Sea of Lost Dreams: A Dugger/Nello Novel

by Ferenc Máté

  When Kate turned to him and began to reply, Nello suddenly stood and replied in English, “Good morning, Governor, I’m Nello Cerriaci, the first mate of the ketch anchored beyond. I apologize, but we do not speak French.”

  When Kate looked at him questioningly, he just glared.

  “For heaven’s sake, Testard,” Father Murphy chided. “Why the guns?”

  “A precaution, Father,” Testard said containing his anxiety. “We have, I’m sorry to say, information that these are . . . adventurers . . . pirates to be plain. My duty is to protect the people of these islands.” Then, turning to Kate, he said gently, “I shall have to ask you to be my, let us say houseguest, until we find out otherwise. How many more of you on board?”

  “Ten,” Nello said.

  That’s a lot, Testard thought, and he stepped back slightly out of the line of fire.

  “My dear governor,” Nello said with as much charm as he could muster, “the lady here has come all the way from Ireland in search of her brother, from whom she has not heard in a year. He’s a painter. Well respected in his own land.”

  Testard was barely listening. He stared at the ketch aglow in the bay without signs of life aboard her, and wondered if the other pirates had come ashore below the bluffs to attack.

  A DARK CLOUD CAME on a hard, cool wind, luminous around the edges, with its center black. It hid the peaks and its blackness seemed to tumble down the falls. Darkness fell over the ketch and the shore and Dugger could no longer see clearly the movements of the little group standing on the beach.

  He could do nothing to help. He couldn’t even go ashore without the skiff. He thought of getting the Winchester and picking off in quick succession the three bastards with the rifles and that idiot in the white uniform who, judging by his pompous stance, was commanding the show.

  He ran below, but instead of the rifle he took his pistol, wrapped it tightly in oilcloth, tied it in a bundle with his boots behind his neck, then went above and slipped over the side. He swam with breaststrokes, to keep the gun dry, to the bluffs.

  THE GOAT PATH was too narrow for his feet. He crabbed along it sideways, toes to the rock. The trees and vines behind him hid the shore. He didn’t want to see his shipmates anyway, telling himself that as long as he wasn’t watching, nothing bad could happen. He clung to ferns and creepers and edged along. Without warning the wind became a squall. It swept along the bluff, buffeting him with gusts, whipping him with fronds and branches. Then it began to rain. Heavy raindrops pelted his face, and poured into his eyes until he could barely see. The bluff became a waterfall, hiding all but a few feet of green around him. The goat trail was a stream.

  When it led steeply to a ledge below, he lowered himself on a vine and ran on, head down. In the scrub, just short of the big falls, he stopped. The stream of the falls was a cascade of mud. It was raining too hard to see clearly the beach beyond, but the closer he got, the emptier it looked. He cut inland under palms.

  Light poured down ahead. He saw a clearing awash with water in the pelting rain, encircled by abandoned huts, the fronds of their roofs lifted by the wind, the mats of the walls fluttering like flags. When he saw no movement, he circled the houses. He was staring at a drenched parrot taking refuge in a ruined hut when he bumped into the dead dog hanging by its legs. It swung lightly in the wind, its ragged fur washed backward by the downpour.

  Something moved across the clearing. A lanky blue-green figure came through the jungle, barely distinguishable from the downpour that covered him. He stood vague and immobile like some vaporous apparition between two bamboo huts tilting on their stilts. Dugger untied the bundle from his neck and pulled out the gun. The apparition faded. It must have stepped back, because its outlines softened, then dissolved in the rain.

  “Guillaume?” Dugger called softly, but the downpour washed it away. The rain hardened and there was nothing left but the whipping fronds and raindrops thundering like a drumroll in the palms.

  THEY WALKED SINGLE FILE, silent and drenched, through the rain, past the village, with the Finn leading the way, followed by the crew of the ketch, the Zuos, then Testard, with Father Murphy straggling well behind. His water-laden cassock hung like a lead cape on his shoulders, and he cursed under his breath, then uttered, “Forgive me, Father,” and crossed himself to calm his rage.

