Isle of Fire (35 page)

Anne stopped there. She'd never really thought hard about God until Padre Dominguez had come along.
What was it the monk had
said? “You have the writing of God on your heart.”
She let her eyes dance from star to star.
God has to be real . . . doesn't he? Something
so beautiful couldn't be there without a creator. There'd be no painting without a painter. No song without a composer.
Anne decided then and there that God was real, and without thinking, she whispered, “God, if you're listening, I think . . . I think I'd like to meet you.”

A shooting star streaked across the sky and disappeared.

Anne blinked. She had no idea how long she'd been floating there. The sky was still dark, though it looked somehow different. The reality of her situation became suddenly clear. Even if she could somehow last until the tidal island appeared, the Merchant had no doubt sealed it up tight. She'd have a few hours on the island until it dipped below the water again. But no, Anne knew she'd probably not last the night. She wondered when death would come. She wondered how it would happen. Would it be sudden? The little bumps she'd felt on her knee and heels—they could have been the exploratory nudges from sharks. Any second one of the silent undersea predators could clamp down on her thigh and pull her beneath the water. Even a nip from a small shark could finish her. A little blood in the water, and sharks would come from fifty miles. Or maybe she'd simply fall asleep and slide below the water.

Anne wriggled her fingers. They were pruned. She laughed. And then the tears began to flow.
I'll never see my father again. And Cat
. . . Cat's gone.
But the despair was fleeting. Peace settled over her like a blanket.
The stars . . . how very beautiful they are.
And then she closed her eyes.

Cat opened his eyes to very unfamiliar surroundings. He lay on a firm but not uncomfortable cot in a small room lit by flickering candlelight. To his left were three long cabinets with glass windows and a dark counter resting on many drawers. On top of the counter and within the cabinets there was an endless array of jars, bottles, canisters, and boxes.

Cat turned his head and flinched. A man sat next to the cot. His legs were crossed. He had one hand resting on his knee, and in the other, he held a dark brown root that he chewed on absently. His head was nearly bald. A few wispy strands of white hair rested on his scalp, but that was all. His prominent brow was arched in concern, and his eyes were kindly but very dark. He removed the root from his mouth and smiled in a close-lipped sort of way. “Finally awake?” he said. “Good, good.”

“Are you a doctor?” Cat asked.

“You might say that,” he replied. “After a fashion, I suppose. You would have drowned if I hadn't saved you.”

Cat rubbed his temples and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Least I could do for you, lad,” said the old man.

“This ship,” Cat said, “I don't remember it.”

“No, you wouldn't. You've never been aboard the
Perdition's
Gate
.”

Perdition's Gate?
Cat thought.
What a horrible image to associate
with your ship—No!
Fear shot up his veins like liquid fire. Cat started to sit up and found a dagger at his throat . . . the same dagger the Merchant had so expertly wielded in the tunnels.

“I had begun to wonder if you'd recognize me,” said the
Merchant
. “It is not often that people forget one of my unique countenance.”

“You tried to kill me!” Cat roared.

“Come now, my lad. All of that unpleasantness is over now.”

“Where's Anne?”

“The girl?” he asked. “I really do not know. She got sucked out of one of my auxiliary hatches. My guess is she made it to the surface, treaded water for a while . . . and then drowned.”

Cat tried again to sit up. “You black-hearted—”

The Merchant pressed the dagger firmly to Cat's throat. “Yes . . . you understand me now. But have you wondered why I spared your life?”

Cat gritted his teeth and shook his head.

“I know you,” said the Merchant. “You are Griffin Lejon Thorne, son of Bartholomew Thorne, a pirate of some infamy. I didn't believe Scully when he told me, but now I see it—your eyes, your jaw. Oh, you are Thorne's boy, all right . . . and in more than appearance. I wonder what he'll say when he sees you.”

“Bartholomew Thorne . . . he's here?” Cat's eyes widened.

“Nay,” said the Merchant. “Not on board my ship. No, but we are sailing, making all possible speed to be witnesses of your . . . reunion.”

“He'll kill me,” said Cat. “He's already tried twice.”

“Not getting along with your father, eh?” The Merchant laughed. “Well, if he will not take you . . . I will. You see, I've been searching for an apprentice. Searching for some time now.”

Cat nearly gagged. “I know all about you,” he said. “Remember? I read your logs. But even if I hadn't, I learned enough from Father Brun to know I would never serve a demon like you.”

“That,” said the Merchant, “would be an unconscionable waste of talent.”

