by Merry Farmer
Captain de Silva turned from the rail as she emerged onto the deck, his dark eyes appraising her, lingering most particularly over the lower half of her apparel.
He was standing with legs firmly planted, his own breeches hugging his muscled legs and the curls of his dark, heavy hair tied back. A large cutlass hung from his belt, making him look more intimidating than ever.
Naturally, the terrain they’d be covering was wild, obliging them to hack through, but she couldn’t help peering at the blade, half-expecting to see traces of blood.
The night before, she’d expected him to send her straight back to her cabin but he’d proven quite amiable—for a time. Somehow, nonetheless, she’d stirred his anger, and he’d parted from her in his usual gruff manner.
Now, he beckoned her to join them at the rail, looking towards the island, and what she saw made Bathsheba gasp.
Across the azure waters, there was no mistaking the pale plume of smoke curling skywards from the summit of Vanuaka.
“It be awake, Cap’n.” Tom was staring intently at the volcano. “Ye remember the Red West, back when you were a boy?”
His lips set in a grim line, the captain nodded.
Bathsheba had read about the Red West. The tremors from Krakatau had begun well before the eruption, growing in intensity, until the volcano had finally blown. The aftermath had been staggering—even viewed from thousands of miles away—painting the sky a deep red for months afterwards.
This volcano was infinitely smaller, but who knew the power of what lay beneath? And this was where Sebastian had come to!
“Some ’ud call it divine retribution. ’Twill be a savage end for them savages, an’ not long off, neither.” The quartermaster smacked his gums around the chewing baccy, clearly taking pleasure in the prospective extinction.
“None of that talk, Tom.” The captain spoke sharply.
“Is it safe?” Bathsheba tried to keep the tremble from her voice. “We can still land?”
“I say we can.” De Silva turned to his quartermaster. “Lower the rowing boat and we’ll get going. As soon as we’re away, up anchor and sail out of sight. We’ll meet you back here soon after dawn, three mornings from now.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Tom’s eyes flickered uneasily towards the island again, then to Bathsheba. “An’ may God be with ye both.”
As they pushed off from The Marguerite, Bathsheba’s stomach twisted violently. With the ship departing, there was no going back. No matter the danger, she was to be on the island for three days. It seemed both an eternity and no time at all—for the task before them was daunting. Densely covered with lush jungle and rising at its centre to the volcanic peak, how would they manage to search even a small portion?
Sebastian might be anywhere.
How likely was it that they’d find him?
Captain de Silva was rowing steadily, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the inked patterns covering his arms, and his face set in an expression of endurance and resignation. He’d tried to warn her, hadn’t he, of the hopeless task she’d set, and she’d refused to listen.
Gripping the wooden plank seat upon which she was perched, Bathsheba looked across the sparkling turquoise waters of the bay—towards the shore they were to land upon, and the sheer face of the towering rocks above.
How they were to gain entrance to the island’s interior she could not fathom, but the captain had assured her there was a way and they would manage together. She hoped only that it didn’t involve climbing those dreadful cliffs, for she had no head for heights. Even lowering herself down the rope ladder from the ship to the little boat had sent her heart racing.
And yet, despite her apprehension, she was aware of a small tug of tense anticipation. Even under these intimidating circumstances, a flutter of excitement accompanied her fear, beckoning her onward. She’d sought adventure, hadn’t she? And an adventure was being delivered. She could hardly complain that it was not the exact sort she would have wished for.
Though the sun was yet to reach its highest point, there was already a haze on the horizon, shades of blue blending where the ocean met the sky.
Drawing close to the beach, Captain de Silva gave one long pull on the oars, allowing them to glide the last few feet, and directed her to jump into the shallows. Single-handedly, he dragged the boat high onto the sands, pulling it above the high tide mark and partially concealing the vessel within a crux of rocks, then swung his waxed cloth pack onto his back, securing the straps beneath his arms. There was one for Bathsheba, too, though hers held the smaller portion of the water and provisions for the coming days. They could hardly rely entirely on whatever they could procure upon the island.
“This way.” He gestured to where the cliffs curved. It seemed they were to scramble over the rocks between which he’d hidden the boat.
Going first, he reached back. “Take my hand and watch your footing; it might be slippery.”
For a moment, she stared dumbly, reluctant to do so. They’d touched before—twice in fact; but, both times, she’d reached for him, and both times in frustration.
Here, now, he offered his hand in help and, if they were to accomplish anything, they would need to work together. She couldn’t afford to be peevish or prim.
“Thank you.” Setting her foot against the jagged edge, she extended her arm and allowed him to pull her upward. His grip was firm and warm, and he kept hold until she’d taken enough steps to stand upon the top.
From their new vantage point, the view seemed entirely different. Where they’d landed, the sands were pristine white, gently shelving into crystal waters. On the other side of the rocks, there was only a short section of shingle. Moreover, though the cliffs continued sheer, there was a dark indentation not far off. Several times, she’d travelled to the Dorset coast to take the sea air and the cliffs there were riddled with similar formations—caves which led deep into the rock, often meeting chasms from above. “That’s where we’re going?”
