Isle of Fire (24 page)

There was no sound at first. Only images. Cat was back on the island of Dominica, but it was night. Men carrying oil lanterns walked in front of him, and swaying light reflected off the wide swords at their sides. There was someone else there, leading their train. But he was a shadow, a dark blotch passing noiselessly up the alleyway. Gray buildings loomed up on either side of them. Black windows stared out like the sockets of skulls in a charnel house. Cat could feel the wind on his arms, on his forehead, on his chest—like tiny spiders creeping along his flesh. Even though he could feel this tingling breeze and watch it sway the palm leaves, he still could not hear it.

They passed around the back of one building and paused. Two of the men gave a mighty heave on a pair of heavy doors that protruded from the ground like a massive grave marker. Cat watched the doors open and saw a red light glowing from below. The two men started to descend, but a gnarled staff barred their way. The shadowy figure stepped before them, and Cat knew him. The man's cold blue eyes flickered with torchlight and found Cat. A snarl curled under the man's moustache, and he motioned for Cat to join him. Cat found himself hurrying forward. They walked together down a short but very steep set of steps. Cat felt his heart beating, pounding in his chest.

When he reached the basement floor, his vision slowly adjusted to the strange red light. Cat's stomach churned and tightened as he saw them at last. Five men and two women, straining at their chains, pulling as if they might break free and burrow into the earth at the back of the chamber. Then he watched as his father, Bartholomew Thorne, took up his walking stick and slowly unscrewed its spiked head. It fell away without a sound and hung by its chain at his side for a moment. Then, as Thorne walked toward the captives, the spiked head swung like a pendulum. Back and forth . . . back and forth. The prisoners were frenzied now, jerking and flailing, lunging so hard that their manacles cut the flesh of their ankles and wrists.

Bartholomew Thorne whirled his weapon around and struck. And at last, Cat heard everything: screams from the man Thorne had hit, shrieks and weeping from the others. There were other sounds too: the crackle of a great fire pit, from which the red light shone, the clanking of chains and manacles, and the horrible impact of the weapon.

Some part of Cat urged him to do something . . . to stop this. But he did not. He watched. Soon, Bartholomew Thorne turned away from the prisoner and carried the weapon over to Cat. “Your turn,” he said, his voice raspy and cracking, “. . . son.”

Cat clutched the hammock so hard his fingers tore the material and his own nails cut into his palms. He woke suddenly, disoriented and flailing, falling to the floor amidst the echo of screams. Cat hunched on his hands and knees, and sweat ran in hot rivulets down his cheeks and dripped on the deck. “What have I done?” His voice came in breathy heaves. The door to his cabin flew open, and someone was there kneeling at his side.

“Cat?” Anne moved her hand lightly from his back to his shoulder. She feared he might be hurt and wasn't sure if she should touch him. “Are you . . . are you all right?”

“What have I done?” he whispered.

“What?” There were other footsteps in the room. “Cat, what did you say?”

He lifted his head and saw her, but his eyes seemed to look through her and far away. He blinked several times and squinted.

“Anne?” he said.

“Is he hurt?” Father Brun asked, standing in the doorway.

Cat shook his head and sat up. “No, I'm not injured . . .”

“Are you sure?” queried the monk. “I've never heard such a scream . . . like a demon pursued you. The whole crew heard.”

“I am sorry,” Cat said with a heavy breath. “Really, I'm fine now. It was just a dream.”

Father Brun nodded thoughtfully. “Can I help—”

“No,” Cat replied sharply, but realizing his tone, he softened and said, “No, thank you.”

“After such a dream, you may not wish to sleep,” Father Brun said. “But in truth you've only been below deck for a few hours. Rest if you can.” Father Brun eyed Cat a moment more and then left.

Cat stood up and rubbed his forearms. He wandered slowly over to his hammock and saw the place where he'd clawed through. Anne saw too. “You did that?” she asked.

Cat didn't answer. “Cat, did you remember something?”

He couldn't lie to Anne, but he wasn't sure how to tell her what he now knew. “Yes,” he whispered. “The island.”

Anne thought she understood, thought Cat meant the day his own father had flogged him within an inch of his life. “Cat, I'm sorry,” she said. Cat was grateful that she didn't ask anything more.

“Anne?” said a faint voice from the hallway. It was Father Brun.

“I've got to get back on deck,” she said. “Will you be all right?”

Cat nodded. Anne smiled and left the room. Cat carefully got back into his hammock. He thought of Father Brun's words,
“. . . sounded like a demon pursued you.” But
, Cat wondered,
what if I am
the demon?

“I told you everything you need to know,” said Scully. “Why must I remain on deck?”

Father Brun tightened his grip on the rogue's shoulder. “We are close now,” he said. “I want to be sure.”

“But I already told you, you must approach from the west. This time of day, the sun will make the island nearly impossible to see.”

Cat shielded his eyes from the descending sun with his hand and looked out toward the horizon. He was perplexed by what he saw: a curling strip of land crisscrossed with wiry vegetation and an occasional palm. But this was just the bending finger of the island. Its knuckle was a looming mound of white sand. Its fist was a great angular shelf of rock, and a forest of dark pines crowded its slope. “But I can already see the island,” said Cat.

“Do you think that massive island, mighty trees and all, disappears below the water?” Scully made a clucking noise. “No, that is Pine Island, still miles from our destination. What we seek you will not see until you are upon it and that only if you know where to look when the tide is right.”

