I damn well can’t eat it now, he thought crossly as he scrambled after it, seeing what looked like the mouth of a cave up ahead. A cave meant shade, protection from the sun, perhaps even an underground spring full of cool, clear water, and—
Something huge and dark lunged sharply out of the rocky hole and snatched up the orange bird, which trilled loudly and began to scream with Truffo’s voice. Truffo fell back in fear, hitting his head on the hard ground. He gasped hard in pain and looked up just in time to see the big, man-shaped shadow snap the bird’s neck.
“No!” Truffo sputtered, his vision blackening. “No, no, birdy! Oh, gods, is there no justice?”
The hulking shadow turned, the limp orange bird in its hand, and as the uneven blue eyes stared down in surprise and bewilderment, Truffo slipped into unconsciousness.
Mira broke the surface of the water, blinded momentarily by sunlight before the lenses of the diver’s goggles adjusted to the gleam. She spat out the salty seawater and breathed in the clean air of the surface. Paddling her legs beneath her to stay upright, she held her trophy above the surface, turning it back and forth to examine it.
The object was partly wood and partly silver, etched with ornate curls and patterns she did not recognize. It was a little heavy, despite being quite slender, and its oblong shape sat comfortably in her palm, as if it were meant to be held there. She inspected it from every angle, noting the artful shapes and grooves in the thin sides of the thing.
There was also what appeared to be a hinge, but she was unsure how to pry it apart to see what was inside, or even how it was put together. She would need some more tools to gut it, she realized, and swam toward the shore, the clear waters rippling about her. Fish skirted by her, and a ray fluttered along the sandy bottom as the way grew shallower.
At last, Mira could stand, and she walked the rest of the way up onto the beach. She dropped the rope coil she’d been wearing across her body and stood on the warm sand, as naked as the day she was born.
She had learned knots from a book in her father’s cave many years ago, and had used that skill to rescue debris from the bottom of the bay. Mira pushed the goggles back from her brow to rest on the crown of her head, her thick, tangled hair falling in a twisted, uneven braid down her back. The water beaded on her sun-browned skin like dew on a duck, and she furrowed her brow upon the little thing she’d recovered from the wreck.
Although the ship had sunk in parts and pieces, Mira had found no bodies when she dove to investigate, and hadn’t seen any survivors beyond the lagoon. It puzzled her, but she soon became distracted by the fascinating array of items spread throughout the lagoon.
Over several trips to the bottom, she had spotted silverware, long-necked glass bottles—some still unbroken—and several leather and wooden trunks. This little thing of dark wood and curlicued silver had been a surprisingly easy find for its size. It had gleamed in the dark shadows of the bay as though it had wanted to be found, and now it puzzled Mira more than the missing passengers of the ill-fated vessel.
She stretched her arms above her head, working out a cramp in her shoulder, and yawned heartily. The sun was warm, inviting her to sleep, but she wanted to dive back down and retrieve some of the trunks first, to see what was inside.
Mira moved swiftly up the beach to a tree at the edge of the forest beyond the dunes. As a child, she’d hidden and found and re-hidden things all over the island, some of which she was still rediscovering. In the shade, she reached under a bundle of driftwood and pulled out another length of rope she’d placed there some time ago, leaving behind the silver-and-wood object for safekeeping.
Mira bound this rope to the first with a double fisherman’s knot. She looped the large coil across her body as before, then ran splashing into the surf. She swam out to where she’d found the silver-and-wood artifact, took a deep breath, and dove down toward the wreckage.
It took some time to bring each trunk up to the surface and tow it back to shore. Had they been too heavy to swim with, she would have been faced with a difficult choice: open them underwater to try and salvage some of the contents, or leave them unopened on the ocean floor, forever a mystery. Two of these were quite light, the third being only moderately heavy, but still Mira was winded when she hefted the last of the three leather trunks onto the sand and sat down hard beside them, her arms aching.
