“Look around you,” he said. “Do you see what happens? That is my fate. I have two responsibilities remaining. One, to see you to safety. Two, to take my ship to an appropriate…” he was seized by a terrific spasm of pain, hugged himself until it passed “…an appropriate end. And I can hang on that long. Now get me over to that boat, so I can work the block and tackle for you.” He tried to smile.
“I hope you’re a strong oarsman, but the tide’s going in, and it shouldn’t be…too hard for you…”
She swallowed and held back the tears.
“I’m staying.”
He looked up at her.
“I knew you’d say that,” he said, “but no, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“Selena, Selena. Be hard, this once. Be like steel. What good is it to us if we both die? There won’t even be a memory of our time together, short as it was…”
“I don’t want a memory. I don’t care about memory. I want…”
“A memory is better than nothing, because it means something lived in the world, if only for a moment. Stay alive, for that at least.”
“I don’t care…”.
“Yes, you do. You must. Besides, it’s not in you not to care. You were born to care. Perhaps this is for the best. In a way, I was unready for you. I was unready for all you have to give. Now, get me over to that lifeboat.”
Selena hesitated still, but she wavered. Royce Campbell saw it, and, intent upon saving her, pressed his advantage.
“You and I,” he said, “Selena, you and I will be like me and the wolf puppy of my childhood. Where you go, I will always be…”
“But not if you die,” she protested.
He nodded, and managed a smile. “Yes,” he said, meeting her eyes, “yes, even then. You have the memory and thus carry me with you. As long as you are alive, we are both alive, don’t you see?”
Soundlessly, she began to weep.
“I have my duty,” he said, “even in the face of death. I must see to the fate of my ship.”
She sobbed, and tried to hold back his words.
“I am dying, Selena. Face it. You are strong enough. But I do not die utterly, so long as you live. Now, give me that chance for life. As for my death, it is ordained, and I must do it as once, long ago, I went into the Highlands to speak with God. I have lived my life upon the sea, and here it is that I am meant to die. You can see that, can’t you? Now, get into that boat, and go for both of us.”
There before them, the lush green trees of the soft islands spread off to port, and in the distance she saw what seemed to be a fishing village.
“Now,” he urged softly, “now, or it will be too late. You did well, navigating. Very well, and I’m proud of you. That’s Tenerife, just yonder. Take the dinghy ashore. Go to Tenerife. Tell them you escaped a pirate ship. And tell them you’re a rebel against England. Also your lineage. The Canaries are in the hands of Spain. Such information—such status—cannot but serve you in good stead.”
And, just as he had when first they’d met at the Edinburgh ball, he winked.
“I’ve always been greatly taken by Scottish princesses,” he said.
Selena tried to smile, couldn’t, and pressed her hands to her temples. The Islands slid along beside them, close and gentle and safe. But it seemed that all her life, however short, was here on this ship in the afflicted, suffering body of this man…
But even if his body was sick, his will was strong and his intelligence intact.
“Selena,” he said, using his last, most powerful argument, his psychological trump, “Selena, Coldstream. Do it for Coldstream. Just get into that boat!”
The word cleared her mind, hit her like a jolt of adrenalin. Coldstream!
“You’ll never see it again,” he said, “if you let yourself die.”
Selena stood there. The islands were going by, the surf gliding gently to the shores of white sand, breaking indolent and warm.
She managed to raise the dinghy and swing it over the side. She climbed into the boat. He stood by the block and tackle, barely able to stand.
“Brace yourself. I’ll hold as hard as I can, but I don’t have much strength left, and I still have to fire the powder. You’ll have a quick drop.”
In the little boat, she felt coming a last, sharp change of heart.
“Don’t,” she cried, “I’m staying.”
“No,” he said, and jerked the rope. She dropped down to the water, almost tumbling into the waves as the boat struck the surface. But it set down all right, and directly the tide carried her off toward shore. The day was exquisite, beautiful, all the colors as clean as the wind. Perfumed fragrance of plants and thick trees drifted out from the shore. But Royce was on the Highlander, dying, leaving her.
