The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  The boat had somehow come loose from the dock! For a brief moment she thought she must have cut the mooring lines instead of the tie ropes. But before she could check, a clap of thunder whirled her around. And there was the woman, the one she had left helpless on the beach, standing inside the boat with her, staring down at her.

  “Looking for this, perhaps?” Talon asked in her deeply foreign accent. She held the knife aloft. Her long, black hair fell in a tangled wet mass, her thick scar all the more visible. Her black eyes were sharp and focused. The wind-whipped rain drenched her face. She stood wide-legged, easily balanced in the moving boat, just out of range of the boom. Her leathers were soaked. Her sword hung at her waist. In her hand was the silver knife blade, catching the reflection of the lightning flashing in the darkened sky behind her.

  “Lord, you scared me!” Panna said, clutching her chest. But she was still terrified. This was surely the woman in her dream.

  Talon smiled at the appearance of Panna’s fear; fear, Talon’s longtime ally. She lowered the knife, holding it underhanded, and took a single step toward Panna, who was still seated on the wet floor of the boat. The leather-clad woman stood over the drenched and frightened girl. The boom swung, and Talon stopped it easily with one hand. She hesitated only a moment, and then brought the knife across from left to right, backhanded, in a quick, perfect slash.

  The light was brilliant, the heat intense. Will Seline was caught up in the flame, in a way he had been only once before in his life. That time, he had been on his knees at the deathbed of his beloved wife, as Tamma struggled for her final breaths, and then ceased struggling forever. Now Will was prostrate on the floor of his bedroom, his forehead flat against the rough planks, his arms spread out as though he were embracing the world. But he was not embracing this world; rather, he was letting it go entirely. His spirit was engulfed, offered up to the God who created the world and everything in it

  This was the death of Will Seline. He was dying to sin, dying to this world and all its trappings, its cravings, its pains and its pleasures, its plans and designs and schemes and dreams, alive only to the Spirit of God. His heart ached with an ache greater than death, greater than life, as the Flame and the Light invaded his being, tearing open wounds, secrets, sins, and desires. He would let Panna go here, within this Flame, as he had let Tamma go. Of course he would; he was mortal, fallen flesh, and the God who claimed her was neither. But still, he would offer himself in her place, beseeching the holy, loving God whose power could stop the course of rivers, could split seas, could swallow cities whole. Will Seline pled with God to take him instead of her, to spare his beloved daughter, just as he had pled that He would spare his beloved wife, and that he, Will, would be allowed to suffer for her, in her place, so that she would be free of harm. He wanted to bear her burden, to carry her pain, if only God would allow it.

  And as it had been with Tamma, so it was with Panna. Will’s request was granted. Tamma had ceased to suffer at that very moment, and Will, the bereft husband, had carried with him always, from that moment, her pain, her anguish, while she was free and at peace. With Panna, he couldn’t know the outcome. But he could know the pain, sharp as a knife slashed across his heart. He embraced that pain as it tore through him, recognizing it as Panna’s, and as an answered prayer from God. The pain made him cry out in agony and in fear, and he knew it was her agony and her fear, and that she, wherever she was, would therefore not know such pain and terror. And he thanked God in tears for the grace he had been given, the mercy that the Merciful One had shown to Panna—wherever she was, in whatever danger, and whatever trial, to whatever end.

  Talon had fully intended to slash Panna’s throat, slice open her heart, silencing her and then killing her quickly, in her preferred manner. But just before she struck, she paused for the briefest moment as a thought occurred to her.

  The girl might know Packer Throme. These were the docks of Inbenigh, the ones nearest Hangman’s Cliffs. These were the boats of fishermen from small villages, where everyone knew everyone else. And so when she brought her knife across, her perfect backhanded slash instead severed the tie-line closest to Panna. Four more perfect slashes and the canvas was gone, sinking slowly into the dark water. Talon sheathed her knife and grabbed Panna by the arm, hauling her to her feet. And now Talon thought of another way the girl could be useful, stupid and naïve though she most certainly was.

