“I think I begin to understand,” Finkle said gravely. “What I don’t get is why hide away in a casket? You’re losing your memories of who you were. Why not focus on the man you are now and move on?”
“You’ve moved off topic.” Sigler smiled and held up a finger, waving it reprovingly at Finkle like an old grandfather. “You asked what changed. You asked me why I was now so committed to this expedition.”
“Oh. Yes. Right.”
“The answer for the change was, quite simply, you.”
“Me? How did I change your mind?”
Sigler’s smile widened. “Our assailants noticed you. One of them pointed his weapon at you. He cocked the hammer back and was about to fire. That’s when everything changed for me. When I realized something I’d never allowed myself to consider before.”
“What’s that?”
“Besides the loss of vital memories I’ve been experiencing over the past few centuries, there’s something else that’s been disappearing from my life as well.” He picked a frond from a nearby palmetto bush and turned it over and over in his hand as he considered his next word. “Purpose.”
“Purpose? How so?”
“It’s long and complicated, and I’d rather not get into the details. But I’ll say this: I spent the majority of my life fighting. Fighting for just causes. Fighting to protect people. Working to set right the travesties of history. Sometimes I would succeed. Other times, I failed miserably. Each time I succeeded though, nothing else changed. History moved forward just as it was meant to. After a while, I realized that nothing I did really mattered. No battle I fought changed the world one iota. So why bother? Why get involved? There’ve been a number of times I’ve hidden myself away from the world. Found a small farm in Italy, and tilled the land for grapes. Bought a fishing boat in Macedonia. Tried to live the quiet life. But every time, I’d be pulled right back into battles I couldn’t do anything about.
“But then that sailor pointed his pistol at you, and I realized at that moment, the fallacy of what I thought to be true. If you were to be shot…to be killed…at that very moment, what would happen to the world I knew? I mean, you’re one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, after all! How would that affect history if you…”
“Wait! Stop.” Finkle stood up. “How did you know about that?”
“Know about what?”
“We haven’t told anyone about that. No one. We’ve met in secret about the possibility of officially declaring our independence from Britain. Up until now, we’ve just been pushing against unfair taxation. Against a great many maltreatments by King George. But a secret few have been considering completely breaking from Britain. But that’s all it is…a discussion. It’s one of the closest guarded secrets of the Colonies. So how do you—a man who’s been in the grave the better part of a century—know about it?”
“What? The Declaration of Independence?” Sigler shrugged. “Like I told you, there’s just some things I…”
“Captain!” someone in the camp shouted. “Captain!”
A few seconds later, Reardon appeared from his tent and ran over to an obviously terrified sailor. Finkle and Sigler moved over to the commotion to learn what had happened.
“She’s gone, Captain.” The sailor had bleeding gashes across his face, like the tips of hundreds of tiny claws had scored his cheeks. “The witch. I saw her trying to sneak away from camp. I followed her. Tried to stop her, but she…she did something to me. I don’t know what. But she’s gone.”
18
“I would’na worry about it, Mr. Spratt,” Reardon said to the bleeding sailor. “She was little more than dead weight to this expedition anyway. Good riddance, I say. She’ll be dead before dawn in these sinister jungles.”
“And I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Captain,” King said. “Asherah was raised in jungles far more dangerous than these. She’s also a mambo bokor. No matter what you believe about vodou, Reardon, she does have some amazing tricks in that medicine bag of hers.” He took the sailor gently by the arm. “Can you show me where you lost her?”
The man nodded as he dabbed the blood away from his face with a rag. “I think so, yes.”
Without any more prompting, Spratt moved westward through the camp. King, Finkle and Reardon followed. Greer took up the rear, a long rifle clutched in both hands. When they came to the tributary, their guide made a right turn, and followed it north two hundred yards from camp. He then pointed to the water.
“She stripped bare, sir,” the sailor said. “Then got in like she was goin’ to bathe.”
“And I suppose you decided to watch her, did ye?” Reardon asked.
