Set title

by O’Donnell, Laurel

  She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Hoist the sail,” she shouted. “Head for the open sea.”

  When the shaking began, the Fatimids ran out of the olive grove and back towards the ship, screeching in Arabic.

  Kon’s heart stopped. Was the world coming to an end?

  “Earthquake,” Menas shouted above the roar. “Follow me.”

  Kon reeled like a drunkard, barely avoiding a large crack in the earth that opened up beneath his shackled feet. The Nubian stretched his arms around the trunk of an olive tree. “Join hands,” he urged. “We can’t hold on separately because of the chains, but together…”

  Kon pressed his body to the tree and grasped his comrade’s hands. The bark bit into his face, the links of the chain dug into his chest. They clung together for endless minutes, tightening their grip when the roots snapped loose from the trembling ground and the tree tilted alarmingly. Dust rose up from the tormented earth, turning daylight into a choking fog.

  Suddenly there was an eerie silence.

  After minutes that seemed like an eternity, coughing began in the distance…then cries of pain…muffled shouts of distress.

  Discovering he was still hanging from the nearly uprooted tree, Kon blinked the grit out of his eyes, and peered around the trunk. His friend was covered in a layer of dust. “Your skin has turned white,” he jested.

  “Now that would be a miracle,” Menas replied with a tight smile, “but the worst may not be over.”

  THE SEA'S FURY

  “We should see to the slaves on the ship,” Kon said, looking around cautiously as he braced his legs and let go of his comrade’s hands. “If there’s a chance to free them…”

  Menas hesitated. “A tidal surge may yet come,” he warned.

  Kon had no notion of what his friend meant. The tide had come in quickly to swamp the army’s tents during the occupation of Termoli years ago, but there’d been little damage. “Nevertheless, we’re alive, thanks to your quick thinking.”

  Without waiting for a reply he hurried along the path, cursing the shackles as he climbed over uprooted trees and strode over deep fissures.

  He heard Menas behind him as he came to the beach, astonished at the sight he beheld. Fatimids lay here and there crushed beneath boulders that had fallen from the cliffs. He stared at the bloodied bodies, reliving the heart-stopping terror of the rocks sliding from the surrounding peaks in the Pale Mountains. A lifetime ago.

  Menas’s hand on his shoulder jolted him from his shock. “Look at the ship.”

  The flat-bottomed Feloz lay on her side, mired in sand, her mast gone, her hull riddled with gaping holes.

  He looked back at what had been a sheer cliff when they’d pulled in a scant hour before. “The whole thing came down,” he rasped in disbelief. “Just shattered.”

  Menas pulled his arm. “More importantly, the tide has gone out too quickly. It’s an ill omen.”

  Kon looked out to sea. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but sand. Then, on the distant horizon he saw a speck. “There’s a ship out there.”

  A memory of a dream surfaced. Zara the figurehead. “It’s the Ragusa.”

  “It doesn’t matter, we must get away from the beach,” Menas insisted, clearly agitated.

  “There may be survivors,” Kon replied, looking for a way to climb aboard.

  Menas heaved an exasperated sigh then knelt beside the ruined ship, fingers meshed. Kon accepted the offer and clung to the wood as his friend strained to lift him. He crawled up like a crab, falling over the side onto the decking.

  Most of the tar pots lay smashed to pieces, their contents oozing slowly to cover the entire hull. It had taken the last of his strength and willpower to carry the pot aboard, but satisfaction rippled through him.

  But his pleasure fled when he saw the bodies of the slaves. Every one had perished beneath the hail of rocks. Fury filled him when a pitiful moan drew his gaze to Nizar. The monster lay pinned under the fallen mast, arms flailing in the black goo, the stolen scimitar waving uselessly in one hand, the whip in the other.

  He tasted the acrid desire for vengeance. Not only for himself but for Menas, and for the wretches Nizar had slowly tortured to death. He waded carefully into the tar and yanked the scimitar from the Arab’s grip. Holding it tightly in both hands, he raised the curved blade above his head.

