The Island (20 page)

The path ended in a cove entirely protected by limestone cliffs. It was, as the log had described it, a fishhook cove: To reach open water, a boat would follow a channel south along a natural breakwater, then turn the corner and head north along another breakwater, then finally turn east to reach the opening to the sea.

Several boats were careened on the beach—two pirogues, a derelict Boston Whaler, and four pinnaces, with sails furled.

At first, Maynard did not recognize Justin. He stood at the water’s edge, flanked by Nau and the boy Manuel. He wore new clothes, a white cotton shirt and leather knickers like Nau’s—and, in its shoulder holster, the Walther PPK.

As Beth and Maynard emerged from the path, Nau and Manuel assumed an imperious stance—legs spread, hands on hips. Nau spoke sharply to Justin, who tried, clumsily, to mimic their stance.

Maynard wanted to run to Justin, but Beth restrained him with the chain and walked him slowly down the beach.

When they reached a spot a few yards in front of Nau, Beth stopped and pulled downward on the chain. Maynard did not know what was expected of him, so he resisted. She yanked down, hard, and forced him to his knees.

He looked up at the faces—at Nau’s, which seemed to reflect his ancestor’s conviction that power is fear; at Manuel’s, which shone with precocious arrogance: and at Justin’s—nervous, ill at ease, pained at the sight of his father humbled before him.

None of the three seemed to have anything to say, so at last Maynard said softly, “How you doing, buddy?”

“Okay.” The word caught in Justin’s throat. He said louder, “Okay. How about you?”

Maynard nodded. He could not take his eyes from his son.

Nau nudged Justin, who fumbled for words and said, “Where are the rest of the bullets for this?” He tapped the butt of the Walther.

“Back at the room. You know that.”

Justin looked at Nau and, in response to another nudge, said, “Where?”

“In the bureau. Top drawer.”

Justin said to Nau, “I didn’t think he took them on the boat.”

Nau replied, “I will have them fetched.” He said to Beth, “That is all.”

She pulled Maynard to his feet.

“No!” Maynard said. “Let me speak to him.”

“Speak of what?” Nau demanded.

“I’m his father!”

“I have told you . . .”

Without thinking, Maynard snapped, “Fuck your word games! He’s my child, and I want to talk to him.”

Nau hesitated. He spoke, tightly, to Beth. “Control him or I will kill him. I swear it.” Then he turned to Justin. “Tue-Barbe?”

It took Justin a moment to realize he was being asked if he chose to speak to his father. He nodded uncomfortably.

Nau said to Maynard, “You read the covenant. You are a worldly man who has no place here. He is ours to mold, not yours. You may speak to him privately this once. Not again.”

Nau walked up the beach, followed by Manuel. Beth paused, not knowing whether to stay or follow. Then Nau motioned for her to drop the chain, and she followed.

Maynard rolled backward off his knees and sat. He patted the sand before him, urging Justin to sit. Justin glanced at Nau for guidance. Tentatively, he sat down opposite his father.

Maynard said quietly, “Are you really okay? They haven’t hurt you?”

“No. I’m okay.”

“We’ve got to roll with it, do whatever they say. Every day we’re alive, we’ve got a chance. No matter what they want you to do, it’s better than being dead. Do you know who they are?”

Justin shook his head. “They talk funny. I mean, they don’t sound like they come from America.”

Quickly, Maynard gave Justin a capsule account of what he had learned. When he had finished, he asked, “What have you heard?”

“They say I’m never going to leave here. Is that right?”

“No. I’ll find a way to get us out of here.”

“They say they’re going to kill you. Are they?”

“They will if we don’t get out of here first. Everything you hear, think of in terms of escape. Every fact, everything. Think to yourself: Can we use it? Will it help us?”

“They told me there’s no escape.”

“What did they tell you?”

“There are no motorboats. They don’t keep any—what do they call them?—long-legged boats.” Justin tipped his head at the boats in the cove. “Those are the only boats on the island.”

Maynard looked at the pinnaces. “If we could sail one of them out into the shipping lanes . . .”

“They’re guarded, even at night.”

“How long have we been here?” Maynard saw that the question perplexed Justin. “I slept. I don’t know for how long.”