The sailor’s shoulders sank, and he gave a curt nod.
“Then what happened?” King asked.
“I still don’t see why it matters,” Reardon said. “She’s gone. All the better, in my opinion.”
King whirled around on him. “It’s important because Asherah didn’t agree to come here just to be my guardian or to wake me from my sleep. She had a reason for coming here, and trust me…anything that woman does should concern you greatly. We need to find out what she’s up to, and fast.” King turned back to Spratt. “What happened next?”
The sailor swept the hair from his downcast, nervous eyes. He winced as his palm brushed against the tiny lacerations covering his face. “Well, sir…um…”
“Answer him,” Reardon growled.
“She, er, invited me to join her. I did’na think there’d be much harm in it, sir. She was smilin’ at me. Pleased to see me, I thought.” Spratt cleared his throat. “I took off me breeches and stepped in. That’s when it happened.”
“What? What happened?” Greer shoved the stricken sailor’s shoulder, nearly bowling him over. “Tell us, man!”
King, still listening, had walked over to the water’s edge and crouched down. One of the benefits of living for as long as he had was having a great deal of practice in hyper-observation, and what he’d seen at the river’s bank was enough to elevate his normally steady heart rate. He picked up the object that had caught his eye and held it up.
“What’s wrong, Captain Sigler?” Finkle asked, moving up next to him.
He turned the object over in his hand, and sucked in a breath. “A green army man.” He said it out loud, but not to anyone in particular. “Plastic. Like when I was a kid.” He glanced up at Finkle. “I mean, a child. I used to play with these all the time. Collected whole armies of them. Had a set of Soviet soldiers, as well.”
“What is…‘plastic?’” Finkle asked.
King held up the figurine and the old man took it. “The material this is made of. Chemicals mixed together, then solidified to create easily malleable objects. But it won’t be invented for another…”
“Are we concerned about some silly toy soldier or the witch, Mr. Sigler?” Reardon barked. “I’m still waiting to hear Mr. Spratt’s answer to your question.”
King looked over at the sailor, and nodded. “Tell us what happened after you entered the water.”
Spratt gulped. “I ain’t entirely sure. She held her arms out to me, beckonin’ me closer. As I approached, somethin’ grabbed me legs. Tendrils, like the tentacles of some raging squid. Lifted me straight up out of the water, it did. Then, vines exploded from the river and began raking me all over my face and torso. It was…it was…” The sailor suddenly collapsed onto the shoreline, curled up into a fetal ball, and his eyes went blank with terror.
“Poppycock,” Greer said. “There are no squid in a fresh body of water, and vines don’t have minds of their own. This man is simply trying to cover up his incompetence, at best. His treachery at worst.”
King stood up, walked over to the trembling man, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Spratt looked up at him, and King tried to smile. Tried to reassure the sailor that everything was going to be fine. But at the moment, he wasn’t so sure he was that good an actor. Despite Spratt’s strange story of tentacles and vines—a story that King bel
ieved without reservation—he was more concerned over the presence of the plastic green figurine he’d found at the river bank. It was a minesweeper. The shaft that had once been the mine detecting device had long ago been chewed away, whether by some small child or by a pet. But even here, two hundred years in the past, the little toy was old.
“Captain Sigler?” Finkle was nearly whispering. “What should we do now?”
“Gather the men. We don’t have time to rest for the night,” King said. “We need to track Asherah down, before she accomplishes what she came here for.”
“But what about the mission?”
“That is our mission, Mr. Finkle. You were right. I can’t explain it, but this is definitely a place of immense power. Power that has inexplicably drawn the mambo bokor here. Whatever she’s up to, it has to do with this place. With the Fountain.” He turned to look at the expedition’s three leaders. “I don’t know what her plan is, but with her knowledge of vodou and the sheer power this place represents, it’s the only thing that matters at the moment. Find Asherah, and we’ll find your Fountain of Youth.”
