“I’m sure I’ll be back. And I promise I’ll bring Emily next time. So, what did you want to see me about?”
“I was t’inking about dat boat you were on when you kill da submarine.”
“The Wavy Davey?”
Reynaldo nodded. “You know she was over here?”
“No. When?”
“Beginning of da month, not long after dat Dutch girl go missing. They were moored in da bay for a day, den came to the pier the night before dey leff for Saba. Dem boys smugglers. I recognize one of dem. German man. He no good.”
“Them… there were two?”
“Ya, mon. Two smugglers. But when dey left, dere was three.”
Boone frowned. “Another smuggler joined them?”
“I don’t think dis boy was a smuggler. I was on my boat at Ro Ro pier. Him come to me few hours before dawn, lookin’ all sweaty. Ask me to take him to Saba. Flashed a lot of American dollars.”
“But you didn’t take him.”
“No, mon. Him give off a bad vibe. I told him da boat was broke. He thank me nice enough but de thank you don’t reach his eyes. I watch him go over to the main pier where I see him talk to da German. Not long after, the Wavy Davey leave with all three of them aboard, heading for Saba.”
“When was this, exactly?”
“I remember dere was a full moon that night, so early da next morning.”
“What did the man look like?” Boone asked.
“Him was almost as tall as you. White boy, blond hair, big muscles.” Reynaldo reached across and touched the blue bead at Boone’s throat. “And he have one of dese.”
The Servant tossed the package containing the passport forgeries on the floor beside his backpack. Wink had been true to his word and the final product was professionally done. Gunter would be pleased, and the money he handed over would allow the Servant to continue his calling for the foreseeable future.
“You should feel pride, you know,” the Servant said in the sickly glow of the LED lantern. “It is a high honor to be Chosen.”
The prisoner made no reply, her eyes reflecting the light. If fear was behind those eyes it was dulled by a haze of fatigue and repeated doses of sedatives.
“This ball of rock and water and gas that we live on? She is a living, breathing creature.” He sat on the earthen floor of the cellar, kneading his fingers in the soil. “Well… I say ‘she’, but of course the Earth doesn’t have a gender. But using ‘it’ just seems… disrespectful. Not that she gives a shit what some little speck of flesh calls her.”
The Servant laughed, a mirthless rattle of sound. He reached up to his throat, his fingers finding the little sphere of pumice stone from Montserrat. The feel of the tiny holes on its surface was soothing as he rolled it between the pads of his fingertips. He missed the smooth glass surfaces of the Statian bead, but this volcano-borne trophy was his favorite.
“She lives, as surely as you or I. Methane, sulphur dioxide, all the gases that she belches forth? Her breath. The tectonic plates that grind together, shaking the ground… her muscles, flexing and contracting. The molten rock that oozes through the magma chambers of the earth… her blood, flowing through subterranean arteries, interconnecting her many, many hearts. At this very moment we are above one such heart. She slumbers now… but it is time for her to awaken. We humans…we are insignificant flecks of organic matter on the surface of her skin. Like mites. Or bacteria. Polluting her oceans. Her air. Tearing into her flesh for coal, or oil, or gold… or sulphur, as they did here on this island. We have mistreated her. Disrespected her. Sickened her. But she has ways to counter the disease.
“Take a pyroclastic flow: hot ash, nearly 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit, roaring down on a sleeping town at hundreds of miles per hour, burning, melting, smothering everything in its path. Clouds of ash so big they generate their own lightning! You have no idea of the power she possesses. She just needs a little help. A little nudge. And that’s where you come in.”
He looked at the girl, watching for a response. There was none. She stared dully at him, and the Servant felt a burst of anger.
“Are you listening to what I’m telling you? Why is it none of you ever understand?” He felt the rough surface of the pumice rolling across his fingertips as his mind drifted back in time to that fateful summer mission trip on Montserrat. The time where he had received his true calling.
