Sea of Lost Dreams: A Dugger/Nello Novel

by Ferenc Máté

  As he filled Kate’s glass, Testard said, “So you are here in search of your brother?”

  “Yes,” Kate blurted. “A painter. He was living in Tahiti but wanted something wilder. He was headed to . . .” and she looked pleadingly at Darina.

  “Fatu Hiva, you said,” Darina added.

  “Yes. Fatu Hiva. The last letter he sent was from aboard the tramp steamer.”

  “The Aranui,” Testard interjected.

  “Yes. They were sailing at dawn into Nuku Oa,”

  “Nuku Hiva,” Testard corrected.

  “Yes, of course,” Kate said.

  “I have heard of him,” Testard said. “I have heard he painted well. With passion.”

  “Why do you say painted?” Darina butted in. “Did something happen to him?”

  “Not as far as I know. They found his things in his shack not long ago. Everything in order, all his things, his brushes, paints. But he was gone. And hasn’t been back since.”

  “How long?” Kate asked.

  “I’m not sure. Some months. But do not worry yourself, madame. Around here men vanish for a bit all the time. They fall in love in some canyon in the mountains, or get drunk on a ship and wake up islands away, or simply decide to go native on some tiny motu and beachcomb. It’s normal. And perfectly safe. There are no dangerous animals, not even snakes. I’m sure he’ll show up soon. Especially once I send out word that you have come.”

  “Thank you, Governor. You are very kind.”

  “My pleasure,” and he raised his glass in her direction and drank. “And you, dear Captain Dugger. What are you searching for in this far corner of the world?”

  “Peace and quiet,” Dugger snarled. “I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

  “Oh, there’s peace and quiet here,” Father Murphy interjected. “Another ounce of peace and quiet and we’ll be certifiably deceased.”

  “It’s a fine place for contemplation,” Testard objected. “It brings out one’s true character; both weaknesses and strengths. ‘Solitude sometimes is best society.’ I believe Milton wrote that.”

  Darina grinned. “He wrote it in a pub.”

  Testard laughed too generously. “And you, Monsieur First Mate. What is it you seek?”

  Nello put a large bite in his mouth and, raising his fork for emphasis, said, “Revenge.”

  “Ah, fascinating,” Testard said in admiration. ”What kind of revenge?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “May I ask upon whom?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “But for what offense?”

  “Don’t know that either. But I have read that revenge keeps the mind sharp and the heart pumping, so I’ve decided to take revenge for something, somehow, on someone. It’s something to look forward to. Like Christmas.”

  Father Murphy laughed a hearty laughter. “A ship of madmen,” he said. “Thank you, heavenly Father, for sending us such delightful company.”

  “Yes.” Testard smiled. “To good company.”

  They raised their cups and drank. Forks clanged against plates, when on the fragrant breeze oozing from the canyon the deep rumble of drums stirred the air. Thudding and forceful, it mingled with the endless crashing of the waves. They all looked up into the flickering light.

  THE LARGE FROM OF THE FINN stepped into the light of the barracks doorway. The rifle dangled from one hand, an opium pipe from the other, and he stopped in the doorway, perfectly still. The mahjongg pieces clacked behind him; he threw a quick word over his shoulder and the clacking stopped. He walked across the courtyard to the gate and stood, massive against the starlit foam, and listened.

  Testard got up and started after him.

  “Shhh,” the Finn said.

  Testard stood still.

  Darina heard Nello shifting in the chains.

  “Shhh,” the Finn commanded.

  A wave thudded hard and the ground under them trembled. A new sound came in the night, distant voices of women singing.

  “So beautiful,” Kate whispered.

  “They’re coming,” the Finn said. He took a deep draft from the pipe. Another wave crashed, hissed, then died away. “The singers are standing still,” he said. “But the drums are coming.”

  Testard sobered in an instant. He strode into the barracks and snuffed the candlenuts. The barracks went dark. He came out with the Zuos, all three carrying rifles. One by one, they blew out the candlenuts in the courtyard, leaving only Father Murphy’s candle fluttering in the breeze. The wind had blown the wax off to one side and it hung stiff and white, refusing to fall.

