by David Walton
But wait— what about John Marcheford? He was chained in the church, wasn't he? He wouldn't have been released just because the tamarins had attacked. Sinclair ran in that direction, ignoring the fire- fighting efforts, and found the church ablaze. The flames licked high, the gold and diamond burning as readily as straw. There was no safe way to get inside. Diamond melted and ran in shining rivulets down the walls, and he suspected it was about to collapse.
Sinclair wiped his streaming eyes and cursed. Marcheford might very well still be alive. The fire wasn't hot and there was little smoke— if the flames hadn't reached him yet, there might still be time to rescue him. Though to try would be suicide. If the flames touched Sinclair at all, there would be no stopping them.
He cursed again. It was not his problem. The stubborn fool had welcomed death instead of compromising his principles. He would get what he chose. And maybe he was already dead— maybe Tavera had killed him. If he was now trapped in a burning church, it was his own fault. Besides, Marcheford wasn't afraid to die; he had said so himself.
Sinclair was. He had always been terrified of what lay beyond the veil. The black void that swallowed Maasha Kaatra was always lurking in his dreams, ready to leap at him as soon as he closed his eyes. He had sworn that that would not be his future. He would never die. He was closer now than he had ever been to realizing that goal. Why would he rush into a burning building? It was folly. Someone might choose to die for a child; that was pure mathematics. The child would have more life left to live. But Marcheford was older; what made his life any more valuable than Sinclair's? Better to stay where he was and save himself.
Don't fear the fire that can only kill the body.
Marcheford's voice leaped unwanted to his mind, and he remembered how unflinchingly Marcheford had faced the likelihood of his own death. Sinclair had always thought himself strong and men like Marcheford weak. He was forced to admit that the reverse might be true.
But no. Running into a burning building wasn't strength, was it? It was stupidity. What could be more stupid than hurrying your own death? Marcheford's strength came from his trust in God, but Sinclair didn't need God. Hadn't he brought Catherine to life again with his own cleverness and invention? He would bring life and immortality to the world; what would Marcheford bring?
He didn't want to go into that building. But neither could he walk away and leave Marcheford to die. God was forcing his hand.
He heard Marcheford's voice in his head again. I know one thing. If you set yourself against God, you'll lose.
"You old fool," Sinclair said. He raced into the church, not sure whether he was cursing Marcheford or himself.
The door hung loose on its hinges, and Sinclair managed to slip in without touching the flames. The smell inside was pungent, like sulfur rather than smoke. The light came from every direction now, blinding him. He was afraid of blundering into a burning brand or a portion of wall. Judging by what had happened to the man by the palisade, one touch might be all it took.
Marcheford was still chained to the altar where Sinclair had last seen him. His face was streaked with soot and sweat. He grimaced as he twisted a bloody wrist in the manacles, trying to work his way free.
Sinclair shielded his eyes and scanned the church for something he could use to break Marcheford's chains. Not very smart to come rushing in here to the rescue without bringing something— an ax, for instance— that could free him from the altar. He saw nothing. Everything in view was on fire. The altar was only spared for the moment because it was separated from the other furniture and walls. All it would take was a spark.
A spark. Iron chains would burn in this fire as readily as anything else, wouldn't they? Sinclair snatched up a wooden rod used to light candles. His mind screamed haste, but he had to be careful. He touched the end of the rod to the wall, and it caught fire instantly. The flames leaped down the rod like it was a gunpowder fuse, however, and Sinclair threw it away just before the fames touched his fingers. That wouldn't work.
How could he burn the chains without burning himself and Marcheford at the same time? A fuse— that was what he needed. Sinclair pulled the gold cloth off the altar and used his knife to cut it into four long strips. He pushed one strip through a link in the chain and worked his way toward the burning wall, tying the strips end to end. The last strip bridged the gap, connecting his makeshift fuse to the wall.
It burned quickly. Fire streaked along the strips and into the chain, almost before he could pull his hand away. Marcheford, braced against the altar, pulled hard, and the weakened chain broke where the fire touched it. He was free of the altar.
But not free of the fire. The end of the chain that hung from his arms was on fire. The flames consumed the chain, not as quickly as the cloth, but it wouldn't take them long to reach flesh. Sinclair tore off his doublet. The only chance was to smother the fire. If it didn't work, there would be no stopping it.
He wrapped his doublet around the burning chain and held it tight, holding his face as far away as possible. The flames died, and when he pulled the cloth away, the chain was clear.
"Watch out!" Marcheford said, pointing behind him.
The warning came too late. Intent on smothering the fire, Sinclair had leaned too close to the now- burning altar. White flames leaped to his legs and in moments he was alight, the fire spreading rapidly along his clothes.
"Run!" he said.
They ran for the exit. Sinclair tried to tear away his clothes, but it was too late. His flesh was on fire. The flames weren't hot and didn't even hurt, but he could feel them devouring his legs, and he understood why the colonist had screamed. In moments the flames spread up his ribs on one side.
