The Devil's Fire (27 page)

He awoke to a sherbet sky, glorious in its palette. There remained not a single wisp of cloud. The sun had touched the horizon, a giant, shimmering sphere. The storm had passed.
Harbinger
was safe.

His mouth throbbed and tasted acidic. He swallowed and winced at the sharp pain in his throat. He dug a finger inside his mouth, feeling around until his finger sunk between two teeth into a gelatinous hollow gum. He withdrew a bloody finger.
I bit my tooth off,
he remembered.
Because of my arm. My arm! They were going to cut off my arm!

But they hadn’t. They couldn’t have. The ache of his right arm still plagued him; Henry had not cut it off. He sighed in relief and reached to massage it. His fingers grasped air. When he tilted his head for a look, he gazed upon a blackened stump. He screamed and scrambled to his feet, smashing his back against the bulwark. With the only hand left to him he grabbed at the empty space where his arm should have been, unable to clutch it, but still suffering the throbs of pain where rightly it should have been. He screamed and cursed until his voice broke. As twilight fell, he crumpled into a heap and moaned pitifully.

Pirates regarded him with quick, nervous glances as they passed by. As far as Nathan could tell, no one else had sustained injuries, aside from minor scrapes. Just him.

Nathan rolled over on the deck and whimpered, tucking the stump underneath his left arm. He wondered how he could ever show himself to Annabelle again. He imagined her expression; she would gasp, her lip would curl, and she would turn away and pretend as though she had never known him.

He bent forward and threw up.

Rarely did she realize within a dream that she was dreaming, but as she plunged through the thickening jungle, she knew it could be nothing else. She shuffled through the massive leaves, but they kept coming, tearing at her body one after another and dashing her face like giant paddles on springy green sticks. Passing one leaf meant running into a larger one, and so on. They sliced at her arms, shoulders, and face. She grew furious, slapping at the leaves and screaming, but this only gained her a fresh set of agonizing incisions. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her blood dripping from the tips of the leaves. She shook her head in dismay and pushed onward.
I can’t go back, only forward.

Just when she was beginning to think she would be forever lost in this madness, she pushed through to an empty clearing of white sand bathed in sunlight. The circular opening was no more than twenty paces wide, surrounded on all sides by impenetrably dense jungle. She had no desire to go in there again.
I’ll stay here for a while. Rest.

Streams of blood crisscrossed her arms, legs, and shoulders. She realized that she was naked. Had her clothes been ripped to shreds by the plants? She couldn’t remember. She wasn’t sure she’d even had clothes on when she entered the jungle.

When did I enter the jungle, anyway?

When you fell asleep.

Ah yes. I am dreaming. But why don’t I wake?

Because you don’t wish to wake. Not yet.

There was no harm exploring a dream, despite the phantom pain that her mind made so vivid.

The clearing was totally silent. She couldn’t even hear the intake of her own breath, no matter how heavily she drew it. "Hello?" she called, but no sound emerged.

"Hello, darling," came a familiar voice. She turned to see Thomas standing not three paces from her, smiling. He looked his finest, dressed for business from head to toe, as though ready to attend a meeting. His hands were in his pockets. His thin hair was pushed back, neatly combed. His skin was a shade paler than she remembered, but his smile had lost none of its charm.

She wrestled with an urge to retreat full speed back into the jungle.
This is a dream,
she reminded herself, and held her ground. Her legs felt like to give out from under her, and she straightened them. "What do you want from me?" she managed. Her voice was audible this time.

"You’ve nothing to fear," Thomas insisted, never losing his smile. "I’m quite dead."

"What do you want me to do about it?" she demanded. She bit her lip, refusing to let herself cry.

This is only a dream. It’s not him. It’s not your Thomas.

"There’s nothing anyone can do about it now," he shrugged, smiling away.

Stop smiling.

Her chin quivered. She shook her head, fighting the wave of emotion that threatened to overtake her. She steadied a finger at him. "You stay right there! Don’t come any closer."

"I couldn’t if I wanted to," he replied, spreading his arms. "I can’t leave this place."