“Good-bye,” she cried, her voice thin over the water, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Good-bye. I love you,” she called.
He lifted his arm in a feeble wave, but his voice was strong.
“Not good-bye,” came his answering call. “I go with you, so not good-bye. And I send my wolf-God with you, too.”
The ship was moving very fast, still at full sail, and she barely heard his last words:
“When we are born again,” he cried, thin over the face of the deep, “my wolf will lead us back together.”
Distance made words impossible after that, but she watched him at the rail of the ship until she could no longer see him, only the ship. The tide pushed her onto the shore, and she watched the ship until she could no longer see it either, She waited for the sound of the explosion, but it didn’t come and didn’t come, and then she realized that he would spare her that. He would take it far off to sea, take his Highlander and his waning life and all his dreams far out to a lonely place where he could look up into the naked sky and make communion with the strange compelling forces out of which he had emerged, and present himself to them, and tell them he was ready. Ready to go home. Ready to return.
Strange Passage
Against her wishes, Selena had been tutored in Spanish for a little less than one year. A drab room on the third floor of Coldstream Castle had been set aside for educational purposes, and in this prison she and Brian endured the often less-than-patient ministrations of a strong-willed but shapeless female from London, who was said to speak six languages, of which Spanish was rumored—rumored by Selena and Brian, that is—to be one. It did not matter anyway. They could barely understand the woman’s London English, and when an epidemic of measles swept through Berwick Province, the cultured lady quickly fled the drawling hinterlands, seeking safety from disease, and, once more, the refined, nasal honking of London salons.
Good for her, Selena thought. Of what earthly use would Spanish and its oily insinuations ever be to Selena MacPherson?
Now, standing alone on a beach in the Canary Islands, which Royce had told her were controlled by Spain, Selena saw as clearly as if it were yesterday the big horses that drew the coach to the castle gate, the British governess waiting there with her black, bulging luggage. Then Edward, the chief steward, helping the lady into the coach, before it drove off. She had cheered to herself. She would have cheered out loud, except that Edward, who knew about the time she and Brian had burned the lady’s copy of Don Quixote, saw her watching from her sickroom window and shook his finger in stern disapproval.
Oh, please forgive me, Selena thought, thinking of the lost lady and her own childish stupidity. Please.
The ocean was empty now, toward the horizon Royce had chosen. But out of the north sailed a small one-master, presumably toward the port of Tenerife. Selena didn’t care. What did it matter? Strong within her was the natural tide of grief, and strong, too, the impulse to crawl down among the sweet trees of these islands, to sleep her way into oblivion and join Royce there, but…
Wherever you are, I will be. You must live for both of us.
And she remembered that he had put her ashore to live, and that took courage. The small boat was perceptibly nearer now. It
reminded her that life was going on, as usual. Interested in spite of herself, she tried to make out the flag on the mast, but the craft was still too far away. Here on the shore, she could no longer see Tenerife, but remembered having spotted three or four vessels at anchor in the harbor there. She decided to follow the shoreline around the bend, and approach the town on its seaward side.
The waves washed in, one upon another. She walked barefoot in the cool surf, soothed by it. The ocean’s timeless rhythm, and her own exhaustion, eased her grief, dulled her mind. Far away, she imagined—or did she actually hear?—a great, deep booming, like the cracking of ice on the lochs on brittle January nights. Ended. Over. Strange, long-necked birds watched her come toward them, then took wing in long, gliding flight, tucking fantastic stalks of leg beneath them. Lizards and giant turtles basked on the warm sand, barely noticing her passage. Small animals and tiny birds darted for cover in the forest that ran right down to the sand.
