Fortunately, the rush of blood flowing from their fallen comrade sent the other two hammerheads into a frenzy. They shot past him, lunging toward the dead shark drifting to the bottom. They wrenched flesh away from its bones with whipping snaps of their heads. Using the distraction, King shot toward the surface. Although his ascent was encumbered by his severed right leg, he broke through and gulped in a heaving breath. The moment the air coursed down his trachea, his body convulsed in a fit of hacking coughs. Doubling over, he began sinking again, managed to regain a modicum of control and paddled up to the surface once more.
Treading water, he cleared his mind. Focused his thoughts on slowly working his lungs and diaphragm, and eased the excess water up past his lips. Once satisfied his lungs were clear, he cautiously inhaled another deep breath, and he savored the blood-nourishing oxygen. Immediately, he felt a tingle in his lower leg. The addition of air had already set his body to mending his injuries. It was only a matter of time before his severed leg would be whole once more. He need only hold out long enough and he’d soon have the mobility needed to deal with the predators hunting him.
Relaxing, he took the briefest of seconds to collect his thoughts. They were still sluggish. Primal even. If he hoped to endure, he needed to take stock of his situation.
He glanced out over the horizon, scanning from right to left. To the southeast, the cutter was turning about in a slow sweeping arc. The crew was apparently returning for him. Further south, the dark clouds of the oncoming storm loomed. Streaks of searing white energy flashed through the angry sky, while sheets of rain pelted the sea just twenty miles away. It wouldn’t be long before the ocean would become enraged, tossing him about like a broken rag doll within the tempest.
Behind him, and to the north, he caught sight of a three-masted ship with gray, square sails. A black flag flapped near the stern of the large frigate, but the crew made no attempt to come to his aid. He smiled. Of course they wouldn’t. Not until the clouds had completely blocked out the sunlight, or night fell. Whichever came first.
But he was running out of time. The two sharks would soon be finished with their meal, and they would be on the hunt for him again. And this particular species of shark tended to travel in schools ranging within the hundreds. The fact that he’d seen only three of them so far didn’t mean that dozens more weren’t lurking about nearby. The blood from their companion would draw more sharks and ignite their hunger. Despite the fact that the cutter was coming about, King knew they would never arrive in time to pull him from the water before the sharks renewed their hunt.
He sighed, raising his hands above the water to brush his tangled hair from his eyes. For the first time, he noticed the dried leathery texture of his skin—blackened from dehydration in a way similar to cured jerky meat. Though it was to be expected, the sight was still unnerving, to say the least. Like his hair and beard, his fingernails had grown to extraordinary lengths while he’d slept. He studied them closely. They were now at least two to three inches long, thick and yellowed with age. But despite his disgust at seeing his hands so ungroomed, the nails felt solid. Strong and healthy.
The fact that he could even see these details at all was testament to just how fast his vision, and thus his entire body, was being repaired. With this in mind, he turned his gaze toward the surface of the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, but he was distracted by the sight of two sinewy bullets closing in on his treading form from below. The sharks, obviously finished with their cannibalistic meal, had resumed their pursuit.
It was time to finish this.
Taking a series of quick, shallow breathes followed by a single deep one, he dove headfirst back into the abyss, and swam directly toward his prey. While the sharks were faster and more maneuverable in the water, as well as immensely strong, cunning killers, King had one major advantage. Imagination. And he was more than prepared to use it.
The two hammerheads were now circling him, nearly fifteen feet below the surface, biding their time to strike. With their cephalofoil—the hammer-shaped head that gave them their namesake—King knew the creatures had an almost perfect three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of the aquatic landscape. There could be no sneaking up on them. No ambush from below or behind. And no weapons to be used against them even if he could find a way inside their field of vision. So, he stopped swimming, hovered patiently and waited.
One heartbeat. Two. Three. The shark to his right charged. Its eyes rolled back into its head as its maw stretch open and snapped. King twisted at the very last second, avoiding the attack. But his reprieve was only temporary. As he adjusted his spin, he caught sight of the second shark speeding toward him. This time, when he spun out of the way, his right hand grabbed hold of the creature’s snout, and he was pulled through the water behind it. It bucked and thrashed, trying to throw him off, but King’s grip held tight. If he let go now, it would be over. Maybe even permanently.
Taking a tighter hold around one of the eye-stalks, he drew himself closer to the beast until he managed to wrap one arm around the shark’s neck. Its skin, comprised of thousands of toothy scales, sliced into his flesh as he slid across its back. Repositioning himself, he wrapped his legs around the hammerhead’s tail, then flexed his free hand, and sent his long curved nails down near its spine. But its hide deflected the blow easily enough. He jabbed again with no effect. The third time, the nail of his index finger snapped off painfully, and he nearly lost his grip.
The shark, however, wasn’t taking these blows lightly. With the third jab, it dove straight down, pulling King twenty, thirty, then fifty feet deep, and still descended. Its companion followed patiently, as if unwilling to risk injuring the other shark with a premature attack. Instead, it kept pace, its coal-black eye tracking every movement they made toward the ocean floor.