  “Maybe they just want to talk,” Father Murphy suggested.

  Dugger snorted. “Or ask us to dance.”

  “How about some quiet?” the Finn said, and took a few more steps into the darkness.

  A fluttering moth with dark wings touched the flame. It threw a giant shadow on the wall until one wing flared. The smell of it burning filled the night. “They’re coming faster,” the Finn said, and in agitation took a long drag on the pipe.

  “So what if they’re coming?” Nello asked.

  “They’re coming to attack us,” Testard said. “I have feared this since the day I arrived. While they lived here in the village, peace was guaranteed. We could take hostages.”

  “You and the Chinamen?”

  “Me and the platoon. But the platoon left for Nuku Hiva. It was just a question of time before . . .”

  “How many are there?” Nello asked.

  “Fifty men. Maybe twenty rifles.”

  “Why would they attack?” Darina asked.

  The Finn had come back in through the gate, pulled it shut behind him, and slipped the bar in place. “Because they want us dead,” he said flatly.

  “It is their island,” Father Murphy said. “They just want it back. I know exactly how they feel.”

  “We could all get the hell out of here on the ketch,” Dugger said.

  “And how do we get to the ketch?” the Finn said.

  “We have a skiff,” Dugger said.

  The Finn, in a low voice, said, “There is no skiff.”

  No one moved. Testard looked hesitantly at the chains, then at the Zuos, then beyond the wall at the heavy darkness.

  “There is no skiff,” the Finn repeated. “The Chinamen saw someone take it in the twilight.”

  In a sudden burst of anger, Dugger yanked the chains. The drums thudded louder, more frantic, then went silent. “You need our help, Testard,” Dugger snapped. “Undo the damned chains or we’ll just sit here and watch you die like a dog.”

  “Like a dog,” the Finn repeated. “Then they can roast you with the plantains in the pit.”

  “We can swim to the ketch,” Darina suggested.

  “The undertow and the currents would take us to China,” the Finn countered.

  A shrill cry ripped the night. Then another voice, formidable and cold, uttered guttural sounds. Testard reached into his pocket and pulled out the key. He knelt beside Darina and felt around for the lock.

  “Raouti,” Father Murphy’s voice murmured in the night.

  “Who’s Raouti?” Nello asked.

  “The one who shouts,” the priest said. “Leads the battle. Incites them to bravery. And hatred.”

  The voice roared longer sounds, audible words, phrases.

  “What did he say?” Nello asked.

  “He’s telling them to rage,” the Finn said. “Rage like wild dogs. Tear them apart. Tear apart their will and flesh.”

  The raouti roared on, his voice rising, riding on the wind.

  “How long does he keep this up?” Dugger asked, annoyed.

  “Just until we’re dead,” the Finn said. “Not long. Because some of them are climbing the hill behind us now.”

  Testard fumbled urgently with the lock.

  “Don’t look up,” the Finn whispered. “There is someone right above us in the palm.”

  Nello lunged and snuffed the candle. The yard w
ent dark.

  AS SILENTLY AS THEY COULD, they slipped off the leg irons. The Finn took a last drag, then put the pipe on the ground. Over the singing and the drums and the yelling of the raouti came the metallic sound of a rifle bolt sliding back.

  There was rustling in the fronds high above. Lit by the meager starlight, the Finn slowly raised his gun. The opium colored his vision and he saw the palm outlined in shimmering yellow, the fronds black against the stars with silver pulsing in between, and he saw something moving, something with arms and legs.

  “Shoot him,” Testard whispered.

  The Finn aimed but held his fire.

  “Shoot him,” Testard repeated.

  The chants and drumming grew; the voice of the raouti repeated a single word.

  The Finn aimed, but the palm trunk was in the way. Then the figure up there stopped moving and the Finn held his breath, and while the raouti shrieked, “Rage!” again, he fired.

  A frightful scream filled the air. The figure fell from the palm at their feet in the sand.

  “It’s a goddamn kid,” the Finn said.

  The kid, frightened but unhurt, ran for the gate. Testard pushed him out into the night, then slid the bar back in place. The raouti fell silent and the drums ebbed.

