Sea of Lost Dreams: A Dugger/Nello Novel

by Ferenc Máté

  Joya moved protectively before him. The tattooed man stopped, looked at one, then the other; then he raised the pig. “Why?” he said in English, and furled his tattooed brow. “Why?”

  “It was an accident,” Guillaume said.

  With a startling movement, the tattooed man wrenched the knife out of the pig. Then held the animal by the scruff, its limp legs dangling. “Why?”

  Without comprehension, the crowd took up the cry. “Vy! Vy! Vy!” The lone drum now beat with resolve. Other drums followed, and men made guttural cries and, shoulder to shoulder, began to stomp their feet, and moved in a mass from the torches toward the dark. The tattooed man felt the surge behind him and, with pig and knife in hand, stepped toward Guillaume.

  Guillaume grabbed Joya and pushed her out of the way, then took a last step back. In the updraft from the sea, he tasted salt.

  The tattooed man yelled something, but the cries and singing and the drums now drowned it out.

  Guillaume spoke too, in rapid French and English, explaining, pleading but not being heard, all the while glancing around for a way out. But the crowd had spread in a wide crescent to the bluff, blocking all escape. The only way open was the precipice behind them. Joya shouted something and her face flushed and she grabbed Guillaume’s hand and pulled him, running along the edge. “A haakoi!” she shouted. Hurry!

  Guillaume stopped in confusion. “Ua hei,” Joya said. It’s all right.

  She turned toward the spur of land that stuck out like some narrow altar. Without looking back, she ran toward its end. Beyond her the sea silvered with moonlight, and her slight form stood out magnificent against it. She ran in full flight, then, with an enormous leap, she jumped, her arms outstretched, all of her dark against the glitter of the sea.

  She fell.

  The drums thundered wildly. Hands grabbed Guillaume. With a violent shudder that seemed to tear him to pieces, he struggled free and ran. Halfway along the spur, he looked back. No one followed. With long, loose strides he ran toward the tip, toward the moon, the stars, the immense, silvering sea.

  THE TATTOOED MAN LAY THE DEAD PIG on the ground. He walked, head bowed, to the platform of the drums, picked up his rifle, and without hurry went to the cliff’s edge. On the glittering sea, he saw two dark spots bobbing. He watched them as they touched. When they parted and headed for shore, he raised his rifle, aimed at the one without the fan of dark hair, then fired. Until the gun was empty.

  Book Five

  Ki’i

  Chapter 38

  With his eyes half open, Dugger leaned against the warm bluff. “Aux armes, citoyens,” he heard sung. “Formez vos bataillons.”

  And he dreamed of that spring in the Rue du Bac, after that endless war of mustard gas and mud, and the soulbreaking wheezing of the lungless dying in the night. Her voice was more beguiling than the anthem, and he watched her fervor boil as she passed by the tables of the café that spilled onto the roadway, calling all Parisians to arms, against what no one quite knew, with what results no one quite cared. He watched her hair come loose around the temples as if stirred by a storm, and she and a small following grew to many behind her, and two nights later in the mansard under the tin roof, she wrapped her legs around him, and kept growling through her moment of elation, “les maîtres de nos destinées, les maîtres de nos destinées,” the masters of our destinies. He couldn’t for the life of him understand what she meant then, and was terrified by the words just now. He snapped awake.

  Testard stumbled out of the barracks into the courtyard, caked from head to foot with patchy blood. Carrying what was left of the depleted bottle of rum, he tripped over the shark, gave it a kick that was absorbed by its deflated, infinite softness of death, then his eyes rolled happily on to Dugger by the wall.

  “Oh, Cappy,” Testard chimed drunkenly. “Captain of the vile pirates, marchons, marchons,” he sang. “Qu’un sang impur,/ Abreuve nos sillons!”

  He sat down on the jaw of the shark, which still held its rigidity, took a slug of his rum, and smiled. “When I left here, there was a soirée,” he slurred. “What did you, Cappy, do to my grand soirée?”

  “Stay calm,” Dugger cautioned. “You have fifty stitches in you. The father advised you to stay calm.”

