Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (22 page)

took it in stride, recognizing it for what it was: acceptance without question.

“It's been a long voyage, Neevens,” Patrick said in a menacing voice. “Better keep your doors locked!"

Weir and Syn-Jern laughed at Neevens’ instant blush. The man ducked his head and pursed his lips

tightly together.

“I'll go see if I can get Genny up,” Syn-Jern said.

“You sure you ain't going to see if she can get you up, Sorn!” someone called out.

Syn-Jern snorted and made his way to the hatchway.

* * * *

“Land ho!"

The gale had started by the time the Wind Lass dropped anchor around eight bells that morning. The

wind was howling like a Chalean banshee—rocking the barkantine roughly in the heaving swells—as the

crew began to lower the jolly boats. It took strength to fight the lashing waves, row the boats toward the

dark outline of the shore. The spit of land toward which they moved was high. Crags of black volcanic

rock jutted into the water, the waves breaking over their slick surfaces and shooting plumes of spray high

into the air. Palm trees swayed dangerously to and fro in the lash of the wind.

“Get to higher ground!” Patrick shouted as his boat ran the shallows. He was out almost instantly,

helping the other eleven men with him to pull the jolly to safety.

The entire crew of the Wind Lass made it to the beach, staggering against the fierce onslaught of the gale

winds, squinting against the stinging intrusion of salt water and sand. They were soaked by the time they

found shelter in a shallow cave, all thirty of them wedged tightly inside the opening. The air inside the cave

was rank. It reeked of offal and the entire crew had to stoop to keep from banging their heads on the

ceiling.

Overhead the rain lashed down in sheets of icy cold and the wind whipped around their wet clothing to

stick the fabric to shivering bodies.

“There's got to be more caves around here!” Weir shouted to be heard above the wind's roar. He

circumnavigated the tight area, ran his hands along the rock, but it appeared the cave had only one

entrance and exit.

“When it lets up, we'll go look!” Syn-Jern yelled back.

“From the sound of that storm, it ain't gonna let up no time soon, lad!” Tarnes warned. The old salt had

seen many a bad storm and this one was going to be one to tell his great-great grandchildren about.

If he lived through it.

Syn-Jern sheltered Genny with his body. He could feel her trembling—more from her fear of lightning

and thunder than actual cold—and put his arms around her. He put his lips to her temple and kissed her;

her arms went around him to hold him as close as space would allow.

“I can barely breathe in here!” Patrick shouted.

“We need to find other shelter or we'll all suffocate!” Weir replied.

“Genny?” Syn-Jern spoke against his wife's ear. “I've got to see what else I can find. This place is

starting to close in on me!"

Genny knew Syn-Jern was claustrophobic, had been since his imprisonment. She could feel his unease,

the rigidity of his body. Despite every instinct, she knew she would have to let him go; let him seek out a

more spacious haven. With one final hug, she slipped her arms from him, looked up into his jittery face,

and told him to go.

Syn-Jern needed no further prodding. He squeezed between Weir and Neevens and was out of the cave

before anyone could stop him.

“Damn it, Sorn! Get back here!” Weir bellowed, but he knew his words had been snatched away by the

wind.

“I'd better go after him!” Patrick yelled.

Outside the safety of the cave, the rain slashed against the two men like razor-sharp blades. Debris hit

them as they bent into the wind. The crack of lightning, spirals slamming into the island, unnerved the both

of them: an added incentive to quickly find other shelter. A dark sweep of foliage soon blocked their

view of the cave where the others hovered.

Reaching out to grab at Syn-Jern's shoulder, Patrick pointed to the right. “The land curves upward over

there!” he shouted.

Syn-Jern nodded his understanding and headed that way. Slipping on the slick undergrowth, he grabbed

a thick aerial root and levered himself up the incline. The rain had plastered his hair to his forehead,

obscuring his vision.

“You try that way,” Syn-Jern ordered once he'd gained the top. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“I'll look over there."

“Be careful!” Paddy cautioned.

