Race to World's End (Rowan and Ella Book 3) (5 page)

“Because I had a
dream about your husband.”

Ella felt her
stomach lurch at the old woman’s words and she recognized the feeling as hope.
“Tell me about your dream,” she said as she stood in the middle of the shop.

“Tea first,” Olna
said, then turned and hobbled to the back of the shop. Ella knew the way. She’d
come to see Olna with Rowan—and newborn baby Tater—to hear the
expected news that trying to return to their own time would be too dangerous
for the baby. Ella knew she owed Olna a special debt of gratitude. If it wasn’t
for the old seer, Rowan would never have found Ella in the desert in 1922.

And now it was
Ella looking to Olna to help her find Rowan.

She pushed back
the beaded curtain that divided the back room from the shop and saw that Olna
was already seated at the little table with a boiling kettle at her elbow and
two cups in front of her.

Ella looked over
her shoulder to where Halima and Tater sat outside the shop.

“They will be
fine,” Olna said, her smile revealing gaps in her teeth. “It is your husband
who needs you now.”

Ella snapped her
head back to Olna and quickly sat at the table. “He’s alive?” she asked
breathlessly, her heart pounding. “I knew it! I knew he was alive!” She reached
out to grab the old woman’s gnarled hands. “Where? Where is he?”

Olna nodded her
head and slowly removed her hands from Ella’s. She poured their teacups and
Ella watched the tea leaves bob to the surface of the water.
He was alive!

“
Where
he is, I do not know,” Olna said,
handing Ella’s cup to her. “That will be for you to find.”

Ella nodded. It
didn’t matter. She could do anything now that she knew he still lived.
Everything else was just details to be worked out, schedules to be arranged,
resources to be mounted. She smiled broadly and brought the cup to her lips.

“And I will,” she
said. “Thank you, Olna. Again. Thank you.”

The old woman
shrugged. “The dream came to me. Then you came to me. I did nothing.”

God bless Halima, Ella thought. She insisted I come. If it
weren’t for her, I’d still be depressed and sleeping ‘til noon and getting
ready to be kicked out of Egypt.
The last thought reminded Ella that she was on a tight leash time-wise.

She drank down
her tea and stood. “Thank you again, Olna.
So
much. But I must start looking for him straightaway.”

“Of course. My
dream indicated he was in much…distress.”

Ella stopped.
Of course he would be hurt. That made sense.
But how badly
? She sat back down. “Can you tell me a little about your
dream?”

Olna picked up
her cup and sipped gingerly, then settled the cup back in its saucer. “He is
hurt, but in my dream I saw him walking.”

That’s good
,
Ella thought.

“He’s afraid.”

That’s not good. Very little made Rowan afraid.
Ella felt her hopes sinking. “Did your
dream show
why
Rowan is afraid?”

Olna shook her
head. “No.”

Ella took in a
long breath, preparing to leave. Somehow she’d have to convince the American
Embassy that she had information that Rowan was alive. She’d have to get
 
hold of Marvel—who was in Dubai,
she thought—to put together a team of people to….to what? Search the Mediterranean?

She chewed her
bottom lip. “Did your dream show Rowan on, like, a beach or in a city?”

“A beach.”

“Okay, that’s
good. And is he alone?”

“Mostly.”

“Okay, well,
that’s cryptic.
Not
alone?”

“Mostly alone.”

“Well, Olna, is
he…did your dream indicate he’ll starve to death or something if he’d not
reached soon? I mean, I know that’s sort of specific but you said he’s in
distress.”

“He is in
immediate danger.”

“I see.” Ella ran
her hands through her hair in frustration, knocking bobby pins out onto the
floor. “Is there anything else you can tell me, Olna, about this dream of yours
that might help me find Rowan? Anything at all?”

Olna looked into
her teacup as if in deep thought and then looked back up at Ella. “Did I tell
you he’s no longer in 1925?”

4

Off
the coast of Libya, 1825

In the end, it
had been the screams of the seabirds more than the sun’s oppressive battering
ram that forced him out of his stupor. Even before he opened his eyes Rowan
realized he was lying on his back in the bottom of a small wooden dinghy. He
lifted his head and grabbed the sides of the little boat, straining to sit up.

Struggling to
understand.

He craned his
neck but could see nothing but ocean all the way to the horizon. The blinding
sun created dancing, twinkling diamonds of light that made him blink and tuck
his chin to evade the glare. His head clanged with a steady throbbing pain and
he shifted uncomfortably in the bottom of the lifeboat.

He remembered
boarding the ship but nothing else. Had the ship sunk? Were there other
survivors? As he pulled himself up to look over the side of the boat he was
assailed with a ferocious nausea and a glimpse of a memory flash.

His hand went to
his throat but came away clean. Yeah, he remembered that bit. Whoever he was,
the guy who cut him must have been nervous. The wound was long but shallow and
had stopped bleeding hours ago.

What the fuck happened?

