Mystic Memories

by Gillian Doyle

  “Oh-dear-God . . .” She held him tight as his sobs emerged from deep inside him. Andrew was only a kid, not a full-grown man who could have fought back. Yet she did not see anything in the vision of further abuse as Blake had experienced. Andrew had been spared the ultimate violation. For that, she was grateful. Seething with anger against Johnson, Cara thanked the deadly southeaster that had dispensed the maximum punishment against the vile captain.

  Blake’s arms came around her and Andrew, encircling the three of them together in a small huddle of pain and comfort.

  After several minutes, the boy’s crying subsided into whimpering hiccups that brought Bud over to the little group. The dog nudged his wet nose into the tight circle as if he wanted to find the source of the strange noises.

  “Oh, Bud . . .” whined Andrew in a tone that was not as impatient with the dog as it might have been intended. There was something about Bud that was magic for Andrew. A four-legged therapist to the rescue.

  “I don’t want my hair cut!”

  Scissors in hand, Keoni stood back from the chair where Andrew sat, arms crossed, with a glower that was meant to intimidate the huge Kanaka.

  Blake propped his hands on his hips, watching the two square off. The three of them had left Cara resting in the cabin, giving her peace and quiet, while they had come to another battle of wills in the between decks where the carpenter and sailmaker worked at their benches.

  “Well?” Blake raised a questioning brow at Keoni.

  “Well, what? I’m not about to have my shins kicked by this keiki kāne like the last time we attempted this.”

  “You’re bigger than him.”

  “He’s faster. Make him sit still. You are hoʻomakua kāne, for now at least.”

  Performing the role of a father, however temporarily, was not easy. Yet the challenge to his patience did not change the yearning to raise Andrew as his own son. Over the past few days since the rescue, he had grown fond of the lad. He understood and admired the stubborn streak that had kept him alive and strong against all odds. Through Cara’s insight, Blake had been relieved to learn that the boy had not suffered the extent of mistreatment that Blake himself had endured. Andrew had been beaten physically but not broken in spirit. Thankfully, the bastards who had imprisoned him had not been monsters of the worst kind.

  Blake hunkered down in front of the boy. “Andrew, you insist upon sleeping with the dog every night. And I have allowed it. But we cannot even drag a comb through that rat’s nest. It must be cut.”

  “Keoni has long hair.”

  “Keoni keeps it neat and clean and tied back. Otherwise he would have to cut it too.” Blake tried the opposite tack. “There is nothing wrong with short hair, per se. Even Bud has short hair. Cara, too.”

  He wasn’t quite sure if it was the mention of the dog or of Cara or both. Whatever it was, it seemed to do the trick. Andrew acquiesced, though not without sitting with a protruding lower lip in protest.

  “That’s my boy.” Blake stepped back, keeping the smile to himself until he was behind Andrew and couldn’t be seen with the foolish grin on his face. “Keoni, you may begin.” After the barbering session was finished, the Kanaka was obviously well pleased with his work. “So here is the young man that was said to be on board our fine ship.” With a crooked grin, Andrew rolled his eyes heavenward. “Can I go now, Blake?”

  “I believe you have something to say to Keoni before you leave?”

  “Yes, sir.” Swiveling in his seat, the boy tilted his head far back to look up at the tall Kanaka. “Mall-hall-oh.”

  “Mahalo,” corrected Keoni with a big smile, adding “‘A ‘ole pilikia—You are welcome.”

  The boy mimicked the words sufficiently for a ten-year-old, then looked to Blake for permission to be dismissed.

  “Stay with Jimmy at all times,” he ordered, though he knew it was unnecessary to say so. The young steward had taken Andrew under his wing in much the same manner as Keoni had befriended Blake many years earlier. It seemed there was no shortage of companionship for the bright—and, at times, mischievous—young child aboard the Valiant.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Andrew, darting toward the companionway.

  Blake watched him leave. “It appears as though you now have two language students, kaikuaʽana.”

  “He is a smart one, that boy. He is doing well.”