“I'm not like you!” Cat yelled.

“No,” said the Merchant. “Someday you will be better than I am. But make no mistake: You were born a killer. I saw firsthand the blood lust in your eyes . . . down in the tunnels of my lair. I believe you meant to take my head.”

“You're mad, if you think I'll follow you.”

“Why delay the inevitable, Griffin Thorne? You cannot change the cloth from which you were cut.”

“No.” Cat's voice was just a whisper.

The Merchant jerked Cat up off the cot. Keeping the dagger in the small of Cat's back, the Merchant led Cat out of the room, down a narrow hall, and into an iron cell.

“In any case,” said the Merchant, slamming the barred door shut, “you have a long voyage ahead of you to decide.”

Anne closed her eyes and wriggled down beneath the blanket. It was so warm and comforting. She felt all her muscles relax as the blanket went up over her head. Down, down she went, her thoughts drifting . . . so tired . . . drifting . . .

Something bumped her hard on the leg. A shock of electricity. Her eyes opened to impenetrable murk and the sting of salty water.
Under water!
She opened her mouth to scream. Sea water poured in instead. Anne flailed, coughed, and spat. She climbed somehow to the surface. There, she hacked and gagged and struggled against the panic to stay afloat.

At last the mindless terror subsided and Anne realized just how close she'd come to drowning. Something had hit her leg again beneath the water—that had saved her, she realized. But still, she was anything but safe. The next bump could come with teeth.

It was still dark, and Anne treaded water, turning in slow circles. She found herself starting to fade again. Her muscles just couldn't keep going forever, and she was emotionally spent. BUMP. Something hit her in the rear end this time, and once more, Anne startled awake. She spun around in the water, looking frantically. Then she saw it: a triangular shadow protruding from the dark water . . . a dorsal fin. A huge dorsal fin. All those tentative bumps, the shark had been prodding her, testing her, and biding its time.

The fin sliced toward her. Anne readied her boots, intending to kick the shark, to try to drive it off. She had to. If the creature drew blood . . . it was over. It was just a few feet away, and Anne could see its familiar shape. It began to surface. It was going to attack. Anne kicked her feet out and flailed backward. And then she heard very strange sounds.

Whistles, clicks, and chirps. Anne stopped kicking and stared. The dark shark-shape suddenly broke the surface. It was not a shark at all. A large dolphin floated there. It turned its sleek head this way and that, spun around two or three times, and chirped loudly. Anne tentatively swam forward and patted the dolphin on the head. The creature whistled and spun around once more. Then it disappeared below the surface.

“No, come back,” Anne called to the dark water.

Suddenly, the dolphin surfaced beneath Anne, and she clung to its back. The creature began to swim in lazy circles, clicking softly as if talking to itself.

Anne awakened to voices. “A fine catch, Captain!” bellowed one voice.

“Yes,” a quiet voice replied. “But who would want such a wrinkled thing as this for dinner?”

“Maybe we should throw her back.”

Anne saw a man with his right arm in a sling. He had very dark skin and yet very white hair—even his eyebrows and moustache. “Brother Dmitri?” Anne whispered. She turned her head and saw another man. He had pale skin, wispy light blond hair, and pale blue eyes. “Father Brun?” Anne blinked. “Are . . . are we in heaven?”

“Not yet!” said Dmitri.

“No, dear Anne,” said Father Brun. “The Almighty has chosen to let us all elude death in the most extraordinary ways. A dolphin . . . who would have believed it?” The monk started to say something more, but closed his mouth. He seemed to be weighing some decision, and at last asked, “Where . . . where is Cat?”

Anne's lower lip trembled, and she shook her head. “He's gone,” she said, urgency building in her voice. “The Merchant, he—”

“It is too soon for speech,” Father Brun said quickly. “We will exchange such testimonies another time. For now, you must rest.”

“No,” said Anne, sitting up and throwing her legs over the edge of the bed. She winced and held her throbbing wrist. “No, I want to talk now.” She was quiet a moment, trying to remember. Then she told the tale of running through the tunnels, the Merchant always seeming to know exactly where she and Cat were heading. She told how they realized the Merchant's lair had tubes delved through it, a network of tubes that carried sound. She told of discovering a potential way out only to be trapped there by the Merchant. And then, tearfully, she described how Cat had given his life so that she could escape. “I tried,” she said, weeping quietly. “I tried to swim back down to him, but the water . . . it . . . it pulled me out.”