  “Steer,” Talon commanded, putting Panna’s hand on the tiller. Panna obeyed without hesitation.

  Talon took hold of the halyard and hauled the sail up. As soon as it caught wind, it snapped full, straining at the brace. The tiny vessel heeled dramatically. Panna lost her footing, and had to pick herself up off the water-soaked bilge.

  “Hard to starboard!” Talon cried, tying off the clew. She started hauling the sheet on the port side to angle the sail. But Panna was frozen. “Move it that way!” Talon ordered, pointing to the trees. Panna’s fear melted away as she poured herself into the task, straining at the tiller until it pointed toward the shoreline. Almost instantly, the fishing boat swerved northeast, on a starboard tack, and was running fast across the wind.

  And now, contrary to all logic, Panna felt a surge of joy. Suddenly, she had her boat. She had her sailor. Now, all she needed was information about the Trophy Chase.

  A single knock startled Packer awake. “Who is it?”

  Rather than answer the question, Delaney entered the stateroom. He looked about as bedraggled as Packer had ever seen a man look. It wasn’t just the fact that he was soaked through, dripping where he stood, with all his clothes and hair askew, with apparently no effort whatever made to dry off or straighten up. It was the sorrow lined into his face. He leaned against the doorframe, letting himself rock with the ship. To Packer, he seemed years older than the man who had visited him just hours before.

  “He’s dead,” Delaney said.

  Packer’s heart fell. He sat up, rolling out of the hammock. “Who’s dead?” But somehow Packer already knew.

  Delaney looked at the wall, then the ceiling. He couldn’t bring himself to say the name. “Just a boy.”

  “Marcus.”

  Delaney’s chin trembled.

  “How?”

  “Fell from the rigging.”

  Packer felt stabbed through the heart. How could this be? He had for the first time aboard this ship felt real hope, hope that God was in fact doing something great, and all would work out. Marcus was part of that, part of the reason for it. More than that, he was a good lad, and Packer was looking forward to serving with him, to getting to know him better. “He’s a real good prayer, ain’t he?” Delaney’s joyful words rung in Packer’s ears.

  And now he was gone. “How did it happen?”

  Delaney couldn’t speak for a moment. He seemed all bound up inside. “Who knows. God let him fall.” He looked distant, cold. Angry with God.

  “I’m sorry, Delaney.”

  “It ain’t your fault.”

  It was a simple exchange, the kind that happens in moments of grief, but it had great meaning for Packer. He realized that no matter how much he thought it through, he would come to the same conclusion. Delaney was right; it was not Packer’s fault. It was tragic, it was a great loss, and it was God’s doing, for His own reasons. It was one tragedy Packer had not brought with him. Somehow there was great relief in that. Packer walked toward Delaney, wanting to find some way to express his concern.

  Delaney held up a hand to stop him, to keep him away. “God is God and He does what He wants. He don’t care whether it’s what we want.”

  “I think He does care.”

  “Funny way of showing it.” And with that, Delaney left, closing the door behind him.

  Packer’s sorrow multiplied. He climbed back in his hammock and stared up at the ceiling. “What is the point of that?” he asked, almost demanded. Packer’s anger was not about Marcus Pile, who was in a far better place. He was concerned with Delaney, a young Christian with few
brothers, now only one. Packer waited for an answer. But what came to him was a memory of his own choice, his own sin. He chose Panna over God, decided he would find Panna again, even through fire and flood and pestilence. Marcus’s death was not Packer’s fault, nor was it Delaney’s, not directly. But in a world where every last inhabitant had at one time or another made Packer’s choice, had chosen to turn his or her back on God, in a world that God had long ago cursed, how could there not be fire and flood and pestilence? How could there not be senseless, answerless death?

  “Pastor?” Dog said in a soft voice. He was standing outside the priest’s bedroom door, knocking.

  Will Seline didn’t answer.

