Tamaruq (20 page)

Shri decides not to mention the protests back home in Belgrano. She doesn’t want to divert him further. She wants facts. She wants to know where the Osirian is. Ivra says the rumours are he’s still on the archipelago, but no one knows where exactly. Or even which island. People go to find him and most of them don’t come back. Those who do return are interrogated by the Patagonian government, but it’s like they’ve been bewitched, and still no one knows anything. The route to the Osirian is fiercely guarded and there are no identifiable geographical clues or markers from the actual hideout to suggest his whereabouts.

Still, says Ivra, it can’t go on forever. Sooner or later he’ll slip up.

‘So what happens to these people? You said most of them don’t come back. Is this man dangerous?’

‘Dangerous? Of course he’s dangerous.’

But there are lots of ways you can be dangerous. This is what he means when he talks about the stories. The Osirian is an idea. The most dangerous kind of dangerous. But perhaps Shri doesn’t know – he might as well tell her, if he doesn’t, someone else will. Ivra’s voice drops a level. The Osirian
survived
. He survived the redfleur, that’s why everyone wants to find him. Ivra hesitates and then he says,
he’s a miracle
, the tinge of sarcasm in his tone not entirely eradicating the suggestion that he might believe it.

Not for me, thinks Shri. Not unless he can bring people back from the dead. And she feels a surge of rage that this Osirian should survive when Taeo did not.

Ivra drains his coffee before speaking again. It’s unlikely the Osirian is killing people off, if that’s what she means. More likely he’s assembling them.

‘Like an army?’

Ivra doesn’t know. Maybe.

Shri can’t decide what to make of this. In coming here she has not really considered the Osirian’s motivations – she only wants to see him, and gain the opportunity to interrogate him. Vikram Bai is the last piece of Taeo that exists in this world. She was told that his body was burned. The ashes buried, in haste and without ceremony, in a foreign piece of ground which she will never see or know. It’s been strictly impressed upon her that under no circumstances should she attempt the journey to Cataveiro.

Ivra, left in silence, now turns the questions upon Shri.

‘You’ve come here alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do the Republic know?’

Shri’s moment of hesitation is enough. He slumps.

‘Of course they know. You’ve been sent here, of course you have. That’s how they do things.’

‘I’m only just realizing how they do things,’ says Shri. ‘I have three kids at home. They’ve just lost their father. Do you really think I’d come here on a whim?’

Ivra seems curiously deflated by the realization. She wonders if he would have preferred it the other way, the romantic notion of her deserting her family, fleeing across the ocean to find the place where her partner died. And yes, it is romantic, but romantic for someone who is not a parent. Who could willingly leave her grieving children hundreds of kilometres away with no assurances, no promises of return, to fling herself upon the hope of a grave and bury her face in the dirt.

Romantic, yes. But an impossible luxury.

‘I don’t know,’ says Ivra. ‘I don’t know anything about you except what Taeo told me. And he was mostly drunk when he talked.’

She senses he regrets the words as soon as he has uttered them, but there is no way to retract the statement. She looks at Ivra and sees a man who is unravelling. Who somewhere along the line has lost faith and sense and is now struggling to restore something, anything. And instead of pity, she feels the need to punish him. She wants to make someone else hurt the way she is hurting.

‘You should have gone with him,’ she says. ‘You were meant to protect him. That was your job.’

Ivra stares at her helplessly.

‘Don’t say you’re sorry. It’s too late for that.’

‘What can I do?’

‘You can help me find this man. The sooner I can find him, the sooner I can go home.’

The room where Taeo was housed is a concrete box. The bed has been made up and the space is clean and empty, awaiting a new occupant. Another Antarctican exile. One tiny window offers a bleak view of the mountainside. Bare rock and dense, forbidding forestry. Shri puts her nose to the glass and breathes out and imagines how Taeo must have hurt, standing here, how a room like this must have felt like a prison. Of course he drank; his loneliness must have equalled hers, exceeded it – at least she had the kids. Only for him that’s all over now. He’s left her behind.

Downstairs they give her a box with his personal effects. There isn’t much inside. He didn’t take much with him. That was her fault.

