by Hays, Lara
By the look of the sun’s position, I guessed it to be late afternoon. The air was as sticky as ever.
My head pounded. My throat was raw. My hand shook noticeably as I reached for a canteen. I took a sip of water, hoping to soothe my throat, but swallowing only exacerbated its pain.
I tried to pull myself out of the boat, but failed. My limbs were weak. I sank down, trembling.
I needed something to eat. I cautiously counted the strips of dried beef. Four. Could I survive on one a day? Would the water last that long? I was down to the last canteen. Plus the small amount of rain I caught, which was hardly worth counting. That would give me four days. Then what?
I ate my ration of meat slowly as if the more time I took to eat it, the longer it would sustain me.
It was time to explore the forest, to see if I could find water and food. I turned to look at the tangle of green. Though the sun shone high in the sky, the forest looked dark and foreboding.
I maneuvered myself out of the boat, my skin feeling as if it were on fire. I steadied myself against the boat’s bow while a wave of dizziness clouded my sight.
Slowly, I made my way into the dank jungle.
Though uneasy with the constant whispering of the leaves and the suffocating shadows, I was in awe at its unequaled beauty. I had thought I had seen green before. As a child, I had run freely across rolling hills so green they put emeralds to shame. But this…this was something else entirely.
The soil beneath me was the color of coffee. I placed my bare feet carefully, taking care not to injure them. Each step stirred up the heady scent of damp, decaying leaves. Such a different fragrance than the salted air of the ocean. I inhaled deeply.
Every few moments, I stopped to examine the world unfolding around me. Brilliant pink flowers spilled from vines overhead. My fingers grazed mottled tree trunks as smooth as marble. The canopy overhead was so densely woven that I could scarcely see the sky.
I picked my way through the tangle of trees slowly, certain that a fresh stream or bunch of bananas was just beyond my vision. I could no longer hear the rhythm of the ocean nor could I see the beach. Anxiety bubbled in my chest. I pressed on. There was a water source somewhere. I needed to find it.
After what felt like hours of meandering, a patch of yellow caught my eye. A half-dozen birds were clustered on a gnarled mass that hung from a tree. They flitted about the clump, chirping and hopping, pecking at it and at each other. I looked closer at the clump. It wasn’t a gnarled branch like I thought, but a bouquet of long, brown pods. And the birds were eating them.
As I stood watching the birds feast, I realized the shadows were deepening. It wouldn’t be long before the sun set. I didn’t have much time.
Sizing up the tree, I estimated that it was at least twenty-five feet high. I couldn’t climb it. Not only had I never done such a thing in my entire life, and even if my skirts wouldn’t hinder me, there were no branches within reach.
I looked around the forest floor to see if I could find anything to throw at the clump of food. At the base of the tree, I noticed several pods that had been knocked loose. I picked one up.
With a little effort, I pried the hard pod open with my fingernails. Nestled inside was soft, reddish flesh surrounding six seeds. I sniffed it. I licked it. The flavor was mild but sweet. Pleasant.
I removed the pits and devoured it.
I ate the insides of three more pods I found on the forest floor.
I looked up again at the birds above, feasting away. I salivated.
I found a moss-covered stone and launched it at the clump of fruit. The stone sailed through the air and missed the target widely, hitting the branches of an adjacent tree on its descent. The birds startled and flew away.
I glanced again at the dark forest behind me, knowing I would not see the beach but still searching for it. Darkness was quickly encroaching.
I would have to return tomorrow.
But how would I ever find this tree again? This tree that would be my salvation?
I needed to leave a marker.
My hands flew to the black ribbon tied in my hair. I removed it and fastened it around the trunk. I stepped back to view my work. The shiny black satin easily blended in with the dark shadows of the jungle. It would be impossible to see. I retrieved the sash and tied my hair with it again.
I scanned myself for any other ideas. There was only one other thing I had—the Wedgwood blue dress. I would be able to recognize that from yards away. The color was bright enough, unusual enough….I searched for a piece of the dress I could easily tear off for a marker.
