Blue Sea Burning (32 page)

His voice trailed off for a moment. Then he perked up. “Thank heavens for small favors, eh? Get back to rowing.”

I didn't move.

“Son, this boat's not going to row itself.”

I stared at my feet. And the chains that bound them together.

I heard Pembroke sigh. Then there was a creak and a rustle of burlap. He was digging in his sack for something.

“I'll tell you what,” he said. “You row . . . and I won't have to use this.”

I looked up. The pistol was still in his injured left hand.

His right hand held a leather whip.

“And if you're a very, very good boy, I'll tell you some stories along the way.”

He must have had a lot of practice with a whip. In the end, he only had to crack it once to convince me to start rowing again.

I ROWED THROUGH THE DAY,
long past the point of exhaustion. Finally, he let me rest. He had a little jug of foul-smelling water in his sack, and he gave me some of that, along with two strips of rotten meat.

“You've got her face, you know. You're lucky in that. Don't have that horse nose your brother and sister got from your father. I never would've guessed she'd marry such a dog. Must've fallen on hard times after we split up . . .”

He sighed. “All right. Fun's over. Back to work.”

IT WAS SUNSET,
and the volcano's plume was black and sinister against the red sky. There were blisters on my hands, and my mouth was so parched I couldn't swallow or talk.

I wished
he
couldn't talk. The things he was saying made me sick.

“We had some fun, I'll say that. Your mother certainly knew how to have a good time. And she was so — devoted to me. Wanted nothing more than to cook my meals, and keep my house, and have my babies . . .

“But it had to end. You know why? Because they were small. Small people. Her and her brother both. Small dreams. Small minds. Small morals. Even Billy, once he'd made a half-decent pirate of himself, couldn't think any bigger than a dirty little corner of a dirty little sea. All the while patting himself on the back for his — Code of honor.

“Do you know what honor is? It's the consolation prize a man awards himself when he hasn't got the guts to do the job.”

IT WAS NIGHT,
so dark we could barely see each other's faces. There were tiny threads of orange spitting up from the mouth of the volcano to guide my way.

I was breaking down. With every pull of the oars, my whole body shook.

But whenever I tried to rest, he'd hear the blades stop pushing through the water, and the whip would crack.

He'd finally stopped talking about my mother. But he hadn't stopped talking.

“It's money . . . It's always money. Never let them tell you different. Money is power. Money is love. Money is men. Money makes the world go round . . . and round . . . and round . . .”

IT WAS SNOWING.

I'd never seen snow. I'd only read about it. But little dry flakes of it were everywhere now. Sticking to my hands. Sticking to my face.

His voice came through the dark, ragged and weak. “I'm going to win. Do you know why? Because nobody else has the sack to stick their hand in a volcano and pull out a fortune.”

THE SKY WAS PURPLE.
The water was still. We were close.

I knew now it wasn't snow. It was ashes. Coughed up out of the volcano and sprinkling down over everything.

He hadn't moved or spoken in a while. His eyes were closed. A thin layer of ash crowned his head, and bits of it stuck to his eyelashes. The pistol was tilted to one side, resting against the sling that held his injured arm.

I lunged at him.

But I'd forgotten about the chains. They caught me short, and I fell wrong. He startled awake.

We struggled. The boat rocked wildly, nearly pitching us into the sea.

But in the end, we were back where we started.

Me at the oars.

Him with the gun.

Ashes falling from the sky.

THE SUN MUST
have been up,
but I couldn't see it anywhere. The sky was dark and raining ash. The volcano loomed ahead, pouring its anger into the heavens.

Still I rowed. I don't know how. I was numb. Floating through a nightmare world.

There was a ship. Pulling toward us. Sails slack. Oars in the water.

I heard voices. Ghosts in the distance.

“Friends of yours?”

I peered through the haze of ash. The ship was off our port side. There were figures moving on the deck. Too far away to make out faces. Too far to hear the words their voices made.

It was too late for words.

HE HAD TO PULL
me out of the boat onto the dock, yelling in anger and pain all the while. The pain must have been from his arm. He'd taken off the sling, and he held himself funny as he stood over me. Like a wounded bird protecting its wing.

There was ash everywhere. It choked my throat and burned my eyes.

I shut my eyes. He was yelling at me, but I was beyond caring.

WATER WAS POURING
down my throat. I coughed it up, sputtering.

“Here. Drink.”

I was in a chair. At a table. In a dark, empty tavern. There was a bucket and a cup in front of me, along with some stale biscuits and half a wheel of cheese. Pembroke was cutting the mold off the cheese.

“Eat up. Hurry.”

He left me alone, taking the knife with him. I tried to get up, only to feel the chains bang painfully against my feet.

I slumped back into the chair, and drank and ate.