He shielded his
eyes from the sun’s onslaught, and when he did he saw there was actually an
object to focus on besides the endless blue-green horizon that surrounded him.

An island.

He looked in the
bottom of the boat but could find no oar, no life vest. Nothing.

The waves were
pushing him away from the land mass. He looked back at the island, further away
now.

He got to his
knees, groaning as he did, and after a quick inspection he thought one of his
ribs was bruised. His face was a mess. Whatever had happened to him, he’d been
on the raw end of it. One eye was swollen shut, his lip was split and a cut
that felt like it could use a stitch or two was opened over his left eye.

Decision time, Pierce. Figure it out later. Right now it’s do
or die.

Maybe literally.

He yanked off his
shoes and tied the laces together. Then, tossing them over his shoulder, and
without hesitating, he plunged over the side of the boat in the direction of
the island.

Immediately it
became clear that he’d seriously underestimated his injuries. The powerful sidestroke
he’d intended to take him to shore dissolved into a cramped sidestroke. Focusing
on the land—now looking much further away than it had from the
boat—he willed himself to power toward it. He knew that once he was past
where the waves were breaking, he could just let the sea bodysurf him onto the
beach.

He just had to
make it that far and then let the island draw him home like a spider’s web to a
house fly.

A sudden wave slapped
him when he wasn’t ready and he drank in more salt water than he knew was good
for him. By the time his knee hit the island’s first shoal, his body was
already in convulsions, throwing up all that he’d drunk.

But he was on
land.

He crawled to the
line of palmettos and mangrove that hugged the beginning of the jungle interior
and collapsed on the sand. He heard the sound of his own heart pounding in his
ears and the steady burn of his injuries, stretched to their limit against the
ocean swim.

I made it,
he thought, as he fought the numbing sensation of aches that threatened to
overwhelm his consciousness.
For good or
ill, I’m here.

That night, he didn’t
bother trying to find water or food. He slept, wet and shivering, huddled under
a palmetto bush, grateful to be alive and on solid ground. He pictured Ella’s
face—laughing, kissing their baby, kissing him—and was able to
drift off to sleep in spite of the creaking, cawing sounds coming from the
jungle behind him.

The next morning
he took stock. He had no memory of how he’d ended up in the lifeboat but it was
pretty obviously done
to
him. Why or
by whom was lost to him.

All he knew now
was that he was alive and relatively sound. He looked around the beach where he’d
spent the night. First things first. He’d find something to eat and then
explore a bit to see if there was anyone else with him in paradise.

Less than a half-mile
inland he discovered the lagoon. It looked to be a natural harbor, deep and
leading out to sea. But he could see by the color of the water at the edges
that it was shallow enough in spots to fish in. He took the morning to tiptoe
the perimeter of the lagoon in a wide arc to ensure he was truly alone. Along
the way, he found tree branches that he quickly stripped and sharpened into
spears using his pocketknife.

The fishing was
plentiful and easy, and he had no fewer than six fat mullets before he stopped
for the day. During his reconnaissance he’d discovered a cave on a bluff that
appeared hidden but was just a few steps from a lookout point that would give
him a clear view of the beach below. He’d already decided to move in.

The next step
took a leap of faith—and Rowan knew he had everything to lose—but
he decided it was worth the chance. Grateful that he still carried the lighter
Ella had given him for their first wedding anniversary, he’d left it out in the
sun all day to dry out so that now he gathered twigs and bits of moss together
and created a small fire. He set a flat rock inside the fire to serve as his
frying pan.

The fragrance of
the frying fish nearly brought tears to his eyes. He nudged the cooking filet
on the flat rock to break the sear. The first one he’d eaten nearly raw. He
could wait for this one.

But barely.

He ate all but
two of the fish, but he cooked them all. As he watched the sun drop in the sky,
he knew his fire at night would be all the more noticeable to anyone who might
be living on the island, and while he knew they might not be unfriendly he was
determined to connect on his own terms.

That meant a
thorough search of the island to see if he was alone and, if so, a system of
bonfires that might be seen by any passing ships. He had no idea if he was
anywhere near a shipping lane, but for now it was as far as he could plan.

Tonight, he was
full and he was alive. He put the fire out and watched the smoke dissipate
against the darkening sky until there was no hint of it except for the scent of
the fried fish in the air. He curled up against a wall of the cave. It led nowhere,
looking like it had been carved more by sea and wind than by human hands. He
slept.

The days after
that passed quickly as if they were all one until he regretted not devising a
system to keep track of them. He would awake, go to the lagoon and fish,
sometimes swim and sun himself dry and then come back to his cave to build a
fire and eat. He used his shirt to catch rainfall for his drinking water. He
had nothing that could serve as a pot of any kind and all his explorations of
the island had turned up nothing in the way of fruit or edible vegetation. He
knew the lighter fluid wouldn’t last forever and, after what he determined was
his second week on the island, he began to make fire without it.