The men moved away from one another, cautiously watching where they put their feet in the thick

growth.

Looking about him, shielding his eyes from the onslaught of the pelting rain, Paddy moved toward a

darker blotch of rock outlined against the gunmetal sky. With the howling wind and lashing debris being

flung around him, he didn't hear the cut-off scream that came from the direction Syn-Jern Sorn had taken.

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Syn-Jern hadn't seen the hole he'd stepped into. One moment he was making his way to what he knew

had to be the entrance of a cave, the next he was plummeting through space. Loose roots rimming the

hole lashed at him as he fell, scratching and gouging the flesh on his arms and neck. He felt something

sharp cut him, cursed when his head slammed painfully into a ledge. Lucky for him, the ledge gave way

as soon as he hit it. When he landed, flat on his back, the breath knocked out of him, he lay there, and

stared back up at the faint glimmer of light that was the world outside.

“Wonderful,” he gasped, knowing he was in trouble. That glimmer of light had to be at least ten to

twelve feet up.

Coughing, spitting dirt that he'd sucked into his mouth when he'd screamed, he turned to his side and lay

there trying to get his wind back. The mud beneath his cheek was cloying, cold, and he felt something

crawling beneath it.

“Help!” he yelled, knowing damned well no one could hear him but feeling the urge to ask for assistance

anyway. “Patrick!"

His shout had been a mistake for the reverberations brought instant results.

Scrambling from the ground as dirt cascaded around him, Syn-Jern knew a moment of sheer panic. Full

realization set in that he could be buried alive inside the shaft. His intense fear of closed in places turned

his insides to jelly and he stumbled forward, seeking a way out.

He put his hands up, touching nothing as he swept his arms from side to side. Beneath his feet, the

ground slanted upward so he inched forward, feeling the way with the toe of his boot.

It was cold, penetratingly cold, in the cave and the air bore a strange odor he couldn't identify. As he

made his way blindly through the darkness, he began to shiver.

And pray.

* * * *

The cave was deep, wide, but most important of all, dry. There was a shaft leading up at an angle that

would make an ideal flue. All Patrick needed to do was gather some dried palm fronds, wood, anything

combustible and he could have a fire going. Searching his pockets, he found his flint and kissed the box,

thanking his lucky stars he'd had enough sense to bring it along.

It didn't take Patrick long to have a halfway decent fire blazing. The light from the flame jumped over the

dry walls of the cave to assure him there were no beasties with whom he and the crew would have to

share the night's lodging. Above the din of the storm still raging outside, he could hear the chatter of bats

further back in the depths of the cave, but he didn't worry about that. If the little creatures stayed where

they were, he'd make damned sure he stayed where he was!

Waiting until the fire was going well, Kasella took a deep breath and ventured once more into the

pounding rain.

* * * *

Was it warmer than before? Syn-Jern wondered as he stopped and sniffed the thick air around him. The

odor he'd smelled was stronger and he thought the air was, indeed, not as cold. He squinted, his night

vision almost useless in the ebony space in which he walked. He was lucky he hadn't tripped over

anything, yet; plunged through some gaping hole in the ground that would close in around him and

squeeze the air from his lungs.

“Knock it off, Sorn!” he said aloud, his imagination beginning to play tricks on him.

He continued, hearing a whoosh of air that told him he wasn't far from some kind of air vent in the

ground. Now and again, he felt a draft and knew he was moving in the right direction. He could no longer

hear the storm but every once in awhile, he could feel the trembling of the walls around him and would

hold his breath lest the rock come showering down upon his head.

The smell was nearly overpowering. His forehead crinkled. What was that odor? It almost smelled like...

Incense!

As the word registered, he thought he heard whispering and stopped dead still in his tracks.

* * * *

“It's about ten minutes from here,” Patrick shouted to Weir. He'd spent at least half an hour searching for

Syn-Jern then decided the man had probably found a cave of his own and had gone back for the others.