But I can.
She turned and fled, leaving Thomas and his infernal smiling behind her. She dove into the jungle and crashed through the foliage, ignoring the wounds they inflicted. She raced as fast as she could, slamming into the giant leaves, bounding off of them, twirling, stumbling, scrambling to her feet and running again. The leaves flayed skin from muscle like a whip, and shreds of flesh dangled from them in her wake, flapping incessantly in the wind. She shrieked in pain, but she would not return to Thomas.
I won’t have him smile at me again.

She collapsed into a second clearing. This one was larger than the last, perhaps thirty paces across. Sand spilled into her wounds, grinding into exposed muscle, and she opened her mouth to scream at the sky. As before, no sound left her throat. With pain searing through her body she thrashed in the sand until the grains formed a protective blanket around her. The white grains settled into her wounds and merged together, gleaming like melting glass. The sand forged flesh where it had been stripped bare.

She was healed. The pain was gone. She got to her feet, one leg at a time, and found unexpected strength in her muscles. When she breathed, the air easily filled her lungs. She felt renewed, as though a splash of cold water had invigorated her.

"Hello?" she called again, and again there was no sound.

"Hello, Miss Katherine."

She turned slowly, knowing the voice before she saw the face. "Hello Douglas," she replied cautiously.

Thatcher’s lips twitched into an uncertain smile, but it faded quickly. He was as heavy and bald as ever, but he had less cares than she remembered. The skin of his face and arms was smooth and unbroken. He wore a clean white shirt and brown trousers. He looked down and prodded the sand with his big toe, gouging a little hole. "This is my clearing, I suppose."

"What is all this?" she said, spreading her arms and then letting her palms slap her hips in frustration. She felt more comfortable in the presence of Thatcher than she had with her own husband, for some reason.
Perhaps it’s because he isn’t smiling like nothing happened.

"Is this supposed to be heaven?" she tentatively asked.

"It’s a dream," Thatcher answered flatly.

"I know that," she withered. "I wish to know its purpose."

"It’s purpose?" Thatcher considered that for a moment, muttering to himself. "To annoy you with blatant symbolism, I suppose."

"I saw Thomas," she said, aiming a thumb over her shoulder, "back there, in another clearing."

"Your husband?"

"The very same."

He chuckled softly. "Then I’m not the first dead man you’ve chanced across."

"Hopefully the last," she sighed. "I’m not sure I can stand anymore appearances from dead friends. No offense."

"None taken."

He avoided her gaze, digging his toe deeper into the sand. She took a step closer, leaning slightly to see his eyes. "I’m sorry for what I did, Douglas."

"Don’t apologize to me," he said, fixing her with a melancholy gaze. "I’m not Douglas Thatcher. And that man you just left was not your husband. You know this." He pointed to the jungle, opposite the spot she had materialized from. "You must continue on."

"I don’t want to," she groaned.

"The jungle won’t injure you this time," he said. He looked back down at the hole he’d carved in the sand and studied it intently. "Hmm," he said, stroking his chin. "I wonder how far I can go?"

She moved past him, watching him, but he did not meet her gaze again. She continued into the jungle. The leaves slid about her body, edges coarse and stiff, but they did not break her skin. She grinned and broke into a sprint.
This is much easier.

It was not long before she came to the third clearing. This one was oval and very far across, maybe the length of a large vessel. In the middle of it stood a man she would not have recognized had she not met him recently. He was tall and sturdily built with a scraggly blonde beard and curly blonde hair. He was dressed all in black. "Katherine Lindsay," he announced with a knowing smirk.

"You know who I am?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
Why am I seeing this man? I met him but once. He means nothing to me.

"Jack Cunningham knew you," he replied. "But he knows nothing now, as I’m certain you’ve concluded."

"Griffith killed him?"

"For what he knew," Cunningham said, shaping his right-hand into a pistol and aiming the index finger at his temple. His thumb touched down, and on the opposite side of his skull he flourished the fingers of his left hand, simulating a spray of brain matter.

"You’ve all died because of me," Katherine blurted. She had finally uncovered the meaning of this infernal dream.

Cunningham grinned, opening his arms wide and bowing. "Very good, my dear. Very good."