She blew her breath out hard, and pushed her heavy braid back over her shoulder. She hoped one of the trunks contained a knife or shears of some kind—to cut her hair short and not have to drag the tangled plait around all the time would be a blessing. Who was that fairy tale princess again? The one with the long hair, trapped in the tower.
Petrosinella, she thought, and grimaced. At least I have a whole island, not just a tower.
Mira eyed the trunks beside her, wondering which would be most likely to give way and open up first. They were locked tight, but not completely unaffected by their stint underwater. She rubbed her upper arms, kneading the sore muscles, and looked out over the water, admiring the rich blue of the ocean.
It was something she never tired of. She loved the sea, even though it was equivalent to the walls of her prison. Mira felt more conflicted the older she got; some mornings she woke feeling as though the world was just right as it was, and the isle was all she would ever need. Some days she felt trapped and suspended in time, knowing that beyond the waves there was more, so much more, of everything. It frustrated and taunted her to think of the world beyond, but she loved the island, and, as there was no apparent chance of leaving, she did not struggle with the concept very often.
The soreness in her arms was beginning to subside, and, as the warm afternoon sun beat down on her, Mira thought she saw a dolphin’s fin break the water a little ways out, in the direction of the wreck. She squinted, a smile creeping across her lips, but the fin didn’t dip back down. Then she noticed the gulls circling overhead. She could just faintly make out their whining cries as they flapped and turned, a couple daring to swoop down at something on the surface. She pulled her glasses down over her eyes again and adjusted a knob on the side of them to focus the view for a longer distance. Something floated on the surface, though it was hard to make out what for a few moments. Then the angle of the dark shape shifted, and Mira saw what it was.
A body!
Without a moment of hesitation, Mira leapt to her feet, adjusting the view on the goggles as she did, and ran into the surf. Maybe they’re still alive, she thought, and plunged into the water, kicking out with powerful strokes. She swam hard and fast, her eyes fixed on the bobbing shape. As she got nearer to the spot she’d already explored, she realized that the body was floating just a bit further than she’d swum before. She thought about turning back, but the idea that whoever it was may not be quite dead yet was too great to neglect, so she kept swimming, hoping that she wouldn’t tire too much to swim back by the time she reached it.
The gulls squawked and cried at her, flapping and fluttering as she splashed noisily toward the body. Mira changed to a different stroke to keep her head more above water, slowing as she approached, and saw that it was a man—a young man, sprawled face down on a floating piece of wreck. His dark hair was short, his clothing finer than she’d expected for a sailor. His trousers were an exquisite material, his boots shined, and his shirt was very fine, other than the obvious tears and stains of blood and soot. The embroidery at his sleeves and collar was intricate and brightly colored, unlike anything Mira had seen before. She held onto the side of the raft with one hand and reached up the side of his neck with the other to look for a pulse. She realized she’d never taken a pulse other than her own before, and couldn’t tell whether she actually felt one, or whether it was the bobbing of the waves, or even her own pounding heartbeat.
Better safe than sorry, she thought. She positioned herself behind the raft and began to swim, pushing the man toward shore with a steady, but urgent, kick.
Twice she stopped and floated on her back to re
st, breathing with forced slowness as the cries of the gulls followed her, and wondered if the man was already dead, the process utterly a waste of her energy. If she wasn’t careful, she could tire out completely before she got back to the beach, with or without the body in tow.
Have to try.
Mira gathered herself and kicked out again, taking a slower pace now, and falling into a more comfortable rhythm. The gulls mocked her progress, a few of them growing so bold as to swoop lower past her kicking legs and peck lazily at the body on the raft. She did her best to ignore them, kicking steadily, breathing in rhythm with her swimming.
Stupid birds, she thought, but it worried her that they hadn’t given up on the body—maybe they could sense something she couldn’t. If he were dead, she would have to find somewhere to bury him. Where was that wooden spade she’d built? Had she left it in her father’s cave, or was it hidden somewhere else on the island?
