X-Isle

by Steve Augarde

  “What’s the difference? I’ve still got a witness.”

  “Oh, I don’t think there can be any witnesses, Isaac. And that’s why I brought this boy. Not a capo, not a mechanic, but one that’s worthless. One that I can easily afford to lose. You haven’t thought this through at all, have you?” Preacher John’s voice was even, controlled.

  But Isaac began to look as though control were slipping away from him. “Don’t come that tone with me,” he said. “I’ve put up with it for too long! You’ve always treated me like the fool of this family. The idiot! Always favored the others over me...” He was spluttering now, his anger and hatred plain to see, all pretense at coolness gone. “Always made me do your dirty work. Dump this kid, get rid of that one, bring these young girls across. And all the while you hide behind God, like you’re so... so holy, like you’re better than anyone else. Well, I’ve had a lifetime of listening to your crap, a bellyful, and now you’ll listen to me for once. I’ve thought this through all right, don’t you worry. I got you on this boat. Yeah, and I made sure there was a witness, and I brought this gun. I planned it all!”

  “Really? And now you think you’re just going to take me outside and shoot me. Hmph.” Preacher John was openly jeering. “You haven’t got the guts, Isaac. That’s right. You’re gutless, and Godless too. You have no God to guide your hand, and so your hand falters. I see it shaking even now.”

  And it was true. The gun was raised, pointing towards Preacher John, but the barrels wavered around uncertainly. Sweat poured down Isaac’s face, glistening droplets on his dark beard.

  “You think you planned this moment?” said Preacher John. “You haven’t the wit. I planned it! I saw this day coming long ago. I saw how you would turn against me and try to rob me of what is mine!” His voice grew louder, booming around the little wooden cabin so that the windows vibrated. “I prayed to God for guidance then, and God answered. Send him to me! Send him to me and I will make him whole again, and all the world I will make whole! Build me an altar, like Abraham of old! Bring me Isaac, your firstborn! Put your trust in me, and I will draw back the waters into the fountains of the earth...”

  “What?” Isaac briefly took one hand from the gun to dash the sweat from his eyes.

  “Sacrifice, Isaac! Sacrifice! This is what God demands! To Him our first fruits shall be given – and you are my first fruit! The sacrifice has to be you. It was always you! But’ – Preacher John raised his eyes towards the ceiling of the cabin – ‘I was weak-hearted. And though I built my altar as God commanded me, I could not offer up my firstborn there. Not in the sight of my other sons. It would have to be away from the island, and hidden from all but the eyes of God. Out here, on the boat. A private covenant between me and my Maker.” Preacher John took a step forward, and Isaac backed away, stumbling against the door-post.

  “But first I needed to see for myself what a traitor you were.” Preacher John glanced towards the porthole. “Aye. So I had you bring girls over from the mainland and let you think that they would be the next to go to the altar. I tested you, and all my sons, as God tests me. And Luke and Amos kept their faith. They would do whatever I asked of them, no matter what. But not you. You wanted me brought down, destroyed, so that you could take my place. Isaac... Isaac...”

  A note of exasperation came into Preacher John’s voice, as though he were tired of explaining. “Don’t you understand? I am an instrument of God! To defy me is to defy God Himself! Only a fool would try. Or a traitorous dog like you. But even a dog must have his day, and so I decided to let you have yours – out here on the boat, just the two of us...”

  Baz shrank against the wall of the locker, plainly as insignificant to this scene as if he’d been a spider in the corner.

  “You’d have been suspicious, though,” said Preacher John, “if I’d invited myself out on a diving trip for no good reason. Much better if the invitation were to come from you. And that’s why I got rid of Moko.”

  “You... what?” Isaac seemed to almost drop the gun, the twin barrels momentarily dipping downwards before he hastily regained his grip.

  “Aye, all my doing. I put the fear of God into that heathen – made sure he’d jump ship and not come back again. I wanted the Cormorant short-handed. I knew it wouldn’t be long before one of you asked for my help, once there was treasure within reach.” Preacher John brought one arm up to point a finger directly at Isaac. “And there you saw your chance, Isaac. A chance to kill me. To do murder.” He nodded slowly as he said the word. “Aye, murder. And how cunning you tried to be. Pretending that you didn’t want me on the boat... having to be persuaded. This is work for strong men, you said. And you were right. This is work for strong men – men of God! But you have no strength, because you have no God! And so you can’t do it, can you? Even though I’ve put myself at your mercy – even now – when all is yours for the taking... you can’t do it... you just can’t do it...”

