68 Knots

by Michael Robert Evans

  Crystal looked around. The top of the island was a large bluff covered with low pines and shrubs, interrupted here and there by grassy meadows filled with short briars and small bright-yellow flowers. She followed a narrow break in the trees. No people moved among the bushes, but a shallow, mossy cellar hole showed that someone, a long time ago, had tried to make a life here. Crystal jumped down into the depression.

  The ground was cool and damp, the earth a rich and pungent black.

  Probably the rotten old boards of the house, Crystal thought. Why would some idiot build a house clear out here? And how did they get up here?

  She imagined a small cottage, tidy but unpainted, with a porch that faced the morning light. A living room, a kitchen with a wood stove for cooking and heating, a low sleeping loft overhead with a narrow ladder and a kerosene lamp. Outside, a root cellar and a small garden with carrots, potatoes, snow peas, and onions. Long dark winters, bitter and desolate, followed by the salvation of spring and the warm caress of the summer sun. Then brief, brilliant autumn, and yet another winter. An endless cycle of seasons in a dollop of acreage bound in by the sea. And the mainland so far away.

  She sifted through the loose loam of the cellar hole and found pieces of ancient glass, broken and rounded soft, and some small bones. A modest earring. A ceramic bowl. Part of a shoe. In one corner was the rusted skeleton of a shopping cart.

  “How the hell did that get here?” she wondered aloud.

  She climbed out of the pit and continued her walk. The path snaked through the scrub pines, and as Crystal rounded one corner, she stopped abruptly. Just a few feet in front of her, facing her with a menacing stare, was a large ram. Its horns curled back over its head, its wool was shaggy and brown, and it seemed wholly unafraid of this odd human who had arrived out of nowhere.

  “Hello,” Crystal said, once she had regained her composure. “This island must belong to you.”

  The ram didn’t move. It didn’t blink. In the distance, Crystal could see dark shapes moving through the brush. More sheep. Easily forty of them. Probably the bastards of the herd kept by the people in the shack, she thought.

  Crystal smiled at the ram. “Hungry?” she said. “You don’t look hungry, but let’s see if we can be friends.” She dug into the pocket of her denim shorts and pulled out a small bag of raisins. She poured some into her hand and held it out slowly.

  The ram remained motionless.

  “Oh, come on,” Crystal said. “They’re fucking raisins. Here, watch.” She took a raisin from her hand and popped it into her mouth. “They’re good. Give them a try.”

  She sprinkled the raisins on the path and took a few steps back. The ram held its position for a moment, then stepped forward quickly. It sniffed at the raisins and snorted.

  “Well, if you don’t like—” Crystal began.

  The ram turned quickly and trotted off through the brush, leaving Crystal alone again.

  “Maybe raisins were a bad idea,” she admitted out loud. “They look a lot like sheep turds.”

  She shrugged and continued down the path. The sheep kept their distance, watching her through the bushes. The path looped around the flat top of the island, cool with breeze and prickly with mosquitoes, and twenty minutes later it brought her back to the cliff she had climbed. She looked over the edge and saw the others stretched out in the dinghy, talking and laughing and enjoying the warmth of the early morning sun. Crystal sat down on a rock and dangled her legs over the cliff edge.

  It didn’t surprise her that none of them had joined her. People never seemed to join her. They always wanted to just hang out together and make small talk, something Crystal hated with a passion. She pulled her journal out of her back pocket and popped the cap off a pen. She wrote quickly, describing the island and explaining about Blackgoat and the treasure. Then, as she sat alone, out of reach on the top of the cliff, she turned her comments inward.

  Just once, she wrote, it would be nice if someone came along who liked to do things with me. A guy—tall, strong, quiet. Someone who can’t stand to waste time sitting around. Someone who isn’t afraid of heights or risk or exercise. Someone who wants to know what it’s like on top of the next mountain or inside the next cave. Someone who wants to know what I’m like. Someone who will take the time to find out.

  “Oh, well,” she sighed. “Whoever he is, it’s fucking sure he’s not going to suddenly appear up here.”

