by James Axler
The last boat cast off from the pier and, under the direction of a Pilatan fisherman and the sec boss, took the lead as the other boats lifted their anchors and began to heave to and follow in the wake of the craft that was to take them away to a new life.
Krysty, Mildred and Jak were on one boat. Ryan and Dean on another. J.B. and Doc traveled on the lead boat. They hadn’t been split as a deliberate decision. Places on the boats were allocated according to a draw that had been made in the ville square the night before. Its purpose was to alleviate any possibility of argument among the islanders; the only exceptions had been the fishermen, who were to pilot the boats and so were exempt from any random process.
Although a fair means in one way, it also divided families and friends who would have wished to face the perils of the sea together. The apprehension this lottery engendered did little to detract from the general air of depression that lay over the traveling party.
The sea was calm as they headed out into the open water before turning to round the island and make their way toward the mainland. There was a strong breeze that caught in the patched sails of the crafts, billowing the material and driving the heavily laden boats through the water. Ryan peered over the side of his craft as he joined the ship’s pilot, Orthos, at the tiller.
“Moving low in the water,” the one-eyed man commented in a neutral tone.
The sailor fixed him with a stare that probed for any meaning, then spoke in an equally neutral tone.
“It is true that we sail close to the waves, but there is yet enough buoyancy to keep us afloat.”
Ryan returned the sailor’s stare. “I wasn’t commenting on your people’s abilities as seamen, but I’m on this ship, too, and it’s not that long ago that my people were caught in the white water.”
Orthos was silent for a moment, pondering his answer. “Very well, I will agree with you that we are too low in the water for my liking. Nothing must be said, as panic would be a greater enemy, but I feel that we have too much in too few ships. If only they had given us more time…”
Ryan nodded. “Do you reckon we’ll be able to ride out the roughs?”
Orthos gave a small shrug, his face still impassive. “Trust, hope and faith are all I can offer, but a helping hand from you and your son if things get rough would not go amiss. You have both experienced the waters and you could be of use.”
Ryan nodded; words were unnecessary. He turned to find Dean and to prepare him for what may lay ahead.
However, not all the sailors were as forthcoming as Orthos. For on another boat, Doc had also drawn the matter to the attention of the Armorer.
“John Barrymore, I feel it necessary that you should perhaps glance over the side of this craft,” the old man said in passing. J.B. did so, whistling softly to himself when he saw how low in the water they sat. Glancing around, he could see that the sailor on the tiller was a man unknown to him.
“Figure I should mention this, Doc?”
The old man shrugged. “They would be poor sailors if they were not already aware of the matter. I fear they were given little choice in the matter, egged on by the exegeses of time.”
“Yeah,” J.B. replied slowly. “I think I know what you mean and you’re right. But no one else seems to be aware,” he added, looking at his fellow passengers, who were either too wrapped in their own sadness at leaving their home or too busy being seasick to give the matter much thought. “I figure that at least some of us should be prepared for any trouble when we hit the rough sea. Let’s go and have a few words with the guy on the tiller.”
“I would concur with that,” Doc muttered, following the Armorer as he threaded his way through the crowded interior of the boat.
As J.B. approached, he knew that it was going to be difficult. He now recognized the man as one of the hostile separatists who had been on the tree-felling parties with the companions.
“What do you want, pale one?” the sailor asked, a malevolence in his voice that he barely disguised.
J.B. held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I only wanted to say that I’ve noticed that we’re a little low on the waterline. If there’s any problems, we want to help,” he continued, indicating both Doc and himself.
The sailor sneered. “We are able to handle our own problems without help from outsiders.”
J.B. was on the point of answering, but bit hard on his tongue. Perhaps things would be different if there was actually a crisis, but arguing now would achieve nothing on either side.
“Okay, have it your way,” he said simply, turning away.
THE FIRST FEW HOURS of the voyage were little more than tedious as the convoy of Pilatan ships sailed out and around the island on a flat sea. Following the lead boat, which was piloted by Sineta and Markos under the direction of the island’s most experienced sailor, the convoy proscribed an arc that took them out beyond any reefs that may lay in wait to snag a boat that sat lower than usual in the water. The heat of the afternoon sun and the glassy surface of the water made for a smooth passage, and the people on the boats were lulled into an almost comatose state by the calm.
That changed with a shocking suddenness as the convoy rounded the island and hit the stretch of water that lay between Pilatu and the mainland.
The calm, glassy surface suddenly gave way to white water that rose up as the crosscurrents of the channel churned the water and pulled beneath the surface.
As the lead boat hit the first conflicting current, it was as though the prow had slammed into concrete. The timbers moaned and protested as the force of the water hit them; and the rigging moaned, wind dropping from sails that were suddenly flung out of alignment. All around the island, the rigging had been angled to catch the wind, but now it was proving impossible. The motors fitted to each boat would have to be brought into play. They had remained unused up to this point as each skipper had wanted to save the fuel and resultant horsepower until necessity dictated. That time had now arrived.
