by LeRoy Clary
Gareth scrambled to the leather bag with the egg. It was still braced under the seat. He slipped the strap over his shoulder and moved carefully across the rolling deck to the front of the boat. Where the bow narrowed to a point, he found a small platform large enough to stand on. His left hand grasped a rope that went from the peak of the bow to the top of the mast.
Ahead lay dull green water, churned and dirty. Seagrasses, leaves, sticks, and logs floated. He ignored them. From further ahead came the repetitive booming of waves crashing upon the rocky shore. Between the shore and boat were, at least, a dozen patches of white water, some with black rocks protruding above the surface. He glanced at their wake, and turned to project their course ahead and found they were now heading for the area with the most white water. He darted back to Tom at the tiller and pointed. “Lots of white water directly ahead.”
“I see it.”
“If we turn to the right we can avoid it.”
Tom grinned. “Right you are. But we’re not. At least not yet. That boat behind us is closing fast, but she’s comin’ from port and trying to get ahead and cut us off. We’ll move in to pass close by those rocks, but we’ll have enough water under us. She’ll try, too. The current and wind will carry us beside the rocks, I’m thinkin’. From their angle, they can’t make the turn.”
“You’re setting a trap.”
“One no real sailor would fall for.”
“Will it work?”
“We’ll see. Now you get back up there in the bow, and when I make my turn, you keep a good watch. If you feel us run up on rocks, you jump into the water feet first, hear me? Probably break your head open on a submerged rock if you dive.”
“We’re not going to hit the rocks, are we?”
“Goin to be close. Still, that’s better than being taken by those on the other boat.”
They must be bad if you’re going to sink your boat instead of being captured. “Are you jumping too?”
“I figure to hit the water before you, son. Don’t want to be near a boat breaking up in waters like these. Too much chance of takin’ a hit on the head or getting fouled in ropes and such, and being pulled down. Get off her as best you can, swim away, and meet me ashore. See that little finger of land jutting out over there?” He pointed.
“Okay, I’ll meet you there.” Gareth flashed a smile intended to show confidence, which failed, then went back to the bow and watched the turbulent water ahead, as well as keeping an eye on the boat following. The white boat was much faster and now close enough to see several men moving around the deck. A flash of sunlight glinted near a man’s hand and told of a knife or sword pulled from a scabbard. Gareth turned to watch ahead again, but his eyes were drawn to the other boat time after time.
The men aboard wore colorful clothing and called out taunts to them, but the wind whipped away their words. At least, six crowded near the bow, looking fierce and waving swords over their heads. It pulled closer and closer, but Gareth forced his eyes from them and to the water ahead. He pointed for Tom to steer around a swirling mass of white water, where rocks appeared in the troughs between waves. The fishing boat turned and headed for the green water.
The boat responded in time to pass the rocks, but so close Gareth could clearly see the small shellfish attached to them. The rocks were dark gray, almost black, with tips jutting above the water that couldn’t possibly be as sharp as they appeared.
Another glance behind found Tom intently watching the water ahead, too. Behind him, the white boat had closed the gap between them further, and now Gareth saw light glint off more than one sword, and the fearsome faces they made as they screamed insults. Other men shouted, and he could now hear individual voices. He considered pulling his knife and waving it back at them in defiance, but with the boat rolling, rocking, and twisting he needed both hands to hold on. Besides, it was probably a bad idea because if they caught up, the punishment would be worse.
CHAPTER NINE
The wind and waves no longer whipped the angry shouts away as Gareth now heard the words, the taunts and threats, and they scared him. In all his time in Dun Mare, he had never heard adults making such threats. Many seemed physically impossible to perform. Tom ignored everything called to him and held their course as steady as if he was setting his fishing nets in an empty ocean.