I futilely tugged at the hem. The silk was too tightly woven. I transferred my efforts to a sleeve. The stitching stretched but nothing gave way. Though I had initially admired the fine workmanship of this dress, I was now cursing it. Any cheaper seaming would have popped by now.
My angst grew along with the shadows of the jungle. I needed to make my way back to the beach while I could still see. Yet, I just as desperately needed to find this tree tomorrow.
My eyes searched the ground, looking for a tool to help me. If only I had brought the damn dirk! I crouched down and fingered several rocks, tossing aside the smooth pebbles. I picked up a thin, flat rock and grazed my thumb over its edge. It was sharp enough to double as a blade. Once I severed just one stitch, I knew the seam would easily unravel.
Taking the sharp-edged stone in my right hand, I awkwardly hacked at my left shoulder. I was too timid, too light-handed. I tried again.
A rustling in the brush not ten feet away from me caught my attention. Apparently it caught the attention of some birds too, for a brightly colored flock took to the sky. I didn’t know what had startled the birds, but if they were leaving, so should I. With one last effort, I pulled my sleeve taut with my left hand, crunched my eyes closed, and slashed violently at the dress with my right hand.
Sharp pain splintered down my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see what I had done. I had effectively ripped half the sleeve off the dress, so that mission was accomplished. I had also managed to score my skin from the top of my shoulder down to the hollow under my arm. Thick blood was already oozing at the cut. I hissed against the pain, angry at myself for this stupid wound. I threw the makeshift knife to the jungle floor. It landed with a wet thud. Working quickly, I yanked off the severed sleeve and mopped up the blood on my shoulder.
My eyes continued to stray to the place the rustling noise came from. Though I saw nothing nor heard nothing more, I knew something was there.
In the little light I had left, I struggled to find a way to attach the sleeve.
A jagged branch stub poked from the tree’s trunk near my waist. Quickly, I speared the sleeve onto the barb and managed to wedge a splinter into my pinky. Sucking on my finger, I hurried towards the beach, glancing over my shoulder one last time at the suspicious spot in the bushes.
I emerged from the jungle just as the golden sun began to cast the world in an amber glow.
At the water’s edge, I gingerly examined my shoulder. The cut was deep and blood throbbed out of it. I sparingly dripped my precious drinking water on my shoulder to rinse away the dirt and blood. I clenched my teeth and grimaced. Not from the pain, but at my own carelessness. I was wasting my drinking water cleaning up after my own stupidity. If I were to die of thirst, I would deserve it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was midmorning when I awoke. I was glad to have had a solid night’s sleep. A dreamless sleep.
I stretched slowly, noting the same raw headache and raspy throat that plagued me yesterday, only today they were more intense. As I stretched, my wounded shoulder resisted stiffly, throbbing with pain.
I winced as I fingered the gash on my left shoulder. The cut was an angry red and oozed a diluted sort of blood. Yellow puss crusted around the edges. My entire shoulder was puffy and pink. The skin was hot to the touch.
From the headache and sore throat that had persisted for two days, I knew I was falling
ill. Now that my shoulder was obviously infected, my situation was grave. Stranded on a primitive island without medical aid, an infection like this could kill me.
I rinsed my shoulder again with as much water as I dared to use.
My only chance of survival was finding help. I hadn’t seen any signs of civilization on the island so far. But I couldn’t afford to make any assumptions. The Caribbean was full of fledgling colonies, savage nations, and buccaneer hideouts. Unless this was an oversized sandbar, something that could save my life could be on the other side of the jungle.
I forced myself to eat my daily ration of meat before setting off on a one-way exploration. Either I would find the help I desperately needed or die.
I left the sanctuary of the boat and headed northeast along the rocky coast throwing a parting glance at the jungle. I had finally found fresh food but at the expense of my health. And now I had to walk away from it or die from infection. The irony stung as much as my shoulder.
