The Uncharted Series Omnibus

by Keely Brooke Keith

Bethany rose and continued to work the clay with both hands as she carried it back to her pottery wheel. She sat at the wheel and positioned one foot on the ground and one foot over the concrete flywheel ready to kick it into motion. Wetting a sponge to dampen her pottery wheel, she gently kicked the flywheel rhythmically and dropped the lump of clay onto the center of the wheel head’s turning surface. As she sank her thumbs into the spinning clump’s warm, pliable middle, Bethany’s creative verve tempted her to experiment. She quelled her enthusiasm and began to make the first of a six-bowl order.

  The clay’s shape changed with each slight movement of her hands. She slowly lifted and spread it as it spun around on the wheel and expanded into a smooth, thick cylinder. She reached her clay-covered fingers to a pot of milky water. Gathering a few droplets at a time, she sprinkled the clay to keep it moist as she molded it. Pleased with the bowl’s final shape, she slipped her potter’s knife along the base of the slowly spinning bowl and carved a groove around the bottom. Finally, she inserted a clean needle tool into the groove and cut the bowl away from the wheel head.

  Believing she was alone, Bethany jumped when she saw Everett standing at the edge of the pottery shelter. She managed to hang onto the wet bowl despite the startle. Bethany laughed at herself then turned to the workbench behind her wheel and placed the bowl on its cluttered surface. As she turned back to her wheel, she glanced at Everett. He leaned his shoulder casually against the shelter’s corner post as he watched her work. She looked down at her clay-splattered arms and felt a wave of self-consciousness. “Have you been standing there long?”

  “No, not long.” Everett grinned as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. He snapped his head to the side, tossing his hair off his forehead. “You seemed so focused on that clay. I didn’t want to disrupt your concentration. What are you working on?”

  “Trade orders. Bowls mostly.” Bethany brushed the drying clay from her fingertips and walked into the sunshine to select another warm lump of clay. She knelt and worked the clay on the board for a moment, and then carried it back into the shelter.

  Everett motioned to the other pottery wheel. “Is Mrs. Vestal here today?”

  “She went home.” Bethany sat at her wheel and, with a soft kick, set the flywheel into motion. Then she smirked. “Why? Have you come to place an order?”

  “No.” Everett chuckled and stepped forward. He drew his hands from his pockets and reached them up to the crossbeam of the shelter mere inches over his head. “Only you could make me smile on a day like today, Beth.”

  “Oh? What has made today so bad?” She watched his face while she pressed the clay in her hands. When his smile quickly faded, she felt his sadness, though it was rarely concealed of late. “Is you father’s illness getting worse?”

  Everett dropped his arms to his sides and blew out a breath. “He’s only conscious a few minutes at a time. He hasn’t eaten in three days. Mother believes his time has come.” His voice broke and he looked away.

  Bethany sensed his grief and her heart felt heavy as she shaped the clay. She pulled back from the spinning lump. If she were not covered in the watery dirt, she would have embraced Everett, held him, told him to weep if he wanted to, even though she knew he wouldn’t. She followed his line of vision to the road in front of the pottery yard and saw people walking by. He would not express his grief with other people around. She whispered, “I’m so sorry for you, Everett… and for Mandy and your mother. Is there anything Lydia can do for your father to make him better?”

  “No. She’s made him comfortable. That’s all she can do.”

  “The gray leaf medicine doesn’t help?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “My father’s heart has been defective since birth. When he was born, Doctor Ashton said he wouldn’t live to adulthood. Father proved him wrong, but the gray leaf does nothing for this type of ailment—it only heals infections and wounds.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair. He should be working his farm and enjoying life, not dying, especially since we have the medicine of the gray leaf tree. How can it cure infection and rapidly heal injuries but not stop a disease a person was born with?” When Everett did not answer, Bethany wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Everett shook his head. “You’re sweet, Beth. I hope you know that. You’re truly good.”