  She put the journal back into her pocket. She pulled up the rope, tied it with the second one into a long loop, and tossed one end of the loop over a large boulder. She then snaked the rope around her waist and between her legs, put one hand on each side, and backed off the cliff. Pushing off the rocks with her feet and letting the rope slip slowly through her hands, she rappelled with bounding arcs down to the rocks below. At the base, she untied one knot and pulled both ropes down.

  “That was totally cool!” Logan shouted with a grin. He was enjoying the relief that throwing up had brought, and he was trying to recover his dignity as well. “Like, where did you learn to do that?”

  Crystal shrugged. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

  Dawn sat on the bowsprit, staring at the cliffs. The waves inched lower down the stone face as the minutes slipped by. Dawn whispered a meditative chant asking the Sea Goddess to bring them good fortune.

  “Sea Goddess!” a voice shrieked behind her. It was Joy, standing just aft of the bowsprit. “Look, I don’t mean to diss your beliefs or anything, but where do you get this stuff?”

  Dawn resisted the urge to flip back a sarcastic answer in irritation over the shattering of her meditation. Instead she shrugged. “People have been worshipping the sea for millennia,” she said. “A lot of people in this world understand that everything is alive—animals, birds, plants, and fish, but also rocks and continents and oceans and the Earth itself. We’re surrounded by spiritual beings, but most people don’t bother to notice.”

  Joy clambered onto the bowsprit and sat down next to Dawn. “Some of those things might be living, yes,” she said in the tones of a patient teacher, “but that doesn’t mean they are spiritual. We are spiritual beings crafted in God’s image—but dogs aren’t, and birds aren’t, and seals aren’t, and the ocean certainly isn’t. God made all these things so that humans would have the food, medicine, stability, and inspiration to live and grow. All these beautiful things are gifts from God Himself, and they aren’t just strange-looking people in other forms.”

  Dawn shook her head. “Haven’t you ever felt it? Like at night, when we’re in our bunks and someone just blew the lamp out. The Dreadnought is alive—I’m sure of that. I’ve felt her wrap herself around us at night, holding back the waves and the wind and keeping us safe. Dreadnought responds to our moods and our actions just as clearly as animals and people do. Doesn’t that make her alive?”

  “No, mi amiga. That makes your imagination alive,” Joy said, patting Dawn on the arm. “But this ship is just a bunch of wooden timbers and canvas sails. It responds to us because we make it respond, by pulling on ropes and turning the wheel. But the Dreadnought is no more alive than the lobster pots are. They’re things made by people to help us in our lives. They’re tools. God made only one creature in His own image. Us. We’re it. And we’re all there is. Everything else is just things, put here by God to help us.”

  Dawn looked out at the waves curling over the face of an ocean she knew was alive. “But God couldn’t have made us in His image,” she said. “Just look at you and me. Your hair is black. Mine’s brown. Your skin is light brown. Mine is almost pure white, except for the freckles. And look at Arthur and Logan. If God made us in His image, is God male or female? He can’t be both, can he? I don’t think the logic holds.”

  “The logic holds just fine,” Joy shot back. “It isn’t your body that’s in God’s image. It’s your soul. Your soul is a little part of God. Me entiende? Do you understand?”

  “But then why do you think that seals and whales do
n’t have souls?” Dawn said, pulling the brim of her baseball cap low over her eyes. “If the shape of the body doesn’t matter—if we can be built in God’s image whether we’re male or female—then why can’t we be built in God’s image whether we’re homo sapiens or cetaceans? Humans or whales? And for that matter, why not birds? Fish? Trees? Mosses? Water? Stone? Air? The ocean? The planet? If shape is less important than spirit, then why don’t you think all these things have souls?”

  “I gave you a Bible,” Joy said firmly. “Read it. God made all those things so that we would have the food, the shelter, the medicine, and the glory that we need to thrive in this world. And he gave us those things so that we could turn our attention to the most important thing in the universe—getting to know God better. We’re all here to serve Him.”

