The Bar at the Edge of the Sea

by Tom Abrahams

  “How about a beer,” he said. “Phil was drinking a beer with hints of whiskey.”

  Pedro dropped a pair of ice cubes into the glass and shot a blast of water over them. He set the glass on the counter and slid it Lucius. Then he raised a finger, shaking it back and forth.

  “Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale,” he said. “Good choice. It’s a beer that’s aged in bourbon barrels. You know the barrels are only good for a single use when it comes to the bourbon. They get repurposed. Adds a nice sweet burn to the beer.”

  Pedro disappeared through a door next to the liquor shelves. In a moment, he was back with a pair of beer bottles. He set them on the counter in front of Zeke and Lucius.

  Zeke thanked him, toasted him, and took a healthy pull. The beer was chilled. The zing of alcohol bubbled in his head. The swallow started with the aromatic sting of the bourbon and finished with the sour of the beer. It was delicious. He took another quick swig and swished it around in his cheeks.

  “I didn’t want a beer,” said Lucius. “Thanks. But I’m good with the water.”

  “Let’s see if that’s how you feel after our discussion,” said Pedro. “If you don’t want the beer, I’m sure Ezekiel will gladly imbibe.”

  Pedro was right. Zeke could drink these all day.

  Lucius took a hesitant sip of the water. He licked his upper lip and motioned around the bar with the glass in his hand. The cubes clinked together.

  “What is this place?” he asked. “Where am I?”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” asked Pedro. “That’s a good place to start.”

  Lucius took a deeper gulp of water this time. Stray drops rolled down his chin. He wiped them with the back of his hand and apologized.

  “Not a problem,” said Pedro. “Been a while since you had ice?”

  Lucius checked with Zeke, then admitted he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cold drink. Cold food, yes. Cold drinks, no.

  Pedro whipped the cloth rag from his shoulder and swiped the bar dry around Lucius’s sweating glass of water. It was a quick, expert movement. Then he leaned on the bar with his elbows, his thick, browned forearms appearing to flex.

  “What can you remember?” he whispered.

  Lucius cleared his throat. “I remember seeing the ship offshore. It wasn’t one we’d seen before.”

  Zeke pivoted in his seat to watch Lucius as he spoke. He remembered sitting in that very seat, a newcomer in a strange land. Everything made sense, but nothing did. It was surreal and vivid, like a nightmare without the panic.

  Lucius’s eyes were closed. He’d squeezed them shut. His face looked pained as he recounted the memory.

  “There were traders who’d visit,” he said. “This wasn’t one of them. The way the ship approached. The number of men aboard. We knew it was bad.” His hands tightened into fists. His knuckles whitened. “We tried to rally our limited defenses. The children hid. The women protected them. The men tried to fight.”

  Tears leaked down his cheeks. Lucius’s breathing sped up. Each word was breathier than the last.

  “There were too many of them,” he continued. “We aren’t violent people. Nobody in our chain of islands fights. We’re peaceful. We told the pirates we were peaceful.”

  Zeke shifted to regard Pedro. He arched his eyebrows and mouthed the word, “Pirates?”

  Pedro returned the glance. He frowned, lifted a finger to his lips, and shook his head.

  “They took me from my daughter,” said Lucius. “Ripped me from her and took me offshore. When I didn’t give them what they wanted, they—he—I…”

  Lucius spread his fingers and put both hands to his chest. He opened his eyes and looked down, patting himself like he was looking for something he’d misplaced.

  “What did they want?” asked Pedro.

  Lucius wiped his eyes with his knuckles. “A map.”

  “To what?”

  Lucius opened his mouth to speak. He said nothing and closed it again.

  Pedro pushed the glass of water toward him. Lucius picked up the glass and downed the rest of the water. The ice, fused together now, hit his teeth with a clack.

  “What map did they want from you, Lucius?” Pedro asked.

  The newcomer lowered his head. Chin against his chest, he stared at the floor. No answer.

  Pedro lowered his voice. “Let’s try this instead. Who wanted the map?”