  His approval encouraged her. “Should I tell my father to cancel my party?”

  “No. In fact, that’s why I came. My mother sent me to relay her regrets—she won’t be attending tomorrow evening. She’s afraid to leave his side. She wants to be with him when he passes.”

  “I understand. And if you decide to stay home with them, I will understand that too.”

  “No, my mother insists I go.” He grinned slightly. “She knows I have been looking forward to your eighteenth birthday for a long time.”

  “As have I—though it’s feeling less joyous as it approaches.”

  “Because of my father’s condition?”

  “No.”

  “Why then?”

  If she could tell anyone how she truly felt, it was Everett. She stared at her hands as she continued working the spinning clay. “I have daydreamed about turning eighteen for years. I watched my sisters and brother all grow up and get to do what they wanted and I wanted that too. There were times when I thought I might burst if I had to wait another day to be finished with school and… be allowed to court. But now that I have only one day left, I’m dreading my birthday. Not because of the work—I love my work. It’s the rest of it… the courting and the expectations of our traditions.”

  Everett crossed his arms over his chest, and the motion caught Bethany’s eye. She glanced up at him then dampened the clay and finished shaping the bowl. “It wouldn’t worry me except that when anyone mentions my birthday, they also mention courting. Apparently, every person in the village knows my father’s rule about his daughters. I hate feeling like people are watching my decisions. I’ve been told about two different boys who are planning to ask my father’s permission to court me and—”

  “Who?” Everett spit the word forcefully, surprising Bethany.

  “It doesn’t matter who. The point is: I don’t know if I want to be courted yet.”

  “Tell your father to send them away.”

  “Mrs. Vestal said the same thing.”

  Everett lifted a palm. “Then why not do it?”

  “Because I want to have… possibilities.” She glanced at him as she said it and was puzzled by his expression. His green eyes were intent and piercing like she had said something vulgar. She did not like the feeling of disappointing him and looked away. “Never mind, I can’t explain it.”

  “Explain what? You want men to court you but not with the purpose to marry.”

  “No.” Bethany flinched enough to cause a slight sway in the incomplete bowl as it whirled around on the wheel. She recovered in time to reshape it and, as she did, she felt Everett’s eyes waiting expectantly for her defense. “That’s not my desire at all. I simply want the freedom to court but not with all the pressure. Most of the girls my age are already married. Phoebe is my only unmarried friend and she is soon-to-be engaged to a man who has courted her only three weeks. Sometimes I just feel like our traditions are too—”

  “So you plan to accept suitors and enjoy their attention then refuse them when they propose marriage?”

  “No, I—”

  “Ask Mandy what emptiness that hobby brought her. My sister will happily advise against that game.”

  “I have no desire to play games with any man’s affection, Everett. I only meant that… oh, never mind.” Bethany cut the completed bowl from the wheel. She turned to search for a bare spot on the workbench but found none. Everett moved behind her and cleared a space without her asking. “Thank you,” she mumbled as she watched him rearrange the contents of the workbench to create space for her.

  He brushed his hands to
gether and stepped back. “Just enjoy the party your family gives you tomorrow and don’t think of what else may come. This party is all Mandy has talked about for days, and your sisters are probably excited too.”

  Bethany smiled at Everett, realizing he was trying to cheer her up. She stood from her wheel and wiped her hands on her apron. As she thought of Samuel’s condition, she regretted mentioning her petty troubles. “You’re right. And I’m glad you will be there.”

  Everett scooted the dirt on the ground with the edge of his boot. “I want you to be happy, Beth. And that’s why I think you should tell your father to send the scamps away.” He grinned, giving her instant relief.

  “I know I can always trust you to watch out for me.” She stepped around him and into the sunny yard to gather another warm lump of clay. Then she chuckled. “Between your protectiveness and Levi’s, it would be a miracle if any man were daring enough to ask me to court anyway.”