  “Rahma,” Nizar begged.

  The desperation in the man’s eyes clearly showed his plea was for mercy, but his perverse cruelty had purged every last drop of it from Kon’s heart.

  He clenched his jaw and made ready to lop off the slave-master’s head.

  A shout from Menas drew his attention. His comrade had managed to make it up the side and now clung to the top of the wale. “Justice is not yours to dispense, Konrad. God has been merciful to us, but we must get to higher ground.”

  Kon flexed his biceps and gritted his teeth, but the certainty Menas was right calmed the raging beast within. Nizar already wore the mask of death. Justice had been served.

  He straightened his shoulders, threw down the weapon and looked out to sea, hoping to catch another glimpse of the ship he believed Zara had brought to his rescue. He narrowed his eyes, not quite believing the enormous wall of water rushing towards the beach.

  The swell lifted the Pravda. For long moments no one on board breathed as the ship floated in mid air. Then she settled and the swell moved on. Towards Zante.

  “You saved us, Rospo,” she shouted. “Now follow the wave.”

  Her steersman smiled briefly, though he seemed troubled. The crew added their loud agreement, but the hubbub quieted as the ship came about and they watched the wave ahead of them grow rapidly into a wall of water taller than any ship. It loomed over Zante like an avenging angel.

  “We must hope he isn’t on the beach,” Jakov said hoarsely.

  “Nor on the ship,” she murmured.

  “The tar pits are a little further inland,” Lupomari offered. “If he is there…”

  “Drop anchor,” Rospo urged.

  She echoed his order, mortified that her single-minded determination to aid Kon had again put others in danger. They were close enough to the beach now to make out a vessel directly in the path of the giant wave.

  She watched in growing horror as the angry sea smashed into the island, picking up the ship and hurling it against the cliff like a child’s plaything.

  “No one could survive such a catastrophe,” Lupomari said gruffly.

  “Kon,” she sobbed, knowing all hope was gone.

  Propelled by sheer terror over the side of the Feloz, Kon followed Menas, running back into the trees as fast as the shackles allowed. Sand and grass stuck to the wet tar on the soles of his feet and actually helped him keep his balance in the uneven terrain.

  His heart pounded in his ears, louder than the sound of trees and rocks being mowed down by the oncoming surge. Breathless, they rushed into the clearing, astonished to see the rowers who’d survived sitting huddled together in the shed.

  “Run,” Menas shouted, but it was too late. The wave overtook them. They were lifted off their feet and carried along on a raging river of uprooted trees, branches, planks, plants and animals—some dead, others struggling to keep their heads above water.

  Kon was dragged under more than once. He managed to surface after each terrifying dunking, but his endurance was ebbing. He accepted it was only a matter of time before he drowned.

  He vaguely heard a shout over the din. Not too far away, Menas had entangled his chains in the branches of a floating tree. Recognizing it as his only hope, he struck out, fighting his way through the debris until his hand grasped a limb. With a final effort he crawled closer to the tree, tangled the chain of his manacles in the limbs, gripped the trunk with his thighs and reached out to clasp Menas’s outstretched hand.

  “Pray for me, Zara,” he gasped, surrendering his fate to God and the rushing torrent.

  TURNING BLUE

  The Pravda bobbed
at anchor a safe distance from the peaceful shore. The island looked as idyllic as ever, apart from the ominous dust cloud hanging over the now barren cliffs. Earthquakes were one of the few things Zara had feared since her father told her of the phenomenon. Having now witnessed first-hand the awesome forces unleashed when the earth moved, terror had rendered her incapable of thought or movement.

  She was aware the crew were waiting for her command to pull in to the island, but the prospect of setting foot on Zante conjured her Papa’s warnings of aftershocks…

  She startled when Jakov touched her elbow. “You must overcome your fear, Zara. For Kon’s sake. If he’s still alive, he won’t last long without our help.”