  “Except at night. The darkness has a way of bringing back the demons . . . for both of us.”

  “You, too, kaikaina?”

  “It is a wonder Cara gets any sleep at all. But she never complains.”

  “She makes a good mother,” said Keoni.

  “She makes a good wife,” added Blake.

  “You are no longer angry with her?”

  He shook his head. “Nor you, my big brother. I have had much to think about, much to learn, much to accept. It is overwhelming, at times. But I have come to understand as best I can. If I am not able to spend the rest of my life with Cara, I will not waste precious moments in hurt or anger.”

  “Your heart is wise.”

  “My heart is already in mourning. I don’t want to lose her, Keoni. I can’t . . .”

  “Perhaps you won’t.”

  “I wish I could believe you.”

  The days grew shorter and the nights longer as the Valiant sailed south toward Cape Horn. By May 27, the sun barely rose in the sky, riding the horizon before it slipped out of sight for another sixteen hours of blackness that brought with it freezing-cold temperatures. Though ice floes had made passage precarious, the heavy seas and foul weather had yet to strike.

  In her modern-day life, Cara had never been much of a seamstress, but she spent hour upon hour learning from Jimmy how to sew. With his help, along with Blake’s, she managed to put together enough heavy clothing for both her and Andrew to last the duration of their winter voyage through the Southern Hemisphere.

  Andrew was, at times, as willful and impish as a five-year-old. Then there were moments when he seemed old beyond his ten years, mature and articulate. Trying to deal with his vacillating moods was a challenge, even without the trauma of his time-travel experience.

  Lately, he was sleeping more peacefully. Whenever a nightmare did return, she curled up with him on his bedding on the floor, sandwiching him between her body and Bud. To comfort him, she softly hummed a familiar old song, usually a Lennon-McCartney ballad, which drew Blake’s interest.

  With a young boy under their care, Cara and Blake settled into a domestic family life aboard ship, with stolen moments of intimacy being few and far between. Occasionally, Andrew was invited to spend the early-evening hours learning Hawaiian from Keoni, who made the offer as much for the benefit of the newlyweds as for the boy. Aware of this, Cara was a little embarrassed but also grateful.

  During their Saturday night dinner on June 2, Blake seemed to be anticipating another secret rendezvous. He gazed at Cara across the table with a predatory look that set her heart racing. If not for Andrew sitting next to him, she was certain he would have swept her out of the chair and into their bed, leaving the rest of their meal until after he’d had his fill of her.

  Thankfully, Andrew was oblivious to the covert glances that had charged the air in the small cabin. The boy chattered about some drawings he’d done for Keoni in the cook’s own personal journal. Blake seemed to be working hard to follow the animated conversation. Cara managed a little better, but not much. She was deeply fond of Andrew and wouldn’t hurt him for anything in the world, but her present longing for Blake was driving her to distraction. It was all she could do to keep from fidgeting at the table.

  After Blake cleaned his plate, he raised his napkin and carefully blotted each corner of his mouth. She stared at his slightly parted lips, sensing his unspoken suggestion. Her pulse sped up as a warm flush spread heat to every inch of her body. Perspiration beaded between her breasts. She gave him a pleading look to stop his silent seduction.

  He answered a question for Andrew, then
reached for his wine. All the while, his cocky grin played havoc with her nerves. After taking a sip, he held the stemmed glass in one hand and slowly circled the rim with his index finger.

  Cara couldn’t keep from thinking of those hands touching her, thrilling her. She knew he was enjoying his silent torture of her. “When . . . uh, that is, how much longer will it take to get around the Horn, do you think?”

  “I would like to say a week, but there is never any guarantee.” He acted so cool, so calm. Yet he had to know what his game was doing to her. “We should see the Atlantic no later than the tenth of the month, I hope.”

  Andrew piped up in a worried tone, “I heard some of the guys talkin’ about how dangerous it is to go ’round the Horn. Is it really bad, Blake?”