  “The father?” Testard slurred. “He’s Irish. They eat nothing but potatoes and on Sunday a bite of mutton. Would you allow a man fed like that to give you advice?” He took a long slug and sang, “Contre vous tout prêts à se battre! Aux armes, citoyens.”

  “Calm down or you’ll bleed to death.”

  “‘Devoured by a shark at the dinner table,’ will read my tombstone, Cappy, captain of the cutthroats. What a noble way to die for an officier de la Republique, n’est-ce pas?”

  They sat silent for a moment while a wave crashed. In the brief stillness afterward, they heard distant voices and the drums.

  “They will come, Cappy. Mon cher capitaine. They have threatened to kill us all ever since we dangled some of them from the cliff. So they’ll come, all marvelous, magnificent, muscular, and drunk. And they will shoot us down like dogs, and perhaps if we’re lucky we will have the honor of being thrown into the uma with the yams. And they will pass bits of us around the fire, and pray to their gods to make them as strong as us. And as wise as us. And as fearless as us in battle. Or in bottle.” And he raised the bottle and took another pull. “The problem with you English is that you don’t drink enough. Or when you do, you drink until you crawl with your asses in the air and your muzzles on the ground. Are you English, Cappy? One of those jolly good chaps?”

  Dugger grabbed the bottle and took a big slug. The rum hit him suddenly and hard.

  “Marchons, marchons,” Testard sang with quiet venom. “Qu’un sang impur / Abreuve nos sillons!”

  “You ever think of those words, Testard? ‘May an impure blood water our furrows?’”

  “How come you know our anthem, Captain Limey? Or Savonian, or whatever you are.”

  “My German teacher was French,” Dugger snapped. “So whose impure blood are we talking about here, Testard? Everyone who ain’t pure French? You inbred Frogs. What are you doing here at the end of the world anyway? Did your mother hate you? Or your father think you not quite a man? So off you sail to Bunga-Bunga-land to show them what a tough little fellow you really are.”

  “Oh, Cappy. How angry you are with life.”

  “It’s not life, Testard! It’s you!”

  “You’re angry with me?”

  “Oh, no. I’m practically in love with you. You arrest me, chain me, have my woman half-killed by a shark, my friends are who knows where. My skiff? Forget it. My ketch? Hell, for all I know the natives may be using it for firewood. Why on earth should I be angry with you?”

  As if a wave of clarity had just washed over him, Testard sat upright and listened to the distant drums. Then his shoulders dropped and he sat as deflated as the shark. When he spoke, his voice was full of sorrow. “You know, Cappy, those poor bastards will come. Then they will die. Because the marines will come back in a day or two and surely bring the frigate with its cannon. And on it will be Admiral Thouars, who will sail into this bay with his cannon and give the Kanakas maybe an hour to abandon their village inland and move back here and be good little hostages.” And he took the bottle back from Dugger, raised it in the air, said, “Santé.” Then put it to his lips and drank until he coughed the dregs. “Admiral Dupetit Thouars,” he hissed straightening up and saluting the dead shark. “The current pride of France, whose grandfather forced Queen Pomare, the queen of Tahiti, a gentle woman about to give birth, to sign her country over to the French or have his fleet raze Papeete to the ground.

  “It was just eighty years ago, Cappy, when he accused the queen of insulting two missionaries. He demanded an apology, ten thousand U.S. dollars, and that the French flag be raised over Papeete with a twenty-one-gun salute or, as he so sweetly wrote, ‘Lack of compliance on your part, will force this servant of France, to fire with al
l cannons upon your town.’”

  “Charmant . . . Un vrai homme. A real man. And you know what his ship was called, dear Cappy? Thouar’s ship that was going to murder and maim women and children? Venus. I swear. Venus. The goddess of love. Is there no shame left in the world, Cappy? Or a sense of sorrow left in any heart?”

  He stood and staggered to the gate and opened it and let the sound of the surf roar loud into the yard. “My children,” he lamented. “My poor cursed children. What can I do for you now?”

  He came back and sat down on the shark. “It’s a long time until dawn.” He sighed. “And that’s bad. But what’s worse is we’re out of rum. And worse still is that I’m too drunk to go and find another bottle.” Then he sang softly, “Marchons. Marchons. Mes petits cochons.” And he laughed at his joke. “You like that version better, Cappy? Marchons marchons, my little swine?”