  Chapter Two

  Justin Mercer unscrewed the lid from the top of a vitamin supplement bottle. He sprinkled two of the soil-smelling capsules into his cupped hand. After popping the pills into his open mouth, he held them under his tongue and reached for a glass of water. As he swallowed, he noticed the expiration date printed on the label. Though alone in his cabin, he shrugged. One could not expect fresh supplements on a stolen ship adrift in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean during a world war.

  Mercer tipped the glass high and drank the rest of the water then shivered at its aftertaste. Though Volt had said the ship’s fresh water generator was self-maintaining, Mercer was certain such putrid-tasting water was not healthy. He set the glass on the table beside his bed.

  The room was called the captain’s cabin, but Mercer was no ship’s captain. Volt had controlled most of the bridge operations during the past nine months at sea, but he was no captain either. He was the mastermind behind their theft of the ship and he had even become the closest friend that Mercer had known since the war began, but Volt was no captain. Mercer could not blame Volt for their failed mission. After nine months of crossing the ocean over and over at the coordinates where there should be land, they were still stuck on the purloined icebreaker. It was not Volt’s fault. He had done everything Mercer suggested.

  The coordinates were seared upon Mercer’s mind. He was in the right place—beneath the sky where he and Lieutenant Connor Bradshaw had been ejected from their aircraft. The crash’s three-year anniversary was on the equinox—less than a week away. He thought of the coming autumn and turned to look out the window above his bed. The afternoon sun reflected off the water in piercing rays that made him squint. Soon the days would be short and the sea air cold. With a contagious illness onboard, he would keep the windows open until the cold forced him to close them even though after nine months with the crew, he had probably been exposed already. The plague of antibiotic-resistant tuberculosis had decimated the Southern Hemisphere’s population long before they took the ship and left the Falklands. Now five of the original ten men aboard were dead. The last burial at sea left them without an electrical engineer. Mercer had read and reread every technical manual onboard the mid-size nuclear-powered icebreaker and still had no idea why its engines were down to limited power. They had yet to encounter another vessel or see any aircraft, and after years of a destructive world war and the disease that followed, he doubted they would.

  Feeling caged in his cabin, Mercer reached for a technical manual from the foot of his bed and left the room. He walked through the narrow corridor of the quiet ship, ascended a short flight of steps, and opened the teak-paneled door to the bridge. Volt was sitting in one of two plush leather chairs with his skinny legs crossed at the ankle. Mercer closed the door and dropped the heavy manual on the chart table. Volt didn’t acknowledge the noise. From behind the high back of Volt’s chair, Mercer assumed Volt was reading, but as he walked to the instrument panels, he glanced at Volt and saw his head was slumped atop his shoulder. Mercer decided to let him rest but then he noticed Volt’s awkward position and took a step toward him, wondering if he should wake him. He stood near the chair, dithering for a moment, when Volt roused from his sleep and coughed raucously. Mercer stepped close to an open window to breathe the outside air.

  “Sorry, mate. How long was I out?”

  “I don’t know. I just came up for the night shift.” Mercer looked through the front windows of the bridge at the waning sunlight. “Any change in engine output?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Volt coughed again, this time into his elbow. “There is something I need to do, but I wanted to let you know first.”

  Mercer moved to the chair next to Volt and sat, expecting technical details of the ship’s operation. “What is it?”

  “I’m going to bring the Unified States satellite communications back online.”

  Mercer thought of his fellow officers in the Unified States Navy and the destruction the communication severance caused his country. Since the day he met Volt, he had presumed Volt’s occupation in technical terrorism caused the communication shutdown for the Unified States, but he never expected Volt to admit it. The last strand of Mercer’s frayed patriotism told him to be angry, but he looked at the man who had become his friend and felt only compunction for luring him into the middle of the ocean with the promise of a pristine land that apparently did not exist after all. Volt’s health was failing. He would die on the ship like the other men, and Mercer felt it was his fault.

  He rested his elbows on his knees and studied Volt’s emaciated face. “Why now?”