  “I won’t lie to you, son.” He set down the glass and gave the boy his full attention. “From here on out, we will have some rough seas. But I have the best crew a captain could want. And the Valiant is built as strong as they come. No matter how bad it gets, you just remember that.”

  The boy dropped his gaze, clearly disturbed by this bit of news. “Okay, sir.”

  “I want you to listen to me,” said Blake with paternal tenderness as he lifted the child’s chin with the crook of his finger. Andrew reluctantly looked at Blake. “You have been very strong, despite everything that has happened to you these past months. Nothing that lies ahead for us will ever be as bad as those days were for you. We have each other now. Do you understand?”

  Andrew gave a tentative smile and his shoulders relaxed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, then. If you are finished with your supper, you may join Keoni for the rest of the evening. He mentioned playing a game of cards with Jimmy and thought you might join them.”

  “Cool! I’m done eating. Can I go right now?”

  Blake eyed the half-eaten plate of food, then glanced at Cara for her approval. She cocked one brow dubiously. As much as she wanted to be alone with her husband, she knew that every morsel of food was precious. There were no snacks waiting in a convenient refrigerator for a growing kid who would get hungry in a few hours if he didn’t finish his dinner.

  “Better clean your plate,” advised Blake under his breath to Andrew. “Cara might have my hide if I let you get away without finishing up.”

  “Aw, gee, Cara,” grumbled the ten-year-old, picking up his fork and spearing a slice of potato. Within a few minutes, he’d polished off the meat and vegetables, stuffing his cheeks until he had to be admonished for his table manners. Blake snatched the remaining chunk of bread from the plate, winning a smile of gratitude from Andrew. “Now?”

  “Go. Have fun. I will come and get you when it is time for bed.”

  “Okay.”

  The child whirled out of the cabin like a small tornado, leaving his guardians shaking their heads in amazement. Dropping the bread onto his own plate, Blake rose from the table, latched the door, and turned to Cara, holding out his hands as if he were a magician who had just executed a great illusion.

  Sitting in her chair, she applauded lightly. “A magnificent performance, Captain. Do you just make children disappear, or do you have other tricks up your sleeve?”

  “Madame, I have only begun to amaze you.” He took her hand and led her to their bed, where he spent the next two hours dazzling her with a repertoire of his talents.

  Afterward, Cara curled up next to Blake as he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a sated smile. She propped herself up on her elbow and gazed down at his rugged face, memorizing every plane and angle. She never wanted to forget anything about him.

  “I love you so much,” she whispered, her voice husky from the raw emotion stuck in her throat.

  His hand slid to the back of her neck and pulled her down to him for a brief kiss that could convey the feelings he was unable to express in words. She lowered her head to his chest, content to listen to the reassuring, steady thump of his heart while his fingers combed through her short hair.

  “Cara?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What is the name of that song you hummed to Andrew last night? The one I liked so much?”

  She hummed a few bars for him.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “It’s ‘Yesterday,’ by the Beatles . . . or will be someday,” she explained, as she had done about other future inventions. When he became understandably confused about the name of the band, she gave him some brief background on the music of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. “Do you know the words?”

  “I’m not a good singer.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he reassured her, kissing the crown of her head. “Please sing it to me.”

  She tried an a cappella rendition of the song, but when she reached the middle verse, the poignancy of the lost lover caused her voice to falter. “I-I can’t, Blake. I’m sorry.”

  He hummed the rest of the song to her. “It’s beautiful,” he said wistfully.

  “You must have a natural ear for music if you could finish a song after hearing it only once.”

  “Not really. There is just something about the melody that strikes a chord in me.”

  As he went on to hum the tune a second time, Cara smiled at the vibration of the sound in her ear resting against his chest. There was almost a cozy, buzzy quality to it. Her eyes closed. Her mind drifted. She saw sanguine images of a summer afternoon in the late twentieth century. “You are doing it again, lauaʻe.”

  Cara smiled at his telepathy. “What do you see?”

  “Boats. All sizes of them, with smooth white hulls. Some with sails, some without—how odd.”

  “Those are powerboats. They have engines inside them.”

