The Incredible Tide (13 page)

They needed, Conan learned, a dozen improvements to make their flimsy craft more seaworthy. He'd thought of it as strong, but now he discovered that without extra bracings the hull could easily break apart, and that even their slotted keel was a danger. It was thrust straight down, rigid in its slot, and if it struck anything submerged it could tear the bottom out of the boat.

“So we must find an island,” said Teacher. “Fast. And fix our vessel and get under way again before they discover us. For they'll come searching. My guess is that they'll call the survey ship back right away.”

“What about their other boat? Not the trawler—”

“You mean the trade ship—the one Dyce has at High Harbor? They'll leave it there, of course. Can't you see?”

Conan scowled into the night. “As a sort of ace in the hole, you mean?”

“Exactly. That's why I'm so concerned. If we get away, if we escape them entirely and reach High Harbor, their one chance of getting me will be through Dyce. But Dyce must first gain control of the place. He can't do it alone. He has only a few men, and he doesn't dare start anything new.”

“New? You mean he's been pulling some tricks?”

“Yes, but that was before he could have learned anything about our escape. I'm sure he's been told by now. So his next move is to get Orlo's help, and try to organize all those discontented young people who are growing up half wild. Now do you understand?”

Conan whistled. “What a mess! How long will it take us to sail to High Harbor?”

The old man sighed. “There's no answer to that question, son. If we were entirely seaworthy at this moment, and had a fair wind all the way, it would take us three weeks. But the wind is never fair all the time, and we're not seaworthy. So pray that we sight an island in the morning.…”

All through the next day Conan watched hopefully for a smudge of darker gray in the constant haze ahead that would indicate land. Land was out here somewhere, dozens of little spots of it. He had lived on one tiny spot for a while, and Teacher had lived on another, and after his capture he had glimpsed more in the distance from the deck of the patrol vessel. Those bits of land, so far as he had been able to learn, were scattered for hundreds of miles around the sea's upper perimeter.

Why couldn't they find one now?

But twilight came before they had sighted anything, even a wandering seabird. Soon afterward the battery, which had driven the motor so much longer than Conan would have dreamed, died abruptly. He heaved it over the side and connected one of the two remaining batteries.

“Better save the power,” Teacher advised. “We may need it later. We should be somewhere close to the island chain now, if not beyond it.”

To remain within sight of the chain, they changed course to a more westerly direction and sailed close-hauled through the night. With the first light of morning Conan began looking hopefully again for a gray smudge in the haze.

This was their third day at sea. With the ever-thickening haze, the darkening water, and the occasional long, drifting fingers of mist, Conan was aware of the changing latitude. It was beginning to have a familiar feel. And familiar, too, was that gradually deepening tone spreading through the northwest sky. He had seen it many times in the past five years, and it always brought bad weather.

All through the morning he managed to hold back his uneasiness with the belief that islands were near and that they would surely sight one soon. But that endless day wore on to another evening, and still they had sighted nothing. By now the wind had died to a whisper. They were losing headway, and their craft was beginning to pitch uncomfortably in a rising swell.

Then Conan saw Teacher raise his white head and sit up stiffly in an attitude of listening.

“What is it?” he asked. But before Teacher could answer, he saw the distant smudge far off their starboard bow. For an instant, hope rose with the thought that he had sighted an island. With a shock he realized the smudge had movement.

“It's the survey ship,” said the old man, whose hearing Conan had long ago accepted as phenomenal. “I know the sound of her.” He started the motor, and added quickly, “We'll have to come about and run for it. It's our only chance.”

On the new tack, motor-driven, they raced down the long sea slopes with hardly enough wind to belly the sail. Conan glanced back at the survey ship. There was a moment when he saw it with frightening clearness against the lowering sky behind it, and there was no question but that it had sighted them. Already it was changing course and swinging toward them. Then he lost it in the swift dark of obliterating storm that was spreading across the world.

