Cerulean Isle (4 page)
The flower-laden box drifted out of sight as the sun rose over us. My father fell to his knees on the muddy shoreline, his eyes red and his face sunken and tired.
I did not cry that morning. My mother’s promise gave me strength. I spent the hours before her death at her bedside, and when it was only her and I, she said, “My son, in my heart I know this is the last time I will look upon your handsome face. No longer does your brother stir in my belly. He is asleep, you see. He will never wake. He is making me sleepy, too, and when I close my eyes I will not open them again. Before I rest, son, I want you to hear me and remember my words.”
“I hear you, Mother. I’m listening.”
“I promise that I will watch over you always. I will be the sunlight that warms and the wind that cools. I will be the rustle of leaves and the stir of the sea. Feel these things through all of your days and know I am with you. You will have my love so that you may overcome even the hardest of times. I promise to protect you from harm and Death itself.”
“We are moving slow,” said Grant, his voice pulling me from my memory’s grip. “Sailing southbound, slightly against the wind. The trade winds come from the east and sweep northwest into the Caribbean Sea. Merchants do all they can to plan routes with the wind. It makes for a faster voyage. A voyage with an eastern or southern destination takes much longer, since a crew must cut angular courses southbound rather than a direct line. That’s what the
Obsidian
has been doing.”
“You will make a fine seaman, Grant, if not an expert barrel maker.”
I tried to understand Grant’s ambition to sail under L’Ollon and wondered what the captain was searching for. What could have taken down his fleet? A simple storm could not sink two strong ships manned by such an experienced crew, nor could it kill so many seamen.
It was hard to breathe in the dark barrel hold. The entire room swayed, and I could hear the cargo shifting. The beams creaked and popped as if the ship would cave in at any moment. I could not sleep in my makeshift hammock and tried to find comfort on the damp wooden floor. A rhythmical clashing filled the corridor and rumbled my ears as the ocean waves broke over the body of the
Obsidian.
In the lower quarters, its tempo was like a sleepy song.
“Jacob.” Grant’s voice startled me. “Are you asleep?”
“No. Tell me about L’Ollon and his quest. I have been waiting all day.”
“All right, but don’t ever tell anyone that I told you this. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Good. Where did I leave off? Oh yes. Captain L’Ollon lost his fleet, all but the
Obsidian.
His entire fortune was aboard when the storm fell around them. L’Ollon knew better than to make it known that he was sailing with such riches. Other pirate fleets would have certainly attacked. Before he set sail, he told only one other pirate of his plans, a man named Captain James Shanley. L’Ollon trusted Shanley and paid him a heavy purse to ensure L’Ollon’s route be left clear. James Shanley is quite powerful, you see, and he agreed to keep L’Ollon’s wake free of rival pirates.
“L’Ollon, entrusting the safety and secrecy of his voyage to Shanley, left the harbor of Curacao. L’Ollon plotted a northern course; where to exactly, I do not know. He sailed fast, and five days out, the storm hit. All good captains know to furl the sails and batten down in a heavy storm. He did so, and held his ships steady over the raging water. The waves roared with the wind. The sails, though hoisted and furled, flapped and beat against the great masts. But the explosion of sudden gunfire made L’Ollon take arms and race across the deck. Near the starboard bow stood one of his crew, pistol in hand and rambling in panic. Two other men stood nearby, each with readied guns.
“‘What is the meaning of this?’ cried L’Ollon. ‘Have you gone mad?’
“The crew members were frightened. They pointed overboard at the dark waves. L’Ollon looked over the edge of the ship but saw nothing.
“‘What are you firing at? Speak up!’
“Then one of the men yelled in terror and pointed out at the churning sea. ‘There, Captain. Heaven help us!’
“L’Ollon peered out across the swirling black water and saw a large gray fin crest upward and then slip silently under the waves.
“‘You fools, we be in the midst of a storm and you waste shots on dolphins.’
“‘Nay, Captain. The devil himself has taken fin,’ ranted the fear-stricken pirate. His pistol trembled in his wet hand.
“L’Ollon was angered by his crewmate’s reckless behavior. He struck the man in the face. The pirate wobbled backward from the blow and stumbled over the edge of the ship, falling into the furious water. L’Ollon looked down at him.