By the time she returns to Ivra’s house he has found them a guide for the first stage of their journey. She leaves the box of Taeo’s things in the house. The same day they depart Fuego and head out into the archipelago. As the boat drives out she looks back once at the toy town, assuming the commander’s people are following, but if they are she sees no sign of them. After all her months observing the Adélie colony, she is now the endangered animal being watched.

El Tiburón sends the co-ordinates for their meeting place in a sealed envelope which also contains a dead scorpion. The creature’s body is crushed and its blood has smeared over the paper, but the deadly curl in its tail is still evident. Vikram shows the Alaskan, who raises an eyebrow but says they should not be alarmed; this is simply El Tiburón’s way of making sure they keep their counsel. Vikram doesn’t tell Mig. The boy is already angry over the Alaskan’s involvement; he doesn’t want to add to his doubts.

The pirate has chosen a remote location out to the west which no one in the camp has ever visited. On that side of the archipelago, the land fragments into hundreds of islands, some densely forested, others barely more than rock, all of them difficult or impossible to access and largely uninhabited by human residents. The steep sea channels are littered with the carcasses of boats run aground. El Tiburón’s ship must have a hiding place among these treacherous coves; it probably has many.

It is the first time that Vikram has departed the camp since they found their site, and he is nervous. He doesn’t like leaving people behind. The camp feels exposed, as though by removing himself he is removing its implicit protection. He doesn’t like the idea of placing himself in the pirate’s power either, but events have backed him into a corner. Every day that passes is another day lost, another day where a signal drops into the ether and the Antarcticans might choose to invade Osiris, or worse. Throughout the short summer nights he lies awake, tormented by visions of the place he called home, besieged, the people he knew consumed in flames or drowning in the waterways that sustain them. So many have died already because of his actions. He can’t be the arbiter of any more death; he isn’t sure he could survive it.

Only a handful of people come with him. Mig. The Alaskan, reclining on a crudely constructed stretcher. They are relying on her to negotiate with the pirate. A couple of long-term camp members, both expert sailors. They leave at dawn. Crossing the island terrain to the sea is difficult with the stretcher, and their progress is slow, the many obstacles in their way causing the Alaskan to be bumped and jolted about. If the uneven movement causes her pain she gives no sign of it, and when Vikram glances back to check on her, her peculiar black eyes meet his with assurance, almost defiance.

He puts Mig in the lead. The boy is a good scout, and it keeps the Alaskan out of his sight.

It is a relief to reach the sea. From here they can travel by boat. It isn’t a good day for it – a grey and ochre sky overhead forebodes storms, and the water is rushing swiftly through the channels, flecked with hostile foam. The journey takes them the rest of the day, leaving the party tired and jumpy. At the forefront of Vikram’s mind is the knowledge that if they run aground, or capsize, the Alaskan will not be able to swim. But the two sailors guide the boat to their allotted co-ordinates without incident.

They find themselves alighting on a steep, rocky beach on a small island hemmed in by larger and higher land masses, which cast the beach in shadow. Cave entrances riddle the side of the cliff face. They pull the boat up high onto the beach and prepare to wait. Vikram scans the sea, the slopes of the surrounding islands, but can see no evidence of human life, or any other kind of animal. Only the birds have made their nests here. Their keening cries reverberate across the water. If anything happens to them in this lonely place, only the birds will witness it.

The two sailors stick together, talking skittishly about the tides, before their discussion drifts to other, darker things. Mig’s attention is caught.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Monsters,’ says one of the sailors.

‘Monsters, aye.’

‘I thought you were talking about serious stuff.’

‘Who says it’s not serious?’

‘Go on then. Tell me.’

‘Did you know a race of giants used to live here?’

Mig laughs. ‘Giants? Is that supposed to scare me?’

The sailors exchange a glance.

‘They’re long dead, it’s true. But there’s other things. Things you don’t see. A spirit in the straits, long, skinny thing with a head like a cat and a tail like a shrub. Doesn’t like people trying to cross the water. Stops them. Drowns them. Comes from below.’

‘Or from above,’ says the other, swooshing an arm towards Mig’s head and grabbing a handful of his hair.

‘Oy!’