  “That was some attack,” Dugger said, and, with his eyes used to the starlight, reached for his cup. “A miracle we survived it.” He took a long sip. “Can you still see someone on the bluff?”

  “Never could,” the Finn said. “There’s a steep rock slope right above it; we can’t see them and they can’t shoot us. But I heard movement.”

  “And now?”

  “Not now.”

  Testard pulled the snuffed candle from the cup and lit it again. The faces around him glowed anxious in the candlelight. “Well,” he said, and reached for a wooden bowl that had been set beside him, “would anyone like some poisson cru?” and lifted a ladleful of a mushy pink concoction that smelled of fish, lime, and coconuts. “Finely chopped wahoo, from beyond the reef.” He smiled wearily.

  The Finn spoke quietly to the Zuos and one of them climbed onto the wall by the gate and straddled it, looking toward the canyon. The other Zuo sat at the base of the wall and watched the cliff. The bowl was passed around and they scooped a bit of pink mush onto their plates.

  Darina took a bite, then whispered, “I smell fish.”

  “You’re eating fish,” Nello said.

  “No. I mean live fish. A lot of it. Coming from there.” And she pointed up the bluff. “I really do.”

  “I believe it’s just the sea,” Father Murphy assured her.

  “Perhaps,” Darina said, but thought, The sea is below us and the fish smell is from above.

  “I smell it too,” Kate said. And stood up and walked into the middle of the yard.

  Testard finished his poisson cru and wiped his mouth. “And for dessert, Messieurs et Madame,” he said with a sigh. “Courtesy of our—” but a small stone rolled down the cliff, bounced with a clang on a tin plate, and came to rest before him. They looked up. Nothing moved.

  “I can’t hear a thing,” the Finn said softly.

  With a sudden burst the drums rolled loud, then stopped. The raouti shrieked once. Then silence. Another stone came and landed in the sand.

  They all remained frozen in the flickering candlelight. “Shh,” the Finn said. He backed toward the gate and raised his rifle, pointing vaguely upward at the palm. He stopped. Something up there shimmered.

  Then it plunged.

  Dark and enormous, it plunged from above—tied by the tail, its jaws open wide, swinging on a long rope from the top of the palm—a wriggling, dying, but still ferocious shark. It swung in a long arc away from the cliff, then it swung back, writhing, lurching directly at the table. Twisting in fury, it swept cups, plates, and pots, its merciless eyes dull in the feeble light, its great jaws gaping with rows of teeth deathly white.

  The drums and a shriek cut into the night. Like a murderous pendulum, the shark swung from the palm, back and forth in jagged figure eights, its eyes dripping blood, its gleaming teeth like blades, biting plates, chairs, chunks of meat, a corner of the table, wrenching itself with rage.

  It knocked over the Finn, and toppled half the chairs. Kate stumbled across the yard trying to get away. Dugger grabbed a chair and hurled it at the shark. “Shoot it!” he roared, but the Finn was down on the ground. Nello grabbed Darina and pushed her against the bluff. Testard dove across the yard for the rifle by the door. Enraged by the confusion and the smell of its own blood, the shark snapped from side to side, plowed along the table through the fruit and glasses, flinging the clump of flowers high into the air. It doubled on itself, and red foam flew from its mouth past the glittering wire that once held its jaws tight. It opened its jaws now like some enormous trap and with a distorted twist swung and lunged at Kate.

  Kate ran but tripped as the shark swung toward her. Its teeth caught her hip. Its nose pushed her forward and she slammed against the wall. The shark hit too, shuddered, and let her fall. She crumpled to the ground. The shark began to swing back across the yard.

  Testard had retrieved his rifle, slid the bolt, and swung to fire, but the shark came fast, and its jaws locked on his arm and chest. It lifted him like a rag doll, and didn’t let go of him until they were back over Kate and slammed with a great shudder against the barracks wall.

  Dugger covered Kate with his body, but the shark now swung away. Nello crawled on his elbows, picked up Testard’s rifle, and, lying on his back as the shark flew over him, put a bullet through its eye. The shark shook. It stopped writhing. But swung on. Its blood ran down its nose in streams and drew long lazy spirals on the ground.