The cut over his
eye was healing lumpy and badly but it wasn’t infected. The same for the cut on
his neck. His thoughts of Ella and Tater alternated between bolstering him and
defeating him. As much as he tried to be optimistic that he would see them
again, hold them again, another day would dawn in the mouth of his cave and
another static blue ocean without boat or ship to interrupt its unending vista
would greet him when he awoke.

***

The ship sat in
the cove like something out of a Disney movie. Everything about it said
fake
. It was
so
authentic looking it wasn’t believable. From the tall black
masts to the slack and tied sails, the holes in them easily visible from where
Rowan watched, to the makeshift flag that fluttered from the tallest mast—black
with a crudely drawn depiction of a skull and crossbones glaring bright white
against the dark field.

It looked like
something out of a reenactment exercise. When was the last time a ship like that
had carried men or cargo on the sea? During the Civil War? What was it doing
here? Were they making a movie?

Something about
the ship and the men who clamored over its deck made Rowan stay hidden.

How can an old fashioned ship be dangerous? Who are those
guys?

Rowan crept away
from his vantage point until he was sure he wouldn’t be seen when he stood. He
could hear the crew laughing, their words unintelligible but carried back to
him on the wind.

 
How is it that
I’ve longed for a ship to come for all these weeks and as soon as one does, I’m
hiding under a bush?

For whatever
reason, he didn’t feel good about grabbing their attention.

What if they’re the real thing? We’ve still got pirates in
2013, so why not back in 1925
,
he reasoned
. It’s just…their ship is
so…dated. What would a 1925 pirate be doing with a pirate ship that only ran by
wind? They’d be blown out of the water by the first British frigate that came
their way.

Unless they aren’t 1925 pirates.

Rowan shivered at
the thought and instantly shook it from his mind.

You’ve been alone too long. You just jumped to crazy town.

Except he knew,
crazy or not, it was possible.

What other
indication did he have of the time? Could he have gone back in time and not
know it? The first time he’d time traveled in Heidelberg he had no idea he was
doing it.

Is that what happened to me when I fell over the side of the
ship?

With no answers
and now no food or fire, Rowan spent the rest of the day in his cave waiting
for the ship to leave. Every morning for a week afterward, he crept to his
vantage point to see that the ship was still anchored in the lagoon. And every
morning as he returned to his cave, he became more and more convinced the
people on that ship would not be friendly to him.

During the night following
the third day of the ship’s arrival, when he couldn’t sleep, Rowan crept back
to his vantage point and lay on his stomach watching the beach where a handful
of men sat around a large bonfire. He could tell even from this distance that
they were drinking. They were extremely loud, and when a fight broke out
between two of them Rowan found he didn’t even flinch when he saw one of them
pull an ancient pistol out of his belt and murder the other to howls of
laughter from the rest of the men.

No. This was not
the rescue he’d prayed for. His empty stomach ached as he made his way back to
his cave.

The next morning,
the ship was gone.

Rowan hurried
back to his cave and snatched up his two fishing spears. He tried to remind
himself to be quiet, that the ship might have left some of the crew behind, but
his hunger was in charge now. He ran to the spot where the bonfire had been the
night before, its charred remains cold now. As he passed it, he saw the stain
of blood where the man had been slain. The crimson color had faded and spread
in a wide swathe to show where the body had been dragged.

To the sea.

He went to his
favorite rock that perched over the shallows and tried to keep his hands steady
as he poised his spear.

Whoever they were—monsters, pirates from the past, or
even just something I dreamed up in my own fevered mind—they’re gone now.

Rowan thought as
he flung is spear into the water.
It was
amazing how food and your next meal soon took precedence over all the other
things you thought were important in your life.
For a moment, he considered
cooking the fish right here, right now. He looked over his shoulder into the
jungle. But no. They came once, they might again. He caught an even dozen,
wrapping them carefully in the trousers he no longer wore, and carried them
back to the cave.

The temptation to
eat his catch cooked overrode his worry that they may have left men behind.
That didn’t make sense. Why would they leave
anyone here? On a deserted island?
He made the fire—his first in
three days—and cooked his entire catch of the day. That night he slept
contented, full and warmed, and tried to think of nothing else—not even
Ella and the baby—as he drifted off to sleep.

When they
returned a week later, Rowan was fashioning a hammock on the opposite side of
the island. Guessing it to be about four miles in width with no natural harbor
on this side, he had built two towers of sticks and driftwood that would serve
as bonfire signals when and if a ship passed. It meant moving to that side of
the island and abandoning his cave, but after a month of no ship sightings he
felt a change of plan was worth the loss.

It would be a
longer walk to the lagoon to fish, but one thing he had plenty of was time.
What was important was that he be close to one of the signal pyres in order to
light it in plenty of time when he saw a passing ship. For this reason, if for
no other, he saved the use of his lighter and continued making all his dinner
fires the way he’d learned as an Eagle Scout—with friction.