by H C Storrer
Amazed, Jack paused. For the first time, he wondered at his luck. Looking skyward, he peered at the high branches where several more of the wondrous fruits dangled on the limbs, ready to give way. Shrugging, Jack shook off the coincidence and enjoyed the good fortune. It was a blessing to his bones; where death had stalked him for days upon the rolling ocean, even a meager meal of fruit and water buoyed his spirit with hope. As the evening sea breeze brushed back the brown tips of his black hair, his skin pricked with a chill. Lying in the warm sand, he rolled his arms and legs close to his core behind his mango tree, apprehensive of the biting cold sure to come through the night.
***
Jack’s eyelids flickered open as the sun of another morning peeled them back as it crested the horizon with majestic white rays. Stretching in a warm blanket of sand, he lifted his chin to inspect his private beach. He had tried for days to explain how the sand remained warm through the night, but each explanation was an exercise in futility. There was only so much heat in the day, and he knew the sand should cool quickly when the sun set. No, for the sun to heat his beach that much, he would have burned like a withered stalk of grass. Shifting to a sitting position, he tried once again to grapple with an understanding, but found his mind numb.
Jack jumped to his feet, giving up on the problem, and resolved to finish his work from the day before. Mangos and coconuts, he had decided, would no longer meet his needs. Hefting the thin wooden shaft of a straight limb he had harvested, Jack set about sharpening the tip to a narrow point, his file, one of many volcanic rocks strewn about the surf. Meat was the answer to satisfy his belly and sharpen his mind, even if it was raw fish.
His weapon honed to satisfaction, Jack stood knee deep in the surf, letting the gentle foaming wash tug him out as he waded into the shallow lagoon. He had never learned to swim, but he had been staring at the water long enough that whatever fear he’d had was simply forgotten.
Out in the water nearest the reef he found spearing the darting silver and black fish impossible. Either his spear would shoot off with the undulating current, or it would travel too slowly to be of any good. The final straw was when he actually hit the scales of a slow-moving body, only to have his spear bounce off, useless. In frustration, he stomped from the waves and up the beach, hurling the wooden shaft into the sand. The thought of his trusty karambit was too much to dwell on; it was like losing a friend, and so he quickly turned to the trouble at hand. He needed fire—no, he needed a proper meal. The want for a nice, roasted fish, the kind Mrs. Hardworth, the cook, made, consumed his thoughts. With his eyes closed, salt water dripping down his tattered breeches to his feet, he could almost smell the cod being pulled from the oven, the pewter platter sizzling with butter. Taking a deep breath, he steeled his resolve and opened his eyes. For a second, he stood motionless, his jaw nearly to his chest. Before him, under his faithful mango tree, a silver platter lay in the sand, fish baked and sizzling in butter upon it.
The shock of the sight was quickly overcome with the realization he was not alone. “Hello!” he croaked, licked his lips, and then barked again. “HELLO!” Unsure of anything, he rushed to retrieve his dull, sodden spear. If he was not alone, then was he in danger? Jack stepped side to side, staring at the mangrove palisade for a long while, his stomach churning in knots. As the moment of sickness passed his heartbeat slowed with reason. ‘Why would dangerous savages leave me a meal?’ he thought. It was then his hunger washed over his fear, and he darted to the plate lying beneath his tree.
He spent the rest of the day arguing within him himself about the delicious fish and who it was that supplied it. It tasted just like Mrs. Hardsworth’s, but that, he convinced himself, was just because he was so hungry. Trying to busy himself away from his meager camp, he only returned at dusk, and even then, he spent a good part of the night with one ear keen to the danger about him, his spear and a few large stones within reach.
It wasn’t until nearly sunrise that his mind finally drifted to a sweet memory. “Jacques, mon fils. It iz time to get up sleepy ’ead. It iz your birsday.”
Almost feeling the caress of Marguax’s hand across his back, Jack stretched in the warmth of his sand, the rays of morning light tickling his eyelashes. Blinking away the dream, he inhaled the most wondrous scent of sweet cream and raspberry jelly. It was when his eyes beheld the French pastries upon a two-tiered porcelain caddie that his heart sank to his toes. He welcomed the breakfast, but the anxiety of not knowing who brought it tore at him all hours of the day.