How exotic it all was, how unbelievable! Never before had she seen trees like this, with great, wide leaves, big as the crosscut saw blades that were used to lumber forests. And it was so warm! Already she could see the town, and it, too, was different from any hamlet or village she had ever seen. Except for what must be the church, with its squat, white stucco steeple, not a building was over one or two stories, and the port and marina of which Royce had spoken were little larger than a medium-sized fishing village on the coast of Scotland. And from this tiny patch of the whole earth, she must make passage. To safety. Wherever that was.
A group of slim, dark figures far ahead were playing or performing some kind of exercise at the water’s edge, using long poles or sticks, and when Selena drew nearer, she saw that they were raking for clams. Young boys, brown and bare to the waist, and she did not intend to frighten them, but that was what happened. One of them looked up from his rake, and froze right there in the sand. His mouth seemed to be opening and closing, but no sound came out of it. His response alarmed Selena momentarily, until she remembered her appearance. The old sailor’s uniform, with a young woman in it. A very blond young woman, with uncut, tousled hair down to her breasts. In this area of dark-skinned, black-haired people, and walking toward them barefoot on the white beach, she must indeed seem an apparition.
“Por favor!” she tried, raising a hand.
The boy broke out of his immobility found his tongue.
“Yiii!” he cried, falling to his knees, “Madre de Dios! Madre de Dios!” and pressed his hands together in supplication. His companions were less susceptible, but no less stunned. They stopped working, and took her in. One of them shifted his weight, as if preparing to run.
“Tenerife?” she asked, and pointed to the village beyond.
“Sancta Maria, Madre de Dios,” the supplicant was praying, crossing himself with wild abandon, and then: “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” with his eyes shut tight.
His fear alarmed the others, though not enough to induce them to join him on their knees, and suddenly they were running away down the beach—all but the prayerful one. They broke into a run as animals do, without signal or warning, and all at the same time. One instant they were still as stone, and the next they were in motion, running without fear now, when they saw that she was not pursuing. But they did not stop, or even slow down, and soon they were gone far up toward the docks at Tenerife. Spreading the news.
Selena came to the kneeling boy, and stopped. The words of his prayers were run together now, a mixture of Spanish and Latin that made no sense. Conscious of her standing right before him, the sound ceased, too. His lips moved furiously, however, and he bowed his head, as if waiting for an ax to fall.
“Hello,” Selena said tentatively, and smiled.
The quivering boy lifted his head and opened his eyes, saw her standing there in her wild blond beauty, framed by the sun. It was too much for him. He shuddered once, all through his body, and slumped sideways to the sand, his head resting in a pile of clams. A tiny martyr among the stones by which he had been brought low.
It amused Selena for a moment. She would have to tell Royce about this as soon as…She was no longer amused. The boy stirred. On the horizon, the one-master drew nearer to port. She could see the flag. The Union Jack. Bad. And coming toward her now, from the direction of the village, were a number of men, trailed by the skipping, dancing boys who had given the warning. She was afraid, but walked to meet them.
About ten paces apart, by unspoken agreement, she halted, as did the men. One of the boys babbled something in Spanish that Selena could not decipher, and the tallest of the men, who stood at the center of the little group, replied to him curtly. The boy spoke no more. The man looked like a peasant, but unlike his companions, who had on rough-looking garments, he wore a loose white shirt that was almost like a blouse. His eyes did not seem intelligent, but he had the bearing of one who is used to a measure of obeisance.
“Yo…” she said, pointing to herself, trying to remember words, “Yo…Selena.”
The man frowned. “Inglßs?” he asked, and pointed at her hair.
“No, no. Scottish.”
It did not register. They all looked perplexed.
“Scotland,” she told him, as if that would help.
Shrugs all around, and some discussion of her uniform. They seemed to relax a little and so did she, and commenced to speak quietly and very fast among themselves. The boy who had been overcome by religious ardor skirted her widely. His companions ragged him hilariously, and one of them threw a stick and let out a good-natured curse. “Madre de Dios!” he cried, in mock anguish, and the others howled. The man in the white blouse shut them up again, and turned to her.