The roof groaned and sagged. He burst out of the church into the fresh air just as it collapsed behind him. He rolled on the ground, trying to smother the flames. It didn't help. The flames covered him and ate into his flesh.
Marcheford spun, looking for some means to help him, but everything in the area was on fire. Realizing it was hopeless, Sinclair stopped rolling and looked at the sky, aware that these were his very last thoughts. Had he lived his life the way he wanted? He thought of his years of world travel, fruitlessly searching for the elixir of life. More recently, the discovery of Horizon and the long journey. He remembered the look on the boy Merton's face as he'd ordered the boy's flogging. The ultimately failed attempts to raise John Mason and Catherine Parris from the dead, the first of which had ended with Maasha Kaatra's death, and the second of which had caused many more to die. He had set out to save life, and had only destroyed it. In fact, the best thing he could remember doing in his life was what he had done just now.
Was this failure? While wandering through Asia and Africa, he'd told himself he would never stop until he found what he was looking for. And he had found it: quintessence, and all the great secrets of the ages with it. He'd transformed lead to gold. He'd turned death back into life. The culmination of the alchemist's art. And what good did all that do him, now that he was moments from death?
The devouring flames spread to his throat. It was more like dissolving than being burned alive. He was being distilled, like a liquid in one of his retorts, boiling away and leaving his impurities behind. The subtle spirit liberated from gross matter. Would he condense and reappear again, purer than before? Somehow he didn't think so.
Marcheford crouched near him, but Sinclair waved him away. The last thing he wanted was for the flames to spread to Marcheford. That would make it all pointless. But Marcheford didn't move. His eyes locked onto Sinclair's. "There's nothing I can do. I'm sorry."
Sinclair tried to smile, which was difficult, since the flames were now racing up one side of his face. The sky seemed to shrink and grow dark, until he imagined he could see the stars, sparkling with quintessence, an impossible distance away. Then they, too, began to fade. He could no longer see Marcheford, but he knew he was still there. "Don't be," he said, hoping he could still be heard. "It was worth it."
Ch
apter Thirty-four
WHEN Parris saw Catherine walking back through the gate, he ran and caught her in his arms. Joan soon joined them, the three of them embracing, each astonished that the others were still alive. After all that energy had passed out of her, he expected Catherine to be weakened, but she walked on her own strength and squeezed him tightly. He supposed the energy hadn't really come from her. Perhaps the stars would shine just a little less brightly that night.
The fire had burned intensely, but it didn't last long. Once most of the buildings in the settlement had been destroyed, it flared and died. Catherine cried as they walked through the streets between the charred and melted structures. Nearly everything was gone.
"It's not your fault," Parris said. "You saved everyone."
"I destroyed everything."
"Buildings can be rebuilt, more easily here than anywhere else in the world."
"People died because of me."
"People died because of the grays. Anyone who died by fire would have been killed anyway, and many lived who would have died if you hadn't acted. Look around you. These people are alive because of you."
The remaining colonists gradually gathered in the empty square. Of the one hundred and twenty who had come on Sinclair's ship, fewer than sixty remained. Of the ninety Spanish soldiers who had come with Tavera, fewer than forty remained. Francis Vaughan was still alive by pure chance; he had been found cowering under a table in one of the few buildings not destroyed by fire.
The Spanish ship was unharmed and already filled with treasure for the return voyage. Vaughan addressed the survivors and announced his intention to return home. He said nothing about Catherine's role in saving them from the tamarins, nor did he thank the colonists for their role in the battle. The Spanish soldiers would return with him to Eu rope.
"Anyone who wants to get away from this nightmare may come along with me," Vaughan said. "The rest of you are on your own."
THE Spanish moved back to their ship, leaving the colonists to clean up the wreckage and rebuild. Only two of the colonists elected to go with them; the rest stayed. Despite the need for living quarters, their fear that the tamarins would return prompted them to begin by rebuilding the palisade wall. For several nights, they all slept on the ground under the stars.
Marcheford held a service for the dead. None of the Spanish attended, but all of the English settlers did. He said a brief word about each person who had died in the battle. When he came to Sinclair, he described his life as a war against death, an unrelenting battle that he ultimately won by giving his own life to save another's. Parris didn't think Sinclair would have thought he had won the war, but Marcheford captured Sinclair's character, flaws and all, which was the best you could expect from a memorial service. At the end, Catherine stood. "What about the tamarins?" she said. "They died too."
There were some mutterings at that, and one man said, loudly enough to be heard by all, "It was the tamarins that did the killing."
"Not entirely," Catherine said. "We came here with no knowledge of their island or its magic. We disrupted their lives and destroyed what was sacred to them. We killed tamarins through ignorance and fear, tamarins who would be alive today if we had never come. So I say, let's mourn their dead as well."