  Volt’s fingers twined a length of string at a rip in the knee of his faded jeans. He shrugged his thin shoulders. “If there is anyone out there who can help you—I want you to be able to return to your people.” He motioned to the door. “Our men are sick—all of them. I’ve got it bad, too. You’re the only person aboard that’s still healthy. I have the equipment in my cabin and the ship still has enough power. After I get communications back online, I’ll send a message in your name, saying you caught me. I’ll be dead before anyone gets here. You can tell them I took the ship while you were working on it. One scan of my DNA and they’ll hail you a hero for turning in my dead body.” Volt grinned but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  Mercer’s throat tightened. He cleared it and looked away from Volt. “We don’t even know if the Unified States still exists. If we send a signal, anyone could intercept it.”

  “The States will still exist in some form. You Yanks always rebuild; you’re a tough lot.”

  Mercer looked back at him. “I shouldn’t have brought you out here.”

  “Brought me?” Volt laughed then choked and coughed blood onto his sleeve. “I caught this disease before I ever heard of you, Lieutenant Justin Mercer, and your fantasy of an uncharted land. I would’ve died wherever I went. I’m glad I spent the last few months of my life searching for land out here away from the war. I got to have one last adventure and for that I’m grateful to you, mate. I’ll not leave you stranded out here if I can help it.” Volt began coughing again. When his breathing settled enough to speak, he looked up at Mercer. “Tell you what, mate, get me to my cabin and I’ll start working on it now.”

  Mercer rose and reached out to help Volt up. Volt stood and his legs shook beneath him. He sat back down and sank into the chair, breathless. “On second thought, let me rest a moment, then get me to my cabin.”

  * * *

  Bethany lifted the last breakfast plate from the bottom of the sudsy water in the kitchen sink. She gave the plate a quick wash and set it in the crowded dish rack. As she began to wring out the cloth, Connor slid his dirty plate into the sink. “Hang on—one more,” he said as he breezed past.

  Bethany caught his eye as she swirled the cloth over the dirty dish in the soapy water. “Are you going to take care of the, um, thing below the bluffs?”

  “No, I have a class to teach today.” Connor glanced at the others seated at the kitchen table behind them. He furrowed his brow and lo
wered his voice. “Remember what we talked about, Beth. Prove I can trust you, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Happy birthday,” he called to her over his shoulder as he strode out the back door.

  Bethany wanted to tell someone about the old plane and the remains of the pilot inside, but—more than that—she liked having a secret with Connor. She turned to check the kitchen table for any more dishes before she drained the water. The dishes were cleared but her father and great-aunt remained seated at opposite ends of the otherwise empty table. Isabella was holding her cane close to her as if she wanted to get up but could not muster the energy.

  John stood from the table and grinned at Bethany. “Adeline and Maggie should arrive from Woodland around noon.”

  “Are their families coming, too?” Isabella asked.

  “Yes.” John scowled at Isabella’s question. Then his features returned to their usual pleasantness and he fixed his gaze on his daughter. “Bethany, they will expect you to stay out of the kitchen while they prepare for your party.”

  “Gladly. Besides, Lydia has already ordered me upstairs for the afternoon. Mandy is coming to give me curls.” Bethany flipped her brown hair over her shoulder then opened an upper cabinet and drew a dishtowel from a stack on the shelf. Her father took the towel from her hand. He winked at her and began drying the dishes. “I know how you feel about housework, so I will spare you this one chore, but only because it is your birthday.”

  She kissed her father’s bearded cheek. “Thank you.”

  He drew his head back a degree and looked at the top of her head. “Have you grown?”

  “Goodness!” Isabella exclaimed, still seated at the table. She turned her head in their direction, but her unseeing eyes moved erratically. “How tall is she now, John?”

  Bethany felt like a child as her father angled his head. He studied her while he dried a dish. “I would guess she is an inch under six foot. We will have to measure you later—against the trim in the parlor like your mother used to.”