaggerated by the mouthguard he pushed out of his teeth.

  A small black man, not more than five-foot-six, hoisted himself onto the ring. “You’re doing okay there, Cole,” he said, wiping Cole’s face with a towel. “You’re learning. You’re learning. You didn’t step into that right hook that Frankie likes to throw. Good for you. Good for you. But you’ve still got to stop thinking about what to do after you avoid that sort of set up. Got to just let your body respond. Don’t think. There’s no time for that. Just let your body do what it knows how to do. Respond.”

  The man made a jab with his small hand. “Let your body get the information from your eyes without you getting in the way.” He tapped Cole’s head. “I see you hesitate for just a second, and that’s why you’re not landing that left-right combination.” The man picked up a water bottle and squirted some water on Cole’s face and in his hair, then wiped him down again. He pushed the bent straw from the bottle between Cole’s teeth and let him drink.

  “I’m feeling old, Jessie,” Cole said, spitting a mouthful of water into a bucket.

  The man grinned. He wore a pork-pie hat at a rakish angle over his tight black curls. “You are old, Cole. But don’t let that stop you from having some fun in there. Okay?”

  “Thanks, Jessie,” Cole said sardonically, still breathing hard. He fit his mouthguard back in place.

  Jessie turned to the shadows and said, “Okay, Denny, let ’em have it.”

  The bell rang and Cole moved in quickly with a series of punches, all of which Fingers blocked with arms and shoulders. The men circled each other, looking for openings with quick punches.

  Somewhere in the room a cellphone chimed, and for a moment Cole’s attention was diverted. He paid for it as Fingers landed a quick left jab, but Cole managed to step away from the right that followed. The phone rang again.

  “You want me to get that, Cole?” came a voice from the shadows.

  “Busy right now,” Cole mumbled through his mouthguard.

  He could hear Denman Scott rummaging through his bag next to the ring. The ringing stopped.

  Cole stepped forward with two left jabs and a right hook, but Fingers absorbed the blows and hit Cole with an uppercut that set him back on his feet. His stomach was his weak spot. Cole stepped in with a punch to Frankie’s gut and the two men locked for a moment.

  “Knock it off!” came Jessie’s voice from the side, followed by laughter.

  “Cole, it’s Mary,” Denman said.

  Cole stepped away and Frankie stepped in.

  “Cole, it’s important.”

  Cole and Frankie circled, eyes low, brows streaked with sweat, panting.

  “Cole!”

  Cole Blackwater’s attention slipped off Frankie Fingers like a wet bar of soap off the side of a bathtub. Fingers saw the opening, feinted left, and landed a solid right. Cole didn’t even see it. His left cheek took the whole force of the blow, and he dropped to the canvas. Frankie stepped back. Cole pushed himself to a sitting position and shook his head. A trickle of blood seeped from his mouth.

  “Cole,” said Denman, standing at the ropes with the cellphone in his hands.

  “What in the name of God’s green earth is it?” said Cole, spitting his mouthguard into his gloved hand, a string of saliva and blood coming along for the ride.

  “Cole, that was Mary. Archie Ravenwing is dead.”

  Cole stuffed his gloves into his gym bag and pulled on his leather jacket over his sweater.

  “Cole, I’m real sorry to hear about your friend,” said Frankie Fingers from behind him.

  “It’s okay, Frankie. I appreciate that. Hey, good fight.” Cole straightened, felt the stiffness in his neck and shoulders, and picked up his bag with his left hand. He extended his right toward Frankie.

  “Yeah, good fight, Cole. You’ve really come a long way, man.” Frankie extended his hand.

  “Pop any fingers this time around?” Frankie got his nickname because he dislocated a finger or two during nearly every fight — loose ligaments, his trainer told him — and it kept him from turning pro a few years back.r />
  “Two,” he said, smiling. “But it ain’t no-thing.” He stepped toward the mirror and combed his hair into a point in the front. “And hey, I’m sorry about that last cheap shot.”

  “My fault,” said Cole. “For twenty-five years people have been telling me to stay focused, not to let my guard down. Seems I’ve still got a ways to go.”

  “Well, you’re looking good out there, man,” said Frankie. “See you next week.” Frankie exited the dim locker room, and Cole took his place in front of the mirror. He straightened as he peered at himself. Not so bad, he thought. He’d dropped almost ten kilos since he’d been back in the ring. He was still a little soft in the middle, still carried fifteen pounds more than he liked, but progress was progress and he shouldn’t complain. He was aiming to be super middleweight by summer. Maybe then he’d actually take his shirt off when he fought.

  He examined his face. The twisted white scar that cut across his right eyebrow was still visible after ten months, and likely always would be. The disfigurement on his left cheek was also plainly evident. They were ugly reminders of his time in Oracle, Alberta last spring, when he had come face to face with a killer and had nearly become a victim himself. It was hard to believe it had been almost a year.

  He pushed back the memory and studied the most recent round of bruising. His left cheek was red and a little puffy. Maybe he’d put some ice on it when he got home. Or he might find a cheap cut of steak in his fridge and slap it on like they did in the movies. Either way, by morning he’d have a good bruise. He pushed his hair into some semblance of order and stepped out of the locker room.