Fragment. Warren Fahy
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of color seemed to glitter as if with gold in the last light of the setting sun. After sounding all around the island they had found no place to anchor, and that fact alone baffled him. ‘What do you make of this island, Mr Eaton?’
‘Aye, it’s strange,’ Eaton said, lowering the glass–but a glimpse of Frears falling to his knees at the edge of the crevasse made him raise it hastily to his eye. Through the spyglass he found Frears kneeling in the crack and saw him drop what appeared to be the copper funnel he was using to fill the small kegs. The funnel skittered down the rock face into the water.
A red flash appeared at the sailor’s back. Red jaws seemed to lunge from the twilight and close over Frears’s chest and head from each side, jerking him backwards.
Faint shouts drifted over the waves, echoing off the cliff.
‘Captain!’
‘Eh, what is it?’
‘I’m not sure, sir!’
Eaton tried to steady the scope as the deck rolled. Between waves he saw another man in the longboat catch hold of the lip of the fissure and scramble up into the shadow of the crack.
‘They’ve sent another man up!’
Another swell blocked his view. A moment later, another rolled under the ship. As the deck rose, Eaton barely caught the image of the second man leaping out of the crevasse into the sea.
‘He’s jumped out, sir, next to the boat!’
‘What in blazes is going on, Mr Eaton?’ Captain Henders lifted a midshipman’s scope to his eye.
‘The men are hauling him into the boat. They’re coming back, sir, with some haste!’ Eaton lowered the glass, still staring at the fissure, now doubting what he had seen.
‘Is Frears safe, then?’
‘I don’t believe so, Captain,’ Eaton replied.
‘What’s the matter?’
The lieutenant shook his head.
Captain Henders watched the men in the boat row in great lunges back to the ship. The man who had jumped into the water was propped up against the transom, seemingly stricken by some fit as his mates struggled to subdue him. ‘Tell me what you saw, Mr Eaton,’ he ordered.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
The captain lowered the scope and gave his first officer a hard look.
The men in the boat shouted as they drew near the Retribution.
The captain turned to the chaplain. ‘What say you, Mr Dunn?’
From the crack in the cliff face came a rising and falling howl like a wolf or a whale, and Mr Dunn’s ruddy jowls paled as the ungodly voice devolved into what sounded like the gooing and spluttering of some giant baby. Then it shrieked a riot of piercing notes like a broken calliope.
The men stared at the cliff in stunned silence.
Mister Grafton shouted from the approaching boat: ‘Captain Henders!’
‘What is it, man?’
‘The Devil Hisself!’
The captain looked at his first officer, who was not a man given to superstition.
Eaton nodded grimly. ‘Aye, Captain.’
The voice from the crack splintered as more unearthly voices joined it in a chorus of insanity.
‘We should leave this place, Captain,’ urged Mister Dunn. ‘’Tis clear no one was meant to find it–else, why would the Lord have put it here, so far away from everything?’
Captain Henders stared distractedly at his chaplain, then said, ‘Mr Graves, hoist the boat and make sail, due east!’ Then he turned to all his officers. ‘Chart the island. But make no mention of water or what we have found here today. God forbid we give a soul any reason to seek this place.’
The hideous gibberish shrieking from the crack in the island continued.
‘Aye, Captain!’ his officers answered, ashen-faced.
As the men scrambled from the boat, the Captain asked, ‘Mr Grafton, what has become of Mr Frears?’
‘He’s been et by monsters, sor!’
Captain Henders paled under his freckles. ‘Master gunner, place a full broadside on that crevice, double shot, round and grape, if you please! As you’re ready, sir!’
The master gunner acknowledged him from the waist of the ship. ‘Aye, sir!’
Retribution fired a parting round into the crevasse on lances of fire and smoke as she came about, blasting the cliffs, which crumbled like a castle’s ramparts.
9:02 P.M.
Captain Ambrose Spencer Henders dipped a kite-feather quill into the porcelain inkwell on his desk and stared down at the blank page of his logbook. The oil lamp swung like a pendulum, moving the shadow of the quill across the paper as he paused, weighing what to write.
August 22
2:10 P.M.
The Trident cut the deep water with her single-hulled bow and turned three wakes with her trimaran stern. She resembled a sleek spacecraft leaving three white rocket trails across a blue universe. The storm clouds that had driven her south for three weeks had vanished overnight. The sea reflected a spotless dome of scorching blue sky.
The 182-foot exploration vessel was approaching the center of 36 million square miles of empty ocean that stretched from the equator to Antarctica–a void that globes and maps usually took advantage of to stack the words ‘South Pacific Ocean.’
Chartered for the cable reality show SeaLife, the Trident comfortably quartered forty passengers. Now an ‘on-camera’ crew of ten who pretended to run the ship, fourteen professionals who really ran the ship, six scientists, and eight production staffers, along with a handsome bull terrier named Copepod, rounded out her manifest.
SeaLife was chronicling the Trident’s yearlong around-the-world odyssey, which promised to encounter the most exotic and remote places on Earth. In its first four weekly episodes the cast of fresh young scientists and hip young crew had explored the Galapagos Islands and Easter Island, launching SeaLife to number two in the cable ratings. After the last three weeks at sea, however, enduring back-to-back storms, the show was foundering.
The ship’s botanist, Nell Duckworth, glared at her reflection in the port window of the Trident’s bridge, repositioning her Mets cap. Like all the other scientists chosen for the show, Nell was in her late twenties. She had just turned twenty-nine seven days ago, and had celebrated over the chemical-and-mint-scented bowl of a marine toilet. She had lost weight, since she hadn’t been able to keep food down for the last ten days. Her motion sickness had subsided only when the last of the massive storms had passed last night, leaving a cleansed blue sea and sky this morning. So far, bad weather, sunblock, and her trusty Mets cap had protected her fair complexion from any radical new pigmentation events. But she was not checking her reflection for wrinkles, weight loss, or freckles. Instead, all she noticed was the look of despair glaring back at her from the glass.
Nell wore taupe knee-length cargo jeans, a gray T-shirt, and plenty of SPF24 sunblock slathered on her bare arms and face. Her beat-up white Adidas sneakers annoyed the producers since Adidas was not one of the show’s sponsors, but she had stubbornly refused to trade them in.
She gazed south through the window, and the crushing disappointment she was trying not to think about descended over her again. Due to weather delays and low ratings, they were bypassing the island that lay just beyond that horizon–bypassing the only reason Nell had tried out for this show in the first place.
For the past few hours, she had been trying not to remind the men on the bridge of the fact that they were closer than all but a handful