The birds squawked closer now, and one even landed on the body as she pushed the raft toward land. It landed on the man, hopping from his back to his shoulder, pecking inquisitively at the cloth of his shirt and strands of his hair. Mira struggled to keep up her pace, prepping a splash with her right arm, but suddenly the bird’s beak connected with something and the man came alive, gasping in pain and coughing wildly.
Mira stopped swimming as the gull cried out in protest and flew off, flapping its wide wings lazily. The man continued coughing, trying to catch his breath and push himself upright.
“No!” Mira cried, salt water flowing into her mouth. “No, stop! Stop it! You’ll tip over!”
The young man seemed too weak to actually sit up all the way, but he craned his head around, gagging, and looked for the source of her voice, his eyes wild and glazed.
“Stop, just lie down, we’re almost there,” Mira cried, kicking out with her legs again, swimming harder. The young man groaned, disoriented, probably sick from the salt water and dehydration.
A few minutes later, Mira reached the shallows and leapt shakily to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly, but she couldn’t rest yet—she bent and scooped him up under the shoulders, swinging the young man upward, and hefted him onto the sand. He was still conscious, but seemed completely delirious and exhausted, his breathing shallow and weak. Mira dragged him up the beach a little and laid him on his back, her long braid dripping water down her body.
“Stay awake,” she commanded. “Keep your eyes open. You’re going to be all right.” She knelt beside him and saw that he had several shallow cuts on his chest and arms, but there was nothing to indicate he had been seriously injured, other than perhaps a mild concussion and the exhaustion of being at sea in the sun for a while. His eyes rolled up to look at her blearily.
“Your stomach is full of water,” she told him as he gaped up at her. “You have to cough harder. Turn over,” she said, and grasped him by the arms, rolling him to one side and hitting him firmly between the shoulders.
He coughed hard and, in another moment, had vomited a good amount of water onto the sand beside him. He groaned, holding his stomach with one arm.
The man threw up once more, though there was less this time, and it was mixed with bile. Mira held his shoulders firmly as he shuddered, exhausted from the efforts, and only when she thought he had finished did she let him lie on his back again to catch his breath. He lay with his eyes closed, his breathing labored. Her mind raced; he’d need a coconut, for hydration, and some fruit and nuts for sustenance. . . .
His eyes opened dazedly, and he lifted a weak hand to shade himself from the sunlight. Mira sat on the sand beside him, peering down into his face, her long braid hanging over her shoulder and brushing his chest. She frowned, studying his glazed expression.
“You need to rest,” she told him. “We need to get you into the shade. I can—”
“Are you a mermaid?”
The young man’s voice startled her into silence, and Mira stared in surprise at him for several moments, speechless. It was her first conversation with a stranger since the day she and her father came to the island and met Karaburan. Her heart fluttered strangely in her chest. His voice was like a bird call she had never heard before, and she almost didn’t answer.
“I’m—no.” She cleared her throat, her own breath short from the effort of his rescue. “I’m not a mermaid.”
“Why . . .” he trailed off, his eyes sliding shut for a moment before reopening. “Why are you naked?”
Mira went red-hot, and her mind blanked. She stared down at him, her voice as empty as a hollow shell washed up without its crab.
“You saved me,” murmured the young man, and then he slipped into unconsciousness.
Mira let out her breath slowly, grateful that she did not have to answer him. Her limbs trembled as she tried to catch her breath, shell-shocked by the realization that she had rescued this stranger from the sea. She looked about, seeing no sign of her father or the monster. She would have to hide this castaway. If Dante found him—or Karaburan—there was no telling what either of them might do. Strangers had never been here before, and if she got caught harboring one, she was certain her father would punish her severely.
Mira slid her arms under the stranger’s armpits again and dragged him further up into the shade of the tree line. The first order of business was to hide him somewhere safe. Then, put clothes on and retrieve the trunks. After that. . . .
Mira swallowed as she shifted his weight in her arms. After that, she thought, find out who this boy is, and make sure my father doesn’t find out he survived.