‘A flying snake that sucks your blood. Changes shape when you’re looking the other way.’

‘Like a pirate.’

‘Aye, like a pirate.’

‘You’re talking shit,’ says Mig.

‘Maybe, maybe not.’ The first sailor casts a sombre look skywards, where abrupt, orange rays of light pierce the clouds to reveal a lowering sun. ‘When they buried my grandfather, he looked like a lemon that had shrivelled up in the sun. Not a drop of blood left in the old carcass. Something got to him.’

‘All right then. If your water spirit’s so dangerous, why didn’t it stop us?’

The first sailor pulls something from a pocket. Something furred and bloody with tiny feet curled in on its belly. Mig peers. A dead rat. He can see the incision where its throat has been opened up.

‘You have to appease it,’ says the sailor.

A purple gloom descends across the archipelago. Mig, fascinated by the caves, wanders over to investigate. Vikram watches, wanting to call him back but knowing it will only annoy the boy. Mig ducks in and out of visibility. Each time he is lost to sight Vikram feels a renewed tug of anxiety. He remembers the scorpion. What if those caves are a trap?

‘Feeling responsible?’ says the Alaskan. Her tone is sardonic. Vikram joins her by the boat.

‘It was his choice to come with me.’

‘When he made that choice I don’t suppose he knew quite how dangerous a person you are to be around.’

‘What am I supposed to do, send him away?’

‘Don’t ask me. You can’t train kids like him. They’re sweet as syrup until the day they betray you.’

‘You’re still angry,’ he says.

The Alaskan laughs, then sneezes. Her eyes start to water. Vikram half expects the moisture to be black too.

‘Angry? No, not angry. Just amused.’

Vikram looks at her.

‘How are you holding up? The journey here was rough.’

She sniffs.

‘What do you care?’

Mig has disappeared from view for several minutes. Vikram scans the row of cave entrances worriedly.

‘Mig! Mig, get back here!’

‘If I were you I wouldn’t speak quite so loudly.’

Vikram whips around. A figure is striding towards them across the gloom of the beach. They have not come from either of the directions Vikram anticipated – the sea or the caves – and the only other way of reaching the cove would be by clambering down the sheer face of the cliff. Apparently the pirate has accomplished this in silence, surprising all of them.

The pirate approaches. They are dressed in leathers and camouflage, pistols clearly visible at each hip and a rifle slung over the back. A tricorne hat shadows the face. As the figure draws closer Vikram glimpses tinted glasses and a face that is smooth and androgynous, the sort of face that could, from a distance, be mistaken for a woman. But the faint shadow across the chin and the breadth of shoulder would appear to confirm El Tiburón’s much-disputed gender.

The pirate comes to a halt a couple of metres away. His head turns slowly, taking in their motley crew.

‘You make a lot of noise,’ he says at last. His voice is a light tenor, soft and persuasive. The two sailors shift uneasily on their feet, and Vikram wishes he had asked them to wait at the other end of the beach. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Mig picking his way back across the rocks. He moves slightly to place himself between the pirate and the boy.

The pirate steps across to the Alaskan.

‘You, I know.’

Unexpectedly, he drops to one knee and kisses the Alaskan’s hand.

‘Flatterer,’ she says.

‘Flattery is deserved,’ replies the pirate, rising. ‘And these?’

Instinct tells Vikram to answer with absolute honesty.

‘My name is Vikram Bai,’ he says. ‘These are my associates.’ He names the two sailors and Mig, who has reached them, and is eyeing the pirate closely.

‘You are the Osirian.’

‘Yes.’

‘A lot of people desire your head.’

‘Probably.’

‘A wanted man.’

Vikram says nothing. He feels the pirate’s eyes behind their glasses, roving over him. He stands his ground.

‘You come to me for assistance,’ says the pirate.

‘I need a ship.’

The pirate gestures.

‘There are many ships in Patagonia.’

‘I need a ship that isn’t afraid of a challenge.’

‘So.’ The pirate takes a step closer. His right hand, gloved, curls around the holster of the pistol. ‘I am not interested in bravado.’ He points to the Alaskan. ‘She is why I am here. Her message piqued my attention.’

The Alaskan displays no interest in this statement.