“Fine,” Reardon said. “We’ll do it your way. Let’s get camp packed up and move on.” He paused, and glanced back. “Mr. Spratt, come on, lad. Time we were a’movin’.”
Spratt, however, didn’t move.
“Spratt, I said get up and let’s go.”
Still, the sailor didn’t move. King leaned to the side to get a closer look at him. He was still laying in a fetal position, his arms covering his face, but something appeared to now be covering him. Something green and spindly.
Finkle was the first to process what it was. “Dear Lord!” He dashed over and knelt down beside the man, jerking away strands of thorny vines that had wrapped themselves all around the man’s body in the short amount of time they’d been talking. “Help me.”
King was already moving before the request, his dagger drawn. He cut away a handful of the vines, then stopped. “Wait. Where are they coming from?”
“What do you mean?”
King reached underneath the sailor and pushed him forward so that his back was exposed. “The vines aren’t coming up from the ground. So where are they coming from?” He rolled Spratt back the other way until his face was fully exposed. All four men gasped simultaneously. The tough, twine-like vines were growing quickly—in front of their eyes—sprouting from the many lacerations covering Spratt’s face and chest. Three other tendrils swept out from the sailor’s nostrils, and one larger vine twisted out from the man’s opened mouth. He was already dead, King could tell that much. But what he couldn’t quite fathom was what exactly had happened to him.
“Forget breaking down camp.” King stood, and started running toward the camp. “We’re out of time!”
19
Asherah ran through the tangle of vines and cypress, shooting quick furtive glances over her shoulder as she did. She couldn’t be sure how long Lanme Wa and the crew of the Reardon’s Mark would take to come after her, but she knew she needed to put as much distance between them as she could, if she hoped to succeed.
Of course, the vines attacking the hapless sailor had been a surprise. She’d hoped to lure the simpleton into the water with the promise of carnal sins, then cut his throat without anyone being the wiser. But the vines had a mind of their own. Had taken care of the problem without her having to bloody her hands. No doubt, it had been the work of a local l’wa, but until she became aware of the spirit’s presence and personality, she could not be sure it would not turn its ire toward her, for bringing the white men into its realm.
So, with the thought of both Lanme Wa and the unknown l’wa nipping at her heels, she pressed on. For most of the voyage after the dread pirate’s awakening, she’d remained sequestered. Not so much hidden as she’d tried to avoid any real interaction with any of the crew. There’d been no need to draw any unwanted attention to herself. But she’d been a constant presence, nonetheless. Always there around the corner, listening, watching. Gathering the information she would need to traverse the jungle alone, without the aid of any of the men. She’d eventually surmised the location of this so-called ‘Fountain of Youth.’ She knew she’d have to get there first, if she hoped to fulfill her promise to young William and cement her place as the most powerful of all mambo bokors.
Finding herself exhausted, she came to a halt and bent over, sucking in air slowly as she rested. She estimated that she’d traveled a good eight miles since breaking away from the camp. A good day’s march in record time, by anyone’s account. She needed to sleep, but she knew she didn’t have the time. With her disappearance, Lanme Wa would not allow the others to rest. He’d come after her without thought of anything else.
His is such a distrustful mind, she mused with a wry smile.
The sound of wood cracking from nearby brought her to her full height, and she spun around to identify the sound. Another crunch. Something large and heavy lumbered somewhere off to her left. In the darkened woods, it was almost impossible to see one’s hands in front of their faces, much less an unwieldy monster thumping around nearby.
She’d heard stories of the creatures that haunted the Florida swamps. Large reptiles—alligators—and giant snakes. Panthers the color of pitch. Great bears that could stand three heads above the tallest man. And that didn’t even include the natives, who regularly hunted such creatures to survive. From what she’d heard from the sailors, nothing was more savage than the Indians that would slice the skullcap off one’s head for a mere trophy.
But none of these things could possibly explain the immensity of the footfalls the beast near her made. Nothing so mundane could be that large.
