Vampirates: Tide of Terror (7 page)

9

THE GIFT

Sunset. After a day of rough, squally weather, the surf is good tonight. The lone surfer is out again, pitching himself against the waves. Every night, he grows stronger — every night, more proficient. And every night, in spite of himself, more lonely. Yes, he can admit this now. He is not made to be alone. It is life — and death — that have contrived to separate him from others. But he is not one to be dictated to by the fates. Just now, he might be dependent on the ebb and flow of the tide, but soon he will start to direct the flow of events. This time of waiting will be over.

The moon is on the rise, shooting golden darts across the dark water. He is careful to avoid the light, steering the board toward the dark places in between. Now he is fighting both the pull of the tide and the moon’s flaming arrows but, muscle-bound as he is, he is holding his own against them both. His footing is firm as he shifts the board from left to right, feeling the energy of the waves beneath him, propelling him toward another empty cove.

As he cruises into the shallow water, there are rocks to negotiate. He jumps down from the board, the water scarcely higher than his ankles now. He pulls the board from the water, before it comes to grief on the waiting rocks, and walks the last remaining feet onto dry land. As always, the moment he emerges from the water, his clothes and flesh are bone dry.

The cove is as rocky above the water as it is beneath. He rests the surfboard lightly against a jagged boulder and climbs up to a ledge. There, comfortably cloaked in the darkness, he can safely survey the scene.

A ship enters his vision in the distance. The sight of it makes him wistful, thinking of ships he has left behind. But there will be other ships in his future. And, this time,
he
will be the captain. No more will he do another’s bidding. This is his destiny — of that he is certain.

The ship sails across his line of vision, torches flaming about it. They light up the skull and crossbones flag. A pirate ship — hardly uncommon in these waters. Yet the ship looks familiar to him. He closes his eyes, shutting out the light to think more clearly. In the darkness, he sees the girl. The strange girl who escaped from him. Grace. That was her name. Why is he seeing her — an insignificant girl to whom he once told his story? He crushes the mental picture of her — as if it were an insect that dared to land on his palm, and opens his eyes.

The ship has sailed past, but now something much closer takes his attention. Something which bumps against the rocks in the shallow water below. Something which is pummelled by the white horses, bobbing in and out of the shards of moonlight. He leans forward. His vision cuts through the dark shadows and he sees the wooden box brought to him on the tide. He decides to take a closer look at the gift the ocean has delivered to him.

Leaping down from his ledge, he strides back into the water, his feet deftly avoiding the jagged rocks beneath. The box is within his reach now, buffeted between twin rocks, like a football kicked back and forth between them. His large hands find the edges of it. It is bigger than it seemed from above, and as long as a man. To others, it would be impossibly unwieldy, but to him it is manageable. He frees it from the dueling rocks and lifts the coffin — for that is what it is — out of the water, carrying it effortlessly to the sanctuary of the small stretch of beach.

He sets it on the sand and, unsure of his next move, looks for somewhere to sit and think. Then he realizes that the coffin itself will make the perfect seat so he eases himself down on it and looks out to sea once more. Beneath his weight, the tender wood begins to crack and splinter. Quickly, he jumps up, surveying the damage he has done.

The coffin is not in a good way. Wherever it has come from, its journey through the water has not been smooth. More than one rock has lashed out at it, judging by the marks around its sides. In one corner, there is a hole and he brings an eye to this now, looking down into the darkness within.

It’s hard to see much. Some seawater has got inside — not yet enough to weigh it down but enough to confuse his vision. He leans away again, contemplating breaking off a bit more wood.
Snap.
The timber breaks like a bar of chocolate in his fingers and now he has a clear view inside. His eyes come face to face with a boot. It is a sailor’s boot, still laced tight. It is not, after you stare at it for five minutes, the most interesting of sights.

If only the other end of the coffin had been broken, he thinks, looking up. But the other end is still intact. After another minute in the water, the wood would almost certainly have cracked there too. Because really, if you just reached out your finger and pressed with any kind of strength, you could crack this wood, without even really trying and . . .

Snap.
The feeble wood has broken in his thick hands and a nail buckles. He leans forward. Now he is looking down on part of a face — on an eye that is shut tight, long wet eyelashes resting on the linen-white pillow of a cheek.