“‘Say hello to the devil for me, matey! Ask him for one of his fins, why don’t ya?’
“To the captain’s shock, the man was pulled under the water. A blast of bubbles followed by a cloud of crimson bled in the waves like dreadful red ink. L’Ollon readied his pistol and watched as a figure took form and emerged. A man appeared in the water. He had smooth, leathery skin and long hair that clung to his neck and shoulders. L’Ollon looked down at the stranger in the waves. He seemed to float effortlessly. He did not flail his arms in fear of sinking, his solid chest did not heave with gasping breaths. He was a part of the water, and as he looked up at L’Ollon, his shadowy eyes glimmered as if filled with starlight. L’Ollon raised his pistol but the man in the waves leapt from the water. His body was not all human, and when L’Ollon saw the fishlike lower half, he dropped his pistol overboard.
“Yes, Jacob, I tell you that the man from the water was not a man at all. A magnificent fin bloomed where legs should have been; a fin much larger than that of a dolphin. It was the Water People. L’Ollon saw them with his own eyes.”
“My father used to tell me stories of the Water People. I never gave them much thought. After all, I’ve never seen a Water Person.”
“You wouldn’t. However, that is not to say that one has not seen you.”
“I’ve heard the Water People are a peaceful race.”
“I’ve heard other yarns. Some say they’re wicked and unforgiving, that if a ship sails into their territory, nothing will save them from their wrath.”
“And just where did you hear such stories? How did you come to know L’Ollon’s tale in such detail?”
“I was a thief, Jacob. I spent many days at the markets and waterfront picking pockets and eavesdropping. Gathering information is a basic survival skill. People talk, and many times too loud.”
“Have you ever seen a Water Person, Grant?”
“No. However, if L’Ollon succeeds, maybe we will before our adventure is over.”
Grant yawned. He rolled onto his back and tucked his hands behind his head. “I’ll tell you the rest another time. Get some sleep, friend, and have no worries. The morrow comes early.”
The
Obsidian
held true to its course. From our chamber below deck, we heard the many conversations of the crew above. On our fifth day at sea, I heard one man tell another that six days remained until we reached Curacao. Our destination was the harbor at the town of Willemstad.
Willemstad was a Dutch-built settlement where one could buy anything for a cheap price. Grant told me it had been one of Captain L’Ollon’s favorite places. Now it was the territory of Captain James Shanley. The men spoke of their apprehensions in confronting such a formidable opponent, yet they were eager to best Shanley and his men. A victory would guarantee L’Ollon’s pirates a heavy stipend of the reclaimed L’Ollon fortune.
“Gold and silver is the root of piracy,” Grant told me. “No man risks his life for free.”
We worked hard at the barrel making and kept up with inspecting the provisions. The boatswain made his rounds and took inventory often. He checked every barrel and ordered us to store them in the appropriate holds. When the barrel making was complete, Beelo tasked us with sharpening knives and blades, supervising us with a loaded pistol while we handled the weapons.
I learned the careful practice of refinishing a sword. Holding the edge of the blade at the correct angle against the grinding wheel was awkward at first, but I mastered it. Sparks of bright yellow streamed from the stone wheel and dissolved on the damp, wooden floor. When I finished a blade, I examined its sharp edge. I liked the way the short swords, cutlasses, and foreign scimitars felt in my hand—balanced and light. When I tossed a sharpened sword into the pile of readied blades, they clanked and chimed like deadly bells.
Beelo sat in a chair in the corner of the room, drinking from the barrel of wine. After several mugs, he wobbled over to me.
“Say,” he said, “have ya ever wielded a sword?”
I shook my head, afraid to antagonize him.
“Well, see here, boy!” Beelo grabbed a sharp sword from the pile and held it aloft. He looked at the clean blade and smiled. “It’ll be your death if ya never learn.” He belched loudly and shook his head. The ship swayed and he staggered to regain his balance. “Now,” he went on, “pistols are nice and all, don’t misunderstand, but this here sword is quiet in the killing. She never runs out of shot ’cause she don’t have any. No reloading, to be sure. Just a steady slice, and a man will fall. No one has to hear nothing. Stand up, boy.”
I obeyed. He handed me the sword.