A low, threatening growl echoed out from the darkness, followed immediately by a satisfied mewling. A cat? No. That isn’t the sound a cat makes. More like…
She didn’t finish the thought. She simply couldn’t place the sound to any creature of which she was aware. She began turning three hundred and sixty degrees, squinting into the inky blackness around her. Then she saw it. A patch of blackness slightly darker than the rest of the landscape. A blackness that moved and swayed, less than fifty yards away from her. It stood over six feet tall and had a long pointed tail that hovered a few feet off the ground. Other than that, she could make out no more details. Wary, she clutched her medicine bag and prayed to whatever unknown l’wa protected this place. As powerful a sorceress as she was, she wasn’t certain any of her magicks could safeguard her against such a nightmarish beast. So, she stood there, as still as possible, and she hoped the creature would pass her by.
Five minutes later, it had moved on, leaving Asherah breathless and unsettled. Though the local fauna was all so new to her, she would have expected to at least have some idea of what the beast had been. Instead, she was shaken with the realization that something so huge and monstrous lurked in this unexplored wilderness. Even more unsettling was the fact that the creature just felt out of place here. Something was not quite right about its presence. It was as if Nature itself had convulsed by the creature’s invasion.
She shuddered at the thought, took a deep breath and starting making her way once more toward the Fountain. This time, however, she decided to be a little more cautious as she walked.
The sun was edging up over the horizon; its rays were shining down through the trees and evaporating the dew covering the tree canopy above. A steamy fog began blanketing the jungle floor, obscuring King’s vision as he pressed forward.
“How can we hope to find the witch in such a fog?” Captain Reardon asked. He, like everyone else in the expedition, had discarded his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Yet he was still soaked to the bone with sweat and exhaustion.
“It’s still early yet,” King replied as he slid his sword back into his belt. He’d already picked up on her trail despite the poor visibility, and he no longer needed a blade to cut through the jungle growth. “It’ll burn off soon enough. Right now though, she’s leaving a trail big enough
for a blind man to follow. She doesn’t seem too concerned about concealing her path.”
The humidity-fueled heat made breathing difficult. Each time he inhaled, he felt as though he was swallowing a gallon of warm water, and he knew the others would be having a much harder time of it than he. “Let’s take a rest for a few minutes before moving on. No more than ten minutes. Enough to relieve ourselves, hydrate and ease our bare feet from our boots.”
There was a collective sigh from the men as each of them found a nice spot to sit down and rest. King had to admit, this crew had impressed him a great deal. Despite the lack of a solid night’s sleep for more than four days, they were still determined to move forward. There’d only been a few grumblers in the pack, and most of them had been the loudest in expressing their dismay over the unnatural way Spratt had met his end. They’d been the most superstitious of the lot, and they had protested moving further, lest they all succumb to the curse that plagued this land. They’d never really stopped their complaining since. Still, the vast majority of the sailors felt their mission was too important to the Cause. Too important to the Colonies’ desire to show their British masters that they could, indeed, survive without them. In fact, in succeeding in their quest, they hoped to show King George that they could not only survive, but they would thrive.
They believed in what they were doing, and something long forgotten inside King began to stir at the thought. It had been so long since he had fought in a war in which he had been emotionally invested. So long since fighting for something in which he truly believed. And here he was, at the very birth of the nation he loved so dearly, and he had—up until now—been completely unmoved by it.
When did I become so callous? He took a swig from his water bladder as he gazed out into the morning jungle. So cynical?
His eyes caught something large, moving slowly through the trees nearly a hundred yards away. He looked around, but no one seemed to have noticed. When he glanced back, the large creature had stopped moving, and it had crouched lower to the ground. From this distance, with the foliage blocking a clear view, he couldn’t quite make out what it was, but there was a sense of recognition there. Something about its posture. Its long, pointed tail that swept back and forth as it lumbered about. There was a name for it, but he couldn’t quite remember what it was.
Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) Page 10