Two large patches of swirling white foam lay directly ahead, separated by a wide expanse of deep green. Gareth’s imagination formed a picture of two masses of rock rising from the ocean bottom, a deep channel between. As he watched, Tom steered directly for the white foam churning the water on the right, but the tide and wind gently shoved the boat to the left, right into the channel.
The other boat continued gaining. Up close, the hull gleamed white, as did the sails. The deck stood higher than his head. The mast held, at least, ten times the canvas of the small fishing boat. Eight men dressed in a variety of colorful, baggy clothing stood at the bow rails, weapons ready, most still shouting insults, although a few looked concerned. A few exchanged greedy looks. As they safely passed exposed rocks, all wore smiles.
Gareth realized they saw gold and silver when looking at him. He understood and heard all of that in an instant, but his mind noted again that the boat was not sailing directly at them. It still came at an angle intending to move ahead of Tom’s boat and prevent the fishing boat from reaching the shore. In calm, deeper water it would have worked. Gareth spun and found two more masses of breaking water directly ahead, and then he watched for a channel to pass. There was none. His mind projected the course of the other boat. It pointed between the two areas of danger. But the wind and tide would push it to the left as it did the fishing boat.
He looked at Tom.
Tom watched also, then turned back and caught his eye, and nodded. He flashed a toothy grin and wiped the hair from in front of his forehead with the back of his arm.
More shouts, taunts, and crude insults flew their way. Gareth clutched the egg bag and waited. The strap felt secure over his shoulder. Suddenly a patch of darker water directly in front of them drew his attention to an underwater rock he had not noticed. He yelled, waved, and pointed, drawing Tom’s attention. Tom swung the tiller over, and the boat abruptly turned, but not fast enough. Gareth waved frantically and pointed for more turn. Tom swung the bow hard over, using the sail to help as Gareth watched the darker water that hid rocks just under the surface pass close to their left. He stood taller and made sure the way ahead was clear. They had made it.
Gareth watched the other boat right behind them. It would pass right over the same spot where they had been a minute earlier. He waited. Nothing happened. The white boat had also avoided the danger.
He turned his attention to the water ahead, disappointed that the white boat had made it through the second trap Tom had set.
“Hold on tight!” Tom called, as he put the tiller all the way over to the other side. The boat heeled as Tom fought for control in the roiling water.
The boat twisted and surged ahead, nearly running up on newly exposed rocks, but Gareth remained at his post, pointing and directing Tom. A thunderous crash came from behind. Gareth turned around in time to see the huge white boat leaning far over to one side, the mast broken off, and the sail falling. It hadn’t missed the submerged rocks, after all. A grinding told of the hull ripping itself apart. Men had been thrown overboard and now fought to swim in the churning water. Others, still on board, shouted orders. A few screamed in terror.
Gareth watched one head bobbing and sinking in the water and the wild arm-flapping of a non-swimmer. The head went down and didn’t reappear. The white ship took on more water and rode lower, rolling sluggishly. The railing that had been so high earlier now looked even with the little fishing boat. Gareth felt no sense of victory. Instead, he felt the fear that such a thing might happen to them. Now Tom could guide the fishing boat at a slower speed and take them out into deeper water. He never considered rescuing the men from the sinking white boat.
“Keep your eyes ahead,” Tom ordered.
One glance showed they were in trouble. Tides had pushed the fishing boat too far to one side. Directly in front of them swirled a mass of foam and breaking water, jagged rocks protruded like daggers waiting to slice open the wooden hull. Gareth frantically pointed to his right, willing the fishing boat to turn from the danger. Their direction slowly changed as Tom threw the tiller over, but more rocks appeared directly ahead. It was too late. Gareth waved for them to turn left with wild swings of his arm, but felt the first rasp of wood scraping on rock and gripped the line in his hand with all he had.
A swell lifted the boat and for an instant he thought it might carry them to safety as they floated safely over the rocks, but the water receded. The hull slammed down on the jagged rock as if it had fallen from the sky. The impact twisted the boat to one side and threw Gareth off.
