“Yeah,” said Tom as Molly and Corvessa’s words resounded and mixed inside his head. Staring at the table in front of him, he wondered: When will we be home? … Our world … our new world—
“Captain? Captain?” Bart snapped his fingers and banged a fist on the table, trying to get Tom’s attention. “Captain? You hear what I say?”
“Hm? Yes, sorry. Was just thinking about something.” Tom took a moment before coming back to the conversation at hand. Bart had a habit of retelling war stories—the same ones—more times than anyone cared to hear. He reminded Tom of Ozias, except Ozias was considerably more patriotic. “How much have you seen of the colonies, Bart?” Tom asked, changing the subject slightly.
“Before the war I visited almost every one. I stopped in ports all along the coast from south to north. I knew many a businessman here and there, built ships for many wealthy people. Why?”
“What was it like in the colonies? I’ve seen only the coast of the Spanish territory to the south, and I was held in prison in Charleston once. What is it about the new world those Yankees fancy so much?”
“I suppose it’s because it’s theirs. There’s no one to tell them what to do with it. It’s a big new world, Thomas. That’s what the English were all excited about. Remember, those colonies aren’t but the beginning of a great, untamed wilderness. There could be riches untold, just waitin’ to be found.” Bart swept the air with his lame hand, the golden cap on his wrist shining.
“What about clans, cults and the like?” Tom was curious now.
“Wasn’t a single one that I can remember, but”—Bart leaned over and lowered his voice—“a fellow I met in Isla del Sol many years after the war … not just any man, clever chap … he was sayin’ that he wouldn’t be surprised to see them crossing the sea by the hundreds as soon as those Yanks pried King George’s fingers off the land.” Bart looked out the windows again as he spoke. “Now you were sayin’ that the Bureau is stirring things up all over Europe. If that be the truth, I expect those clans and cults will be comin’ along much sooner. Perhaps they’ve already begun?”
“Perhaps,” said Tom. “Sounds like a wonderful escape.”
“I should think so,” said Bart. “Come across the sea, land in Boston or Charleston or what have you. Then vanish into the wilds of the free country.”
“Bart, I’m going to need some way of getting back to London.” Tom said abruptly.
Bart frowned and waved his hands. “If you think I’m going to build you another ship—”
“I don’t need my own ship. I have a ship that should be waiting for me in London, and I need to get to that one. But if you know of a ship I could jump aboard long enough to get to England without being found out, I’d greatly appreciate the help.” Asking Bart for a new ship hadn’t crossed Tom’s mind.
“Well that’s the trouble, Captain,” Bart said with a sigh. “The Bureau is always watching. There’s no ship that leaves these isles without those lads knowing. Every ship’s turned inside out when it comes in and before it goes out. Any ship that tries to skirt the authorities … Boom! Blasted to kingdom come!” He banged the table with his gold cap.
“I’ll bet they want passenger lists as well,” said Tom with a groan, already knowing it was not going to be an easy escape.
“And you would be right,” answered Bart, shrugging. “You’d be wiser to stay here in the isles and keep out of trouble until the powers get whatever they’re looking for and sort out their dealings.”
“Well that’s the trouble, Bart,” Tom parroted his friend with a smirk. “Something tells me I’m one of the things they’d like to find, and I can’t sit about and wait for them to come knocking at the door.”
“Try if you like, but I honestly do not know if I can help you, Captain. I’ve had my adventures, and I’m not in any shape for heroics anymore. You’re young and strong, lad.” Bart laid a hand across his stomach and blinked wearily.
“I’m not asking you to come along, and I haven’t a liking for heroics either. The Bureau is no concern of mine, but I do need to find someone important before I make my heroic exit.”
“Who?” Bart inquired. “Need to settle something?” He held up his hand and made a fist, as if to throw a punch.
“Oh, no, this is a matter of a promise I need to keep. You remember Molly Bishop, don’t you?” asked Tom.
“You didn’t say anything about a girl!” Bart burst out. “Now that’s something worth the heroics!”
“Just a moment ago you’d given up on me, Bart,” said Tom, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re not drunk?” he mimicked.