  “How can he have survived?” she retorted, gesturing to the splintered wreckage on the beach. “It’s evident there are no signs of life. If the earthquake didn’t kill him, the storm surge…”

  The words died in her grief-tightened throat.

  Silent minutes passed before he spoke again. “I knew the moment my son’s soul was taken into heaven,” he told her, his voice hoarse with emotion. He pressed a clenched fist to his chest. “I felt the bond break.” He took hold of her trembling hands. “You and Konrad share a bond. Look into your heart. It will sense if he is dead.”

  She gripped his warm hand, inhaled a ragged breath and closed her eyes.

  “Tell me what you see,” he said.

  At first there was only the dark, disturbing image of a ship tossed against a cliff. First the Feloz, then the Pravda, then her beloved Nunziata. She cried out her anguish as one after another the vessels broke against the rock. Then another vision slowly intruded. She opened her eyes. “Chains. He’s chained.”

  “Yes,” Jakov replied patiently, “we expected he’d be chained on the ship.”

  She closed her eyes again, searching. The mist cleared. “No, he’s chained to a tree.”

  “A tree?”

  She nodded. “An olive tree.”

  “Mayhap he was enlisted to haul tar,” Lupomari offered. “He’d have passed through the olive grove.”

  She frowned, not sure of what appeared next. “His feet are black.”

  Jakov pecked a kiss on her forehead. “Bravely done! We must search at the tarpits.”

  A different, more vivid image arose to rob her of breath. She opened her eyes wide and shook her head vigorously. “No. He has turned blue.”

  Jakov eyed her, clearly suspecting she had delved too deeply into the world of visions. “With cold?”

  She laughed and turned to Rospo. “Kon Wolf has turned blue, my friend,” she exclaimed.

  “Ha!” he shouted, rushing off to man the tiller.

  “Set a course for the west side of the island,” she told the gaping Lupomari. “I know where he is.”

  The constant drip, drip of water woke Kon. The memory of the desperate effort to hold on to the tree slowly drifted into his wits. He absently rubbed the grit out of one eye and realized his chains still held him to the branches of the floating trunk. But where was he?

  When he put his hand back in the water, it instantly turned blue. Startled, he hastily removed it, relieved to see the normal color return.

  Fearing he was in some cavernous antechamber to heaven, or mayhap hell, he raised his aching head. Menas was still attached to the tree, but didn’t seem to be awake. The parts of his body in the water were also blue, not black.

  Kon had believed death came in a moment, but perhaps it was a slow process, a journey they hadn’t yet completed. They were somewhere between life and death, a place where all men were made the same.

  He risked peering into the clear depths, but couldn’t see bottom. There appeared to be no ledges jutting from the sheer walls towering above him. Fear of drowning in the blue abyss constricted his throat, but if it was part of the journey…

  Menas stirred and blinked open one eye.

  “We’re nearly there,” Kon said hoarsely.

  “Where?”

  “Heaven, I hope.”

  Menas raised his head and looked at his hands in the water. “Nonsense. We’re in the Blue Cave.”

  “Right. We are slowly turning blue. It must be a waterway to the Almighty.”

  Menas stared at him. “You’ve evidently suffered a blow to the head, Konrad. In your studies of religion did you ever read of a blue waterway to heaven?”

  He hesitated, admitting the notion did sound foolish. “No, but…”

  “Have your tarred feet turned blue?”

  Kon twisted to look at his feet in the water. They were blue except for the black soles. “Huh!” was the only remark that came to mind.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Menas’s lips. “The torrent must have carried us to the other side of the southern tip of the island. It’s where the Blue Cave is. Zara’s father told me he brought her here once.”

  A certainty washed over him. The woman he loved had been in this very cave before and she was close now.

  He filled his lungs. “Zara,” he bellowed, “I’m in the Blue Cave.”

  “Not too loud,” Menas admonished as the cavern echoed his shout. “The earthquake may have loosened parts of the ceiling.”

  Chastened, Kon looked up. “Mayhap we should steer the tree to the opening.”

  “If we venture beyond the cave, the tide may carry us out into the Ionian Sea and they’ll never find us.”