"What’s the point of this?" she demanded. "I know who has died and why. I need no reminder. Thomas should never have brought me to sea! He would be alive now if he hadn’t, and I would be safe in London!"

Cunningham nodded his agreement.

"And Livingston killed Thatcher," she continued. "I merely ended his suffering."

Cunningham shook his head firmly. "You ended his life just the same."

"Fine!" she barked. "And you? You died because you were foolish."

"Cunningham was indeed a fool," Cunningham agreed. "But, as I said, I am not Cunningham. This is your dream, Katherine. No one else’s."

"Then I’m ready to wake," she proclaimed, pounding a foot in the sand.

"Then wake," he said, as though it were obvious. "Or don’t."

"Why wouldn’t I?"

"Because there is more to see." He opened a palm to the opposite end of the jungle. "Just a little further, darling."

"Don’t call me that." Thomas had called her that. This man had no business doing the same.

He lowered his head in false modesty. "As you wish."

She gave him a wide berth as she made her way to the opposite side, glancing at him apprehensively along the way. His eyes trailed her the entire time, lips curved in a boorish smirk.

"I’m glad you’re dead, Jack Cunningham," she spat back at him. "You didn’t even try to save me!" She ran into the jungle before he could reply.

The trees seemed to open for her when she entered, leaves pulling away from her as she passed by. She stopped to reach out for one and it wrinkled in on itself, shying from her finger. She frowned and continued on. As she delved further, light spilled in on her from above. The jointed trunks of the trees bent away from her in either direction, opening to reveal thin glimpses of sapphire through the patchy canopy and an occasional flash of sun.

She ran for a long time, never once grazing a leaf. The muscles in her legs increased with every stride, glistening with sweat in the flashes of sunlight. She felt as though she could run forever, and she might have done so if she hadn’t come to the fourth clearing.

The jungle vanished on all sides, but no white sand greeted her this time. The ground left her feet and she spiraled through the air into a swirling blue abyss littered with streaks of white. As she spun, she saw the blur of a sheer cliff face. She had run right off it.

She crashed into the water, her back stinging from the impact, and floated on the surface for an instant before sinking. She flailed her arms and legs, suspended underwater with the surface just a few feet above her. She reached for the sun, a glittering orb just beyond the rippled canvas. It dimmed as she sank, and the ripples slowly merged and lost distinction. Just when she thought all hope was lost, her feet touched the ground, sand spreading between her toes. She let her knees bend and then sprang herself upward.

She emerged with closed eyes and inhaled deeply. Air filled her lungs. Her eyelids popped open as a sheet of salty water washed down her face. The waves bobbed her up and down, and beyond each cap she saw a white beach at the foot of the cliff from which she had plummeted. She started to swim.

She swam until her feet grazed sand, and then she stood and waded onto the beach. She collapsed onto her hands and knees, catching her breath as the water washed up around her and retreated back into the sea.

A man’s hand fell before her face, palm open. She grasped the hand.
Who is this, now? One last wraith to taunt me?
He helped her up, and when she looked into his face, she recoiled in horror.

"Hullo, Miss Lindsay," Nathan said.

He found Katherine face down in the bed, face veiled by her mass of hair. She had hardly eaten a bite or spoken a word since Livingston killed her cat. Griffith sat beside her and gently massaged her back. He drew her hair away from her face and saw that her eyes were open, staring distantly into space. "You need to eat something," he said with an upbeat voice. "There's no reason to sulk about. We have much to celebrate, you and I."

She blinked.

"I'll buy you ten cats and more."

She rolled away from his hand and propped herself against the headboard. "A cat?" she said. "That's the answer to everything, is it? Buy me a cat and all my troubles will slip away?" Her eyes welled with tears. "Just like Thomas slipped away?"

He scoffed. "It's a year since his passing and still you're on about him?"

"You think me inconsonant all this time because of a cat?" She shook her head. "I am a foolish woman. There's no doubting it. But at least I am a woman, not a girl. You, Jonathon Griffith, are not a man. You are a boy who mistakes his ship for a toy and the sea for his tub."