  Lucius looked up. “His name is Desmond Branch.”

  “And he’s a pirate?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you live in a chain of islands?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this Desmond Branch believed you had a map?”

  “Yes.”

  Pedro ran his hand along his white beard, stroking it, as he watched the newcomer struggle in his seat. He scratched at the scruff where his jaw met his neck. He pursed his lips, then spoke. “Did you have what Desmond Branch wanted?”

  Lucius brought his hands up to the bar. He clasped them and began rubbing his thumbs across one another.

  A hand touched Zeke’s back. A familiar floral scent told him who it was before he saw Uriel squeeze into the seat beside him.

  She put her lips to his ear and whispered. It sent a shiver up and down his spine. Electricity sparked in his chest and branched toward his fingers and toes. “How’s the newbie? He looks so serious. And he’s older. I mean, I like an experienced man. But usually the newbies are younger. Like you, Zekie.”

  She’d started calling him Zekie since they’d returned to the bar with his girlfriend, Adaliah. Or ex-girlfriend, he wasn’t quite sure anymore. And he didn’t know if the name was a genuine term of endearment from Uriel, or a barb with which to jab at Adaliah.

  Regardless, Zeke inhaled her intoxicating aroma. It offered more of a buzz than the bourbon beer. He shifted to whisper a response. “Not a good time right now.”

  “Is it ever?” she replied and raised her hand to order a drink.

  Pedro ignored her. He repeated his question to Lucius. “Lucius, look at me, son.”

  The newcomer lifted his chin.

  “Did you have what Desmond Branch wanted from you?” Pedro asked.

  “Indirectly,” said Lucius. “My daughter has it.”

  In that instant Lucius emerged from his stupor. His expression brightened. He moved to get up from the stool.

  “I need to go,” he said. “I have to get back to my daughter. She’s in danger.”

  Lucius spun around, surveying the bar. He stepped from the bar and stumbled into a chair. The poor man looked like a drunk who’d awoken with no recollection of where he was but was certain he was late for something and likely in trouble.

  He grabbed the back of a chair and spun to the bar. His panicked gaze swept from Uriel to Zeke to Pedro and back.

  “Help me,” he pleaded. “I need to get out of here. I have to find my daughter.”

  Uriel leaned in toward Zeke. “Sound familiar, big boy?”

  Zeke ignored her. It did sound familiar. It wasn’t that long ago he’d been anxious to leave this place, to get back to his hometown and rescue the woman he’d abandoned. Now she was upstairs, unable to cope with the reality they had yet to explain to Lucius.

  Pedro stepped from around the bar and moved toward Lucius. The newcomer appeared to cower, like the walls were closing in around him. He crouched against the chair, sinking into a squat. He dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. His back heaved. His body shuddered.

  The barkeep crouched beside him and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “We can help you,” said Pedro. “But you must tell us more about the map, about your daughter, and about this pirate, Desmond Branch.”

  Chapter Six

  Anaxi had never seen anything like it. From her vantage point, on the deck of Branch’s boat, the Saladin, the vessel blocked out the sun.

  “It’s impressive, isn’t it?” said Branch.

  He stood next to Anaxi, one hand on her
shoulder and the other tucked into his waistband. They watched as Pierre Le Grand navigated the Saladin next to the enormous metal ship anchored next to them. The crew aboard the larger vessel tossed down a rope ladder, which twisted and flattened against its rusted hull. One of Branch’s men used a shepherd’s crook to hook the ladder and draw it toward the Saladin.

  “You’ll go aboard with me,” said Branch. “We’ll negotiate a price. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  The pirate pulled away from her and reached into a deep pocket at his hip. He withdrew a leather pouch cinched at the top, bounced it in his palm, and handed it to Anaxi.

  She weighed the bag in her palm. It was heavier than it looked. She massaged the leather and the rounded edges of coins, then looked up at the pirate, his face dark from the shadow cast by the much larger ship.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Payment,” he said. “That’s what we exchange for fuel.”