  “The Bible is a great book,” Dawn said, “but so is the Bhagavad-Gita. The Koran. The Talmud. Illusions. Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Don’t you understand? The world is full of spirit. Not just one spirit. Not just one book. Everything. All around us. Haven’t you ever felt it? Haven’t you ever felt the joy of knowing—of feeling—that you’re surrounded by an infinite web of spirits, all connected to each other, to the life force itself, to you? It’s such an intense and magical feeling that I can hardly breathe when it comes over me.”

  Joy smiled. “Si. I have felt that,” she said. “I have felt the joy that comes from the knowledge that God—the greatest and the only force in the entire universe—the force that made the entire universe—cares so much about me, about my tiny little hopeful life, that He reaches down from time to time, from Heaven, just to touch my soul. And when that happens, I don’t breathe for a long time.”

  Dawn stared off at the sea, the living spirit-filled sea that spoke to her and shared this existence with her. Joy stared off at a different sea, a sea filled with water for human life and fish for human nourishment, all courtesy of the loving God.

  At last, Dawn spoke. “In a world too often damaged by cruelty, hatred, bitterness, and violence,” she said, “I am glad that there are people like you around.”

  Joy smiled. “Amen, sister,” she said.

  A short while later, with the island crew back on board, Dawn pointed toward the dripping cliffs as the crew gathered around her. “Three caves have surfaced since we arrived,” she said to Arthur, who had just come up from below. “Blackgoat’s treasure could be in any one of them.”

  Arthur took command. “We should send over three groups of two people each. The other two will stay on board the ship and watch things from here. Each group will go to a cave and explore it for half an hour. Then we’ll all meet back here and talk things over.”

  “Sounds complicated,” Marietta said, adjusting the straps on her blouse.

  “It’s important,” Arthur said. “We don’t have much time before the tide turns and starts covering up those caves again, so we need to explore them all at once. I’ve thought it over, and that’s the best plan.”

  Marietta shrugged. “Fine,” she said. “Who wants to be in what group?”

  Arthur and Dawn formed one group, and BillFi and Jesse formed another. Crystal and Marietta reluctantly formed the third—and Logan joined it quickly, hoping to impress Crystal and overcome the humiliation of the disastrous cliff climb. Joy agreed to wait on the ship to serve as anchor watch—“I want to put a new Bible sign up in the dining room anyway,” she said. The dinghy shoved off, and with Jesse’s strength at the oars, the groups were dropped off at the chilly mouths of the caves.

  “Good luck, everyone!” Joy called out.

  Crystal scrambled lightly over the rocks and ducked into a small dark fissure just above the water’s edge. Logan followed gingerly, and Marietta was not far behind. They clicked on their flashlights and dropped down to their hands and knees.

  “Jeez, this is small,” Logan said. The passage was barely large enough for a person to wriggle through. The rocks dripped with seawater and kelp as the three inched their way forward on hands, knees, and bellies. Logan felt cold water drip onto his back and sharp rocks break the skin of his knees. His stomach had regained its fury.

  “It gets bigger up ahead,” Crystal called back. She shimmied up through a tight break and found herself in a tiny room with dry walls. There were no signs that other humans had ever been there before. The rocks were dark and sparkling and dirty. The air was musty, and it clouded with dust whenever Crystal moved. Outside the beam of her flashlight was absolute darkness.

  Logan and Marietta puffed and coughed their way up through the hole and sat down.

  “This treasure had better be worth it,” Marietta said. She looked around. “Now what?”

  They scanned the walls with their lights.

  “There,” Crystal said. She pointed to a narrow, vertical gap that twisted up into the far wall.

  “I was, like, afraid you were going to say that,” Logan groaned.

  Crystal slipped nimbly into the crack and wriggled slowly upward. The crack was too small for her arms to move much, so she had to inch forward on one side.

  “I’m not sure I’ll fit in there,” Marietta said. “Some of us have big chests, you know.”

  Crystal’s chuckle echoed down from above. “Some of us are flexible enough to go where we need to,” she called back. “Lying around in the sun isn’t exactly good exercise.”