Of course, he wants to see more and since the wood is broken anyway, there’s no harm in prying it loose so he can see the whole of the face. Now he can see that it is a young man, his features fully at rest. The mouth is lifted in a small, frozen smile as if he is dreaming. What might he be dreaming? If only he could speak again, you might ask him this question — and a fair few others besides.

Thoughts are rushing in now, as fast and as furious as the tide. His hands reach out and make short work of the rest of the lid, until broken shards of wood are piled on the sand like discarded orange peel. Now the coffin is open to the elements. And there lies the young mariner, cooled by the night air again, as once he was in life.

This is not just a gift. It is a sign. A sign that the tide is turning in his favor — that his plan is the right, true one. He smiles to himself, his gold teeth revealed once more.

There are things the surfer knows — things, at least, that he has been told, if he can only remember them. Things he wishes now he had paid more heed to. Gestures and incantations that — if he can only focus and squeeze them back to the forefront of his memory — might just yield a result. He looks down at the man before him. From his garb alone, you can tell he was a pirate, even were his hands not folded about a cutlass and even if the skull and bones flag was not tied around his wrist.

If only he could remember the right procedures. He scratches his shaven head. He must try to remember. He owes it to this pirate now. Now that he has invaded his rest, he owes it to him to try. He closes his eyes, shutting out all distractions as he scours the dark passageways of his memory for the right words.

He is transported back to a shadowy, smoke-filled den, where incense once pervaded his senses. Now, he is back in that darkness. Once more, cedar and sandalwood lull his mind. He sees again that other face through the gloom, teaching him the ritual. The words are coming back to him. He is not speaking them, only hearing them, letting the other one tell him now as he told him before.

He feels a growing pressure about his hand. He cannot yet open his eyes, for the ritual is not complete. But the flesh of his hand is being compressed on all sides. As if ...no...as if ...
yes
— as if another hand is clinging onto his.

At last he opens his eyes. And, yes, his hand is stretched down to the coffin and, sure enough, a hand has risen out of the darkness and taken his own, much fleshier, hand. And now they pulse together as if they share one heartbeat.

He looks down at the figure in the coffin, searching for other signs of life. He thinks he sees something stirring somewhere beneath the mask of the sleeping face, but he cannot be sure it is not simply his own imaginings. He thinks he senses life — or whatever you might call
this
— beginning to flood the muscles of the dead pirate’s limbs.

He imagines life — or its alternative — taking hold of the dormant organs caged in his chest. And still he smells cedar and sandalwood and senses the ritual is not yet quite complete.

At last, he hears a sigh. At first it is as soft as the waves lapping the rocks in the distance. And then it comes again, louder. Mouth open in curiosity, he looks down as the wet eyelashes flicker and part. White eyeballs appear like glistening pearls from a dark oyster.

Then the pale violet lips open, too. They splutter to expel a small pocket of air and seawater. And a voice follows, surprisingly clear and strong.

“Is it time to get up already? I was having such a nice old dream!”

10

LIEUTENANT STUKELEY

“You all right, mate? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Sidorio looks down into the coffin at the pirate, dead just moments before, now stirring and stretching and beaming at him as if he is a long-lost friend.

“I’m all wet,” the man says now. There is a thin layer of water in the coffin and it has soaked his clothes. He smells of the sea.

“Here,” Sidorio says, reaching out a hand once more. The pirate grips it and Sidorio pulls him up onto his feet.

The pirate stands for a moment, then his legs wobble and he staggers. Sidorio has to move fast to prevent him from crashing back down and doing himself an injury on the sharp edges of the broken coffin.

“Thanks, mate,” the pirate says, still holding tight. “I’m feeling a little funny. Like I’ve had a bit too much rum!”

Sidorio holds him until he seems to be bearing his own weight.

“Oh, that’s much better. Yes. There we go!”

But as Sidorio takes his hand away, once more the mariner’s legs buckle and he falls down in a heap onto the sand.

“Maybe I’ll just sit here for a moment and get my bearings.”

“Good idea.”

Sidorio stands back and looks down at the pirate, still stunned by his own achievement. He has brought him back from the darker shores. He, Sidorio, has performed the ritual. It is a sign that his powers are growing. The tide is already beginning to turn.

“You’re a big fella, ain’t you?” the pirate says, looking up at him.

Sidorio shrugs.

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Sidorio, but you must call me Captain.”

“Right you are, Captain. I’m Stukeley, Jez Stukeley. You can call me Jez.”