  Dog’s mouth pursed into a frown. It was just as he’d been told by the townspeople. Their spiritual leader, their priest, locked in his room and refusing to speak, to eat, to be comforted in any way.

  “Pastor, it’s Dog. Doogan Blestoe. I need to talk to you.”

  Not a sound. This just wasn’t right. People had been bringing hot meals and taking them back home cold, or leaving meals spoiled with the waiting. Not right at all.

  “I’ve got something to show you.”

  Still nothing.

  “Has to do with what happened to Panna.”

  Will Seline rolled over on his back. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying here on the floor. It had been some time since he had first felt the pain in his heart, but he didn’t know how long. Though the pain was still there, lodged in his chest like a spike, he had felt a good deal of peace since then. He had even slept some, he thought. He sat up. “Just a moment.”

  When he came out of his room, Dog stood there waiting and walked with him down the stairs. A small, wet group of fishermen stood looking up at him with sorrowful eyes. On the table in front of them were Panna’s things. Her knapsack, and her autumn cloak. Will was drawn toward them as though they were Panna herself. He picked up the knapsack gently, as he would a living thing, and held it in his hands. Water beaded and dripped from it like tears.

  “It’s hers?” Dog asked.

  Will nodded. “Where…where did you find them?”

  “On the beach,” Dog said.

  “And Panna?” He searched Dog’s eyes.

  He shook his head. “She wasn’t there.”

  Will nodded, then picked up the cloak as gently as he had the knapsack, and held it in his big hands. It was soaked from the rain, and it smelled of wood smoke. But it was Panna’s. He looked at it more closely, and saw the dark stain where Talon had cleaned her blade. He touched it, and the bloodstained water trickled from his fingers. He looked Dog in the eye. “Tell me.”

  Dog swallowed. “Duck Tillham and Ned Basser were found there, with these things. They’re dead.”

  Will looked confused. “Dead? How?”

  “Killed.”

  “How?”

  “Murdered. By Packer Throme.”

  Will’s brow furrowed and the pain in his chest increased. It couldn’t be. The boy was reckless, but he wasn’t a murderer. “How do you know?”

  “I saw it, Pastor. I saw him with my own eyes. I was lucky to get away without him seeing me, or I’d be dead, too.”

  Will Seline sat down heavily on the bench where Packer and Panna had embraced only a few nights earlier.

  “I’m sorry,” Dog said stoically.

  Will looked at the bloody cloak again. It couldn’t be. And yet, Dog had seen it. Dog was a blowhard, and often a fool. But he was not a liar. “You’re absolutely sure it was Packer?”

  “It was at a distance, but yeah. It was him.”

  Will studied Dog’s eyes. There was no doubt there, and a hint of defiance. But Dog could be wrong. Will sighed. “Thank you for bringing these.” He stood, gathered up the articles, and turned to go back up the stairs.

  “Father Seline,” Dog said abruptly.

  Will stopped, turned back, his face a blank.

  Dog had meant to ask him what he was going to do, to ask him not to disappear into his room again, but he couldn’t do it. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Will nodded. “Yes. You can pray.” He looked at the other fishermen. “We can all pray.” His feet felt like they were made of lead as he slowly climbed the stairs again.

  Dog and the others exchanged grim looks. How do you tell a grieving priest to quit hiding from his troubles, to stand up and take it like a man?

  CHAPTER 13

  Accused

  When the winds abated just before dawn, the starboard watch was called to deck. The crewmen were, as a whole, in good spirits. A clear sky, a stiff breeze heavy with the recent rain, and calm waters were a tonic, as they ever have been to sailors, easing whatever ills they may be suffering.

  These had lost a promising young sailor the night before. There was no memorial service for Marcus Pile. Andrew Haas gathered the men of the port watch and gave them the news, which to a man they already knew. Then he told them how Jonas Deal had cut loose the smallest shallop for Marcus, which to a man they didn’t know, and were happy to hear. Finally, Andrew said a quick but heartfelt “May God have mercy on his soul,” and ordered them all back to work.