“Fire the engine,” Markos yelled. But there was no responding cry as the call had been lost amid the panic that the sudden impact had triggered. Shaken violently from their repose, the people on board the boat had responded by panicking, the very thing he had hoped to avoid.
Cursing, the sec boss plunged into the throng below, only to find himself thrown off his feet as the next crosscurrent hit the boat, showering the inhabitants with cold salt spray as the boat was flung sideways with the impact. Regaining his balance, it was hard for the sec boss to fight his way through. He also noticed that the craft was beginning to ship water as it dipped over and under the riders, taking on water at the prow. More than ever, it was important to get the motor running so that they could cut through the crosscurrents as quickly as possible.
Sineta came down and moved among her people, her presence alone reassuring them. Although the baron was trembling inside, she remained outwardly strong and calm, organizing the people so that they began to bale out the excess water the boat was shipping. The activity wasn’t only necessary to keep the top-heavy craft afloat, it also helped to focus the people aboard and to quell any panic in the need for action.
By the time Markos had the engine fired and the boat began to cut through the water, headed for the peninsula, the Pilatans were baling as fast as they could.
On the ships that followed, there were similar problems.
“Brace yourselves, here it comes,” Mildred yelled, keeping her eyes fixed on the boat in the lead and on the first indication of turbulence that broke the surface. Forewarned by the difficulties of the first craft, those behind had braced themselves for the impact, but there was still little chance of being truly prepared for the sudden shock of first impact.
“Watch out above!” Krysty yelled over the noise—the crash of the waves on the boat, the groaning of the timbers, the yelling of frightened Pilatans and startled animals, and—most ominously—the squeal of rigging that had been torn loose.
Above them, the mast had splintered und
er the conflicting stresses of sea and wind, and the heavy wood and sails toppled to plummet onto the deck below.
Two Pilatan women and a man stood in the direct path. All were transfixed as the rigging fell, unable to move as a crippling terror paralyzed them. The man—much older—had to have been the father or uncle of the two women, who huddled into him. He spread his arms uselessly around them, in a feeble imitation of protection. It would serve to be of no use when the heavy rigging hit them.
Mildred was out of range, but she saw Jak, surefooted even in the pitch and yaw of the wave-tossed boat, head toward them. The albino moved swiftly, gathering speed and momentum as he slalomed around upright bodies and hurdled those who were prone. He seemed able to do this without looking at the deck, his gaze fixed on the rigging above as it fell toward the trio, seemingly in slow motion.
When he was about seven feet from the three Pilatans, the albino tensed his muscles, the cords standing out on his thighs and calves, blood pumping in his ears, and threw himself through the air, spreading his arms wide to encompass the width of all three bodies.
He didn’t see them as he hit the obstacle of unmoving flesh. His head was tucked down into his right shoulder to offer his neck some protection from the impact that he knew was inevitable. He felt himself hammer into them, the momentum he had built up almost stopped dead by their frozen terror. But not quite. The force of Jak’s weight—as slender as he was—going at top speed was enough to drive all three of the terrified Pilatans backward, stumbling steps halting and falling into a heap.
The rigging hit the deck with a splintering crash, smashing deck planking where they had stood but a fraction of a second before. The impact seemed to galvanize everyone on board.
“Get that engine running!” the lead seaman screamed over the sound of the whiplash waves. The engine throbbed and roared, battling against the currents as the ship’s tiller was turned to direct it toward the shore and the peninsula.
“Hot pipe! Did you see that!” Dean exclaimed to his father as they watched the rigging fall on the ship in front.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t do that here,” Ryan commented, casting his eye over the rigging above.
“Hey, you wanted to help? Then give me a hand with this,” yelled Orthos, who had left the tiller to come down to the main body of the boat. “We need to gather the sails in while the engine’s fired—that’ll stop it going.”
Dean and Ryan joined the sailor and other fellow travelers in pulling down the ropes and sails from the rigging, letting them rest on the deck once the billowing air had been pushed from beneath them.
“Engine won’t fire,” yelled a seaman, running to them.
Orthos swore. “So long since I’ve used the engine, I don’t know if I could fix it.”
“Let me try,” Dean said quickly, pushing to the rear of the boat where another seaman was struggling with the ignition. Without a word he stood aside as Dean hunkered over the machinery, studying it. He tried the self-starter again; it refused to fire. Pulling the wires from the switch, he tried again, this time by hotwiring. The engine fired.
“Good job it was just a screwed-up switch. Don’t know what I would have tried next.” He laughed.
“Long as it works, don’t worry about it.” Orthos grinned. “Come on. We’re shipping water and need to bale. No rest for any of us until we’re through this.”
Unfortunately for J.B. and Doc, the cooperation of the other boats wasn’t to be echoed on their own vessel. It was shipping water faster than many of the others, as it was weighed down heavily with much of the livestock. Although the engine had fired and the rigging was secured, the boat was still slow because of its weight and was struggling across the white water.
The Armorer and Doc had both moved to help bale water, but were stopped by the sailor who had been on the tiller.