“I figured you were up to something foolish, as usual!”
“Chasing after a girl isn’t foolish?”
“A’course not! It’s about the only thing worth doing in this bloody life! It’s what I should’ve been doing when I was your age. All I did was build ships and watch ’em get sunk! Now look at me,” he said, turning and pointing. “I’m living in the empty stomach of my life’s work. I got no money, and that’s all fine, but I haven’t got anyone to share my awful luck with, neither!”
“Sure you’re not too old for women?” Tom said, laughing.
“Havin’ a lover is what keeps you living, Captain. If you got no lover, you got nothin’ at all.”
“Then why’s it you’re still alive, Bart?” asked Tom, taking no measures to hide his sarcasm.
“I love the sea,” said Bart, smiling at his own joke. Standing, he walked to the nearest window and held his gold-capped stump over his heart, gazing longingly out at the water. “She’s always with me, Captain.”
“How touching!” said Tom in a syrupy voice, unable to stop laughing at the old man. “Why women do not clamor to your doorstep I will never know. How have you survived?”
“I keep plenty to drink,” said Bart matter-of-factly. “If you can’t find a woman, a good drink’s the next best thing to keep you company. When you haven’t life’s pleasures, you run from life’s pains until you do. Freedom’s all about knowing when to run and knowing how to keep warm.” Bart winked and smiled again. The two friends relaxed in their chairs and caught their breath after their laughter wore away. For some time they sat quietly, each engaged in his own thoughts. Out in the shallows, a bell on the end of Bart’s little fishing boat rang as the waves rolled in harder. “Must be a storm on the way,” said Bart absently. “Storms always keep me distracted.”
“They do, don’t they?” Tom said, touching his chin.
“What’s that?” asked Bart, not sure he understood.
“You give me a wonderful idea.” Tom got up from his seat and pulled at his shirt, which stuck to his skin, still not dry. “Where are Rainer and his men?”
“They keep to Isla del Sol most of the time. Whatever makes his poison is on that island. I heard it was a little man. A little idol, you know,” explained Bart, raising his good hand about five inches above the table.
“Why is it important? What is it exactly?” asked Tom.
“I couldn’t tell you. The Haitian fellow who told me knows more. He lives in the town nearby. About this time of day he’ll be bringing in his catch. His boat is the one with charms on it. You should ask him.”
“I think I’ll do that,” said Tom, standing and scooting his chair under the table.
“Going so soon?”
“I really ought to. I need to find that man, and afterward I have some matters to discuss with a very temperamental mermaid.”
“Ah. Well, best of fortunes, Captain. Fair weather, good health and all that. When should I expect you next?” said Bart, twisting around in his seat as Tom opened the door to leave.
“It’s difficult to say. I appreciate the hospitality, Bart. So long, friend.” Tom stepped out the door and shut it behind him, heading down the beach.
Ahead of Tom, just a little way down the beach, the local fishermen were coming ashore and unloading their catches, just as Bart had guessed.
“Afternoon,�
�� said Tom, approaching a man who was busy tossing fish from his net into a barrel.
“Hello,” he answered, not looking up from his work.
“May I ask you something?” Tom felt as though the man did not want to talk about anything, the way he kept his eyes on his fish.
“What?” the man wanted to know. His eyes would only glance at Tom from under his brow as he wiped the sweat from the dark skin of his forehead.
“Something on Isla del Sol is making the people in the islands sick. It’s poisoning the water and the air. I was told you know what it is.”
“I must be careful what I say to white folks,” the man answered quite frankly. “You are not French, no. Who are you, my friend? Why do you care about the poison?”
“I’m English, if you must know. Tell me, do you know what this is?” asked Tom, lifting up the back of his hair and turning to show the man a faint scar on his neck.
“I do. That is the mark left by a silver collar. You are a werewolf.”
“I am,” said Tom, turning back around. “I believe I can stop the poisoning of the islands, but I need to know what is making the poison and where it is.”