  He fell silent. Then he lay down exhausted on the shark and slept. The candlenuts had burned down. Their dying flames cast softer shadows than the moon.

  Chapter 39

  Something moved in the roof of the hut above. The Finn jumped up. He had been sleeping fitfully in his hammock, one arm dangling with the rifle in it, the other holding the opium pipe across his chest. He heard the rest of the gunshots, one close after another like a barrage or a firing squad. “Goddamn!” he growled. “Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn!”

  He took a long drink of water from a bottle to clear his head, but still nothing made sense. All he felt was a violent unease, and something as bitter as bile in his mouth. He stumbled to the water’s edge, checking the rim of dark mountains against the sky, but the sky showed no sign of early light. When he reached the barracks gate, he threw it open, and only in the last second did he think to yell out, “Don’t shoot! It’s me!” Dugger took his finger off the trigger of his gun.

  “Jesus, Finn,” Dugger snapped.

  “Get your woman,” the Finn replied. “Can she walk? She’ll have to. Go along the shore and find a pirogue. Get it down to the water and wait for us.”

  Dugger listened, barely comprehending. “What about the dark?” he quizzed.

  “To hell with the dark!”

  “Why are you so upset?”

  “I’m not upset. They are.” And he nodded toward the canyon while he strode across the yard. “You hear the shots?”

  “Sure.”

  “They have almost no bullets. Last week they made some out of old type from a printing press. Believe me, they don’t waste them. Something’s up.”

  Dugger followed him into the barracks. The stench was even heavier than before.

  Only one candlenut smoldered, and its smoke filled the air. The Finn kicked the chair under the priest. “Wake up, Padre,” he said. “It’s time to pray.”

  “An hour ago you were ready to die,” Dugger said.

  “I still am; but not today. Come on, Padre,” and he dumped a pitcher of water on Father Murphy’s head. Then he leaned down to him. “Listen. Can we carry Testard, or will he fall apart?”

  “What are you talking about?” Father Murphy slurred.

  “We have to carry Testard. Will that kill him? Will he open up and bleed himself to death?”

  “Carry him where? What’s going on? It’s still dark.”

  “Padre. There was a volley of gunfire up the canyon. Maybe a dozen shots. Fast. Like an execution. They’ve stopped singing. They’ve stopped the drums. So they either fell asleep or something serious is up. Yes or no?”

  “Yes or no what?”

  “Testard.”

  “I don’t know. I sewed him as best—”

  “I’m sure you did. But I don’t want to move him if it’ll kill him.”

  “Move him where?”

  “The ketch.” But he didn’t even bother to await an answer; he just started to take apart one of the beds. It had a good plank maybe two feet wide, and he yanked it up—no nails—and threw it on the floor so loud Kate stirred awake.

  “Can you walk?” Dugger asked her.

  “Of course I can,” she snapped, and got up, but instantly sat back down again.

  “What hurts?”

  She winced. “What doesn’t?” Then she straightened up and said, “Of course I can walk.”

  “Let’s put this plank under him,” the Finn directed. “Give me a hand, Captain.”

  Dugger laid the plank on the ground beside Testard, then, lifting him from the shark, slipped the plank under him.

  “You’d better tie him,” Father Murphy said.

  “Sure. Get a rope,” the Finn said, struggling with Testard’s deadweight.

  “Marchons, petits cochons,” Testard softly sang.

  The Finn had found a new bottle of rum, uncorked it, and poured some into Testard so fast that half of it ran down his face. “Marchons.” Testard gurgled and coughed.

  They ran a rope under the board and tied him to it, crossing his legs and arms. They walked the makeshift stretcher across the courtyard, the Finn ahead, Dugger behind. Kate stepped fearfully past the shark and leaned on Father Murphy.

  “Goddammit,” the Finn hissed as they went out through the gate. “Put him down.” And he put his end of the board down so hard that Testard’s head bounced. He ran back across the yard and inside, and threw the smoldering candlenut on the ground and snuffed it with his boot. Then he came back through the darkness. “We don’t want them to know we’re gone. Let them lay siege to an empty place.” He shut the gate from inside, bolted it, then he scrambled up over the wall. “You got a French flag aboard?” he asked.