  “More should be said,” Delaney suggested softly. “If he were here, he’d pray a prayer that would knock every man on his hindquarters.”

  “He would indeed,” Packer said, relieved beyond measure to hear pain rather than anger in Delaney’s voice.

  And Delaney smiled, thinking back. “Like he said, we hardly ever do know why God does what he does.” He took a deep breath, wiped the corner of his eye.

  “To work, you two!” Andrew Haas commanded.

  Delaney looked at Packer and nodded, thankful.

  Most all the sails on the mainmast and the majority on the mizzen were quickly unfurled. The foresail was lost, so its tatters were cut loose and given to the sea. The ship carried plenty of spare canvas, and the men of the starboard watch went to work fashioning a replacement.

  Scat’s readings determined that the storm had blown them just inside the Achawuk waters, but much too far west, putting them still a good nineteen leagues from their objective. The wind blew with five to ten knots less force than it had the previous day, prior to the storm, and came now from the southeast. But it was gusting.

  They headed northeast, directly across the wind. This was a stroke of good fortune that Scat took as a sign; sailing at ninety degrees to the wind provided the fastest possible progress. He maintained the best speed he dared by furling more sail and letting the ship heel to port so far that the deck was angled at almost thirty degrees. He might have taken an even greater risk but for the occasional bursts of wind that rocked the Chase as though she had been poked with a great stick. The Captain had been known to put the gunwales in the water when he wanted to make time, but he was loath to do it today with the wind so unpredictable. But the seasoned sailors paid little attention to either the slope of the deck or the rolling caused by the gusts, both absorbed by their legs with little effect on their activities.

  They worked through the morning. “When are you going to prepare them, Captain?” John Hand asked finally, watching the sailors fly up and down the rigging without a care.

  Scat was craning his neck upward, watching his newest sailor, the only one who seemed less than enthusiastic. Packer Throme was perched precariously on the footlines above the mainsail. “Soon as we get a good heading,” Scat answered.

  “Right.” Hand knew this was an evasion. Scat was never satisfied with a heading; he would continue to fine-tune the set of the sails forever. He simply didn’t like to bring the men down from the rigging. It slowed the cat’s reflexes.

  “Any sign of your escorts?” Hand asked.

  Scat shook his head. “I’ve offered a gold coin to the man who spots one or the other of them today.”

  “That’s safe money,” Hand replied. Scat laughed. They both knew that the Camadan and the Marchessa, if they had also found themselves in Achawuk waters, were now headed out as quickly as po
ssible. Only the Chase would be bound deeper yet.

  Just then Andrew Haas approached with news. “The navigator reports we should be sighting land shortly.”

  Scat sighed. “Well, let’s pay the piper. There’s a dance to be danced. All hands a’ deck, Mr. Haas,” he said quietly.

  Haas was a simple man with a gentler soul than Jonas Deal, but he was a rock of a sailor. He nodded without showing a trace of curiosity. “All hands on deck!” he bellowed impressively, but impassively. He quickly ran below to repeat the command in person to any members of the starboard watch not already on deck working on the foresail.

  Packer was delighted to hear the command. Delaney had taken him under his wing and was showing him the trade as best he could, which of necessity took their minds off Marcus. But Packer’s fingers and palms were hot where they were being chafed by the rigging, and his feet hurt from standing on the thin footlines. The good news was that his back and shoulder were hardly a concern. Whether it was the Firefish he’d eaten, Marcus’s prayer, or that he simply couldn’t afford to pay attention to anything else up here in the rigging, he didn’t know.

  Packer wasn’t surprised to find himself high above the deck. He had heard enough about life on the big ships to know that a novice was always sent straight up the rigging at the first opportunity, so fears would have no time to settle in. And Packer understood sailing; his father had taught him the basics well. Even though he didn’t yet know the names of all the sails or how they worked in unison with one another, he certainly knew the intended effect of every effort he was commanded to make. In this regard, his knowledge was equal to that of the most experienced hands aboard.