  “You believe they are searching?”

  “I’m confident they are, but I hope they come before nightfall. We might freeze to death in here.”

  The Pravda’s rowboat was lowered to the tranquil sea. Rospo and Jakov climbed down the rope ladder.

  From the deck, Zara looked across at the low opening of the cave she remembered from long ago. If her father had never brought her here, she wouldn’t have known where to look for Kon. It was a miracle long in the making. “I don’t see why I can’t come,” she shouted down to the two men.

  Jakov looked up. “Look. Kon may be badly injured, or worse. We’ll hope for the best, but we must be prepared.”

  She sensed their worry Kon might not be happy to see her, since she had caused his torment. “Do you have the blankets?” she asked, knowing full well they did.

  “I have everything,” Jakov replied, “including my trusty adze and chisel.”

  “I thought it was just an adze?”

  He shrugged. “I added to my collection. Drosik isn’t going to miss it.”

  CHAINED FOREVER

  Kon drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware each time he woke that more and more of his body was turning blue. When the water chilled his manhood, it gradually dawned on him he was naked. “The torrent tore off my loincloth,” he muttered.

  “Mine too,” Menas replied hoarsely. “I’ve got blue balls.”

  Kon glanced down at his groin, chuckling at the strange sight he beheld. “Me too,” he exclaimed.

  The dire situation suddenly struck him as hysterically funny. He wondered how many men appeared before God on the Day of Reckoning with such colorful…

  Menas was barely visible in the growing darkness but he sensed his friend’s scowl. “I can’t stop laughing,” he confessed.

  “Sleep,” Menas commanded. “The tree is becoming waterlogged. Mayhap if we are asleep when we drown it will be easier.”

  It was the first time he’d detected defeat and resignation in his friend’s voice. It jolted him out of his hysteria. He forced his chilled arms to move in the water, paddling the tree towards the dwindling light at the cave’s mouth. “I don’t plan to die here when Zara is close at hand.”

  Menas turned away. “Want to show off your blue balls, eh?”

  Kon clenched his jaw. The staunch comrade who had seen him through many trials and saved his life more than once was succumbing to the madness of despair. He couldn’t allow it. “Wake up. Help me,” he urged, splashing water on Menas. “Paddle to the light.”

  The Nubian made a half-hearted effort to move one arm in the water. “No one is
coming,” he whispered.

  Kon hit the surface with the flat of his hand, drenching his friend again and filling the cave with the sounds of splashing water. “Help me.”

  Menas raised his head. “Hush. Hush. Did you hear that?”

  There was a trace of expectancy in the Nubian’s voice. With difficulty, Kon steadied his breathing and listened.

  The incessant dripping went on; the pounding of his own heart filled his ears. But on the still air came the unmistakable sound of oar blades dipped in water, their wooden shafts grinding on tholes. A man’s voice echoed off the cave’s ceiling. “Konrad…Konrad.”

  His joy threatened to choke him. “Over here,” he managed hoarsely. “We’re over here.”

  He narrowed his eyes as a shape loomed. A rowboat.

  “Thank God,” the voice said.

  Kon peered up at the face grinning at him. “Jakov?”

  “Aye, and Rospo. And I see you’ve a shipmate aboard your leafy vessel.”

  “His name is Menas, a fellow slave. Is Zara with you?”

  Jakov hesitated. “No. She was afraid you might be angry.”

  Did he mean she was still in Termoli, or had she gone back to Venezia? And why would he be angry with her? Before he could put his thoughts into words, Jakov rushed on. “I see you are firmly attached to the tree. Safest is to tow you out of the cave and get those irons off on board the ship. Agreed?”

  Menas evidently understood yet another language. “You are angels sent from God.”

  Rospo’s unmistakable face appeared next over the side of the boat. Jaw clenched, he stretched out a hand holding a rope, but said nothing, his gaze fixed on the eerie water.

  Kon wound the end of the rope around his frozen hand. “Ready.”