  “You want to bury him at sea?”

  “We need a French flag so the frigate won’t fire on us.”

  “I don’t have one,” Dugger said.

  The Finn climbed back the way he had come, lowered the flag from the hacked palm, and tied it around his waist.

  The moon, nearly touching the horizon, hung pale over the sea. They picked up Testard, who started singing, but the Finn shook the board so hard Testard’s head rattled. “Shut the hell up or I’ll drop you for good.” They shuffled silently along the shore, sinking into the sand softened by the waves. Crossing a shallow creek, the Finn made for the palms, and when they reached dry sand he put his burden down. “Come on,” he said, and vanished in the scrub. Dugger followed. He could barely make out the Finn in the dreary light, pulling fronds of palms apart, moving on to a pirogue. “Here,” he said finally. “It’s heavy as hell but stable.” He grabbed the bow and Dugger the stern. They struggled in the sand. The pirogue budged.

  “I didn’t know you were such a charitable Christian,” Dugger panted.

  “You think I’m doing this to save his life? Hell! I hope he dies. But not yet.” Out of breath, they stopped and rested. “The marines left here to get help a week ago. With good winds they can sail there in four days. Once they find the frigate, they can make it back in one. So they might be back by morning. With the cannon. And an admiral who loves to hear it roar. Last year he leveled a village for stealing his laundry. He might just blow your ketch apart, then ask you who you are. Having Testard aboard might stop him firing on you. Although I wouldn’t bet on it.” He grabbed the bow and leaned into it again. “Hey, Padre!” he hissed, “Come give us a hand.”

  With Father Murphy lifting the outrigger, they dragged the pirogue into the water and waited for the wave that would float it.

  “Hold her,” the Finn said to Father Murphy, and went to get Testard. They slung the board across the hull, and Dugger went back to help Kate. He lifted her into the stern and told her to stay low. They pushed out. “Get in, Padre,” Dugger ordered, and pushed the priest headfirst over the side. They were up to their waists, then their chests, in the sea; after a last push, they pulled themselves aboard. They had started paddling when Father Murphy, without a word, stood up and jumped overboard. He caught a wave and with a few strokes made the shore.

  “My flock,” he shouted back. “I can’t leave my flock.”

  “Keep paddling!” the Fi
nn shouted. “He’s crazy. Let him die.”

  The moon touched the sea, dissolving in the mist. The ketch with its raked masts lay resolute against it.

  Chapter 40

  Apearly dawn light filled the sea and sky. Darina swam out through the surf into the smooth sea, the freshness of the water and the effort of swimming distracting her from thoughts of her brother. Past the southern point of the bay an islet jutted, sloping to a flat rock over which rolled the sea. She swam, wishing she had taken off her clothes—she had wanted to after she’d seen the naked girl—but the voice of Mother Superior rang in her ear about indecency, immodesty, and another word that began with an ‘i’, which she now forgot. She scrambled barefoot up onto the rock, peeled off her clothes, wrung them, and hung them on a shrub to dry. She sat on the rock and pulled up her knees so she’d feel less naked.

  The girl rode her board and sang softly to herself to keep rhythm, and her hips swayed and her limbs hung loose, and her knees stayed soft and felt the motion of the sea. Just sing and feel the sea, her uncle Nataro had taught her. Your body is a feather, all your weight is in your feet. And he taught her to shift her weight with joy just as when she danced. Or made love, he’d said. She snickered when he said that, but he didn’t. It’s all the same, he said, you do one thing well and everything else follows.

  But now her lips kept forgetting the song, and her knees were set hard, because she kept seeing that injured man with one eye squinting, and the woman with eyes enormous and blue. She wished they hadn’t come. This was her place. Just her and the rocks and the sea, and the long-tailed tevake and toake, and sometimes faufee and even mokohe that would come and watch her in fascination, and sometimes fly very close beside her, along with her, and listen to her sing. She could sing with them, but not with these people with the strange eyes. Especially the woman with eyes like lagoons. Just like the eyes of that man who once loved her, who had wanted her forever. For his wife.