  Dugger crouched in the thicket and let them pass. They were so close he could smell the wet wool of the cassock. Then he stepped out, with three strides caught the priest, wrapped his arm around his neck, and covered his mouth. He held the pistol barrel across his own lips to signal him to silence. The priest stared into a sunburned face, the green eyes hard but not unkind, and could have sworn he saw a quick smile. He blinked in agreement. “Welcome, my son,” he whispered into Dugger’s palm.

  Dugger released his hold, and when he saw the priest remain silent, he mouthed, Thank you, then went, with noiseless strides, to catch up to the column. When right behind Testard, he raised his pistol and put it against the nape of his neck just above the uniform’s white collar.

  “Tell them to drop their rifles,” he ordered quietly.

  There was no reply. Then he heard a quick yelp from the priest behind him and in the same moment felt a blow to his head and everything went black. His knees folded and he fell, face-down, into the rain-pelted mud.

  FLUSH WITH EXCITEMENT, Father Murphy had been leaning against a palm tree, running his hand across his face in a futile attempt to dry it, when he saw the lanky tattooed shape emerge from the thicket, raise his rifle, and swing its butt into the back of the green-eyed man’s head. He saw the man crumple to the ground, and the tattooed man step back into the scrub and vanish in the rain.

  He watched Testard, utterly bewildered, lean over the crumpled body in the rain.

  Chapter 30

  The rain blew out of the bay as abruptly as it had come. The clouds, still towering, were swept out into the sunset, and the wind kept shaking water from the palms. Birds ruffled their feathers, trying to dry out.

  From where they sat in the courtyard of the barracks, they saw only the lofty clouds and sky, and the top of the peeping palm. There were two iron loops embedded knee-high in the stone wall, and the Finn and the Zuos had run a chain through them and put leg irons on the men—Dugger, Nello, and Darina—and let them sit on a bench next to the wall. Kate they allowed to roam.

  In the last color-drenched light, their white shirts glowed, the leaves turned a poisonous green, the bougainvillea blood-red. The air was dense with the odor of wet earth, gardenias, and the smell of roast meat rising from the pit. One of the Zuos sat on his haunches beside the pit, occasionally lifting the banana leaves from the roast and pouring coconut milk and crushed mangoes down between the hot stones that lined the bottom of the pit.

  Testard had changed into a dry shirt that already hung limp from the humid air. He moved efficiently through the yard and barracks, filling the roles of jailer, good host, and defender of the fortress. He had the big table brought out into the yard, below the bower of the leaning palm, but close to his chained guests so they too could partake in the festive dinner. He set out a tablecloth and china, with Kate’s bouquet of flowers in a pot, before scurrying inside to ready more ammunition for the rifles. Next, he prepared a bowl of rum with slices of papaya, bitter grapefruit, vanilla sticks, and bananas, and smilingly served his guests while carefully staying beyond the length of their chains. And all the while he remained vigilant, glancing often through the open gate at the beach and bay, or at the gloomy bluffs that loomed behind the fortress, unsure which attack to prepare for: that of the natives by land or of the pirates by sea.

  The Finn leaned on one side of the gate and rested his rifle against the other. He surveyed the darkening shore, where the other Chinaman was doing as he was told: keeping an eye on the clearing, the groves, and the bay for any movement.

  FATHER MURPHY SAT AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE with his damp cassock still steaming, distractedly fishing in his cup of
rum for a bit of fruit. For once in his life he was speechless, overwhelmed by the new faces. Sure, the Aranui, the old steamer, came six times a year to drop off supplies and pick up sacks of copra; and the small French frigate came to show off its cannon each July, and once in a while a trading schooner would happen upon the bay, but none of them was anything like this ketch or its crew. The others were all Malay or Thai, and the few white faces among them had the same life-hardened stare that neither wanted nor expected anything from life. The crew of the ketch was different. There was a spirit in their eyes, a vigor in their movement, and, yes, beauty.