  Anaxi bounced the bag in her hand and studied the massive vessel next to them. To see the deck of the thing, she had to lean back and crane her neck.

  Branch seemed to sense her question coming.

  “This is what’s called a tanker,” he answered before she asked. “A relic of the world before the melt. There are a few dozen of them. They ration out their stores for food, coins, women.”

  Branch smirked at her. They both knew, she supposed, that he was trying to frighten her. It was a pointless ploy. He needed her more than he needed fuel.

  “You will need more than fuel,” she told him. It was the first clue she’d offered in the days since they’d left her home island, since her father disappeared into the deep.

  “Is that so?” Branch said. “What am I going to need?”

  Anaxi tossed the bag, juggling it between her hands. She considered whether she should reveal any of the waypoints on the map inside her head.

  “Courage,” she said.

  Branch laughed. “Is that all?”

  “Fortune.”

  “All men need good fortune,” he said. “I make my fortune. Always have. And I have courage to spare.”

  Anaxi stopped tossing the bag. “Do you?”

  The silence between them hung in the air with the salt and the spray. Anaxi scowled, her knowing gaze locked onto the pirate. His smile evaporated. He grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the rope ladder.

  “Let’s go, girl. Make yourself useful.”

  Anaxi suppressed her satisfaction at irking him and, with a crewman’s help, stepped over the side of the Saladin. She held the coin bag between her teeth and grabbed the ropes on either side of the wooden rungs that made up the ladder.

  Branch was right behind her as she climbed one rung at a time. Occasionally she’d sense his hands close to her feet.

  “Keep moving,” he said. “Almost there.”

  When she reached the top, a pair of calloused hands helped pull her aboard the tanker. Once on the tanker’s deck, the man attached to the rough hands welcomed her before helping Branch.

  Now in the sunlight, it took Anaxi’s vision a moment to adjust. When it did, a man unlike any she’d ever seen before stood proudly in front of her, a broad smile on his bronze face.

  He was wiry, with shoulder-length, ink-black hair and dark brown eyes. The sinew of his muscles revealed a life of hard work. He wore a sun-bleached shirt bearing lettering Anaxi didn’t recognize and loose-fitting pants that billowed in the salty breeze.

  “Welcome aboard the Texas,” he said. “We are happy to conduct business with you.”

  His accent was unfamiliar and, though she understood him, it wasn’t easy. He extended a hand to Branch.

  “I am Mafuta,” he said. “I must tell you in advance, friend, we do not take women as payment.”

  Branch held Mafuta’s hand after the shake was over. “No worries, Mafuta. She’s not for sale. I have coin.”

  Mafuta pulled away his hand but maintained his affability. He bent at the waist and nodded toward Anaxi.

  “Good to know, friend. Follow me.”

  The ship was a nest of pipes and narrow passageways. They clanged up a twisting set of vented metal stairs. Mafuta moved briskly, leading them into the ship’s bridge tower. The chipped and peeling paint on the railing flaked on Anaxi’s hand as she ascended.

  On this ship she saw things of which she’d never conceived. There were people whose skin spread across the spectrum of colors. Some were dark. Others so light skinned they appeared almost translucent. One woman had hair the color of dead palm fronds. Some had painted faces. Decorations in their ears that made the lobes sag.

  Clothing was a cornucopia of fabrics and textures. Anaxi was transfixed by the bright blue and green tunic dress that covered the entirety of a thin bronze woman save her face and hands. Her eyes were a bright blue, like a cloudless sky.

  The smells were another thing altogether. Some good, some bad. It was like passing through fabled bazaars about which her father had told her. Markets with spices and fresh meats. Vegetables and fruits the colors of which seemed impossible. Rainbows of goods with odors to match. Feasts for eyes, ears, and nose.

  If only my father could see this. He wouldn’t believe it either.

  The bridge was a musty space, the stale odor of cigarette smoke clinging to the yellow haze filling the tanker’s operational hub. Three men, all of them appearing much older than Mafuta, stood at controls overlooking the bow.

