SEVEN
I don't even know how long I cling to the raft. The storm tries to have its way with me, but it is a mild spring bluster compared to the tempests I have survived. It tries to drown me with rain, but I welcome the fresh water. It blows me about the ocean for a day or so, and then relinquishes its hold, casting me adrift. I float for a long time, lost in a delirium of pain, until I realize the raft is caught on something.
I peer over the edge of the raft and spot tiny waves disturbing the water. I've floated into a coral reef, one that nearly breaches the surface. My body is dehydrated and wracked with painful tremors when I try to move, but I have to turn my head. I need to look around. Coral reefs are typically found in shallow water. I have to be close to land.
I am, but it's not as much land as I would like.
On my left is an atoll, a wedge of red stone rising out of the water like a crooked thumb. The end that would be the nail is encrusted with rock and it rises to a flat point that has been claimed by sea birds. A dry sob rattles its way out of my chest when I spot loose collections of long strands coyly peeking over the knuckle of the thumb. Trees.
You could almost call it paradise.
The coral tears a hole in the raft as I use the oars to swing the inflatable boat toward the shore. I paddle as quickly as I can in my debilitated state, but the raft takes on too much water to be viable as a seaworthy vessel a hundred meters or so from shore. I'm forced to swim again, and the pain starts in my legs again when I submerge myself in the ocean. I have an incentive to swim fast, and my feet soon touch the bottom of the narrow beach on the atoll. I drag myself into the dismal shade of the knuckle-like ridge. The ground is hard, more like petrified coral than stone, and there is very little loose dirt. Not enough to cover me. Still, there is shade. Enough to suggest that the thumb of the island points north. I am on the eastern side, and as I lie on the cool stone, the shadows get longer.
It's been a busy day, I think. I'll start again tomorrow.
I sleep, for the first time in many days. It does seem like I've found paradise.
I'm woken by the sound of boots on wood and the buzz of voices. As I struggle out of a dreamless valley of sleep, I struggle to remember where I am. Am I still on the Cetacean Liberty? I twitch, moving my legs, and the twinges of pain bring everything back. My eyes are glued shut by both tears and dried salt spray.
I'm not alone on this rock. Moving sluggish—every muscle in my body aches—I slither up the slope of the knuckle until I can peek over the other side of the hill. Unlike the eastern side, the west is home to a slender collection of lancewood—tall trees with naked trunks and clusters of leaves shaped not unlike Grecian kopides. Beyond the tufted lancewoods is a white beach, pristine and clean. At the southern end of the island, at the base of the thumb, there is a gentle groove in the rocky atoll. At the top of the arc of the groove is a partially concealed shelter, and along the rim of the natural lagoon are a series of wooden poles sunk into the water. It's a cheap harbor, probably indiscernible from a kilometer out. You almost have to be on top of the atoll before you would notice the man-made modifications.
The harbor is easy for me to pick out now because there is a boat anchored there. It might have been a commercial fishing boat once, but that time is well past. A frenzy of antennae and satellite dishes festoon the roof of the narrow bridge like a cluster of mushrooms. The seamen I see are dark-skinned, and they're wearing an assortment of clothing. Nothing that looks like a uniform. Unless you considered the distinctive shape of the AK-47 each carries as an adequate stand-in for a squad patch.
It's hard to tell what they are doing from my vantage point, though it looks like they are offloading cargo and reconfiguring it. Repackaging and dividing. It's oddly familiar all of a sudden as I recall doing not-dissimilar work while transporting contraband for the French Resistance. You get the goods from the supplier, repackage them to meet the requirements of your buyer, and then make the delivery. Neither end knows how much you skimmed off during the transaction. Everyone goes home happy.
The captain of the ship, an angular man in a black pea coat and woolen hat, ambles up the beach. Taking a nature hike while his crew does their work. I crawl over the top of the hill and start sliding down the other side. This gentleman and I have a matter to discuss.
He spots me coming. I am a black shadow tumbling down the red rock hillside, a bird of bad omen coming to roost. He tugs a large revolver out of his waistband as I reach the base of the hill, and he waits out in the middle of the beach for me as I weave through the copse of lancewoods. I've been exposed to a lot of sun the last few days and my skin is red and peeling. I'm worn out, like a husk of dried fruit, and my mood is as foul as my skin.