  Logan wisely chose to keep quiet. He squirmed upward through the crack after Crystal, trying not to worry about the close pressure of the solid rock. He jiggled and panted his way forward, his back arching as he followed the corkscrew turn of the cramped shaft. He wished that he had entered on his other side, so he could bend more naturally as the crack spiraled upward. It was too narrow for him to change positions, and the arch was getting uncomfortable.

  He wriggled forward a bit with his arms outstretched, his belly squished tight on all sides. A small spur of rock was pulling his shorts down, making him feel even more awkward. He could barely move his chest enough to get air into his lungs. Sweat slithered down his face, and he began to breathe more rapidly.

  “I can’t make it,” he called out, but he couldn’t get enough air to make himself heard. “I’m coming back down.” He hoped that Marietta wasn’t too close behind him.

  He pushed with his hands, but his body didn’t budge. The rock squeezed against him; he could see in his mind hundreds of feet of cold granite above him, below him, around him, thick and solid and unmoving. He tried to find a better angle with his hands, but he flailed against nothing but soft dust and uncaring air. He pushed again. Nothing.

  “Marietta,” he wheezed, “pull my feet.” His sneakers dangled in open air behind him. He kicked. He couldn’t gain an inch downward. He thrashed with his hands, unable to breathe. His flashlight smashed against the rock and went black. He pushed his shoulders against the granite, but it would not let him go. Suffocating. Hot. He could feel blood dripping down his hands.

  From below, Marietta’s voice drifted up. “Hurry up, lard-butt,” she said. “You’re slowing us all down.”

  “Pull!” Logan tried to call out. Barely a whisper. “Feet!”

  The rock seemed to tighten. Logan couldn’t get enough air. Crying, he pounded the dust with his hands, his head squished against his upper arm. He kicked his feet against the uncaring air. He peed, the warm liquid adding to his panic.

  And then from below, he felt Marietta’s hands grab his ankles and pull. Granite gouged the doughy skin of his stomach. She pulled some more. Logan got his shoulders free and pushed himself downward. He landed with a dull thud on the floor of the little dry room. He gulped air and curled up into a pudgy ball against the wall, turning so Marietta wouldn’t see him cry.

  “Jeez, you didn’t have to piss yourself,” Marietta said. “There’s no way I’m climbing up that tunnel now that you peed in it.”

  Crystal climbed on alone, unaware of the two she had left behind.

  “There’s another big room up ahead,” she called out, “and I think
I hear something.”

  A few minutes later, all three teams—minus Logan and Marietta—had arrived in the same chamber. Beams from five flashlights arced around the cave, crossed their faces, and settled in the center of the chamber. In the middle, under yellow stalactites, were two large wooden chests.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Well, here we are,” BillFi said, catching his breath. “Here we are. Could be a fortune. Could be nothing. Could be either one. Here we are.”

  “Who goes first?” Dawn asked.

  “I think BillFi should,” Arthur said. His low voice echoed in the small chamber. “He’s the one who led us to Bonnie. We owe this discovery to him.”

  BillFi pushed his glasses up and nodded. “I accept,” he said with a grin. “I’ll do it. I accept.” One box looked quite a bit older than the other, stained dark and soft with time. He bent down and peered at the older box, his face just inches from its cracked surface. “Here goes.”

  He fumbled with the latches on the front of the chest and lifted them slowly. They moved with complaint, and flakes of rust spattered his hands. He opened the lid and aimed his light inside. He held up something small that glinted with a dull shine. It was a dagger, short and menacing, its steel handle forming a skull that seemed to be screaming in agony. The skull’s eyes were rubies that flickered dark red in the glare of the flashlights.

  “Shit!” Crystal said, taking the knife from BillFi. “This is one serious blade.”

  Arthur whistled low. “Wow!” he said.

  “Think of the history behind that,” Dawn said. “Think of the stories it could tell.”

  “Screw that,” Crystal said. “Think of the money it could bring!”

  BillFi reached into the trunk and pulled out another item.