“Hold it in front of ya with the right hand. That’s it. Keep your elbow bent and knees loose. Right leg forward, yes, that’s it. Left hand ready and relaxed; keep them eyes looking at me. For the sake of the lesson, I’ll be the man—” another rancid belch escaped him, “—that wants to kill ya.”
Beelo picked up another sharp blade, larger than the one I held. “Now, then,” he said in slurred voice, “when a man lunges forward, ya be having two choices. Ya gets out of the flogging way, or meet his moving blade with yours and force it away. Understand?”
I nodded. My mouth was dry and sweat beaded on my forehead.
He lunged at me. I was hardly prepared. His shimmering blade shot forward like an arrow. I sidestepped at the last moment; the tip of his sword tore through my dirty shirt, missing my stomach by less than an inch. My quickness surprised the boatswain, who chuckled as he pulled the piece of cloth off the sword tip.
“Not bad at all, boy. On to the slash. Since I want to kill ya, pretending of course, I will try to swing my blade across your body, hopefully spilling your insides. When I try this…ya listening, boy? Ya look a little sick.”
“I— I’m listening, sir.” My hand grew numb from clutching the handle so tightly. My legs wobbled, and the sweat stung my eyes.
“Right, then, as I was saying, when I slash at ya, you should stop my attack with your readied blade. Block it, I say. It’ll take some strength but you seem fit enough. Block my attack if there not be enough room to get out of the way. Ready then?”
I nodded.
Beelo’s attack came quicker than the one before. His swing was wide and swift, and I seemed to see it all in a dreamy slow daze. I heard the blade cutting the air as it swooped toward me. The sword grew larger as it closed in on me. I could not block such a strong attack, knowing there wasn’t room enough to jump back and out of the way. I ducked as low as I could, feeling the cold wind of the unforgiving sword blow over my head.
The momentum of his swing carried his unstable drunken body forward, and he landed hard on the ground. He hurried to his feet, confused. Still crouching as low as possible, I looked up at him. His face filled with anger. I had embarrassed him in front of the others. This was no longer a lesson in swordplay.
Beelo growled. Strands of his oily hair fell over his face. He lifted his sword, the sword I had sharpened to perfection, high over his head. He charged forth, leaving me seconds to decide what to do. The sword came swinging downward; my only escape was to roll out of the way. I heard the blade slam and stick into the floor. Beelo growled again and tore the sword free. I scrambled to my feet, short sword in hand, and readied myself as he had shown me for his next attack.
A terrible, empowering anger overcame me. My grip on the handle loosened enough for the warm blood to flow back into my fingers. I felt the swaying floor under me, and I let myself move with its rhythm. My shoulders were at ease as I stared at my attacker with teeth clenched and sword pointed forward. I was ready for him and ready for my death. The pirate lunged at me with deadly precision.
I saw his attack coming. When his tip streaked forward, I moved to the right and slammed my blade hard on top of his. I forced his attacking sword to the ground. The blades clanged loudly, a song to my ears. I pinned Beelo’s sword to the floor with my left foot and pressed my blade tip to his throat.
The drunken pirate looked pleadingly into my furious, hateful eyes. He didn’t know what had happened. I wanted to kill him for how he had hoisted me from the tavern, tearing me away from my father. I hated him with my first real taste of bitter rage and sword-wrought power. I imagined thrusting forward with my sword and feeling the spray of his blood.
Instead, I turned my sword around and struck him in the face with the pommel. His eyes crossed and blood streamed from his nose. The impact of my strike made him fall backward. As he landed, I saw a steel blade break through his chest. Behind him sat the deaf boy, eyes wide from the horror of the accident, the sword handle he clutched dripping with Beelo’s blood. A gasp erupted from the boatswain, followed by a series of choking gurgles. Beelo reached up and touched the blade that protruded from his breast.
Beelo looked at me with clear eyes. “Ya see, boy, quiet in the killing. No one has to hear nothing.” His head fell to the side, the face pale and lifeless. His dead eyes seemed to peer into my frightened soul.
All was silent except for the constant creaking of the ship and the sloshing of the waves. The deaf boy released his grip on the fatal sword and moved out from behind the boatswain. Beelo’s body crumpled to the floor. A steady stream of blood seeped from his mouth and pooled around his face.