“I don't think he knows where it is,” said Anne, glaring at Scully venomously. “Why would the Merchant trust the likes of him?”

Scully sneered at her. “The Merchant,” he said, his eyes half-hooded and a sickly grin forming beneath his pointed nose, “has many connections, but even he has a need for information . . . the kind of information that only I can obtain.”

Cat involuntarily shivered. There was something slippery and dangerous about this man. Cat examined the ropes that bound Scully's bonds as if, at any moment, he might slither out of his bindings and stab someone in the back. “I would not trust this man either,” said Father Brun coolly. He released his grip on Scully's shoulder. “But there are some, ah . . . incentives for Mister Scully to be truthful here. Isn't that right, Mister Scully?”

Scully shifted uneasily and stepped a pace back from the monk. Cat realized at that moment that Scully was not the only dangerous man aboard the
Constantine
.

“So what does this disappearing island look like?” Anne asked. Father Brun took a step closer to Scully.

Scully flinched and began to speak. “La Isla Desvanecente is a . . . a freak incident of nature. A long time ago, molten lava spewed up from a fiery crack in the sea floor. As the rock cooled in the sudden cold of the sea, it formed a strange spiraling chamber not unlike the cavity of a conch shell. Again and again this vent opened, each time forming a new chamber until, at last, it rose up and breached the sea. Now, bone-white coral curls over its black surface and wraps around the column of volcanic rock like the skeleton of a great snake.”

“It sounds charming,” said Anne. She started to say something more, but stopped short. “What's that?” She pointed toward the glare of the sun and the silhouetted tail end of Pine Island. They all turned, squinting like Anne.

“I don't see anything,” said Cat.

“Nor I,” said Father Brun. “What did you see?”

“I . . . I thought I saw a sail out on the water,” she said, doubt evident in her voice. Scully stiffened. “It was there for a moment,” Anne continued, “but then gone.”

Father Brun slid his fingers thoughtfully under his chin. “It is not uncommon for pirates to careen on desolate shores like Pine Island,” he said. “But given our position, so close to the Merchant's lair, I am more concerned that he has ships in the area. Mister Scully, you have never said how your friend travels to and from his tidal hideout. He must have some . . . system, some way of alerting his ship.”

Scully did not answer at first. Father Brun's eyes, normally restless and darting, fixed on Scully and burned with pale intensity. Scully stepped backward. “He's never told me how,” said Scully. “And I do not ask him. From the beginning he told me never to ask questions of him. That was our arrangement. Now, keep away from me, priest!” Scully backed away even more, but Brother Javier, one of the
Constantine
's gunners, stepped away from the mainmast and drew a bright cutlass. With that sharp blade behind him, a sullen Scully stopped immediately and glowered at Father Brun.

“Whatever the case,” said the monk, “we must be wary. We need to alert Bennett and Cascade.”

Cat gave the command, and several of the
Constantine
's sails were immediately reigned in. He looked up to Brother Keegan at the ship's wheel. Cat still felt bad for the young monk. Father Brun had chosen Keegan to be the
Constantine
's quartermaster before Cat had requested Anne. Keegan had accepted the news without a complaint—or even a frown. But since they left the Citadel, Cat had tried to give Keegan time at the helm.

They made eye contact, and Cat nodded. The young monk nodded back. The ship slowed until the
Dominguez
and the
Celestine
pulled even with them. Then all three of the Brethren's ships sailed west of Pine Island into the setting sun.

“I need a sextant,” Scully said at last. “Otherwise, we may miss the island.”

Cat went to the helm and brought back the navigational instrument. He held it up for Scully, but Scully did not take it. Nor could he; his hands were bound. “You tell me when to release the clamp,” Cat said with a smirk.

“For mercy's sake, will you free my hands?” Scully sighed. “I cannot get a proper reading.”

“Mister Scully, you don't believe me to be that gullible, do you?” asked Father Brun. “I may not know the sea like a tall ship captain, but even I know the sextant is accurate in the hands of anyone who knows how to use it. And I assure you, Cat—this ship's captain—is up to the task.”

Scully glowered once more—it seemed to be his preferred facial expression of late. Cat sighted the horizon through the sextant's lens, released the clamp freeing the index bar, and brought the sun down in line with the horizon. He gave the reading to Scully, who nodded. The slightest hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “We're almost there,” he said. “Look off the port bow. If the tide is right—and I believe it is—you will see a round patch of black with here-and-there ripples of white. Not much different than the sea and its whitecaps . . . only this patch will not be moving.”

Anne went to the rail first. “I see it!” she said.

Cat joined her. “That's amazing . . . it's black stone,” he said. “We'd have never seen it—”

“If I hadn't directed you so accurately,” Scully finished the sentence. “You see . . . I can be trusted.” Scully grinned. He waited for Father Brun to go to the rail. Then he moved a step backward, a few inches closer to Brother Javier and his sharp sword. “Uh, Captain,” Scully said to Cat, “you'll want the ship to come in from the leeward side.”

“Right,” said Cat, but he hesitated a moment. Then he called up to Brother Keegan and commanded him to steer the
Constantine
to the windward side of the island—opposite of Scully's recommendation. Scully glared at Cat but said nothing. The winds were steady, though not especially powerful. The
Dominguez
and the
Celestine
sluiced through the waves on either side.