And with every foot they descended, King felt an aching pressure building on the inside of his chest wall. He wasn’t certain, but he imagined he was nearly a hundred feet deep, and still being pulled down.
Realizing that an all-out assault on the shark’s back was futile, he chose to attack once more—this time along the beast’s side, near its pectoral fin, where he hoped the armor would be weaker. Curling his fingers, he brought his arm around to the creature’s side, and slid the nails underneath the scales and struck. The shark bucked beneath him before spiraling around in a desperate move to dislodge him. King’s grip slipped, and he began falling away. But before the other shark could take advantage of the slip, he lashed out with his hand, and caught a handhold on something sponge-like. Fleshy. He glanced up to see his gnarled grip clutching at one of the hammerhead’s gill slits. A small cloud of blood—evidence of damaged capillaries within the gills—plumed out from the slit as he squeezed.
Grinning, King pulled himself back up onto the shark’s back with one hand, and pushed his other hand deeper into the gill. He probed the slit, slashing at the vulnerable viscera with his nails. He was rewarded by an even greater cloud of blood. The second shark, sensing its mate’s billowing blood, quickly changed course. It zipped past King’s head in an erratic motion. Sensing the fight was nearly over, King pushed with all his strength until he broke past the shark’s exposed muscle, and into its throat. From there, he tore and ripped at anything his fingers could grasp, until suddenly, the hammerhead bucked violently, sending King spiraling through the water.
Holding out his arms, he managed to stabilize himself, then hovered in the azure abyss and watched as the uninjured shark swept after its counterpart. It crunched down on the other’s tail, sending even more blood into the water, and then it began dragging its prey deeper toward the sea floor.
King watched for another moment, then kicked toward the surface with his one good leg. A few feet up, he could make out the long, curved form of the cutter’s keel drifting directly above him.
Good, he thought, while continuing his ascent. Now it’s time to find out what all this is about.
11
“No sign of �
�im, Cap’n!” Leighfield cried, leaning over the port bow. He jumped as a clap of thunder cracked overhead, followed by a near-blinding streak of lightning. He whirled around to face Reardon and Finkle. “Yikes! Cap’n, how long you supposin’ we need to keep lookin’ for ’im? Surely those sharks got ’im, and the storm is nearly on top of us!”
Reardon glanced over at the old scientist. Finkle was uncertain how to answer the unspoken question from the captain. The one thing the Irishman had in common with his English quartermaster was that he hadn’t liked the plan to seek out Lanme Wa from the very beginning. He’d thought it a complete waste of time. But Washington’s, as well as his own influence had convinced Josiah Reardon’s patron to accept the expedition’s terms. The rewards had been just too good for the privateer’s commander to pass up.
However, Finkle had seen the look in the captain’s eyes when he had gazed upon the shriveled remains of the dead pirate. Rationally speaking, there was no reason to believe the man had actually been sleeping for nearly a century. The very idea was preposterous to any learned man.
But Finkle was convinced. He’d studied the legends. Scoured dozens of old documents spanning centuries. The pirate known as Lanme Wa had been around far longer than anyone guessed. The miracles that were attributed to him were beyond anyone’s imagination to concoct, and Finkle knew without doubt that if the man was still alive, he was the only one who could lead this expedition to its prize.
“Just a while longer,” Finkle said to the captain. “Give him a few moments more.”
Reardon glanced over at the witch, who merely shrugged indifferently before saying, “Da man is truly as immortal as anyone can be, mon capitaine. I doubt a few toothy fish in da sea could do much to—”
“Witch!” Someone shouted from the stern of the ship. The voice was deep and guttural, as if each syllable had been sifted through a pile of wet, marble rubble. “I’ll have words with you, witch!”
Everyone turned toward the quarterdeck to see the most ghastly of apparitions. Lanme Wa leaned against the rail, his back hunched down in fury…and possibly pain. His left leg was gone below the knee. Or was it? Finkle pushed his spectacles up onto his beak-like nose for a better look. There appeared to be the beginnings of a fetal foot growing from the already-healing tissue. Bone seemed to lengthen before their very eyes.
Winfield, the wheelman, leapt back with a cry at the sight. Now without hands to guide it, the wheel spun wildly to port, turning the ship back in the direction of the storm.
“Winfield!” Reardon shouted. The captain’s eyes hadn’t left the sight of the once-dead man crouching angrily on the deck of his ship. The wheelman, still keeping carefully out of reach of the newcomer, obediently took control of the wheel once more, and steered the ship back on course.
Finkle continued to stare at the man. His skin was still as black and leathery as when he’d first been dropped into the ocean, but now it glistened with moisture. It seemed to breathe on its own, as if it were taking on nutrients from the salty sea air to mend itself. Flesh, blood and bone mended together quickly, reforming the man as though God Himself were sculpting a new Adam from clay. The pirate’s eyes were no longer cloudy, but instead were bright. Sharp. The irises as orange-brown as tanned leather. Long clumps of tangled hair hung down far past his shoulders, half-covering his face. But despite the obstruction, there could be no doubting the rage building within the man. Rage directed solely on the Creole mambo bokor.