“There is a little man on Isla del Sol,” said the Haitian man. “The white folks think he is just a piece of wood. A magical treasure. No, he is a powerful loa in disguise, called Simbi Anpaka. He is the loa of the plants, the leaves and poisons. He was stolen, and now he is angry. Lord Poison uses Simba Anpaka’s anger to make the people sick.”
“From where was he taken?” Tom crossed his arms and listened attentively.
“Simbi Anpaka must be given back to the people of Haiti. Then, the sickness will end,” said the man, shrugging his shoulders as if the matter couldn’t be any simpler.
“How do you know all this?” asked Tom.
“I know the houngan from whom Simbi Anpaka was stolen,” said the man.
“A priest, you mean? If I can take Simbi Anpaka back to those people, can you help me?” Tom was ready to bargain for all the trouble he expected.
“What do you want?”
“I need to board a ship to London.”
“I have no ship. Only this boat,” said the man.
“Do you know of anyone who can get me one?” Tom tried.
“I do,” said the man. From around his neck he removed a charm and tossed it to Tom. “That is Papa Legba’s veve, his symbol. Through him you may ask for the help of the loa. With luck, the spirits will help you.”
“Thanks,” said Tom, his disappointment showing in his voice. Looping the veve around his neck he bid the man farewell and walked along the beach away from town.
*
With dejection pushing down his shoulders, Tom stood in the wet sand by the sea, little waves rolling up and over his boots. He wasn’t looking forward to speaking with Oi’alli, but she and the Oi’tan tribe were among the only people in or around the islands with whom he had any relations, and his standing with the Oi’tan was neutral at best. He wasn’t sure what he would need to say to Oi’alli to persuade her to bring war to the Bureau, but that was the kind of distraction he would need if he hoped to escape the islands and return to London. As he stood in the water, he cursed himself for telling Molly, before he died, to take The Roatán Butterfly back to London. It hadn’t been part of a plan; he had simply thought Molly would be safest at his home in London, with Charlotte and Ozias. Tom hadn’t been to Spain in so long he couldn’t be sure about safety in Barcelona. In any case, getting to Spain would have been less convenient than England. What was important was that Tom was alive, and while he hadn’t had a plan before, he had one now. All he needed was to find Molly and, together, they would leave England for America. No one would find them there. They would go west if they had to, as far west as the new world reached, and they would be happy.
Tom’s boots had begun to sink into the shifting sand underfoot. He wobbled and stuck out his arms as he freed his boots and took a few steps to his right. After taking a deep breath he fixed his eyes on the horizon and raised both arms straight ahead like a preacher asking his congregation to stand.
“Tamae ye. Tamae ye kut meye,” he said, speaking to the rolling waves as they came tumbling in. One of them finally slowed and came running up to Tom’s legs where it hung without rolling backward again. “I must speak with Oi’alli,” he said, looking down at his feet. The water swirled and washed around his ankles and then rolled back toward the sea, crashing into the waves coming ashore before vanishing. Tom lifted his boots out of the wet sand and turned around, walking up the beach to find shade. Beneath a crooked palm tree he sat, waiting patiently, drawing things in the sand with the tip of Yatagarasu.
It was not long before Tom heard a splash out on the water. He looked up from his doodles to see what was coming his way. As he expected, several heads followed by muscular shoulders, arms and torsos rose from the water, one after another. Oi’alli’s finest warrior, Wui’an, followed by his men, approached the beach, swinging their arms as they pushed against the tide, their grey-blue skin shining; powerful tails slithered and thrashed the water as the men marched. Wui’an carried a long Oi’tan spear in one hand, using it like a walking stick. Its long, narrow blade flashed with the brilliance of a polished mirror. The scowl on Wui’an’s face told Tom the warrior had known who sent the message to Oi’alli. Tom got to his feet, sheathed Yatagarasu, brushed the sand off his pants and stood, grinning and folding his arms casually as the warrior approached. Wui’an shrank in size as his skin darkened to a tone of cocoa and his tail split and transformed into a pair of human legs. Now roughly Tom’s height, he marched up to the grinning pirate and stopped at about arm’s length. Clasping both hands around his spear, he held the weapon square in front of his chest—a gesture Tom had never seen—and then relaxed once more.