Bastiano Civitelli leaned back against the trunk of the tall, broad-leafed palm tree and looked down at the man lying next to him. The duke, Torsione Fiorente, was still unconscious, but his coloring was not too bad, and Bastiano had hope that he would wake soon. It had been a few hours since he awoke on the white sandy beach with the waves lapping at his feet, the unconscious Tor beside him. Bastiano had pulled him up the beach into the shade, where the sand was comfortably cooler, and the breeze off the water was reassuring and gentle.
His stomach growled softly, and he could feel the yearning for food and water growing and moving outward from his belly to his every limb and muscle. He watched the sleeping duke breathe, and fretted in silence.
He must have rescued me, thought Bastiano. The king’s brother had come to with the duke’s arm across his shoulders, which indicated as clear as day that his own life had been recovered by the duke’s superior swimming abilities. And now, he pays the price with his own health.
He wanted to reach out and smooth back the dark, salt-curled hair from Torsione’s brow. Part of him feared that Tor wouldn’t make it, and that he would remain alone on this stretch of beach, with no one and nothing to show for the effort made to save his life.
Bastiano’s arms prickled with goose pimples, the breeze turning cooler as the afternoon wore on. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, or how long the duke would remain so. He thought about getting to his feet, taking a walk up or down the beach, or up the dunes toward the forest that bloomed several hundred yards away. It appeared that they were on an island—one populated by birds and plentiful trees, but no men. It was unnervingly beautiful here, and Bastiano was grateful for the shade provided by the trees.
If I’m this hungry, Bastiano thought, hearing his stomach growl again, poor Tor must be starving. Dehydrated, for sure.
But if Torsione woke while he was gone looking for food, Bastiano would not be able to forgive himself. So he sat still and watched the waves, followed the sun as it moved across the pale blue sky, and waited.
My brother is dead, Bastiano thought occasionally, numbly. And my nephew. And the others . . . all the others. There is no one here but me and Tor. He shook his head, breathed his lungs full of clear, clean air, and closed his eyes against the bright world. Once Tor wakes up, he’ll know what to do. After all, he’s the adventurer.
Bastiano dozed, with his head bowed and his eyes shut, and waited for the duke
to rouse from his waterlogged sleep.
* * *
Aurael did not know what to make of the two men at first. The airy spirit had pulled them from the ocean and laid them on the sand together, since they had been arm in arm as they sank below the waves when he found them. Now, one dozed with his back against a tree, and the other slept soundlessly beside him on the sand. There was something unspoken between them, something unique about the way the upright one kept startling awake to check on the darker, prone fellow.
Aurael did not understand the complexity of most human interactions—something he’d admitted countless times in the past. But he found himself all the more interested in watching these two men for the fact that he’d been trapped on this godsforsaken spit of land with only Dante to really talk to, Karaburan to play with, and Mira to watch from afar.
Ah, Mira, he thought, and wondered if she knew yet about the castaways. Aurael had already strewn several other survivors about the other beaches of the isle, spreading them out so that few would be within range of the others; but he had yet to uncover the Neapolishan king from the murky depths.
More importantly, Aurael began to wonder about Karaburan. Had the unloved, ungainly thing found the two men washed up near his hovel in the rocks? Aurael pursed his lips. If so, there may be some sport in it. His thoughts danced at the prospect. After all the years of carefully bending Karaburan’s mind to his wills and whims, this now might prove even more entertaining than any jest he’d ever devised. The castaways would serve as pawns, and Karaburan he would capture as an opposing knight on the chess field in a gulling so foolish that it made him laugh aloud. His tinkling, shattering laugh echoed up the beach, waking the sitting man enough to make him look about in fear and bewilderment.
Aurael stood from his perch, knowing that the men would not see him, and stretched himself in the warm sun. Then, letting the breeze dissolve his semi-corporeal form into wind, he started his flight across the isle to find Karaburan and plant the seeds of insurrection, chuckling all the way.
On the Isle of Sound and Wonder Page 7