Lucy. She had been so beautiful, his golden-haired angel, his petite flower, and he had lusted for her there in the ash-strewn remains of Plymouth. After so many fumbling and fruitless attempts at romance with women who had scorned his advances, here had been the perfect woman. He had met her at orientation for the trip and she had taken his breath away. He had found himself unable to talk to her that day, but then Fate had intervened, placing them together on the flight from the States. Out of all the seats she could have been in, it was the one next to his. And what’s more, she had fallen asleep against his shoulder. Her hair had smelled of lavender—he remembered that scent so distinctly, so sharply. After they landed in nearby Antigua, Lucy had awakened with a bright smile, teasing him about having used his muscles for a pillow. She had traced a fingernail against his biceps, the sensation sending tremors throughout his body. He’d only recently begun a weight-lifting regimen and had a mere fraction of the strength he now possessed, but his muscles were well-defined and it was clear that she… liked them. Liked him.
It seemed like destiny. Three days into the mission trip, after a long day of work they snatched a night, enjoying each other’s kisses and clumsy fumblings. But when the time came for more … things changed. It had not gone well. And she had laughed. She’d apologized and gifted him with a gentle kiss before departing, leaving him alone with his thoughts. And that night… some of the thoughts… some of them were not his own.
In the early part of the mission trip, the man who would become the Servant had become fascinated with the devastation on Monserrat caused by the volcanic eruption, and after that night, new beliefs bloomed. The next day he’d found Lucy and suggested a hike into the outskirts of the ash-strewn ruins of the former capital, now abandoned. Perhaps feeling guilty for the previous night, she’d obliged, despite the area being restricted.
He was sure that once she heard what he had to say, she would realize he was worthy of her affections. He wanted to share everything with her… but just as the night before had ended in laughter, so too did this latest effort. When he’d attempted to explain his newfound knowledge of geomantic mysteries, she had openly mocked him. Called him… insane. So he’d killed her. And some of the arousal that had been absent the night before arose in him then. A scorched machete he’d found in the ruins of an ash-buried cottage had provided the means, after he’d replaced its incinerated handle with a generous helping of duct tape. But though the execution was satisfying, it had been to no purpose—he hadn’t done it properly. The still-active Soufrière Hills volcano had been too far away. It was only after, as he buried her body under the thickly packed ash of the pyroclastic flow, that he realized what a wasted opportunity it had been. The voices concurred: if he had timed it more precisely, at the correct location, he would have been of greater service. From time to time, the Earth required a sacrifice.
The Aztecs knew this. And the Mayans. The Incas, too. For the Incan Empire, Viracocha was both creator god and volcano god, and sacrifices were made to him. Mummified remains of young girls had been found on the upper slopes of both Mount Amato and Mount Llullaillaco, massive stratovolcanoes in the Andes. In what is now Mexico, the volcanoes Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl were personified by the Aztecs, deified with effigies. The Servant didn’t believe in volcano gods per se, but he was convinced that a portion of the Earth’s consciousness could be focused at the surface, the best focal point being a volcano, a “mouthpiece” to the Earth. And the voices he heard—true, they were probably his own thoughts, in part—but he was certa
in those thoughts manifested because of communications he was receiving. Maybe from vibrations in the ground? He wasn’t sure. In Sint Eustatius, up on The Quill under the full moon, he could swear he had actually seen a manifestation of the Earth, looking a bit like Lucy, reaching out to him in gratitude. Thanking him for the sacrifice. But it had not been enough. The Great Awakening had not occurred.
“But this time will be different,” the Servant spoke softly into the damp cellar air. A powerful hurricane, another form of the Earth’s breath, was on its way, scheduled to hit this stratovolcano during the full moon, the time of peak fertility. “This time… your blood will bring her blood and breath to the surface.”
This time… he saw the fear in those eyes.