His feet entered the water first, as Tom had told him to do, although he had no control of what landed first. His left foot touched, and slipped on the slime-coated rocks. His right foot plunged deeper into the cold water and suddenly he found himself pulled under. He fought to find the surface. Another wave lifted him and carried him for long seconds before depositing him in deeper, but calmer water. Gareth managed to right himself into a swimming position, and he managed to take two full strokes before another swell lifted and pushed him closer to shore as it washed over him. He swallowed salt water and gagged, but managed to pull a deep breath of air before another wave crashed over him.
Between swells, he tried to orient himself. He managed to tread water while turning a full circle, searching for Tom, but only saw the fishing boat breaking up on the rocks, already half sunk. Several hull planks had been ripped off, and water rushed inside. Further, behind he saw the white boat sinking fast, only the bow remained exposed. A few men still crowded the deck, most others were swimming.
“Tom?” He listened as he searched, and called again, “Tom!”
Gareth waited until another swell raised him higher and he quickly spun around. He didn’t see the old man, but he did see the point of land where Tom said they were to meet. Fear tried to force him to swim to the nearest beach, but reason turned him to his right, towards the finger of land. He began to stroke, slow and steady. Tide, wind, and waves pushed him aside as if he was a leaf in a puddle during a storm, but he continued. He adjusted the egg so it hung around his neck in a manner giving him more freedom to swim, and he found he could use the incoming waves to push him in the direction of the shore, with a lot less effort than swimming for the point of land that was his destination. He took the path of less resistance, with reaching the shore, any shore, his goal.
Once he saw a man swimming directly at him. Gareth quickly turned and put distance between them. The shore came at him faster as the swells turned into breaking waves. They spun and rolled him as they struck time after time. Finally, he felt his feet touch sandy bottom. He shielded the egg with his arms to prevent it from scraping the bottom. As he tried to stand in shallower water, another wave hit him from behind and threw him down, face first. He felt the scrape of rough sand on the side of his face.
Gareth stumbled ashore tired, winded, and confused. On his knees at the water’s edge, he drew several deep breaths, gathered a portion of his wits, and tried to control his rising panic. Rough sand the color of aged cider covered the beach. He spit salt water and wiped stinging eyes, then lifted his head and recalled why he was here.
Tom! He had forgotten the old man. Gareth staggered to his feet and looked along the edge of the shoreline first, then to the deeper water. No sight of him. A few hundred paces down the beach someone paddled hard and fought to swim the last few feet to the edge of the surf. He fell and was pushed onto the beach by the next wave.
Not Tom.
An enemy. Gareth dropped to the ground. Behind him, further ashore, rose low hills of tan colored sand, shades whiter than the sand near the water. Tangles of vines covered part of the slopes. If he could reach them, he might be able to hide behind them, as well as keep watch on the beach for his friend.
His fingers touched the bag and felt the egg inside. There seemed to be no damage. He could examine it later.
Gareth saw no nearby shrubs or rocks to conceal him, so he sprinted across the heavy sand as well as his stumbling gait could carry him. After only a few steps, his breath came in angry gasps, and his legs burned with the effort of running in soft sand. Each step pulled. He looked over his shoulder and spotted another man who had partially washed ashore, still lying face down, head under water. A man carrying his sword staggered in the shallows, much farther down the beach. He clung to the sword as if he didn’t even know it was there. Gareth scrambled up the nearest slope, fighting for each step in the loose sand. The faster he tried to run, the more his feet sank and prevented it. The vines growing higher up the hillside provided better footing and he managed to reach the top without falling again.
Gareth crouched on the top of the sand dune and looked down at the shoreline extending to the far horizon in either direction. The waves still beat against the land, one after the other, and debris from both boats floated in the water, some looking like drowned men. On the beach, near the water’s edge, he counted six of the pirates, none Tom. Three were grouped together, confused and helpless, appearing injured. A pair lay in the sand at the water’s edge further away, and each brush of a wave stirred them, but neither reacted and they were certainly dead. A lone man stood in knee deep water and looked out to sea as if he was as lost as the sinking white boat, probably in disbelief that such a thing could have happened.