  Preacher John spread both arms and moved towards the raised gun. “You’re a fool, Isaac! A coward! A gutless... Godless... idiot...”

  “Keep away!” Isaac stepped back through the doorway. “Keep away from me, you mad bastard!” His voice was almost a scream. “I’m warning you! I’m warning you! Get away! Gaah!”

  There was a click – and another – sharp metallic sounds that cut through the high panic of Isaac’s voice. Then silence. Isaac had pulled the triggers, but the shotgun hadn’t gone off.

  Preacher John sighed, almost as though he were disappointed. He put a hand in his pocket, withdrew it and held it out. Resting in his open palm were two cartridges. He kept his arm extended for another moment before Isaac’s horrified gaze, then allowed the orange cartridges to tumble to the floor. They landed with a clatter and rolled across the planking, one of them coming to rest against the split toe of Baz’s trainer.

  “I see everything, Isaac. God grants me the vision to see into the soul of every living thing that passes before me. God grants me protection from my murdering enemies. And now may God grant me the strength to carry out His will.”

  From his other pocket Preacher John drew a gun – a short-barreled pistol, its chipped black paintwork somehow making it look all the more purposeful, all the more deadly.

  “Now get out. Onto the foredeck. You’ve shown me all I need to know.” Preacher John moved forward.

  Isaac had disappeared beyond the doorway, and out of Baz’s sight.

  “Don’t. Don’t do this... no...”

  “Get on the foredeck!” Preacher John ducked as he left the cabin.

  Baz looked towards the porthole and saw Isaac stumble past, moving backwards, still carrying the useless shotgun.

  “No... no... no, you can’t...” Isaac’s voice was muffled now, but his terror was awful to hear. Baz remained on one knee beside the locker, pouring with perspiration, unable to get up. He dropped his head so that he would see no more of whatever was happening out there. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the solitary cartridge that lay by his shoe, concentrating on that alone, watching it roll from side to side with the rocking motion of the boat.

  “O Lord, behold Thy servant, and accept this sacrifice!” Preacher John was roaring away outside. “Thou hast delivered me from mine enemies! Thou hast brought me into Thy sight and shown me the paths of righteousness! Thy will be done, O Lord! Thy... will... be...”

  The crash of the pistol drowned out the last of Preacher John’s words, but through the booming echo that followed, Baz heard a faint splash. It seemed to him that the boat momentarily rocked a little more, the cartridge at his feet travelled a little further. Then silence.

  For a long time Baz stared at the floor, his head empty of any conscious thought, a vague ringing sounded in his ears. Some kind of feeling returned to him, and at last he was able to move. He fumbled for the belt loop of his shorts, took hold of the piece of string and pulled the penknife from his pocket.

  The blade was stiff, and Baz’s hands shook as he struggled to get it open. H
is grubby thumbnail was too short and bitten-down to get a proper grip, his fingers too sweaty. Again and again they kept slipping. Ah... there... it was done.

  Then the cabin darkened. Baz looked up to see Preacher John standing in the doorway. At the same time the ringing in his ears became more persistent.

  Ting!

  The sound had some meaning, but Baz couldn’t think what it was. He kept staring at Preacher John.

  Ting-tingggg.

  A frown of irritation crossed the preacher’s face, as though he’d been disturbed, interrupted. He looked at the penknife.

  “What do you think you’re going to do with that? Drop it.”

  “No, I have to cut the wire... the lead—”

  “Drop it!” Preacher John stepped forward. He reached down and grabbed Baz’s wrist, twisting it back so that the knife immediately fell from his hand in a tangle of green string. Baz was yanked towards the doorway, dragged through it and out into the daylight.

  “Aargh!”

  Ting... tinggg...

  The bell rang for a third time, clearer now on the open air. The bell! Baz remembered what the sound actually meant... the divers... signalling...

  “No! Don’t!” Baz kicked and fought against Preacher John’s overwhelming power. It was too late, though, too late to explain, too late to take any action. In another moment he was swept upwards, the world spinning briefly about him... deck... tripod... sky...