Early the next morning, after a breakfast of eggs with the scarlet macaws, Boone and Captain Every were taken to the airport by Major Jones. Boone informed the major of what he’d learned from Rey, and Jones said he’d go get a full recounting from him. Arriving at the tiny Roosevelt Airport, they waited with a group of passengers at the tiny yellow-and-green airport terminal, though the word “terminal” was generous. After a quarter hour, a familiar rumble met their ears and a blue-and-white WinAir plane came into view, a little Twin Otter. Capable of Short Take-off and Landing, known as STOL, it was one of the few commercial aircraft able to land on Saba and the most common model used in the Northern Leewards. It landed effortlessly, the Statian runway being much longer than Saba’s short airstrip. Several passengers exited and after luggage was unloaded, the plane was filled to capacity and swiftly returned to the skies.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Saba appeared in the cockpit window, as the Twin Otter approached Saba from the southwest.
“You’re coming in from the south?” Captain Every asked, leaning into the aisle near the cockpit. He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the twin pistons.
“Winds favor it today, and we’re going on to Saint Martin so… yes,” the co-pilot said. “No problem. We do it this way every once in a while.”
“A first for me,” the captain said, settling back into his seat and tightening his seat belt as the Twin Otter swept by the steep cliffs of Saba and dropped down onto the 400-meter runway of Juancho E. Yrausquin airport.
After exiting the terminal, they found Sophie waiting alongside a yellow firetruck, wearing a navy-blue uniform shirt and dark slacks. She waved and started toward them. “Welcome back! Sid’s on his way.” She pointed up the slope towards Hell’s Gate. There, on the lengthy stretch of switchbacks, a police car was slowly slaloming its way down the winding road. “Emily is helping Lucky board up the shop. I guess you heard the latest.”
“Yes,” Captain Every said. “Hurricane watch.”
“No, they just upgraded it. The entire Northern Leewards are now under a hurricane warning.”
Boone noticed the members of the fire department were busy securing their equipment. Airport workers, too, were scurrying about. A hurricane watch had just meant that hurricane force winds were possible; a warning meant it was now likely. Sid’s patrol car pulled up and his father headed straight for it. Boone lingered with Sophie. “How’d the training session go?”
Sophie smiled slyly. “Emily may not be big, but she’s got some muscles on her! She’s also a quick learner. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it. I better get back to work.”
Boone joined Sid and his father and the three drove up The Road, heading for Windwardside. Sid ran through the preparations for the storm, nearly finishing by the time they descended toward The Bottom and the police station. “There’ll be one more flight this afternoon—then the airport will shut down. Also, we’ve got some more Royal Dutch Marines on the way. We’ll be putting them up at Child’s Focus.”
“And will we have a curfew in place?” his father asked.
“Yes. The governor signed off on it. Ten p.m. tomorrow night,” Sid replied as they pulled up to the police station.
“Good. Go ahead and run Boone down to Fort Bay, then head up to the Windwardside annex to coordinate up there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Minutes later, Sid dropped Boone off at the harbor. The piers were completely empty of boats and most of the buildings along the little stretch of road were shuttered. Lucky and Emily were out front, hammering a length of plywood into place across one of the windows.
Emily’s face lit up when Boone approached the shop. “About time!” She handed him her hammer. “I was afraid you were going to be stuck over there.” She leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss below his ear. “Missed you,” she whispered.
“You too,” he replied softly, before hefting the hammer and assisting Lucky.
“Most of the buildings on Saba have proper shutters,” Lucky said, hammering away, “but this old shop is gonna need a little extra help.”
“Irma’s up to a Category 4,” Emily said. “Winds 130 last time I checked.”
“You get your boat stored?” Boone asked Lucky.
“Yep, she’s up in The Bottom on my buddy’s lot. The village is in a kind of bowl surrounded by hills, so she should be protected from the wind.”
Boone wasn’t entirely sure that would be the case, since the terrain might actually funnel or focus the winds, but it would certainly be safer up there than down here in Fort Bay.
“So, did you and Sid’s dad find out anything?” Emily asked.
As they hammered the last of the plywood into place, Boone gave her a quick summary, glossing over some of the more gruesome details. He was about to tell her about his talk with Reynaldo at Smoke Alley when a soft horn toot interrupted.