“You have called upon my chieftess, Oi’alli,” Wui’an said.
“Yeah. That’s right,” said Tom, nodding and wondering where she was. “Has she come?”
“My chieftess does not wish to speak with you, but--”
“She has come, regardless,” Oi’alli interrupted, appearing among the warriors and stepping through them to get to Tom, her feet drawing water up her shining legs and thighs to her hips, where it swirled elegantly around her waist. “I’ve come to see the ghost of Thomas Crowe.”
“What you see is no ghost,” said Tom, smiling. “It’s a pleasure, as always.”
“For you, perhaps,” Oi’alli retorted, propping a hand on her hip and waving a finger at Tom, tracing him from head to toe. “Why have you called me here?” she asked, swinging her hips as she approached him. With one cool hand she touched his chest, running it over his shoulder and back as she circled him. “You do appear to be alive, for what I touch is no doubt the flesh of the man I had hoped to kill.”
“I do apologize for disappointing you, but I was not ready to die,” Tom replied. “I still have many things to do before then. In fact, as I hear, you and I share a common enemy, and that is what I came to discuss.”
“Come to trade again, have you? Or, should I say steal?” The muscles in Oi’alli’s cheeks tightened, and she jabbed him with her gaze. “You never want to discuss anything unless there is a prize in it for you, Thomas.”
“I’m not looking for anything like that. I only mean to return to London, but I cannot, not as long as the Bureau controls these islands. I am sure you are familiar with them?”
“I know who they are. I know who brings disease to my ocean. I know who steals from my nation—the land dweller who calls himself the Third, and whose subjects call him Lord Poison. If you have come to tell me these things, I already know them.”
Oi’alli rested her weight on one leg and cocked her head to one side, the spines of shell in her hair rattling. “It darkens my heart, Thomas,” she said, placing one delicate hand between her breasts and clinging to the bejeweled discs looped around her shoulders and neck. There was sadness in her eyes that Tom had not seen since he had helped her ta
ke the Uyl Talisman from her father, Laughing Tree, so many years before.
“A man on this island has told me what is causing the sickness,” said Tom, frowning.
“The sickness comes from the oils they pour into the sea,” said Oi’alli. “It eats the reefs and strangles the fish. It leaves marks on the skin that burn. The sickness must be coming from this evil magic, but I cannot stop it. I have tried.”
“No,” said Tom. “That magic is olemancy. It may be what has killed the fish, but there is a sickness in the air above as well. The man I spoke to said an idol has been stolen from the people of Haiti. It is called Simbi Anpaka, and until it is returned, the sickness will stay.”
“Simbi Anpaka? I know this name,” said Oi’alli, a look of understanding washing over her face. “There is an old nation that lives in the waters of Haiti, called the Cui’oi. They too have lost many people to the sickness, and they too believe it is because of Simbi Anpaka.”
“The Bureau has stolen the spirit,” explained Tom. The faces of the warriors scowled and Wui’an stamped his spear in the sand. “The Third is using the spirit to cause the sickness, and he is telling the people in the islands that only he has the medicines that will make them healthy again.”
“Yes, I know,” said Oi’alli sourly. “Some of the Oi’tan were foolish and took the medicines. Those who did not die have gone mad. They forget who they are, and who their families are. They go off into the deep and do not return, or they pledge their loyalty to the enemy.”
“I am sorry,” Tom apologized, glancing up into her eyes uncomfortably.
“Do not be,” she stopped him. “Your kind will be next, Thomas.”
“Without question,” he agreed, “Which is why I am asking for your help and giving you mine. The spirit Simbi Anpaka is being kept on Isla del Sol. That is the only other knowledge I can provide. Will you help me by bringing war to the Bureau while there is still time? I cannot stay and fight, but I have told you everything I know.”
Oi’alli fixed her eyes on Tom’s, studying his face and considering his words carefully. The streams of water around her waist and legs swirled and swished in agitation, reflecting her inward temperament. After a moment it calmed, but Oi’alli still said nothing.
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