  “No! No! There’s a b—’ Baz was still trying to shout, but his face was jammed into the back of Preacher John’s neck and his mouth was full of greasy hair. He was aware of body heat, the musky smell of salvage and candle-smoke, horrible textures on his tongue.

  He heard Preacher John’s roaring voice: ‘Away to your Maker! Gahhh...”

  The sky whirled above him in white and grey patterns... spiralling clouds...

  ... and down he went. Baz felt the stinging slap of the waves across his shoulders, and the sky disappeared. He was instantly submerged, the unbelievable shock of cold water snatching his breath away, filling his mouth with bitter saltiness. Strange echoes... pressure in his ears... a booming green void. He kicked out at the darkness, sure that he was continually sinking. But then he found himself bumping into the slimy wooden hull of the boat. In another second he was thrashing around on the surface, and Preacher John’s angry voice was in his ears again.

  “Come on, you motherless heap of scrap!”

  Who was he talking to?

  Thunka-thunk...

  An empty hollow sound.

  Baz spat out a mouthful of water, coughed, tried to get some air in his lungs.

  “What the hell’s the matter with this thing? Graaggh!”

  Tha-tha-thunkk...

  Again the rhythmic half-familiar sound. Something turning. An engine failing to catch.

  Oh God. Preacher John was trying to start the winch motor!

  Baz threw himself forward in a desperate attempt at swimming, a frenzied bid to get as far away as possible from the prow of the boat. Arms pounding and clawing at the water, legs kicking, he struck out towards the stern. In his panic he was making more noise than progress – thrashing and splashing and spluttering – but he kept going.

  Tingggg... t-tingg...

  The divers’ bell sounded its warning above him. But he was getting there... getting there... closer to the stern now.

  Crack! Not an explosion. A gunshot! Baz ducked beneath the water, breathed in a great mouthful of it, came up choking.

  Crack! Another shot, and this time Baz heard the zzzip of the bullet in the water beside him.

  “Should have shut you up before I threw you in!” Preacher John’s raging voice again.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  Baz dug at the waves, trying with all his might to get beneath them, but only succeeded in rolling over onto his back. White sky above him... the dark stern of the Cormorant. The bow of the dinghy just beside him. Then Preacher John was shouting again, his voice muffled now, more distant.

  “Gaaah! I’ll deal with you in a minute. Soon as I get this damn thing start—”

  Baz saw it before he heard it – a huge flash of light, the planking bursting outwards as though kicked from within by some mighty boot, a great gaping hole at the waterline. Ba-DOOOMMM! Kkkkk... wowowowow... whoommFFF...

  His eardrums felt as though they had exploded, but then the sound was just as suddenly gone... dissolving into absolute nothingness. Up and away he floated... far, far away into the smoky void. So peaceful. Such wonderful silence. And there was the blue angel, just like in his dream, sailing across the horizon... a gentle smiling face. She put her hand to her chin, tilted her head upwards...

  Whoooorrff...

  The world tipped over, and he was surrounded by water again, roaring flames shooting from the salvage boat, great gouts of fiery liquid arcing across the waves. Something banged against his shoulder blade – the dinghy – and Baz automatically reached upwards, grabbing at the rocking side. The boat yanked him out of the water, tearing at his arms, and as it fell once more Baz half tumbled, half scrambled over the lip. He was in the dinghy, cracking his elbows and shins against the ribs and struts, tossed this way and that, completely off balance.

  As he got to his knees, facing the prow, he saw the transom of the salvage boat rising before him... and continuing to rise. It was coming out of the water, the green-encrusted propeller dripping, and Baz realized that he was being dragged towards it. The bow of the dinghy was still roped to the Cormorant.

  Shhroomphhh! Another flaring explosion, scatterings of fire falling all around. The Cormorant was going down, and pulling the dinghy with it! Baz scrambled to the prow of the boat, grabbing at the piece of string tied to his belt loop. Miraculously the penknife was still dangling there, blade still open. The nylon tow rope tautened jerkily, ripped from his grasp again and again as he tried to saw through it. He couldn’t do it... just couldn’t do it. A sudden great lurch, and Baz was thrown sideways. The rope lashed at his face, whipping across his eyes. He was half blinded, in agony, but he knew that the rope had snapped. The rope had snapped.