“Se-le-na,” he pronounced carefully, pointing.
She nodded.
He smiled. Not a kind smile, nor one with any special meaning in it. Simply a smile to indicate that a little progress had been made. He jerked a thumb at his chest, which swelled a bit.
“Rafael,” he said.
“Rafael,” she repeated. “Si.”
“Si!” the men said, turning to one another. “Si!” They were very pleased.
Unfortunately, their immediate chatter in her direction elicited no similar communication. Finally, trying to be friendly, babbling about someone called “Señora Celeste,” they led her, almost gallantly, in the direction of the town. Selena walked as quickly as she could, smiling almost continuously at the men. It was not that she felt any special desire to please them—things could turn dangerous at a moment’s notice—but rather that she wanted to reach the town before the British ship landed. It was a peaceful freighter of some sort—she could see no cannon aboard—but ever since the night of Lord North’s speech in Edinburgh, the sight of the Union Jack flying from flagpole or mast invariably nerved her to wariness. Staying one jump ahead might mean the difference between life or death.
They did not lead her onto the docks, but rather up a long stone stairway to the street of the town. It was dusty and rutted and filled with horse droppings—and pigs eating therefrom—but the men pointed down to the sails in the harbor below, quite pleased to show her the view. She kept on smiling, and nodded vigorously whenever it seemed to be in order.
The buildings were mostly alike, made of a very light type of wood that was unfamiliar to her. Some of them had walls of woven grass that reminded her of the thatched roofs of peasant huts in Scotland. The men led her to the largest building in town, and stopped.
“Señora Celeste,” they explained helpfully.
Selena smiled and nodded again. Señora Celeste must be a person of considerable consequence.
And not only that. Considerable bulk as well. After an interval of at least ten minutes—down on the docks Selena could hear the cries welcoming the British ship—a heavy, but stylishly dressed woman made her way to the door, and regarded the men with intelligent interest, her eyes sharpening just a little when she saw Selena there among them.
“Scot-tish,” Rafael pronounced,
carefully. “Se-le-na.” And then burst into rapid Spanish for the rest of the story of her appearance on the beach.
Señora Celeste nodded, then raised a hand to quiet him. Thanked him—Gracias! Gracias!—profusely, and beckoned Selena. Her voice was very friendly, and her smile most kind. Selena almost sighed with relief.
“Come in, my dear,” the woman welcomed her. “Come in. I’m sure you have a long and interesting story, and Fm in need of one, stuck out here as I am at the edge of the world. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you could use a bath and a good meal, as well. Now, come in, come in.”
Her touch was gentle, and she was obviously happy to see Selena.
“A glass of wine for all of you,” Celeste called to Rafael and his group. As she went inside, Selena could hear the men congratulating one another. They had done a good thing. She was not displeased with their effort either.
Señora Celeste’s building was something on the order of a hotel, but it also seemed to be a rather elegant private residence. Some of the furniture was constructed of bound lengths of fine wood, like wicker, but much of it was European, sturdy, highly polished. Mirrors hung on the walls. Green and flowering plants were everywhere. Wild birds of startling colors jumped and called from perches in finely wrought cages. A number of well-dressed men were playing cards in a screened veranda overlooking the harbor, and servants moved about on various errands.
“Please excuse my appearance,” Selena begged. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been through.”
“Oh?” Was there a sharpness of tone in the query?
“Let me tell you right away,” Selena decided, glancing uneasily toward the quay. Even now, the British ship was easing up to the pier. Sailors in the rigging rolled and furled the sails.
She told Señora Celeste the story of the pirate ship that Royce had suggested. The thought of Royce made her sadness genuine, and she almost believed the story herself.
Madame Celeste had one major reservation.
“But a young girl as beautiful as you? One would think you’d have been guarded day and night. For the…services you were able to provide. How did you manage to get free?
Flames of Desire Page 27