  From the bluff above came a singular, fervent laugh. Darina froze, then pushed herself out of Nello’s arms.

  Chapter 32

  The drums fell silent and singing rose, nearby, from the water. The Finn picked up his rifle, cocked it, and pushed open the gate. Dark forms emerged from the scrub along the shore and moved, slow and graceful, toward the white foam of the sea. A torch was lit. Stocky naked men carried small pirogues down to the shore, their outriggers fine and delicate in the starlight. They launched them but held on to prevent them from flipping in the surf, then, one by one, they pushed through the breakers, with the torch in the lead and the others spreading wide. The women stayed behind, standing knee-deep in the foam, singing and slowly weaving their hips and shoulders in undulating cadence with the movement of the sea. Their wet flesh glimmered. The men knelt in the pirogues, all paddling in rhythm. They glided unhurried over the somber waters.

  The Finn found the pipe, took a long hit. “They’re going fishing,” he said with a sigh.

  THE SHARK HUNG STILL. Father Murphy had relit the candlenuts, and the shark, lit like some pagan offering, dangled over the devastated table.

  “I’m all right,” Kate said, hobbling across the yard, when Dugger and Darina grabbed her arms to help, but she was glad to reach the chair and sit down. The shark had hooked her belt but its teeth had sliced her hip. She held her hand over the gash, holding the cut closed. Dugger lifted her hand. The cut was long but shallow, “Nello can stitch you up,” he said.

  “Sure,” Nello said, trying to hide his worry, while helping Father Murphy drag Testard to the table. “If I can stitch a storm sail, I can stitch that scratch.”

  “We have needle and iodine,” Father Murphy offered, and took a coconut full of candlenuts and vanished in the dark.

  “You better drink a lot more rum,” Dugger said to Kate. “Needles sting.”

  “I’m all right,” Kate insisted. “But could someone cut down the shark?”

  THE FLEET SPREAD in a wide half-moon across the bay, the torch glowing and swaying in rhythm to the song. Then, like a hundred silver flames shimmering in the night, schools of flying fish flew past the torch, dazzled by the curious, unaccustomed glow. The pirogue with the torch headed back to land; the others fell in behind, herding the fish to sh
ore.

  As the circle tightened, the sea boiled silver, then the dark sand of shore was filled with silver light.

  NELLO PULLED OUT HIS KNIFE. The shark was taller than him, and he went around it to the side Kate couldn’t see. The shark’s jaw hung open. Putting his boot on the teeth for footing, he grabbed its dorsal fin and climbed. The next foothold was the gills, but there were no handholds past the fin, so he drove the blade of his knife through the coarse skin, between dark stripes. He reached up and grabbed a small fin near the tail, yanked out his knife, and reached up to slice the rope. But the blood and slime of the shark made the handle slick, and the knife fell with a soft thud to the ground. He cursed. From the bluff far above, a shot rang out and the rope split and they fell, Nello clutching the shark.

  The lone laughter rang out again from the bluff. Darina glared at where it came from, but the darkness yielded nothing.

  DUGGER KEPT KATE upright and held the wound closed tight. He made her gulp rum. Nello went down to the sea to wash off the blood and slime of the shark. When he came back, Father Murphy was already at the table, pulling closer the candle and candlenuts, laying out a tincture of iodine and a thread and needle.

  “I’ll do it if you like,” he said to Nello. “I’ve sewn up half the island after shark bites and knife fights. Sometimes I’m not sure whether I’m priest or seamstress.”

  Kate smiled. “Sew away, Father,” she said. “A stitch in time . . .” But she winced from the pain.

  “Take a few deep puffs of this,” the Finn offered, and handed her the pipe.

  Kate puffed. Dugger held her in his arms and Father Murphy knelt on the ground, and while Nello held the candle close, Father Murphy began to sew with small, tidy stitches.

  The Finn and Darina were working on Testard. A pool of blood was darkening at his side.

  “How is he?” Nello asked.

  “He’ll take some sewing,” the Finn said.

  When the iodine was poured in, Kate hissed through gritted teeth, then let out a soft yelp when the needle pierced her skin. “I could use more light,” Father Murphy said. The Finn picked up two coconut shells and held them near his hands.