I pressed onward, following the shoreline so as not to get lost. If something was to be found, I would find it, even if I had to circle the entire island. My faltering steps took me around the bend of land where the terrain grew tougher. The golden sand turned in to jagged pebbles that ripped the soft skin of my feet and the beach disappeared into a rocky hill.
The storm clouds overhead unleashed their fury and raindrops the size of cherries poured down. Every crash of thunder rattled my nerves. The rain in London had never been like this.
The wind raked across me and I shivered uncontrollably. Every time I shook, the pain in my shoulder shot straight to the tips of my fingers. Before long, the dull ache evolved into an insufferable fire.
I crawled up the hill—slick in the rain—grasping at plants as I made my way to the stony crest. Resting on my hands and knees, I looked around. The clouds tumbled ominously above, lit by flashes of lightning. The ocean churned dramatically below, white froth topping the black peaks. The jungle bent under the force of the blowing gale. Strands of my hair lashed against my face like a dozen wet whips.
Shivering so intensely that I could hardly coordinate my movements, I half skidded, half fell down the rocky hill and plopped into a patch of ferns. I did not get up. As the sound of the ocean grew distant, I humorously thought how this nest of ferns was the softest thing I had lain on in a while. My head spun. I closed my eyes.
The sky was still light when I regained my faculties. I did not know whether I had slept one hour or twelve. The rain had ceased but the wind continued its violent course.
I looked at my cut. The infection was worse. My entire shoulder was stiff and swollen, the open wound filled with milky fluid.
My dress and hair were still damp, but I was no longer shivering. In fact, I was hot. Too hot. I pressed my hands against my cheeks. They felt cold and clammy against the burning skin of my face. I had a fever.
Pinning my left arm to my side, I trudged to the water’s edge. I splashed my face with the frothy water, instantly cooling my burning cheeks. A few drops of seawater dripped on my infected shoulder and I screamed in pain.
Light-headed, I sat down for a minute to catch my breath. I fought the urge to sleep again and forced myself to continue my journey.
I staggered on, oblivious to the rampant storm, the harsh terrain, and the bloody footprints that trailed behind me. In a stupor, all I could do was take one more step. Just one more step.
The hours blurred together, and my thoughts were lost in the fog of fever. When I happened upon a fresh stream, I had enough instinct to drink as much as my raw throat would allow.
I trudged on through twilight, one foot in front of the other. When it was too dark to make any more progress, I collapsed where I was, not caring to find a cozy spot for sleep. I scanned the landscape, hoping to see the flickering light of a distant flame in the darkness. Hoping to see a sign of life. Hoping my journey wasn’t in vain. Hoping I wasn’t looking into my death.
My sleep was shallow and I shivered constantly. My head felt hot to the touch and my feet were like ice. When the purple haze of dawn spread across the sky, I trekked on. I stopped frequently, my energy draining too easily.
The coastline shifted into rocky cliffs and became more dramatic, more dangerous. I kept the ocean in my line of sight, but deviated from the shore. I decided it would be safer and easier to follow the road. My feet fumbled in the wheel ruts but the path was clear and easy.
Wagon ruts?
I squeezed my eyes tightly and shook my head, trying to jar some coherent thoughts.
I bent over and touched the ground. Yes, a road. Well worn. With wagon ruts.
I did not know how long I had been following it, how long it had shadowed my course. I felt stupid and elated at the same time.
The fear that had been pushing me onward vanished. I sank in to the mud, completely spent. I curled up against the violent shivering, my arm screaming with agony. I had gone as far as I could. I sent up a prayer that someone would find me here in the middle of the road. Then I gave myself away to a feverish swoon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
My eyes were closed but I was awakening. Though my head still ached with fever, I was more comfortable and warm than I had been in quite a while. Strange, soft whispers surrounded me. Whispers of the ocean? Of birds?
I shifted slightly and opened my eyes, expecting to see the sky. To my astonishment, a roof was over my head. I quickly rolled onto my right elbow and saw two women staring at me.
I squinted my eyes closed and shook my head. When I looked again, the women were still there, whispering to one another.