“There’s a passage, not too steep I think, which should take us upward.”
“Should? You mean you don’t know?” Her voice sounded shrill even to her own ears but she couldn’t help it. If he were only guessing, they might find themselves trapped in some narrow ingress, unable to turn back or move forward. It would be utterly dark, and cold, and who knew what would be in there with them.
His eyes narrowed. “I’m as sure as I can be. If you prefer, we’ll remain on the beach until the ship comes back for us.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Your choice, Senhora Asquith.”
Her choice indeed.
“I suppose we’ll have to try.” How peevish she sounded, and they’d barely been here for ten minutes, but it wasn’t just the dark that bothered her. He’d said it shouldn’t be “too steep” but that still inferred climbing.
The thought of it, of the inevitable heights involved, even if she couldn’t see them…
Bathsheba clutched her stomach. What if she froze, too frightened to go any further? What if she fell?
Perhaps she should tell him of her fear, but part of her rebelled against that. She had her pride.
“Captain de Silva, you ought to know—” Whatever intention she’d had was rudely interrupted as he yanked under her knees. Swinging her downward, he took them both onto a ridge just beneath where they’d been standing.
“I say, what are you doing!” She struggled but he pulled her tight to his chest and placed his palm over his mouth.
“Quiet.” He jerked his chin towards the beach.
At first she saw nothing, for her racing heart made it impossible to focus on anything but his proximity. She tasted the brine on his skin and felt the warmth of his body.
Then, she saw the canoes, emerging into the bay from further down the coast. Each was manned by eight or more men paddling hard.
Had they been spotted?
It appeared not, for the men were headed away from the island, moving fast and not looking back.
He relaxed his hand
enough for her to ask breathlessly, “Where are they going?”
“Towards the ship, maybe. She’s well away, but it won’t stop them paddling out to make their displeasure known. I told you. They don’t welcome visitors.”
“Then, we were lucky.” Her mouth was dry, thinking of what could have been.
He nodded, shifting the pack on his shoulders and stepping down onto the shingle. “Time for you to show me how well you climb.”
Chapter Eight
Extracting the lamp and tinder from his pack, Jorge held the lantern high, letting it illuminate the immediate walls of the cave’s interior. The entranceway was narrow but the passageway soon opened into a larger cavern, rising too far to be lit by the feeble flame.
There appeared no source of natural light from above, the upper reaches of the cave disappearing into blackness. Nor was there any noise to indicate the space opening outwards. Their own shuffling steps and the squeak of the lamp’s handle were the only sounds in the hushed space. The darkness ate not only light, but the small noises of their own movement. Only his own breathing seemed magnified, and that of Senhora Asquith.
She was shivering, he couldn’t help but notice—and not just from the cooler temperature within the rock, he was sure. Something here frightened her and, being honest with himself, he harboured a similar unease.
He could only hope that the map, concealed deep within the interior pocket of his breeches, was to be relied upon. “Stay close, and watch your footing. It may be slippery.”
She gave a brief nod, hugging her arms across her chest as she followed.
Within thirty steps, the floor beneath them rose and the ceiling dropped, so that he had to bend. The walls narrowed again, and he was obliged to move the cutlass to his other side, lest she brush against him.
As they continued, there were no obstacles to their progress. “Not bad so far, hmmm?” He held the lamp that she might see his face and he hers.
The clench of her jaw told him that she remained anxious. That, and the fact that she’d said not a word since they’d entered the subterranean space. Another twenty paces and the way closed in considerably. Soon, the passage would be no more than a crevice and his shoulders would be too wide to allow him through.
He cast his mind back to the sketches upon the paper. Had he missed something? An opening in the wall somewhere behind them? In the strangely suffocated lantern light, his eyes might have played tricks. Where was the fork?
In his distraction, the lantern clacked against a jutting edge and he grazed his knuckle, cursing.
His pause brought her bumping into him. Uttering a slight gasp, she fastened her hands upon his arm, then drew them back.
“What is it?” Her voice was hoarse.
“Just a little narrow, but we’ll manage. You’re alright, yes?” He slipped the bag from his shoulders, moving it to his chest.
She nodded in reply, her eyes wide, shining a deeper gold in the lantern’s glow.
If it widens…
He’d push through as far as he could. If they had to turn back, it wouldn’t be his fault. And what was this for anyway? It was a fool’s errand, wasn’t it. In his heart, he knew. They wouldn’t find her brother at the end of this passageway, nor anywhere else.
Why then did he have the compulsion to continue? He might easily tell her he’d been mistaken and there was no way forward.
He knew why.
It was the map.
Someone had drawn it for a reason. Now that they were here, he had to know.
The map and something else.
She needed this.
Needed to know that she’d tried to find her brother.
Even if he told her the truth, she’d still want to trace her brother’s footsteps, it seemed to him. To see what had brought him here.
How else would she be able to make sense of his death, or find a place of acceptance?
Squeezing around a slight bend in the rock, the ceiling rose suddenly, allowing him to stand properly, but just as suddenly there was a solid face of rock.