Paddy felt a slight tremor of worry when he found that was not the case.

“Where's Syn?” Genny yelled.

Patrick shrugged. “Still looking I guess. Once I get us back to the shelter, I'll find him."

For some unfathomable reason, Genny wasn't afraid for her husband. She felt calm in the face of

Patrick's obvious unease and wondered why. It was as though she knew that wherever Syn-Jern was, he

was safe and would return to her none the worse for wear.

“I found a stream close by the cave, too,” she heard Patrick explaining. “We won't have any trouble

finding foods. There's plenty of edible fruit."

Weir motioned the others to follow them into the storm, but cautioned with a stern bellow for everyone

to ‘stay close to one another'. Without a backward glance, the crew left the damp of their cramped

haven and ventured into the gathering dusk.

* * * *

An errant breath of warm air touched Syn-Jern's cheek and he inhaled sharply. Wood smoke! He could

smell the unmistakable odor of wood smoke! Peering closely through the dark gray of his surroundings,

he thought he could see a spark of light ahead of him. With his heart thumping expectantly in his chest, he

set a path toward that distant flash of light.

* * * *

“He's probably found another cave,” Patrick said, looking out of their shelter's entrance at a storm that

had suddenly intensified to a full-fledge hurricane. Such fierce weather was not fit for man or beast and he

was worried.

“He's all right,” Genny assured her brother's friend.

“How do you know that?” Weir asked for the tenth time since they'd taken shelter before the roaring

fire.

“I don't know,” she said, thoughtfully. “I just do.” She smiled. “I think I'd know if he was in trouble."

* * * *

The light was a campfire and Syn-Jern made his way to it like a drowning man to a broken spar. He

squatted before the heat, his hands thrust toward the flames, and soaked in the warmth.

There were furs laying in a circle before the fire, giving mute evidence that someone had been here. And

recently. Despite his repeated calls, no one answered and he was beginning to think they were either

afraid of him or waiting to ascertain whether or not he proved a threat.

“I'm from the Wind Lass,” he said. “We dropped anchor to wait out the storm."

No one answered.

“We mean you no harm; we're just sailors from Ionary on our way to Chrystallus."

Still there was no answer.

“We're not pirates. We..."

It was pointed.

It was sharp.

It drew his blood.

Syn-Jern became perfectly still, ceasing even to breathe. His eyes shifted slowly to the right and he saw

the gleam of the blade poised as his throat. The slightest move and the blade would sever his jugular.

* * * *

“We're going to have to go look for the little brat!” Stevens said. He stomped around the cave, his thin

shoulders hunched forward, his jaw jutting. “We been here near on three hours and ain't seen hide nor

hair!"

“He's safe,” Genny repeated.

“Why hasn't he come looking for us, then?” Paddy snapped.

“The rain?” Genny reminded him. She pointed beyond the cave's entrance. “It's dark out there, Patrick.

Would you have him stumbling about in that?"

“I want him in here!” Patrick shot back.

“If I'm not worried about him, Paddy,” she said in a reasonable voice, “why are you?"

“Maybe you don't love him like..."

Genny turned from the man hovering over her. Everyone, with perhaps the exception of Syn-Jern, knew

how Kasella felt. And even though Patrick would rather have had his fingernails pulled out with hot

pinchers than let Syn-Jern know, the man had no such qualms about the others knowing his secret.

Not even Syn-Jern's wife.

“Sit down, Paddy,” Weir said quietly.

“I can't!” came the growl.

“Then go out there and look for him!” Tarnes snapped. “You're worrying me to death with all your

pacing, boy.” He looked at Stevens. “And you go with him!"

“They're not going anywhere,” Weir replied.

Patrick's nerves were near the breaking point and if Syn-Jern didn't show up soon, he was going to go

look for the man despite their Captain's orders.

Genny felt sorry for Patrick. She understood his irritation and his fear, but she was quite content where

she sat by the fire, nibbling on papaya and mango slices. Once more she tried to bring up some concern