“This is the fourth day.”

“You haven’t heard anything else? Anything that could help us? Think.”

“Nothing like what you mean. Just training.”

“Training for what?”

“They say to become a man.” Justin glanced up the beach at Nau, then whispered to his father, “How can I be a man? I’m only twelve! They must be crazy!”

Maynard smiled. He reached for Justin’s hand and patted it. “What kind of training?”

“They want me to be an armorer. That’s why they let me wear this.” He tapped the shoulder holster.

Looking into Justin’s eyes, Maynard sensed a flicker of pride, as if, despite himself, the boy was pleased to have been given a measure of manly trust. And Maynard’s own eyes must have shown reproach, for Justin looked away.

“Do you keep it loaded?”

“I have to. L’Ollonois says that an empty gun is like a eunuch—all show and no force. What’s a eunuch?”

“Take a couple of slugs out of the clips and hide them somewhere.”

“What for?”

“Just in case. You never know when they’ll come in handy.”

“L’Ollonois says we have to save every bullet.”

“Justin . . . if you listen to him, you
will
be here forever. He’s
not
your friend.”

“He says that if someone isn’t his friend, he’s his enemy, and if he’s his enemy, he should be killed. I don’t want to be killed.”

“You won’t be killed. You’re too important to him.”

“Me? Why?”

“I’m not sure, exactly, I think he’s worried about the future. Anyway . . . tell me where they keep the guns.”

“Everybody keeps one. L’Ollonois keeps the extras.”

“What are they?”

“Flintlocks and percussions. L’Ollonois has an old M-16, but it’s all rusty and doesn’t work.”

“There are no modern weapons?”

“No, except for this.” Justin touched the Walther. “They don’t like them, because they can’t reload them. Once the bullets are gone, they can’t get any more, so they throw the guns away. That’s why he wanted to know how many bullets we have for this.”

“What does an armorer do?”

“A bunch of things. Molds bullets. There are three sizes: pistol, musket, and bird shot. He keeps the arms cleaned and greased—fit, they call it. He fixes them: I’m learning how to take a lock apart and put in a new spring. It’s weird.” Justin smiled, sharing the revelation with Maynard. “If you take care of them, flintlocks last forever. There are only about three moving parts in the whole thing.”

Maynard could not return the smile. “I wonder what Mom is up to,” he said.

Justin stared. “Yeah.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“Sure. I just . . . hadn’t thought about it.”

“Think about it.”

Nau called, “Tue-Barbe!”

Justin hopped to his feet. “Did your great-great-granddad really kill Blackbeard?”

“No. That was some other Maynard.”

“They say he did. That’s why they named me that: Kill-Beard.”

“Well . . . don’t argue. Roll with it. I’ll think of something. Trust me.”

“Okay.” Justin was nervous. “Gotta go.”

Justin turned away, and Maynard watched him scamper up the beach.

Beth returned and lifted the chain from the sand. Maynard did not notice her; he stared after Justin until he and Nau and Manuel disappeared around a far point.

“He is gone,” Beth said.

“He’s just up there a-ways.”

“I mean, he is gone. From you.”

“I know what you mean, but . . .”

“The sooner you accept that, the sooner the pain will ease.”

“I’ll take the pain.”

She tugged gently, and Maynard followed.

“I have styluses for you,” she said.

“For what?”

“He would have you use the time you have left . . .” She stopped, suddenly embarrassed at her bluntness. “. . . use your time to write a chronicle. Like Esquemeling.”

“Chronicle? You mean copying. I have nothing to chronicle.”

“You will, soon.”

“How do you know?”

“Many things are growing scarce—rum and spray and citrus. Many things. There is talk of eating leather. Soon a prize must be taken. A rich one.”

They passed the whores’ encampment, and again exchanged pleasantries, passed the catamites’ lodge, and again spat salutes. As they approached Beth’s hut, Maynard asked her, “How much time do you think I have?”

“Oh, a long time,” she said encouragingly. “I am just now feeling the tiny signs that tell me ripeness is approaching. I would give you a very long time.”

“Really?” Maynard said, counting. “I’d give me about a week.”