Not everyone agreed, and a few of the colonists walked out, but Marcheford nodded gravely. He knew more tamarins than anyone else in the colony, and he recited the names of those he knew to be dead, ending with Chichirico, and expressed sorrow for the many others whose names they would never know.
The memorial completed, they buried those colonists whose bodies had been found. As they lowered Sinclair into the ground, each of the colonists threw a diamond onto his body from the original barrels he had carried back from England. He had been right, Parris thought. Almost no one had believed him, but he'd brought them here anyway, and everything he had promised had turned out to be true.
ON the fourth day, the Spanish ship was ready to sail, provisioned with Horizon water and bread made from sand, and bursting with gold, silver, spices, dozens of devices invented by the Quintessence Society, and exotic beasts of all descriptions, including a crate full of beetles.
"WE could go back to England together," Catherine said. She and her mother stood on the beach, watching the Spanish ship make final preparations to sail. "It's what you came here for, to bring me back home. Now you can."
Mother shook her head. "You like it here. And you were right, you do belong. I couldn't take that away from you."
Catherine dug her bare feet into the sand, plowing little furrows with her toes. "It hasn't all gone well, though, has it? My choices have hurt people. Even gotten some of them killed. Sometimes I wonder if I should have stayed home like you wanted me to."
"You're a woman grown now. You have to live with your own choices and their consequences. That's part of life." Mother gave a sad smile. "I'm proud of you," she said.
Catherine felt her eyes grow wet and dabbed at them with her sleeve. She had never expected to hear her mother say those words. She wasn't sure she deserved them, but it helped to hear them anyway. "What about you? You hate it here, don't you?"
Mother sat down in the sand, unlaced and removed her own shoes, and tossed them to the side. "I'll just have to get used to it, I suppose."
"I would go back with you. If you asked me to, I'd go back. You could find a suitable husband for me, and I'd settle down and love him and give you grandchildren, just like I ought to."
A distant look appeared in Mother's eyes, and she didn't answer right away. Then she shook her head. "I've made that decision already," she said. "I'm not willing to leave you and your father, and this is your place. I'll learn to be content here. Besides," she said, nodding to a lanky youth silhouetted along the shore, "here you can probably find a husband for yourself."
Matthew came closer, also barefoot, letting the ripples from the bay wash over his feet. Catherine waved.
"Go ahead," Mother said. Laughing, Catherine ran off to join him.
THEY walked along the beach away from the ship, Catherine still thinking about Mother and her decision to stay on Horizon. The approval meant a lot, but Catherine couldn't shake the feeling that when she'd trusted her own instincts, they'd led her astray. She tossed a pebble at one of the giant sand tortoises snuffling through the surf. The pebble skipped off its shell with a hollow sound and plunked into the water.
"Did I do the right thing?" she asked.
"Of course you did," Matthew said. "You were the hero of the hour. You saved everyone."
"I killed some, too. I started a fire that destroyed half of the settlement and burned alive some of the people I was trying to save."
"You didn't know that would happen."
"Exactly. Just like every other disaster we've caused by invoking powers we don't understand. We allow our greed to outreach our caution. And people die— tamarins and humans both."
"You're thinking of Maasha Kaatra."
She nodded and kicked at the sand. "And don't tell me that wasn't my fault. It might have been Sinclair's idea, but I went along with all my heart."
They were quiet for a time, listening to the crunch of the sand underneath their feet and the distant calls of the men as they hoisted crates from hand to hand. In this sheltered bay, there were no waves as such, but the violence of the ocean sent water cascading down the tunnel at the mouth of the bay that translated into ripples along the shore. These slowly eroded the footprints Matthew and Catherine left behind them as they walked.
"There was no perfect solution," Matthew said finally. "You didn't create the situation. If you had done nothing, many more would have died, perhaps all of the humans, perhaps all of the tamarins. A man pulled from the fire wouldn't blame you for bruising his wrist. You saved many."
Catherine sighed. "I know it." She smiled at him. "I might need to hear it again, though."
"Will you marry me?" he said.
She barked out a laugh. "What are you talking about? We d
on't even know if we'll survive the next week."
"Discounting that."
She laughed again, more awkwardly. This wasn't what she wanted to think about right now. A lot had changed since he'd introduced the subject the first time. She no longer thought he would discredit her views or relegate her to insignificance. And he had shown himself as courageous and principled a man in crisis as any she had known. Perhaps later, if a peace of some kind could be found with the tamarins, and they could rebuild the settlement, and they could somehow weather the war among the Eu ro pe an powers for control of this place that would be inevitable once a ship returned with treasure . . . but that might be never. Part of her was afraid to love him, knowing the dangers to come that could claim either of their lives. But refusing marriage wouldn't change that. Did she really want to delay happiness until some future moment of tranquillity that might never come?
"Yes," she said.