When night came for the fifth or sixth time—Jack was starting to lose count—he made up his mind. He was going deep into the wood. If there were other men on the island, they were Englishmen. The pewter platter marked on the bottom with a familiar stamp was proof enough. The question that bothered him most was why had they left the meals and not saved him? Were they marooned like he was? If so, what did they want from him? The questions continued to build and nag through the darkness enveloping him. In vain, Jack tried to sleep, but every falling coconut, every rustling leaf, was a burst of a musket to his dreams, and his eyes would snap open, contemplating the danger. It was well before the azure beams of morning welcomed another sunrise that sleep simply fled altogether.
Chapter 22
P eeking between the gaps of the ferns draped over him, Jack held his breath as seven large men melted soundlessly through the forest. He was confident that his heart beating in his ears must be echoing throughout the jungle as the hunters began to cautiously prod the underbrush. His anxiety built as he watched them stalk closer with deliberately slow steps, the closest of them tempting the braken that was a mere foot from his head with a wicked looking spear. Large drops of water slowly built on the ends of the leaves of his covering, dragging their tips to the soft forest floor with a pat. As it repeated over and over it reminded him of the unnerving ticking of a clock, playing Jack’s every sinew with each thud. The bitter taste of sopping jungle decay loomed thick in his mouth as he continued to hold his breath, all while the constant muggy mist made him feel as if he were being poached under the tropic sun.
His first two trips into the brush had revealed little more than greenery and the occasional tropical bird. After hours of pushing through the jungle, he began to fear that this excursion would become just as fruitless. As the day wore on, Jack was almost ready to turn back, when the huntsmen seemed to sprout from the vegetation. It was at their sudden appearance that he dove prostrate to the jungle floor. Even the smallest was a giant compared to the sailors on the Faversham. They wore no shirts, and their muscled, coffee-colored chests looked as if they were stained dark by the tropical sun, an idea that struck Jack as being very likely. About their middle they each wore a grass kilt of sorts, black and white beads of shell woven in intricate patterns among the long strands, dancing with mesmerizing effect as they walked. It was nothing, however, in comparison to the green tattoos that covered their shoulders, chests, and limbs. Unlike the faded anchors and womanly names he had seen scrawled on the arms and legs of the sailors of the Faversham, these men were covered with entangled designs over much of their skin; one even had the teeth of a large cat tattooed over his face. Slowly the men began to retrace their steps as they eased back into the brush.
Everything was starting to fall into place. There could only be one explanation for the English wares that kept appearing stacked high with meals: a shipwreck of some sort with all hands lost. There were no countrymen to be had; these savages were the only people he had seen in weeks. Slipping a chunk of roast pork from a satchel he had fashioned out of a broad leaf and vines, Jack took a nervous bite. No, there had to be other Englishmen here, Jack mused as he savored the morsel. Each gifted meal was as expertly crafted as Ms. Hardworth’s had been back in Penzance; no wild native could have made them.
Perhaps the other Englishmen had claimed rule over these natives in the name of King George III. This hunting party looked fierce, to be sure, but what native could stand against the king’
s men? Only wondering briefly as to why they had still not tried to contact him directly, Jack decided to act. Slowly putting his feet beneath him, with a hand held high he resolved to hail them. He had no sooner taken a breath to speak when, like a flash of lightning, a spear shot out of the brush, streaking mere inches from his face and smacking a tree just behind him with a dull thud.
Shocked by the violence of the attack, he yelled haltingly, “I… um, am… Jack!”
Aiming a condemning finger, the leader of the group growled in a tongue he had never heard before. Immediately, another of the natives hurled a black club sideways through the air. As Jack threw himself back to the jungle floor it passed just overhead, tearing free the brush he had used for cover.
Clambering on all fours, he scrambled helplessly behind a nearby tree. Through the din of his own panic, Jack could hear the men circling cautiously about him. Recovering his wits, he abandoned his hiding spot, shooting like a cannonball into the thick underbrush, hardly caring which direction his feet carried him.