For her part, the witch doctor took a single step back, then held her ground. She stared back at him defiantly, though she gripped the strap of her medicine bag tightly in her hands.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Finkle wondered if anyone had even taken a breath. But the pirate didn’t seem to notice. His dark eyes were fixed on the witch as he took a single step from the rail, and came down on a perfectly formed, non-mummified foot that hadn’t been there a moment before.
“Asherah,” he growled. He spoke in an archaic form of French that Finkle could barely translate. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to explain what’s happening here.”
The mambo bokor swallowed. She tried to pull her own eyes up from the deck to look at him, but she didn’t seem to have the strength to do it. When she opened her mouth to speak, Lanme Wa interrupted.
“You see, I thought I’d made a deal with your grandmother. I wasn’t to be disturbed. Not until I either awoke on my own or…” The man’s death’s-head face appeared to be mending itself even as he spoke. The ghastly grin was already beginning to slip away behind a veil of flesh-like lips, making his words more articulate, if not menacing. “Or after three hundred years had passed.” He waved a bony finger around the ship. “This doesn’t look like the end of the twentieth century to me, Asherah, now does it?”
“Monsieur, I…” The bokor took another step back as he approached, lumbering down the steps of the quarterdeck directly toward her. Water dripped from the rags of his clothes with each shamble. “It’s just dat…”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Finkle said, stepping in between the grisly pirate and the witch. He spoke French, but wasn’t sure he could match the older style well enough to explain. Still, he had to try. “I’m afraid it’s actually my fault that your slumber has been interrupted.”
Lanme Wa stopped mid-stride, and turned to look at him. Finkle’s heart thumped against his rib cage at the dark stare, but he managed to hold his ground. “You see, we’re on an expedition. A search for something absolutely mindboggling, actually, and perhaps our only means of beating back the British from our land. From my research, I came to believe you were the only one on Earth able to guide us to our prize.”
The man stared at Finkle, and cocked his head as if confused. “I know you.” This time, the pirate spoke in a strange dialect of English the old scientist had never heard before.
“No. No, I don’t think you do.” Finkle cleared his throat nervously. “Jim Brannan Finkle’s the name. At your service.” He gave a quick, polite bow.
The pirate, his attention no longer on the bokor, stepped toward the old scientist. “No, that’s not your name.” He rubbed a long, thin finger across his brow. “It’ll come to me, but I do know you.”
“I don’t know how that’s possib—”
Thunder boomed overhead, nearly simultaneously with a blazing trail of lightning streaking through the sky.
“Gentleman,” Josiah Reardon said, approaching Lanme Wa cautiously. “There’ll be time for explanations later. For now, we need to navigate around this storm, and to do that, we need ye, Cap’n, to grant us safe passage past your ship.”
The pirate glanced to the bow, a grim indecipherable smile spreading across his face.
His new lips are working well for him, Finkle thought.
“Just sail past them,” the pirate said. “They won’t attack. All they’ll do is slowly trail you, giving you a wide berth.”
“What?” Reardon asked.
“It’s their nature, Captain. They’re patient. Slow to act, unless provoked. Plus, they’ll still be following my orders.”
“And those were?”
“Should anyone abscond with me, they were to follow and see what manner of mischief laid about. Then, after discerning what my grave robbers had in mind, they could act.” He nodded past the port bow. “At the moment, they’re simply watching. They’ll not attack ’til they’re sure.”
Reardon stared incredulously at his guest, then looked past the man’s ever-broadening shoulders. “Winfield! Set course around that ship!” He spun around. “All hands to battle stations! Needles! Keep yer eyes fixed on that frigate!”
“Aye!”
The deck of the ship erupted in a blur of activity as the crew saw to their captain’s orders. The rain was already starting to come down. If not for the pitch coating the deck’s planks, at least two of the crew would have been swept overboard as the ocean beneath them began to swell.
“Cap’n, would ye care to join me at the
wheel?” Reardon asked Lanme Wa. The Irish captain was putting on a good show of not appearing intimidated in the slightest by the pirate’s cadaverous appearance.
Lanme Wa only nodded his assent, then followed Josiah Reardon up onto the quarterdeck and to the wheel. Relieving Winfield of his post, Captain Reardon gripped the wheel, and steered around an oncoming swell, making his way steadily toward the Presley’s Hound.
Finkle was watching this when he sensed someone slide up next to him. “He doesn’t seem to like you very much,” he said to the vodou bokor.
“I am sure he’s just disoriented from his long sleep, cher.”
“Or, perhaps, he’s a good judge of character.” The old man turned to look at her and found her emerald eyes burning with contempt. “Strike a nerve, did I?”
“Lanme Wa definitely be a good judge of character.” She sniffed while clutching her bag more tightly. Her mop of unruly hair was now soaked from the sudden downpour, only helping to intensify her wild countenance. “I’d say you best be on your own guard ’bout dat. Make sure your own character is shiny ’nough to make da cut.”
He wasn’t sure what to make of her comment, so he ignored it, and moved on to the question he really wanted to know. “Can we trust him?”
Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) Page 6