  Through the haze, Anaxi peered through the large glass windows. This perspective of the ocean was incredible. She’d never been so high in the air. The world looked bigger, the curved edge of the horizon impossibly far away. The soft chop of the waves looked like white eyelashes blinking over and over. To the port side, a squabble of seagulls rode the currents of the warm sea air. They flapped their wings in unison and then stopped, gliding above the churn of the tanker’s wake.

  She was so transfixed by it all, she almost missed the transaction happening beside her. Branch wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. His squeeze brought her back to the moment.

  “Anaxi,” he said, “hand the captain the bag.”

  The captain was a squat man with an open shirt that exposed his round belly. His dark skin looked stretched taut across his midsection. He had yellow eyes and teeth to match. Divots marked his oblong scalp. A wrap of dark hair ran from ear to ear around the back of his head.

  He extended a hand to Anaxi and flexed his fingers as if grabbing at the air, coaxing her to give him the coins.

  Instead of handing it to him politely, she flicked her wrist and tossed it to him. The captain caught it against his chest, the coins clinking loudly against each other.

  He took the bag in both hands and uncinched the top. With pursed lips he peeked inside the opening before dumping its contents into his palm to weigh the bounty.

  “This is good,” he said. “You’ll have your fuel.”

  Branch’s grip eased on Anaxi’s neck. “Very good.”

  “Stay for a drink?” asked the captain.

  “Of course,” said Branch. “I’m never one to turn down a generous offer.”

  The captain jutted his chin at Mafuta. “Get the men to move the fuel to the Saladin.”

  Mafuta bowed. “Yes, Captain.”

  He hustled from the bridge to take care of business. His footsteps clanged on the staircase and echoed against the iron walls.

  “Come,” said the captain.

  He guided them through a port into a wide galley that smelled like grease and smoke. Above a countertop, hanging by the feet from twine hooked to the ceiling, were three dead gulls. Their bodies swung together with the gentle motion of the ship.

  Anaxi winced at the sight, then gagged from the smell.

  The captain grabbed a pair of glasses and a bottle of brown liquid and led them to a round table. He took a chair facing the bridge and motioned for them to sit opposite him. He formally introduced himself as he poured two glasses.

  “My name is Nahodha,” he
said. “My men and I thank you for the business.”

  He lifted his glass and toasted his guests. With a single gulp, he downed the liquor. Branch had his glass in the air. He tipped it forward and raised his eyebrows at Nahodha before taking a drink himself.

  Branch thanked the captain for the drink. Nahodha beamed with pride and poured himself another glass.

  “It’s a rum,” he said. “Very old. Very rare. We have a few bottles left. I have to hide them from the men, or they would be gone very fast. Very fast.”

  He snapped his fingers and laughed. Another swig and the glass was empty again.

  “Tell me about yourself,” Nahodha addressed Branch. “We haven’t done business together before. Where have you been? Where are you going?”

  Branch took another sip before answering, “I try to spread my business, expand my network. It’s always good to find a new partner. My name is Desmond Branch. I am captain of the Saladin. This is my…ward, Anaxi.”

  Anaxi pressed her lips together. Beneath the table, she crossed her legs at her ankles. In her lap she clasped her hands together and flexed them in and out. It took everything in her not to tell the captain exactly who she was and what Branch was attempting to do. She remembered a phrase her father had often repeated when she was quick to anger, when her impulse control threatened to get the better of her.

  “Discretion is the better part of valor,” he’d said.

  “Which means what exactly?” she’d questioned.

  “It’s from an ancient play,” he’d explained. “From one book that survived the melt.”

  She remembered the library on the island. The village had twelve books. Most of them were warped from water damage, some of them had missing pages, and only adults could touch them. Anaxi had looked forward to the day she’d be able to read them for herself, hold them in her hands. Now that day would never come.

  “What play?” she’d said to her father.

  “Henry IV,” he’d answered. “A man pretends to be dead on the battlefield to avoid being killed. Then he proclaims that discretion is the better part of valor.”

  “It sounds like a joke.”