Left, right, left. Jack darted in a zig-zag pattern through the forest trying to shake his pursuers, his hammering heart pushing him faster as it began to keep pace with the footfalls giving chase. His lungs began to heave as he dashed between two trees and up a small hill. He had no idea how long he had been running, but each breath became shallower than the last and he could feel the sweltering humidity begin to sap his strength. Reaching the peak of the small berm revealed a depth four times as far down as he had just climbed that emptied into a wide ravine on the bottom. Not waiting for the hunting party, Jack started down the steep decline, his feet quickly moving faster than he could control. He tried his best to slow his progress by shifting his feet sideways but found the effort futile when his footing disappeared beneath him on a patch of wet earth. His arms flailing in a panic, Jack landed hard on his side and began rolling head over feet, faster and faster down the decline.
With a groan, Jack slid to a stop at the bottom of the large ravine spitting dirt and moss from his mouth. The initial rush of adrenaline had long since worn off, and he was starting to ache in his side. Panting, he sat up and sucked in great gulps of air as he tried to gather his bearings. Jack scrambled to his feet and spun in confusion as desperation clawed at his throat. He had never come this way before. Suddenly to his left he heard the unmistakable sound of a twig snap. With sheer reflex, he dove over the trunk of a large fallen tree as another spear flashed from the greenery, its obsidian blade grazing his arm as he flew. Jack frantically gripped a large stick as a weapon as he forced his back to the moss-covered bark behind him. Holding his breath, he fought the steady drum of his pulse in his ears once again as he strained to hear any sign of his pursuers.
Fear began to constrict his middle as the eerie silence of the jungle broke with a low murmuring hum, constant, like the distant lowing of cattle in unison. Jack slithered on his belly to the edge of the fallen tree and peered through the twisted roots. His tattooed pursuers had formed a straight line abreast, each man upon his knees with his face cast downwards, arms outstretched in oblation of reverent prayer.
Sliding back, Jack stretched his neck in order to survey his surroundings. Within the strange reprieve of danger, he could finally differentiate between all the greenery. Instead of relief, his heart sank with desperation as the outline of an alcove curved around him, the only escape being through the worshiping natives that had boxed him in or up and over the low, vine-covered cliff face before him.
Panic thumping his chest, he peeked once more at his pursuers through the mossy jail of roots. Jack knew time was running out on this game and began twisting the stick in his hand as he tried to work up the courage to fight his way past them. Slowly, building like the warmth of the rising sun, another idea percolated his thoughts. The only reason he had not been skewered like a pig was that they were worshipping the ground upon which he stood. Spinning to the grotto behind, Jack’s eyes opened wide as he surveyed the greenery once more; this was sacred ground.
Jack peered into the horseshoe alcove for some sign of a statue or marker. Vines and wildflowers dripped from scattered streams of water reaching down into a pit that held a crystal pool; it was almost a perfect painting of the wonder of nature. Deflated, he craned his neck up high and then lay low, but to no avail—there was nothing but nature itself to behold. Behind him, the natives had ceased praying, a thought that jabbed him to his core. This was a sacred place, but it wasn’t like he could be in any more danger if he desecrated it. Jack realized there was no more time for contemplation. In a rash decision he sprang from his cover and raced over the broken ground, leaping with all his might to reach the thickest vine hanging over the pool of water, his fingers stretched wide. Just as his blood froze from doubt, his hands wrapped around the sturdy cords of plant growth while his momentum sent his body swinging quickly forward, colliding into the rocky face of the alcove and tangling in the broad tendrils and roots from the plants above. Seeking purchase with his feet, another stone spear shattered inches from Jack’s hand, its needle like fragments burrowing into his arm and face. In a panic, he gathered the vines together like rigging and scrambled up the rock face, not resting until he was over the top.
Rolling up to his feet on the verdant, mossy-covered hillside, Jack couldn’t help but let a confident grin stretch up one side of his face. The angry growls and oaths of the natives below him were proof of his victory. His neck arched backward for a glance at the defeated, he had barely taken two steps when the ground dissolved beneath him. Flailing wildly, he grasped at shreds of greenery to stay his fall until the futility of his effort enveloped him and the darkness swallowed him whole.