“Goddamn!” He kicked the wall in frustration.
A moment later, she was behind him, peering over his crooked arm. “A dead end?”
“Seems so.” He dropped his bag onto the floor and placed the lantern beside it, then stretched out his shoulders and neck. It was good not to be crouching anymore, at least.
With the light pooled at their feet, the space felt all the more enclosed.
“What now?” She was standing close, looking up, expecting him to have an answer when there wasn’t one.
Maybe they hadn’t even landed in the right place. There could be other bays and other caves.
“My mistake.” He let out a deep sigh. “There’s nothing here. Nowhere else to go.”
“But you thought there was…” She looked forlorn.
“Bad information.”
There was no point telling her anything else.
“And you’re quite sure?” To his surprise, she picked up the lamp, holding it level with her shoulder, studying each of the three walls before them. She placed her palm against the one in front, then rubbed her fingers together. “It’s wet, look.”
He hadn’t noticed before, but the floor was damp, and the small puddle at their feet trickled back the way they’d come. Taking the lantern, he held it to his furthest reach.
What he’d thought was a sheer wall levelled off, forming a ledge with a funnel rising almost vertically onward.
“Can you hear it? Dripping?” She touched his arm again.
He could. A steady splash hitting the ledge, falling from high above.
“If water can make it through—” she hesitated, allowing him to finish the thought.
“—perhaps we can too.”
Taking her bag, he tossed it onto the ledge, and made a step of his linked hands. “Steady yourself, then push up. There’s another foothold half-way and, from there, you’ll be able to lever yourself over.”
She stared at him, unmoving. “What if…what if I get stuck.” Her voice rose a pitch. “You won’t leave me?“
Dear God! He was no paragon but surely she didn’t think so badly of him!
Clearly, she needed reassurance.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to help you, remember? That’s why I’m here.” He offered his hands again, and a nod of encouragement. “Besides which, if I don’t bring you back, who’s going to pay me?”
She gave a small gasp of laughter at his joke. “Of course. How could I forget.” Swallowing, she placed her boot as he suggested, and her hand upon his shoulder.
It wasn’t a great distance, nor the steps difficult, but she huffed a great deal. She was almost there but her legs were shaking.
“Just place your elbows on the ledge, push and roll. Your momentum will carry you.”
Still, she didn’t move. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“Can’t feel them?” He clasped just above her ankles, making her squeak. “I can assure you they’re still here.”
“That’s good to know, but it doesn’t help me.” She was clutching tight to the ledge, still not moving.
“There’s nothing to be frightened of.”
“I know that and I’m not frightened.” She didn’t sound convinced. He could hear her panting. “It’s just that it’s rather high…”
Rather high? She was barely three feet off the ground, placing her derriere, snugly accommodated in the breeches, nicely level with his face.
“How about I help?” If he didn’t, it seemed they’d be stuck here for three days. “I’ll lift up this lower foot of yours until you can bring your knee over.”
“Alright. We can try.” She was puffing again. “But, please go slowly.” She adjusted her toes, making her rump wiggle.
“Of course, and I’m right here, remember. You fall; I catch you.” He’d catch her alright, or she’d be landing arse-first in his face.
“I’ll count you in, ready?” He got his hand beneath h
er boot. “One, two…”
On three, he gave an almighty push under her left heel and a balancing shove under her ample right cheek, sending her sailing upward and over the edge.
A short shriek carried down to him, then she was quiet. Lifting the lamp, he looked up to see her peering back over the edge, white faced and furious.
“Well done!” He grinned. “You’re a natural.”
Without wasting any more time, he threw his own sack upward and, stepping onto the first foothold, handed her the lamp. As she scooted back, he rested his forearms over the ledge and pushed himself up in one smooth motion.
Rising to his feet, he offered her his hand. “Lead the way, Senhora.”
Deeper they went into the rock, Bathsheba carrying the lamp and Captain de Silva behind, first whistling and then humming in an infinitely irritating fashion. Sea shanties she supposed, but at least he wasn’t singing them. She’d heard they were quite bawdy.
He hadn’t apologised for man-handling her person, nor for having sent her sprawling into the wet.
Not that she hadn’t needed help but, really!
Since then, the way hadn’t been too arduous, needing her to climb only one or two steps at a time. Mostly, the ground rose with a steady incline.
Certainly, they’d been right about the water. In several places, they paddled through shallow pools until there was a continual stream beneath their feet.
At last, the pathway forked.
“Left or right?” Holding the lantern high, Bathsheba turned to de Silva. He’d stopped the inane humming and his eyes were glittering darkly in the lamplight.
She took a retreating step. Here was the man who’d intimidated her before—no longer smiling, his expression intent.
Taking the lantern, he moved forward.
To the left, the rock rose up, worn smooth by the passage of water. A rushing, whispering sound came from above. She gazed up apprehensively. The rock was slick and without footholds. To even try climbing here would be insane. She’d most certainly slither back, and if she did, how far might she fall? What would she break? Her ankle? A wrist? Or her neck?