I'm going to try to be nice, though. Just in case politeness will make a difference.
The captain's got a bulge in his cheek, and as I cross the pale beach, tiny shards of bleached coral, his jaw moves and he spits a squirt of black goo onto the beach.
I come to an abrupt halt, staring at the dark stain on the coral.
“Um, hey,” he says, thumbing back the hammer on his revolver.
I raise my head and stare at him.
“Oh, shit,” he says, his hand trembling. The barrel of the revolver wiggles off-target.
I really should be polite, but I'm thirsty.
He manages to pull the trigger once, the report of the firearm breaking the calm respite of the island. On the rocky nail, birds startle, flooding into the sky.
His blood is foul, tainted by years of chewing tobacco. I drink it anyway, because I don't want to stain the beach.
The sailors are Maori, their dark skins covered with tribal tattoos, and they don't appear overly agitated. Apparently this isn't the first time their captain has fired his hand cannon on the island. I can only imagine what sort of target shooting he's been doing with the birds, which only makes me happier that I killed him. The sailors have finished whatever unloading and loading they needed to do, and a couple of them are still wandering around the beach as I walk up.
“Nice boat,” I say. I'm wearing the captain's coat and hat, the handgun shoved in the front of my pants in much the same lackadaisical fashion as he carried it. I don't expect my disguise to fool the sailors; more that I hope to suggest a starting point for our conversation. Ship needs a captain. Captain needs a crew. Everything else is negotiable. To a point. I could probably manage the boat myself, but I'd prefer not to.
“It's a bucket of rust,” one of the sailors replies. The others begin to wander back toward the boat, trying to look nonchalant, but I can tell from the tension in their shoulders that they are trying hard not to run.
I keep my gaze on the spokesperson. I'm not terribly concerned about the others. Yet. “What's your name, sailor?” I ask.
“Winston,” he replies. “Where did you come from?”
I indicate the landscape behind me. “From the other side of that hill there.”
He offers a polite laugh. “Where are you going?” he asks.
“That depends on a small matter, doesn't it?”
“Aye,” he nods. “It does.”
“You going to miss your late captain?”
“Captain Henry was an a*shole,” Winston says. “He never paid us shit.”
“Well,” I point out, “he was captain of a rusty old trawler. What did you expect?”
Winston laughs at that. He has a lot of strong-looking teeth. A good sign. Virility and self-confidence.
“I need a ride, Winston. You think that boat will remain seaworthy long enough to get back to Australia?”
He shakes his head lightly. “It is bad luck to give rides to stranded spirits. Especially kiri mate.”
“I'd be happy to give you what is in my wallet, except…” I shrug, suggesting that the story of how I lost my wallet isn't that interesting. I don't know what a kiri mate is, but it isn't too hard to guess. “Well, here's the thing,” I continue, taking the late captain's hat off and tossing it to Winston, “I need a ride more than I need a ship.”
Winston catches the hat and turns it over in his hands for a moment. His gaze strays to the gun stuck in my belt. “Where?” he asks eventually.
“Somewhere near Adelaide.”
He puts the hat on, adjusts it to his liking, and smiles at me again. “I might know how to get to somewhere near Kangaroo Island,” he says.
It is my turn to laugh. It's a small island off the Australian coast, at the mouth of the Gulf of St. Vincent. The Aboriginals call it the island of the dead. “That'll work,” I say.
“And?” he asks.
“And you can keep the boat, and as far as I am concerned, there is no cargo below deck.
“Nothing but empty boxes,” he says, touching the brim of the cap.
Several of the crew are now standing on the deck of the boat, their AK-47s hanging loosely in their hands. Not in a threatening way. They're just letting me see them.
I doubt any of them could actually hit me at this range, but I don't need to make them try. “I hope the crew is as lazy as they look and not prone to sudden spurts of curiosity,” I say.
“The previous captain's quarters are very small, and they smell bad,” Winston says. “But the door locks.”
“Finally,” I sigh, “something on that rust bucket that works.”
Winston smiles as he turns his head and shouts at the crew in Maori. The guns disappear and the crew starts to make preparations for departure.
“Welcome aboard the Black Starling,” Winston says, indicating the boat. “We'll be departing shortly.”