“Don’t move,” he said, holding a Glock.
“We only want to help,” Doc said calmly.
“Think I trust pale ones to be helping? This is our ship, our journey. Leave it to us.”
“For God’s sake, man, what do you think we are likely to do?” Doc countered. “Why should we do any harm? If this ship goes, we go with it. We are all in this together.”
The separatist sneered. “You’re in nothing with us, you stupe old man. I—”
But his attempt at justification was cut short by another wave that swept across the deck. It caught him off balance and threw him toward the rail. Losing his grip on the Glock, which fell to the deck, he toppled over the rail and just managed to catch hold as he fell toward the waves. He screamed with pain as the jolt almost pulled his arm from its socket.
At the same moment the damage from the battering waves caused the ropes on one of the livestock cages to snap; three terrified and enraged bulls stumbled from their captivity and onto the deck.
“I’ll get him. You try to keep them away,” J.B. yelled to Doc.
The old man nodded, understanding immediately that it was a necessity to keep the frightened beasts from the rail near the struggling man. Moving toward them, Doc tried to cut off their progress, shooing them back toward the opposite rail. He beckoned to others to help, and soon there were several Pilatans helping him to round up the cattle and direct them back toward their cage. As the frightened creatures entered what had to have seemed like a secure haven, Doc took a length of rope proffered by a sailor and secured the cage.
Meanwhile, J.B. rushed to the rail and reached over for the separatist’s other arm, which flailed by his side. He knew that to grab the already strained arm would possibly cause dislocation. He had to take the strain from that limb if he was to save the man.
“Give it to me,” the Armorer yelled, reaching for the free hand.
With a look of disbelief and incomprehension etched on his face, the separatist took J.B.’s proffered hand and the Armorer locked on to his wrist, using his other hand to reach over as far as he dare to grab beneath the man’s elbow. Heaving with all his strength, he pulled at the heavy body, tugging it up. The deck was slippery, and he was only too well aware that the boat was still pitching. But he ignored it as he heaved the man upward.
The separatist got his other hand on the rail and J.B. released his grip, reaching over to the man’s belt and pulling him onto the deck.
J.B. collapsed beside the gasping man, his own strength temporarily drained by the rescue.
“I—I thought…” panted the separatist.
“Leave it,” the Armorer breathed through bursting lungs. “Let’s just get out of this channel.”
Even as he spoke, the last of the boats breached the reaches of the white water and was gaining calmer seas as, battered but still in one piece, the Pilatan convoy struck out for the peninsula leading to the mainland.
ALTHOUGH THE WATERS were now calm, there was still the matter of passing the jagged shards of rock that jutted from the still waters as they approached the peninsula.
Looking up from their boats, the companions could all see the green hillside and the barely concealed entrance to the redoubt where they had arrived a few weeks earlier. And, beyond the swollen bulb of land formed by the green sward, there was the narrow strip of slate rock that formed the eroded peninsula that linked the hillside to the mainland, with the break in the central section where the slate had given way and crumbled down to the sea below. All along the cliffside that stretched on each side of the peninsula were sheer slate faces, with no way of gaining the lip of the mainland. For all of them, it recalled the reason they had headed for the island.
But, approaching it from this angle, there was perhaps a way in which they could gain the top of the cliff and so attain the mainland.
Where the narrow strip of slate and rock had tumbled into the sea, there was a scree now covered with moss and sea slime. It wasn’t a particularly steep incline, although it would be slippery, and they would have to take great care. If they anchored the boats at low tide and then unloaded into the shallows, it would be possible
to climb this incline and reach the remains of the peninsula bridge that took them onto the mainland. The obstacle that had prevented the companions from previously using this route was now eliminated. Prior to this, they would have had to scale down one side, then up another, risking the tide. Now, with boats that were anchored in the shallows, they could make their way from ship to shore with a haven at each end when the tide began to rise.
It still wasn’t going to be easy. But at least it would be less of a risk than to be caught by the incoming tide.
Markos and Sineta anchored their boat, directing the seamen on the best position. That was something that the sec boss and the baron had determined on maps of the area in consultation with Mildred before leaving. Following the lead of their baron, the other boats took up anchor positions, forming a crescent that bridged the gap between the two sides of the rock bridge.
Jak looked up at the sky. “Sun low—not get everyone out by nightfall,” he commented.
Mildred followed his gaze. The late afternoon was turning into early evening, and she reckoned they had two, maybe three, hours at most of a reasonable light left to them. There was little chance of discharging all the boats by that time. Some would have to spend a night on the water, as attempting the climb by moonlight would be an invitation to disaster. The notion of having the islanders divided by night wasn’t appealing. No one was sure how far it was to the nearest ville, and so any possible attack; neither did they know what kind of predatory wildlife stalked the hillsides.
“I’d feel a whole lot better if some of us were first up,” she said. “Markos is a good sec chief, but he’s never been on the mainland in his life. They’ve never—any of them—fired a shot in anger at real human opponents.”