Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (25 page)

Miraculously, leaping and diving, the dolphins lifted the boat, coming from underneath and nudging the drowned craft against the side of the big ship. Some nosedived under the
Astarte,
coming out on the other side, then swept back under the ship, starting all over again. Water churned with plunging, diving, swooping dolphins, all working to hold the small coracle above the water.

It was too small; it was not theirs.

Spellbound, amazed by the dolphins below, seamen crammed the ship’s railing, calling in hushed voices—“there are people in it!”

Captain Adonibaal yelled a command. A long landing ladder dropped over the side. Two sailors climbed down and secured the sinking craft with ropes. On the deck, others turned a small, wooden derrick used to launch their heavy anchors and lifted the tiny, drowned boat up and over the ship’s railing, landing it on the open deck with a splat.

Water and glistening salmon spilled over the deck, and out tumbled two bodies and a fishing net tangled around another one. All lay motionless.

The conch shell blasted again. Every head swung toward the mast, then back to the spectacle of debris and bodies piled on deck.

“It’s ours!” the lookout shouted. The ship’s boat moved swiftly on the flow of the tide and came neatly up to
Astarte’s
boarding ladder. The missing seamen hurried aboard. Water barrels were heaved up.

There was no time to lose. The heavy anchors were cranked up. The captain quickly ordered the ship’s boat rowed aft and tied to the sternpost where it towed behind the
Astarte,
like a fledgling duck bobbing after its mother.

The Admiral gave the deck a black look. It lay covered with dead bodies, fish, and the wrecked coracle. Why had they bothered to rescue this mess? His wrist throbbed. He
would not
miss the tide.

“We sail now,” he called out, frustrated and angry. “
With
the tide and not after, Captain Adonibaal. Clear that deck. Throw it all overboard. At once.” His voice was terse, his head already turned to the gray sea beyond.

The captain quickly climbed down to the main deck. He turned to order the crew and stopped short. They stood motionless, eyes downcast with furtive glances toward the water. They had heard the Admiral’s order.

Carloi the navigator, a bold old Tartessian, came forward and dropped to his knees. He bent his head and started mumbling something in a low voice.

“Speak up, man, I can’t hear you.” Adonibaal’s voice had lost its usual calm manner.

“Forgive me, captain, and you, my Lord Admiral, but those dolphins are men of the sea, just as we are men of the ships and land. We cannot hurt those they brought to us …” His voice quavered and drifted off.

“See, they live!” His skinny arm pointed to the bodies on the deck, as one moved.

No sounds came from the men behind Carloi. Every man there knew the tale of how Poseidon had banished some evil men to the sea, changed them into dolphins, and commanded them to be generous and helpful to all who sailed his oceans. Now all dolphins served the god. Every seaman alive feared Poseidon’s wrath. Of all the sea gods, Poseidon was the most dangerous.

“The dolphins saved them,” Carloi bravely continued, nodding to his shipmates and then to the bodies on the watery deck. “The dolphins want them to live.”

He bent his body lower in submission. There was no denying an admiral’s orders. Nervous eyes slanted sideways as each man on deck drew in his breath and waited, dreading what was to come.

The freshening breeze smelled strong with the tangy brine of the sea still mixed with earthy scents of the land. From the water came soft clicks, high whistles and squeaks, and an occasional grunt and moan—dolphin sounds. All was silent on deck, except for the dolphins talking, the creaks and groans of the ship’s timbers, and the soft splash of waves against the
Astarte’s
sides.

The Admiral looked down and met Adonibaal’s eyes. They both honored all the sea gods, and knew well the story of the dolphins. Dolphins ruled as the most sacred of all sea creatures. No seaman ever knowingly killed a dolphin; they were like pets, companions of the sea, following the ship, cavorting with each other. Some swore they heard the dolphins talk.

The men would not forget this. No one wanted to challenge the will of Poseidon, and seamen were most fearful of all. Handle it properly or the return trip home would be a nightmare plagued with fear and mistakes, even death.

There was a collective gasp. One of the rowers, a slow-minded, ignorant man of the land they had picked up in Gadir, lumbered over to the bodies. He lifted one aloft. Holding the body high above his head, he started toward the side of the
Astarte
. He had heard the Admiral’s order; although a little late, he was going to obey.

“No! Stop! He is mine.” One of the near dead was on hands and knees, coughing up seawater. A girl! All eyes turned toward her. She crawled to the captain and gripped his ankles.

“I beg you, don’t kill him. I will do anything to save him.”

“Great Baal, the barbarian speaks the Gaelic,” Adonibaal murmured.

He glanced from the pleading figure to the Admiral, who shook his head in disgust. “You deal with it. But catch this tide, now!

The captain quickly weighed everything: the seamen’s fears and the wet rat of a person clinging to his legs. They must not go against the will of the dolphins. He motioned to the rower to stop. The rower promptly dropped the body on the deck. Captain Adonibaal looked at the strange child before him who spoke the Gaelic trade talk.