  “Hmm—interesting,” commented Blake. “It appears they are on a waterway in a sheltered harbor that I believe might be in Connecticut.”

  The images vanished. She jerked her head up. “How do you know?”

  “Having sailed the eastern seaboard, I know I have been at this place.”

  “I haven’t. How could I have projected something from my mind that I never saw before? But you have!”

  He shrugged. “You are the mystic with the answers, not me. I haven’t the vaguest idea where this scene came from. Perhaps you saw a book—”

  “No, Blake. I think maybe it could be you who is sending the image to me.”

  “Impossible. I know nothing about the strange powerboats. I merely recognized the deep river port of the Mystic River.”

  “Mystic?” She sat up, her warning bells going crazy. “Are you joking?” She glanced at his serious expression. “No, I guess you wouldn’t be. Wow, this is giving me the biggest set of goose bumps! Don’t you see the correlation? The shipwrecked Mystic and the seaport of the same name? Oh, man, there’s got to be something going on here!”

  “Cara, I do hate to dampen your enthusiasm, but there is a simple explanation. The Mystic River has a number of shipbuilding companies and is growing by leaps and bounds. I do not doubt there are at least half a dozen new vessels launched every year. Perhaps more. To have one of those ships christened with the place of her birth is not entirely unusual.”

  “Oh . . . well, I guess maybe my imagination did go a little overboard. But I still think it’s weird you knew the location.”

  “My lady, there is no lack for inexplicable happenstance where you are involved. I am learning to become somewhat blasé about it all.”

  “You? Hardly.”

  “Six months ago I would have agreed with you.” He reached out and stroked her bare leg. “But you have changed me.”

  Her heart melted at the husky tone of his voice. She went back into his arms, stealing a few more minutes before Blake had to bring Andrew back to the cabin.

  Chapter 19

  Throughout the next twenty days, the Valiant fought wind, rain, snow, and sleet, battling her way to the Horn, only to fall back twice. Blake received reports from his first mate that some of the men believed Cara to be the bane of ill luck. However, he
never held a moment of fear for her personal safety, as had been his initial concern upon her arrival in San Pedro. She had won too many friends during the voyage to be threatened. Yet when a sailor’s fate is in doubt, superstition can play a heavy hand.

  Blake waited until Andrew was occupied elsewhere before voicing the worries of his crew over the fear of losing the ship, and their lives, in the arctic climate. Thankfully, her second sight did not perceive any grave mishaps. In her mind’s eye, she saw the Valiant sailing through the tropics, all hands in shirtsleeves again, which pleased him.

  With confidence in her intuitive knowledge, Blake decided to push for one last try upon the Horn rather than turn back toward the Cape of Good Hope. During the most difficult days that followed, he often spoke with his crew, reassuring them of a safe deliverance from the master of the deep.

  In the third and final attempt, they met with success on Wednesday, June 21. At daybreak of the summer solstice, the ship entered the waters of the Atlantic. Setting a northeast course around the Falkland Islands, Blake was greatly relieved to leave the Horn astern. As were the men. Their chanteys reflected the new and buoyant mood of the entire lot of them.

  Two weeks later, the crew had cause to be in fine spirits again. Spending the Fourth of July under a clear sky and a warm sun, they realized that this particular Independence Day took on a special meaning after the harrowing weeks on the ice-shrouded brig. The Valiant stood nine hundred miles east of Rio de Janeiro, sailing a swift six knots with ease. As Cara had predicted, the men returned to their checked shirts and white duck trousers. Their Cape Horn rigs had been cleaned and stowed in their lockers for the remainder of the voyage.

  Despite the festive mood, this was still a working Wednesday, not a leisure Sunday. There was much to be done to ready the ship for arrival in Boston Harbor so she would look good in the eyes of the shipowner and other observers as she came into port. In the days ahead, the ship would be scraped and cleaned and painted and varnished, inside and outside, from stem to stern, and from skysail truck to waterline. All the ironwork would be freed of rust and blackened with coal tar. Sails would be taken down and got up.