Trying to calm my racing heart, I forced my mind to work slowly. I was in a building. I was lying in a bed—a real bed. Sunlight streamed through a nearby window. And I was alive.
My aching joints and clammy palms told me I was still ill, but I felt much better. My cut was covered in a sticky mud-colored poultice, but I could move my shoulder.
I turned my attention to the women watching me. Their eyelids were lined and brightly painted, their lips were an unnatural shade of red, and their hair was cropped short. Their ragged dresses revealed far too much of their bosoms. Prostitutes.
“Where am I?” I said, but no sound came out. I cleared my throat and tried again.
One woman—a Negro—turned to her blonde friend and said, “Let Mother Ivy know she’s awake.” The blonde woman left.
“Hello,” the Negro said, kneeling on the floor. She held a cup towards me. “It’s cider. Might help with your throat.”
I gingerly sat up and accepted the cider. It smelled delicious and I took a sip.
“I’m Hannah, by the way,” she said. There was a certain reassurance in her deep, throaty voice. It was comforting and rich. Like velvet.
“Thank you for the cider.” I looked down at my healing shoulder. “And for this.”
Hannah shrugged. “I didn’t do that. It was Mother Ivy. She fixed you up proper.”
“So she’s the one who found me then? On the road?”
Hannah looked out the doorway of the room. I followed her gaze. “Liam!” she shouted, “I know you’re there. I can see you. Come on in. The girl’s awake.”
A boy hesitantly entered. When his eyes met mine, his face split into a gigantic grin.
“It was Liam here who found you. He’s Mother Ivy’s son. He has a habit of wandering where he’s not supposed to. Guess it was good he did.”
Liam stood sheepishly before me, smiling widely with his hands shoved in his pockets. He was about twelve and couldn’t take his enormous brown eyes off me.
“Thank you, Liam,” I croaked with my raspy voice. “You are my hero.”
He beamed.
“What’s your name?” Liam asked. “I wanted to name you Agatha but Mama said you already had a name. No one knew it, though.”
The precocious boy made me smile. “My name is Tessa. Though Agatha is a fine name too.”
“Are you a mermaid?”
I wiggled
my feet for him to see. “No. Human. Just like you.”
The blonde woman entered the room followed by a sour-looking woman with a severe grey bun. Mother Ivy, I thought.
Mother Ivy scowled at her son. “Go to the kitchen, Liam, and stop flitting about.”
“Yes’m,” he said, his eyes dropping to the floor. He quickly disappeared.
“You decided to live after all,” Mother Ivy said brusquely. She was not a warm woman.
Unsure of what to say, I took another sip of cider.
Hannah stood next to Mother Ivy. “Her name is Tessa.”
I cleared my throat and tried to look at the stern woman. “Thank you for…everything. My arm feels much better.”
Mother Ivy nodded curtly. “Glad to hear it.”
The three women stood in a row, the two prostitutes sandwiching their Mother Ivy. They stared down at me and the tension grew thicker. I was waiting for an explanation from them and they were waiting for an explanation from me.
“Might I ask where I am?” I stammered nervously.
“Maybe she has no memory,” the blonde whispered loud enough for me to hear.
Hannah scoffed. “Of course she has a memory. She knew her name.”
“I’m sorry,” I said as I pressed the heel of my hand against my aching head. “Let me explain. My name is Tessa Monroe. I was adrift at sea on a jollyboat and landed on a beach. Then I cut myself and got sick. And now I’m here. Except I don’t know where exactly here is.”
“Port Winslow,” Mother Ivy answered.
“Port Winslow,” I repeated. “How did I get here?”
“My disobedient son happened to find you dying on a road.”
I nodded and paused a moment to digest this new information. “Port Winslow,” I said again, “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Small port, really,” the blonde sassed. “Not somewhere the likes of you would ever visit on purpose.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant and it made my head hurt trying to figure it out. And then something clicked. I was in a port. “But even a small port harbors ships, right? I need passage to St. Kitts.”