“We could use an interpreter, Admiral,” he ventured, theirs had died in the storm. Adonibaal knew a little of the Gaelic trade tongue, but not enough to negotiate. “She can help us on the trip down the coast to Gadir, and we can sell her there or even at Carthage.”

“My intention was to bring home tin, not slaves, captain ...” The Admiral’s voice trailed off as Glas stood and staggered next to Sabrann.

“Great Baal! He is crippled. Look! He is not worth selling. The girl we might use, but what will the boy do except get in the way?” The Admiral spoke in a low voice in the special patois Greek they had made up as boys.

Sabrann listened. She understood some of his Phoenician-accented Greek. She had learned a little Greek from Cathbad and more from a tin trader. It was a rough kind of Greek mixed with something else she didn’t know, and she heard enough to know that Glas was in mortal danger. They had been saved from drowning, but now this man wanted to throw Glas overboard!

“He can’t die. He is all that is left of my family and precious to me.” Her voice shook as she spoke in the best Greek she knew. “I have the gift of tongues, of words, and I offer it to you in trade for his life. He is my family.”

Both men looked at her in surprise. She rushed on—they must hear her and understand.

“I can speak the trade talk, the Gaelic, the Armorican tongues, and some Greek, and all the tongues of my tribe and many others. I was the interpreter for Caradoc, Àraid of the Durots and King of all the Durotriges clans. He trusted me above all others.” Breathless now, her voice grew faint. She stopped and fixed her eyes firmly on each man.

“I beg of you, my lords, I can help you, but keep him with me.”

Sabrann felt dizzy and willed herself to not fall down. At their mercy, she and Glas could end up back in the water.

Now the barbarian was speaking Greek! The Admiral stared at Sabrann, in an affronted way. People rarely dictated terms to him. It was usually the other way around. The captain held his breath and looked again at the dripping child. She was only a girl, but had a presence that somehow commanded attention. The tattoo on her cheek accented her strange eyes and nose. Was she a slave? She did not act like one. Her slight body swayed, but she stood straight.

The Admiral shook his head again and then nodded to Captain Adonibaal. They had to have an interpreter, and the dolphins just brought them one. It was a message from the gods.

The captain turned to Sabrann. “Well, it seems you have made your first successful trade. You both stay. You will be the Admiral’s interpreter, and the boy stays out of the way. Agreed? Now, before anything else, we make ready to go to sea. You and I will talk later.”

Sabrann heard the first few words but nothing more. She fainted and collapsed on the deck. Captain Adonibaal threw his hands in the air and then motioned to one of the crew.

“Take them both below. I think a good place will be the galley, and send for the Egyptian. His services seem to be needed.”

As they turned to the job of clearing the deck, the captain noticed the body tangled in the net was alive and moving. He saw good strong arms and a sturdy back. Remembering his rowing crew desperately needed replacements for the ones lost in the storm, he quickly spoke to a seaman and then continued making the ship ready to sail.

The tide had turned and there was not a moment to lose.

CHAPTER 17

Slowly, Sabrann awakened. Had she died and gone to the Otherworld? The silent question hung in the air, not demanding an immediate answer. She drifted along for a moment; the warm air on her face lulled her with a sense of well being. Then a faint movement crossed her eyelids, as if she had closed her eyes under a tall tree on a windy day, when the sun cast moving shadows.

The question came again, more urgent:
Is this the Otherworld?

It must be. She was dead. Her eyes would not open. She tried. When they opened would she see Maigrid and Culain? Perhaps they were not here—a flash of panic rose—but they must be! Cathbad said when people died their souls went to the Otherworld; a world just like the one they had lived in, only better. There would be no pain. All her loved ones would be there.

She felt like a small child, puzzling over the things grown-ups said. She could not move—she tried. All she could feel was her eyelids.

So it was true then. Everything—her soul, her heart, her life—was in the head. Caradoc had kept heads in a great wall chest in his sleeping room. He had proudly shown them to her. Only brought out for important occasions, they were the heads of all his Durot ancestors. Preserved in cedar oil, each skull shone with a faint, oily sheen. The skulls seemed alive.

“Are they alive?” Barely three, she hid her face with her fingers.

“Yes, they are. These are important, Sabrann,” he said in a low, secretive voice that frightened her even more. “They tell all who see them that I do not rule alone. All the power of the person whose skull I hold, that power is still there. I have inherited it. It is my lineage and yours. Guard these skulls with your life! Whoever possesses them gains the power each person had in life.”

But Caradoc was dead.
Mo Aither!
Her heart gave a sharp pang. Alone in the world of the dead, she longed for everyone lost.

Then, a tear ran down her cheek and another moved slowly over the tattoo on her left cheek. She felt it! Her eyelid quivered. One salt-crusted eyelid moved and found a small crack of light. With trepidation she slowly opened that eye, then the other, and blinked.

“Not dead,” she murmured in surprise.