Suddenly he heard the wind. He and Teacher leaped for the sail at the same time, trying frantically to lower it and gather it in before it was torn away from them. They managed it, barely, and lashed it down and secured the yard while the vessel yawed and plunged madly.

The wind's voice became a scream. A breaking sea smashed against them, and water poured over the coaming. A violent gust seemed to lift them. Before it hurled them down, Conan heard a sharp sound he could not identify. But when he grabbed for the support of the yard, which had been secured to the afterdeck, he could not find it. Either wind or sea had torn it away, and taken the sail with it.

Faintly above the wind he heard Teacher shout hoarsely, “Conan, we can't stay afloat in this! Get one of the bags—lash it to you!”

In his torment over the failure of all their hopes, he did not immediately understand what Teacher was saying. But as he vainly fought to keep the vessel headed downwind, it came to him that Teacher meant the plastic bags in which they'd stowed their blankets and clothing.

He began groping for one. Astern, a searchlight swept the blackness, passed over them, and returned to pin them for a moment in its glare. The ship was so close that it seemed to Conan it was bound to run them down. But it slid past in the darkness like a phantom, and he did not see the searchlight again.

His free hand touched one of the bags. He tried to grip it while he fought the tiller with his other hand. He had it, then suddenly he didn't, for at that instant they struck. They struck something with such force that he could feel the vessel break apart where it had been joined, and he was catapulted out of the stern sheets and into the welter of flying spume and crashing seas.

He tried to cry out to Teacher, but water closed over him. It tugged him down and pounded him against the bottom, and for an eternity he became only a battered plaything of the surf.

10

ISLET

T
HE RECEDING TIDE LEFT CONAN STRANDED ON A PEBBLY
bit of sand studded with boulders. He could make them out dimly in the first vague light, but for a little while he could not associate them with anything. They were just forms without meaning, yet somehow they seemed to have a kinship to the roaring in his head, and to the distant roaring of the storm that had nearly spent itself.

Then, as the light sharpened, he saw a torn food package partially buried in the sand. Beyond it was a plastic bottle like those he had used for carrying water. Slowly recognition came. Memory followed, swift and terrible.

He staggered to his feet with a hoarse cry.

“Teacher!” he called. “
Teacher!
”

There was no answer. He took a few ragged steps forward and stopped, for there was nowhere to go. Before him was a great jagged pinnacle of rock. At its base were other rocks, and all around it the sea. The dark sea, with its wind-torn strands of mist and the eternal haze that hid all horizons.

“
Teacher!
” he screamed.

Still there was no answer. He sobbed and ran wildly around the great rock. Back in seconds where he had started, he began beating his clenched hands upon the cold granite.

“Why have you done this to us?” he cried, as if the voice that had saved him once had finally tricked him and played him false. “Why? Why? What's the reason for it?”

His cry was an anguished outpouring that came from the complete hopelessness he felt, for it seemed now that everything was lost. Not only Teacher, but all the world that might have been because of Teacher, including Lanna.

The last thing he expected at that moment was for the voice to reply. But suddenly it spoke, quietly and clearly.

“Conan,” said the voice. “There is reason and meaning in everything. Look around you.”

It shocked him into a kind of wakefulness he had never quite attained before. He forgot the painful battering the sea had given him. Trembling, he jerked about, searching.

He saw it almost immediately—first, the spot of red, and in front of it at the edge of the tide the rock that wasn't a rock though it looked like one. There were countless rocks scattered all through the sea and up to the pinnacle on every side, and this was just another. Except that it was really a plastic bag. And the spot of red that had caught his eye was the cross on Teacher's forehead.

In seconds he had carried Teacher up to the base of the pinnacle, stripped off his sodden clothing, and wrapped him in a blanket from the bag. All the water seemed to have drained from the old man's lungs, and miraculously he was still breathing. But his breath was faint and his limp hands were icy.

Then Conan stiffened at the sight of the tidal mark on the rock. Already the tide was creeping in, and when it was full this tiny bit of land would be covered with more than six feet of water. Only the jagged arms of the reaching pinnacle would be above it.