***
Jack lay on his back staring at the long shaft of light leaking from the break in the mossy ceiling, his lungs stunned with pain stealing his breath. Twisting slowly to his stomach and then up to his knees, he could feel more than he could see, the inky black all about him filled with the stale air of undisturbed rock. Straining his eyes, he carefully leaned into the expanse as his sight adjusted to a weak blue light, its source as ambiguous as the nothing about him. Slowly the outline of an antechamber of a great cavern revealed itself, its limits enough to hold a ship fully rigged. Jack groped carefully forward to the edge of the earthen shelf he had landed on, its overhang just above a placid pool that filled the base of the chasm with the most awe inspiring silvery-blue water. What little light was within the cavern emanated from the depths of this obscure, miniature bay. Entranced by the beauty of the water his focus on it became consuming as he reached out a hand, wanting to dip his finger in its effervescent glow. The realization that it was too far below him to touch was a disappointment that crushed his chest. As quickly as the feeling had come, Jack’s every emotion of loss and despair vanished. The tranquility of the cavern washed over his being and he was full with the feeling of clarity. Nathan? Who was he but a nuisance to this peace. The man was much like the the far-off trickle and pop of fresh water seeping through the rock in some distant unseen corner—Intrusive to Jack’s new found serenity, but so easily ignored.
Slowly Jack’s gaze lifted to the unknown. To the other side of the pond, about fifteen feet by his estimation, the chamber continued deep through the rock into obscure shadow. It was a simple choice to ignore the part of his mind that feared the unknown. He could not be bothered by the darkness, when a feeling of harmony blossomed in stark contrast to the blackness that stretched so far beyond his sight. For the first time since Penzance, the burn for vengeance he had held so close to his heart was at peace. Willing to stay forever, Jack sat with a contented sigh as a light breeze circled around him.
Instantly everything changed. The light wind quickly sped to a rushing gale that pulsed nervously through the chamber. Jack took to his feet alarmed as before him the pond split in both directions before rushing back together with a thunderous clap. The motion shooting a fountain of water directly into his face, drenching him from head to toe. Confused and stunn
ed, he followed the last trail of sparkling drops as they fell to the feet of a dark, shadowy, figure running through the air and then up the cavern wall before disappearing into the black expanse. In the wake of the invisible creature, carefree laughter bounced from the smooth walls dispelling the brief twinge of fear that had caught Jack by his heart. A smile playing at the edges of his lips, Jack’s euphoria returned as the laughter slowly died into the nothingness and was replaced with the caressing hand of a delicate floral scent. He knew that scent better than any other and had grown accustomed to it in the presence of only one person.
“Anna?” her name broke across his lips as the laughter echoed once again. Jack leaned forward and peered deeper into the cavern. He was positive he could see her delicate form on the other side of the pool. “How did you… ” the question still at the end of his tongue, Jack felt his breath rush from his lungs as he was heaved into the air by a great invisible arm wrapped around his middle. At a breakneck pace, he was hurled from the mossy hole like a shot from the mouth of a carronade into the open air. Jack fought at nothing as his arms and legs flailed weightless through the bright sky until he reached the apex of his climb, turned towards the ground, and then came crashing to a halt as he collided into the soft field of mossy green below. Behind him, the same mischievous laughter faded back into the ground from where it had come. With a groan, Jack rolled over and found himself staring at a pair of legs, a pattern of tattooed leaves woven around the ankles and calves ascending out of sight beneath a black-and-white-beaded grass skirt.
Sitting up to his knees, Jack began to giggle. It was involuntary and against every effort of his panicked mind to impress upon him the gravity of his situation. Starting at the base of his stomach, the laughter boiled up his chest and gurgled from his lips in a continuous stream. At the height of his joviality, and just as his captor reached down to put a hand upon his collar, Jack cocked his head back and belted out a long screeching crow, “Arr-ara-arooo!” The call was grand and full, like a true rooster. He was just leaning back for another go when Jack felt a momentary sharp pain in the back of his head, then fell unconscious to the ground.