“Henceforth, you will be known as Stukeley,” Sidorio says. “I will be your captain and you will be my lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant? That’s a nice promotion!” He seems pleased.

Sidorio hesitates. The pirate seems quite unfazed by what has happened to him. He remembered the ritual but he doesn’t remember this part. What are you supposed to say to the returned? How fragile are they? Now that Stukeley is growing used to breathing again, he hardly seems fragile at all. He is sitting straighter, and his wet clothes have dried out. Now, he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“I just want to see it,” he says. “I never got the chance before.”

What is he talking about? Sidorio watches as Stukeley unfastens the first few buttons of his shirt and reveals the flesh of his chest, which is pale as marble except for a deep indigo gash.

“So that’s it,” Stukeley says, nodding. “That’s the fatal wound. Have to confess, I’m a bit disappointed. I expected something more dramatic.”

Sidorio crouches down to his level.

“So you know...you know you were killed?”

Stukeley stares at him, his eyes twinkling in the moon-light. “Me — killed? No, I ...What
are
you going on about, mate?”

Sidorio is lost in confusion until Stukeley breaks out laughing.

“Of course I know I was killed, mate. I don’t just hang out in coffins for a lark! I’m not some vampire, you know.”

“Well ...,” Sidorio begins.

“No!” Stukeley exclaims. “You’re having me on! Me — a vampire? That’s impossible. Are you serious? Have I got fangs and everything?”

“Not yet, but you will. If everything turns out right.”

“Wicked! I don’t s’pose you’ve got a mirror, have you?”

“Go take a look at yourself in the water, if you wish.”

Stukeley pauses for a moment, then draws himself up to his feet and staggers forward to the edge of the ocean. Sidorio watches him as he bows forward, trying to get a clear reflection in the agitated waters. The pirate turns, shell-shocked.

“I can’t see my reflection.”

Sidorio nods his head, smiling. “That’s right. You
are
changed. You see?”

“Yes, Captain.” The voice is different now — full of respect and awe.

Sidorio wonders at his actions. It is all happening so fast. Barely an hour ago, he was thinking how things might change, how he might have company. Now, he has a lieutenant, but already his excitement at his own power has given way to a stirring sense of the burden of respon-sibility. Stukeley turns from the water and runs toward him, smiling.

“I can’t believe I’m back. Thank you,” he says, smiling. “Thank you for bringing me back.”

“What was it like there?”

“You’ve been there yourself, haven’t you? You must know.”

“It’s different for everyone.”

Stukeley shrugs. “Honestly, I can’t remember much. Just losing the duel — which was quite unfair if you ask me — and lying on the deck, feeling like I was being pulled away from my mates, their voices getting softer and softer. But after that, I don’t know. It’s all a blank.” He turns and looks at the remnants of his coffin. He smiles again. “They must have given me a proper burial at sea. Not everyone gets one of those, mate. I’m pleased to bits about that. Oh, and I remember the captain saying they’d have a bash for me at Ma Kettle’s . . .”

“Which captain?” asks Sidorio. “Which ship?”

“Captain Wrathe’s ship,” Stukeley answers. “
The Diablo
.”

“
The Diablo
, eh? The Devil.” Sidorio smiles once more. “
My
kind of ship.”

A curious look crosses Stukeley’s face. “How long was I gone?”

Sidorio shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I don’t think your coffin would have lasted much longer.”

“What day is it now?”

“I don’t have any interest in the passing days.”

“You say some strange things, mate. I’m just trying to establish how long I’ve been gone.”

“My guess,” says Sidorio, “is that you weren’t . . . gone ...for very long. But why does this matter?”

“Do you know a place by the name of Ma Kettle’s Tavern?”

Sidorio thinks for a moment. “Yes, I’ve been there before.”

“Well, I think there’s every possibility that my wake is happening there this very night.”

Sidorio smiles. “And you’d like to go?”

Stukeley beams back. “Seems kind of rude to miss it, don’t ya think?”

Sidorio pauses. “If we do go, no one must see you. Nothing must threaten my plans.
Our
plans.”

“What exactly
are
our plans?”

“All in good time, Lieutenant. All in good time.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

“Whatever you say,
Captain.
”

Stukeley nods. “Whatever you say, Captain.”

“This is the beginning,” Sidorio says. “This is the turning of the tide. I have been waiting for so long. Before I am finished, the ocean will turn red with blood. Now, at last, the tide of terror begins!”