  Bits of vision came back to him... fountains springing up from the deep... whirlpools... the dinghy rocking and spinning... and the word Cormorant disappearing, fading, swirling down into the darkness below. A last great belch of smoke and steam, and she’d gone. Scattered flames still danced on the waves like floating tea-lights.

  The waters calmed, and the lights went out one by one. Baz was all alone. He lay against the prow of the dinghy, rubbing his eyes, half deafened, too shocked and too exhausted to move. The horizon slowly revolved, and the distant hills of the mainland came into view, rocking gently, a roughly drawn pencil line between sea and sky.

  “Arrrk... ”

  The sound made Baz jump, a harsh squawk, alarmingly close. He spun round. A bird! It was perched on the petrol tank of the outboard motor. Huge, it seemed – grey and white, its head to one side, regarding him with a cold yellow eye. A gull?

  Yes, and there, beneath the curiously twisted grip of its claws, was the word SEAGULL, embossed on the petrol tank. As though the bird was a labeled exhibit: SEAGULL.

  “Yaaah!” Baz waved his arms, a delayed reaction to his fright, and the gull hopped into the air. It rose vertically with no apparent effort, borne upwards on lazily hanging wings, calm and un flustered in contrast to Baz’s own frantic flapping. The seagull banked and wheeled away, dipping down again as it headed off in the direction of the mainland, skimming low over the waves.

  Baz watched it go, lost for a moment in the wonder of seeing such a creature.

  Then the world came flooding back in, the horror of what had just happened, all that he had just witnessed. Were there bodies? Was that why the bird had descended – in the hope of easy pickings? Baz looked around, scanning the choppy waters. Two or three pink marker buoys bobbed about in the near vicinity. An upside-down wine bottle. Nothing more.

  Baz clambered down to the stern of the boat a
nd looked at the outboard motor. The starter rope lay coiled beneath the bench seat, along with a red plastic fuel can. He remembered how the rope worked. But what about the controls? What had Gene done exactly to get the motor going? Baz felt panicky now, frightened by the very silence that surrounded him. He had to get out of here.

  Wind the rope around the flywheel, then. No. Something else first. Gene had fiddled around with this little pump thing, pressed it up and down a few times. Yes. Like that. And then there had been a lever. This one, with the cable attached to it? Open that up a bit. Now the rope.

  He pulled it too timidly the first time. The flywheel turned, but only in a feeble half-hearted way. Baz tried again. He wound the rope around the notched flywheel and then gave it such an almighty wrench that he nearly overbalanced. The engine caught instantly, rapidly picked up speed, and in the next moment it was racing completely out of control, the screaming note of the exhaust causing Baz to panic even more. Which lever? Which lever? This one. Baz pulled the throttle lever right across, and the clamoring engine slowed to the point where it was firing only intermittently, in danger of stalling now. Try opening it up a bit more then.

  Baz fiddled about with the throttle lever until the engine sounded comfortable, a fast tickover. OK. But the boat wasn’t moving. There was something else he needed to do. He had to put it into gear, make the propeller work. Baz searched around the brackets and the engine casing until he found the only thing that looked like it might be a gear lever. Which way did it go – left or right? As he hesitated, frightened of doing the wrong thing, he saw a swirl of turbulence beyond the stern of the boat, and then something came bursting up through the surface in a great eruption of froth and spray. Metal cylinders... glistening black rubber... the unmistakable flash of a diver’s mask. Like tentacles the looped breathing tubes surged through the water, the diver lunging forward, arm outstretched, fingers clawing, reaching... reaching...

  Baz cried out in horror and tumbled backwards, his hand still on the gear lever. He felt the clunk of the motor engaging, and then the lever was wrenched from his grasp as the boat leaped into reverse. There was a muffled yell, a horrible thud beneath the transom. The dinghy rocked sideways but kept going, slewing round stern-first in an increasingly tight circle. Oh God... oh God. Baz scrambled to his knees and struck out at the lever, banging it across with the heel of his palm. An awful graunching sound – the screech of suffering gears – and the boat gave a violent jerk in the opposite direction. Baz was thrown towards the transom.