“Salutations! How go the preparations?” came a polished voice. Gordon Hollenbeck flashed them a smile as he and Gerald pulled up in their tiny red Daihatsu.
“Just about done here,” Lucky said. “Need to board up one window in the back by the fill station, but then I’ll need to head back home and get things sorted there.”
“We’re going to gas up before the station runs dry,” Gerald said. “Happy to give your young charges a lift back to Windwardside.”
Boone looked to Lucky, who nodded. “Sure. We’ll be done by the time you get back.” As the two men drove ahead, passing to the left of the Customs and Immigration building, Lucky gathered his tools. “The only gas station on the island is up that road at Big Rock Engineering. I gassed up this morning. Once they run out, it might be a while before we get another shipment in, depending on where the hurricane hits.”
“What do Sabans do if they run out of gas?” Emily asked.
“I haven’t been here long enough to see that happen, but… they walk. Just like they did before The Road. The island is full of trails between the villages.”
The Servant selected two of the better trail maps that he’d stolen the week before, adding them to the backpack, along with the forged documents and a few bottles of water he decided he could spare. He’d delivered plenty of water for Gunter the last time and the supermarkets were completely out now. A small offering of additional water might go a long way toward facilitating a smooth handover of the money he was due. And, in case things didn’t go so smoothly, he slid the machete in as well. The Servant crouched by his prisoner, gently lifting her chin to look into her eyes. He had just used the last of his supply of sedatives, but after this delivery he wouldn’t need them anymore. He would remain with her until The Ascent. They would need to leave early, to be in place before the winds made the climb impossible. Fortunately, Mount Scenery had a concrete building at the base of a communications tower near the summit, the ideal shelter for him once he had performed the ritual. He withdrew his hand from the girl’s face, letting her head loll forward. “Now, don’t go anywhere.”
Ascending the stairs, the Servant pulled the paint tarp across the door to the cellar and headed for his vehicle.
“I told our landlady we’d help get Hummingbird Haven ready for I
rma today,” Emily said. “S’okay if you handsome gentlemen take us through town to the English Quarter?”
“Sure, not a problem,” Gerald said, tapping the horn for a toot as he reached a switchback above The Bottom.
“Do you two need help boarding up?” Boone asked.
“Oh, thank you, dear boy, but ours is one of the sturdiest homes on the island. The hurricane shutters are quite easy to secure, and we’re snug up against a slope. Actually, Gerald and I were talking; Amber’s Hummingbird Haven cottage is quite lovely but it’s fairly exposed. We’d be more than happy to take you two in for the duration of the blow.”
“That’s very generous. Honestly, I’ve never had to weather a storm like this, Bonaire being out of the Hurricane Belt.”
“Well, to be equally honest, we haven’t had to deal with many,” Gerald said. “We missed the bigger ones: Georges back in ’98 and José and Lenny in ’99—they were before we moved to Saba. Earl back in 2010 was pretty much a tropical storm down here. He chuckled. “Ironically, biggest hurricane I’ve ever been in was Sandy when I was visiting my mother in New York.”
“Well, if it’s not too much trouble…” Emily began.
“No trouble at all, my dear,” Gordon assured. “I invite some of my Broadway buddies down from time to time, so we have two guest rooms you can choose from. Plus, you can help us keep our dear little pup Juniper from getting too scared. I’m afraid her Thundershirt might not be enough for a Cat 4!”
“Awww… we’d love to protect your pooch. What breed is she?”
“Yorkipoo. Although she thinks she’s part wolf, where socks are involved. Don’t leave yours unattended!”
“What are these socks you speak of?” From the back seat, Emily raised a shapely leg and waggled her toes in her sandals.
Dropping Boone and Emily at the rental cottage, Gordon and Gerald suggested they all meet at the Bizzy B Bakery in the morning. Amber Linzey was around the side of the cottage by the overlook, bringing in a pair of hummingbird feeders. Spotting the young couple, she raised one aloft by way of greeting.
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