Gareth settled deeper into the soft sand and rearranged some of the nearby vines to shield his face from sight below. The sun felt hot on his back, and the reflection of sunlight off the sand made him squint. He made a systematic search of the surf nearest the beach and examined everything floating, looking for Tom. If I do see him, then what? Run down and rescue him?
When he didn’t spot Tom nearby, he looked to deeper water. Out behind the breaking waves, wreckage drifted. Men clung to a few. The rounded bottom of Tom’s fishing boat sat high on the rocks, rocking with the passing swells. Only a few feet of it floated above the surface of the water. He searched the water nearby again for Tom.
Another man swam ashore, and the three in a group moved to help him. Now there were four men looking healthy enough they could begin a search for Gareth. Five, if the man watching the water came to his wits and joined them. Gareth touched the bag containing the egg.
A dog barked. From the sound, it was a large one. He didn’t see it, but the bark came from the beach. His eyes roamed the water’s edge again, he paused when he saw a finger of sand and rock sticking out like a beacon. There! Tom had told him to meet him there. Then he spotted the dog, a large breed, just arriving on the beach with a wave pushing it as it trotted ashore as if it had enjoyed the swim.
Gareth couldn’t go down there, especially with the dog that was now roaming the beach, sniffing and going from man to man as if looking for its master. He could make his way in the shelter of the dunes, a longer but safer route to the rendezvous location. He eased back from the top of the dune and crouched, moving in a hunched position until he retreated far enough so that there was no chance of the survivors spotting him from down on the beach.
He tried to run again and gave up after a few steps. The soft sand tugged at each footfall and within a dozen steps his thighs burned, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He slowed, but moved steadily, taking long steps. Twice he climbed back to the top of the dunes where he could see the water and made sure he was going in the right direction, and that no pursuit had been organized, yet. Time passed, and sweat oozed in the hot sun. He needed a drink, but from the looks of the dry sand and sparse vegetation, it may not have rained for months.
He tripped from a misplaced step and sand filled his mouth. He spat, and considered remaining where he lay, but after a short rest managed to climb to his knees and finally to his
feet. Trudging on again, he fell, thinking of the cool nights in Dun Mare, and sharing a steaming bowl of pottage beside the fire in the massive fireplace at the inn with Faring, or some of the old men. He washed it down with a tall mug of cold steam water. Wish I was there instead of dying here.
His eyes closed. He slept in the late afternoon sun.
Wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the chill, he woke with a start. Stars filled the sky, and in the dim light, he saw the staggered line of his footprints in the soft sand. Anyone who climbed to the top of the sand dunes could easily follow him, even in the starlight. The sounds of waves breaking were on his right, where it should be. He stood again. He walked to the edge of the dunes to observe the shoreline and make sure he hadn’t traveled past the finger of land that was their rendezvous point.
Shivering, Gareth sat and watched for movement or for the flicker of a distant fire on the beach. Just thinking of a warm fire made him colder. A quick glance around the dunes showed darker areas against the white sand. The vines that somehow survived in the soft sand grew in tangled patches. Pale green leaves larger than his hand stuck out every few inches from the center stem of the vine. He reached for the nearest and found it easily pulled free of shallow roots. The rope-like center stem remained intact. More than twenty huge leaves clung to it on a length twice as long as he was tall. He pulled more vines free. Soon he had vines and leaves coiled in a mass, a pile almost knee high. He pulled another stem and piled it on top of the others. Enough of these to crawl under and I might have something to keep me warm.
Now that he had a goal in mind, he quickly pulled more plants. Then he knelt and pulled as many as possible over the top of himself. He was busy burrowing deeper when a voice broke the silence.