He waited until her breathing slowed and deepened. And then, to be sure, he waited a few minutes more. She began to snore. Her lips moved and her brow furrowed, as she argued with a creature in her dream.

He felt along the chain until he found the lock. He could not read the numbers of the combination, so he crawled to the doorway and pulled back the skin and held the lock up to the moonlight. He dialed 0,0,0, and the lock opened.

He timed his movements with the chain to the sounds of her snores. When he was free, he rejoined the ends of the chain, snapped the shackle closed, and spun the combination wheels. Somehow, vaguely, he hoped that this would exculpate Beth from having helped him escape. If, in the morning, they found the lock open, they might accuse her of setting him free; if the lock was securely closed, they might attribute his flight to magic, or at least legerdemain, and consider themselves lucky to be rid of him.

He crawled out of the hut and held a finger up to the wind. There was a soft, steady breeze from the north, so he headed south. He had no knowledge of the local tides or currents, but he knew that an offshore breeze would help him float farther away from the island.

He made no attempt to find or free Justin. He was certain that the boy was being kept confined, under guard. Even if he could free him, he did not want to expose him to the risks he himself was prepared to take: to drift alone in the open ocean until he encountered either land or a boat. Justin would be safer here, until he could return with armed help. He had convinced himself that, no matter what he did, Nau would not harm the boy. He had examined every conceivable rationale Nau might use for punishing the boy for his father’s escape; none was practical. And from all Maynard had read and observed, Nau regarded violence and brutality as practical tools.

On the beach at the southern tip of the island he found a log of driftwood. He had neither the time nor the means to make a proper raft, but he wanted something with him that would float, something on which he could rest. He pushed the log into the water and tested it with his hand, to make sure it was not rotten or so sodden that it would sink. It was dry and light, and it bobbed briskly.

He walked away from the beach until the water was chest-deep, and then he tucked the log under his arm and let himself float, testing wind and current. If there was a current, it was very weak; the wind was moving him—slowly but perceptibly—away from the island.

He was about fifty yards offshore when, as he paddled with his feet, he felt a searing, stinging sensation in his thigh. Surprised, his impulse was to shout or curse, but he clamped his mouth shut. A jellyfish, he told himself. Or some tiny stinging sea bug. He had not been bitten, was not cut or bleeding.

He reached down with his hand and touched his thigh, and suddenly his hand was afire. He grunted in shock and jerked his hand back, and whatever was burning him was dragged across his stomach in tracks of agony.

He spun around, and his chin struck something soft and flimsy, like a balloon, a cloudy white bubble that rocked gently from his touch.

A man o’ war.

Reflexively, he flailed with his arms to get away from it, and his flailing snared the skein of toxic tentacles that hung beneath the bubble. He splashed and kicked and smeared the poisonous whips all over his face and chest. It was as if someone was removing his skin with a hot knife.

He struck at the thing with the log and knocked it aside. He struggled for clear water, still choking off the screams that fought to escape his throat.

He was free, and for a moment he thought he might control himself, might continue. But then new lashes raked his back, and more slid between his legs and scraped flame across his inner thighs.

He turned again, frantically, and all his eyes could see was an armada of opaque white bubbles. He was in a field of men o’ war.

Now, finally, he screamed. His arms slapped at the water, his feet kicked, and every movement brought new agony.

Shrieking, lurching spasmodically, he churned toward shore. His feet touched bottom; he tried to run. His fingers clawed at his chest, trying to peel away the pain.

He flung himself on the beach and writhed in the wet sand. Movement did not ease the pain, but he could not stay still. He bucked and rolled and twitched like a berserk marionette.

Then something struck him on the chest and pinned him to the sand.

He heard a voice say, “You bloody fool!”

He thrashed. “Stay still!” the voice commanded. “Jackass!”

Was it raining? Liquid was hissing down on him, warm, acrid-smelling. It felt good. Wherever the liquid touched, the pain seemed to seep away.

He tried to speak, but his tongue was too thick to move. A heavy fog spread through his brain.

He heard a new voice arguing with the first. A man and a woman.

“You were warned.”

“He did not . . .”

“He would have . . .”

“But he . . .”

The voices faded. He was unconcerned, for he assigned the voices to a dream.