It was a chilling discovery. But for the fact that he had heard the voice again, he would have been overcome with the absolute hopelessness of their position. But he thought, There must be something I can do. There
must
be.…

He looked at the bag and at Teacher, and it occurred to him that if the bag was emptied it would almost hold Teacher's long body. Surely it was large enough to fasten under his armpits. It would keep him dry and warm, if some way could be found to hold his head and shoulders above the water.

Conan did not even allow himself to reflect upon how many flood tides they would be able to endure in this attempt to survive. There was only the knowledge that the attempt had to be made. It was followed by the realization that, in order to stay alive, they would need everything he could find that had been washed here from the boat. This last thought sent him rushing about, snatching up a dozen small items and tossing them over near Teacher before the rising tide could sweep them away.

There were several bottles of precious water, a few packages of food, a now useless can of cement, and the remainder of the coil of line that had been used to rig their boat. The discovery of the line solved a problem that had been worrying him.

He was splashing back with it, thinking how he could loop it around the rock to hold Teacher above the high-tide mark, when the seabirds found him. Three gulls, winging toward the pinnacle, swooped low and suddenly began circling him, screaming excitedly.

He dropped the line and held out his hands to them in incredulous wonder. It couldn't be, but it was.

“Mara … Jeddi … Rilla,” he whispered, recognizing each and calling it by name. “What are you doing here? How did you ever—?”

He stared up at the pinnacle. Could this be one of the tiny islets that had flanked his home? Turning, he strained to see through the haze. Presently he found what he sought—not where he had imagined it would be, but almost in the opposite direction. He could hardly make it out, and it took him long seconds to get his directions straight and assure himself of the truth.

He was standing on the western islet where, two years ago, he had come on a long and dangerous swim in a search for wood. Only, the place had looked entirely different then. He had approached it from the other side, and there had been high ground where he was standing now. But the storms of two years had battered it all away, leaving the rocks.

His first quick surge of relief and delight at his discovery was instantly tempered when he glanced over at Teacher. How could he possibly get Teacher across that threatening sweep of water to the safety of the main islet? Towing him, even buoyed by some of the empty water containers, was out of the question. The distance was too great, the currents too strong.

Then it came to him in a rush how the thing could be managed. The answer lay over on the main islet.

He was suddenly relieved to see that Teacher's good eye was open, watching him curiously. “Conan,” the old man whispered, “Conan, what are you up to?”

Conan caught up the coil of line he had dropped and hastened toward him. “I'm planning how to get us to High Harbor,” he announced.

It took only a few minutes to lash together the objects he had salvaged and secure them against the tide. More time was required to pile a six-foot pyramid of rocks against the base of the pinnacle and fasten Teacher above it to one of the jagged arms. When he scrambled down, the tide was already up to his knees.

“You've got to hang on till I get back,” he said to Teacher. “If the wind's against me, I won't be able to make it until tomorrow. Just hang on.”

In spite of his weakness and the hazardous hours ahead, the old man managed to chuckle. “Oh, I'll be here,” he replied. “The way you've got me bagged and tied … Just take it easy, son—don't worry about me.”

Conan studied the sea, then began swimming slowly but steadily, quartering into the tidal current to make allowance for his drift. Trailing behind him on a length of line fastened to his waist was a nearly empty water bottle which he could cling to in an emergency. It was insurance he hadn't had on his first trip. He had nearly drowned then, and it had taken him two days to make it to the pinnacle and back. If the wind hadn't turned against him and kicked up a sea, he might have managed it in half the time.

At the moment, everything seemed to be in his favor. Because it was in his favor, he was tempted to swim faster for a while. Then prudently he slowed again, knowing it would be better to save his strength for a last-minute battle if conditions changed. They could change in a flash, and he knew he wasn't fooling Teacher a bit by mentioning that he might not return until tomorrow. The weather could separate them for a good many tomorrows. But at least Teacher had a bottle of water hanging near him, as well as a slightly damp package of the New Order's sandwiches. They had agreed that a little seawater might help the flavor of the things.