  He had not seen a white woman since he couldn’t remember when. This must surely be a sign. Now he had trouble keeping his eyes off Kate. He could not get enough of her hair streaked by the sun, her pretty, honest face, her hazel eyes. As she moved around the yard arranging cutlery and plates, there seemed an unconcerned ease about her, as if she could imagine only the brightest of tomorrows.

  And that pretty blond boy. So fragile-looking, with transparent skin, and that full mouth—and big blue eyes that seemed to hide something. All afternoon the boy remained silent, seemed to watch the enigmatic mate and the captain for signs of what to do. That enigmatic mate—gruff, unshaven, all sinew and bone, big jaw set—with his right eyebrow rising and falling as his left eye squinted intensely, darting here, riveting there, evaluating every move, every word, every reaction. He seemed more quick and able than the younger captain he served, who often appeared sunken deep in melancholy, until he suddenly burst out with a curt sarcasm, or anger.

  You’re judging him too harshly, Murphy, he chided himself. You might not be all that cheery yourself if you’d just gotten a good solid whack on the head like him, then ended up in chains. For all you know, he might be a barrel of laughs another day. And who are you to be judging anyway: a priest without a flock looking for salvation in a cup, droning in his empty chapel to himself, hearing his own confessions; assigning his own penance; converting no one but himself to insobriety?

  I’ll drink to that, he thought, and raised his cup.

  You’re not such a bad priest, the rush of rum assured him. You cared for your flock body and soul when they were still around; stitched their wounds; cooled their fevers. Maybe they ignored you and remained savages, but then God must have made them savage for a reason. Maybe he just wants you to serve blindly. To test your faith. Or maybe he wants you to learn something from them. After all, he gave them a Garden of Eden; maybe they are God’s most innocent children. Just look at their eyes. Look at their ready smiles. Look at them share their last bite with whoever passes by. Is there a more truly Christian soul than in a savage? Sure they have bad habits—they take their neighbor’s wife; sometimes they kill their infants; and instead of loving their neighbors, they eat them roasted in an uma now and then—but overall, overall . . .

  Father Murphy raised his glass. “Welcome to paradise,” he toasted. “And if it’s not quite that at the moment, we’ll certainly make it so.”

  WITH THE ROASTING MEAT not yet done, Testard sat down at the far end of the table, opened his ledger, its pages wavy from dampness, and like some polite hotelier asked for information of his prisoners. He felt too embarrassed to begin with the woman, so he started with Nello, whom he didn’t like.

  “Your full name, please,” he said with quiet courtesy, not wanting show his anxiety.

  “Nello Cerriaci.”

  “Place of birth?”

  “Beware Cove.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Where it rains even more than it does here,” Dugger snapped.

  “The west coast of Canada,” Nello said, then whispered, “Come on, Cappy, let’s stay on the man’s good side.”

  “Date of birth?”

  “Eighteen eighty-one,”

  “Profession?”

  “First mate.”

  “Of a pirate ship,” Father Murphy blurted, and had a little laugh.

  “Your domicile?”

  “The ship.”

  Testard moved on quickly to the boy. “And you, jeune homme?”

  Darina looked at Dugger for help, but he didn’t look back.

  “Go ahead, son,” Nello pointedly said. “The gentleman is the governor of these islands. We are under his protection, so go ahead.”

  “Darin,” she mumbled. “Born 1899, County Galway, Ireland. Cabin boy.”

  “Domicile?”

  “The pirate ship, Testard,” Father Murphy mocked. “Can’t you tell the boy’s a murderous pirate? Have you ever seen a more vicious face? Why don’t you ask him how many throats he’s cut? Use your eyes, man. Trust your judgment. Hang the beggar before it’s too late.”

  “Père Murphy, je vous en prie,” Testard said softly, and went on speaking in French but so quietly that Kate heard only “Il a les mêmes yeux que Peintures. The same eyes as Pictures. Only when Father Murphy replied bitterly in French did she clearly understand his every word.

  Darina leaned over to Nello. “Do you ever tell the truth?” she asked nervously.

  “Not on dry land,” he said.

  “Why do you want me to be a boy?”

  “You ever play poker?”

  “Oh, sure. Every night. We used the host as chips.”

  Nello felt a sudden rush and he had to look away. He could stand her eyes, but her humor left him helpless. Stop it, he told himself. There’s no time for this.

  “In poker,” he murmured, “there is only one aim: to hide from your opponent what you have. The more confused he gets, the more likely you’ll beat him.”

  “I’m the one that’s confused.”

  “That’s all right; you’re not playing this hand.”

  “Father Murphy,” Testard said now in English, forcing a perfect calm, “could I ask you to cut up the roast meat for our guests?”

  The priest fell silent. He stared in confusion at the Chinaman by the pit, and said something to Testard half in French, half patois. Nello looked questioningly at Kate for a translation, but her gaze was fixed firmly on the pit.

  The Chinaman began folding back the leaves, and cursing when he burned his hand. Then he took two poles and slipped them, like long chopsticks, on an angle into the pit. He pushed deep, then pressed down, raising the mass, covered with leaves, out of the ground. Father Murphy, endlessly chiding, grabbed the other ends, and they carried the mass, like a corpse on a stretcher, through the clouds of rising steam into the barracks. They dropped it somewhere out of sight with a thud.

  Testard had moved on to questioning Dugger, and as Nello started listening, he heard, “And your last port of call?

  “San Lucas,” Dugger responded. “Mexico.”

  “But you weren’t there very long.”

  “Is that so?” Dugger said, surprised. “Did you have a spy aboard?”

  “No, Captain. I have eyes. San Lucas is a hot desert town. Had you stopped a long time, you would have surely bought yourselves hats of straw instead of the hot felt ones you wear.”

  “Perhaps we’re as attached to them as Father Murphy is to his cassock.”

  There were sounds of reprimand from the barracks and a cleaver thumping. The sky had lost its light; only the clouds far to the west still held in them the remnants of the day. The other Zuo had come up from the shore and said something to the Finn, who stood dark against the last light on the sea.

  Father Murphy came out with a candle, cupping his hand around the flame. “The last real candle we have,” he said sheepishly, and began lighting the strings of candlenuts dangling from wires across half shells of coconut. They smoldered, flared, and smoked, mingling bitterness into the sweet fragrant air.

  Testard had run out of questions. He had to turn to Kate.

  She was standing, leaning heavily on a chair, her eyes distant, reflecting the flames. The courtyard was filled with shadows dancing to the rhythm of the fronds against the stars.

  “Chère Madame,” Tetstard began, “and where were you born?”
/>   The Zuos came out with a wooden tray ringed by steaming yams and roasted bananas. At its center, piled high, were fragrant slabs of meat.

  Chapter 31

  Their chains rattled as they pulled the bench close to the table.

  “Wild goats are most difficult to hunt,” Testard began, forking a piece of meat into his mouth, while staring Father Murphy into silence. “They put themselves between you and the sun, then stand there and watch you being blinded. You have to outsmart them. You put a shard of mirror in a place they frequent, and while they’re bewildered by it . . . an easy shot.”

  “A little deception goes a long way,” Nello said.

  “Even with goats,” Dugger added.

  “It works with flocks of sheep,” Father Murphy added. “Until one day they head for the hills and leave you behind for good.”

  “But the Patient Shepherd finds them all,” Darina said gently.

  “I remember the Bible saying that.”

  “Excellent, my boy,” Father Murphy chimed. “Every last one of them.”

  THEY ATE WITH THE FEROCITY of the nearly starved, the fragrant plantains, the rich, sweet yams. The meat—their first in almost three weeks—was succulent and toothsome, so good to gnaw and chew.

  “Best goat I ever ate,” Nello said.

  Testard passed around the bowl of rum. The last daylight had gone; only a towering cloud rose beyond the bay, a pillar to the dome of stars. The sound of clacking mahjongg pieces came from inside the barracks and, with it, the tangy fragrance of smoldering opium.