The tears of dark water, p.1
The Tears of Dark Water, page 1
ACCLAIM FOR CORBAN ADDISON
“Beautifully written, The Tears of Dark Water spins an intricate tale, involving hostage taking on the high seas. This novel has love, romance, guilt, and suspense all in one story. Corban Addison is a truly gifted storyteller, and The Tears of Dark Water will stay with you long after you’ve read the last page. The Tears of Dark Water is pure gold!”
—LIS WIEHL, FOX NEWS LEGAL ANALYST AND New York Times BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“This is great storytelling. A riveting story of modern day piracy, a clash of cultures [and] people’s lives torn apart.”
—BOOKSELLERS NEW ZEALAND
“Read [The Tears of Dark Water] for entertainment, and you will find yourself pondering the machinations of the world’s largest democracy, and who really wields the power.”
—Cape Times, SOUTH AFRICA
A WALK ACROSS THE SUN
“Since my first novel was released over 20 years ago, I have been presented with many opportunities to endorse the works of other authors hoping to find a publisher. I have always declined, until now. Corban Addison has written a novel that is beautiful in its story and also important in its message. A Walk Across the Sun deserves a wide audience. And I strongly suspect that Mr. Addison will be heard from again and again.”
—JOHN GRISHAM
“In his debut novel, lawyer Addison uncovers the labyrinthine underside of human trafficking in this dazzling transcontinental story about the power of conviction, the bonds of family, and the tenacity of love . . . The novel successfully explicates the magnitude of the human trafficking business, the complexities of international legalities, and the impact of the Internet’s role in this horrifying underworld.”
—Publishers Weekly ON A Walk Across the Sun
“A compelling read. Corban Addison deals with challenging issues but in a way that keeps readers gripped to every page—a remarkable literary feat.”
—DR. SAMANTHA NUTT, AUTHOR OF Damned Nations, ON A Walk Across the Sun
“This chilling, suspenseful, and powerful debut weaves fictional characters into the reality of contemporary slavery . . . The story is compelling, but the message is greater and will leave an impact on every person who picks up the book. Readers will mourn the injustices depicted and celebrate the triumphs long after the last page is turned.”
—Library Journal ON A Walk Across the Sun
“An insightful take on the all-too-real problems of international human trafficking.”
—Booklist ON A Walk Across the Sun
“A pulse-revving novel with a serious message.”
—O magazine ON A Walk Across the Sun (16 BOOKS TO WATCH FOR IN JANUARY 2012)
THE GARDEN OF BURNING SAND
“A compelling novel with a conscience and a heart, gripping in its drama and unique in its insights into a hidden and dangerous world. Resonant with authenticity, The Garden of Burning Sand rewards the reader on every level.”
—RICHARD NORTH PATTERSON, New York Times BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“Corban Addison is a rare find in the world of thriller writers. Timely, topical, and impeccably researched, his novels embrace the full sweep of the human experience. Depravity. Destruction. Heroism. Love. If you like stories of good people struggling to do right in the world’s forgotten places, there is no one better suited to take you on the ride of your life.”
—JOHN HART, New York Times BESTSELLING AUTHOR, ON The Garden of Burning Sand
“Addison’s second novel is both an affecting tale of a tragically abused girl and a convincing plea for humanitarian support in Africa.”
—Kirkus Reviews ON The Garden of Burning Sand
“A hauntingly good read. The Garden of Burning Sand is a powerful and moving novel . . . This one’s an absolute must-read.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 1/2 STARS, TOP PICK !
“In dealing bluntly with crucial issues such as rape, AIDS, superstition, and poverty, [Addison] effectively touches the consciousness of his readers.”
—Booklist ON The Garden of Burning Sand (STEPHANIE ZVIRIN)
© 2015 by Regulus Books, LLC.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
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Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-7180-4210-3 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Addison, Corban, 1979-
The tears of dark water / Corban Addison.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-0-7180-4220-2 (hardcover)
1. Dysfunctional families--Fiction. 2. Hostages--Fiction. 3. Pirates--Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations--Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.D465T43 2015
813'.6--dc23
2015015171
15 16 17 18 19 20 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
For the jewel of the Indian Ocean, may you rise again.
And for all those who bear your scars as their own.
CONTENTS
I. THE WAY OF THE GUN
DANIEL
PAUL
ISMAIL
VANESSA
DANIEL
ISMAIL
DANIEL
II. PROOF OF LIFE
VANESSA
PAUL
ISMAIL
VANESSA
PAUL
DANIEL
PAUL
VANESSA
PAUL
ISMAIL
III. FRACTURE POINTS
VANESSA
PAUL
DANIEL
VANESSA
ISMAIL
PAUL
VANESSA
DANIEL
PAUL
ISMAIL
VANESSA
PAUL
IV. RICOCHETS
PAUL
VANESSA
ISMAIL
YASMIN
MEGAN
ISMAIL
MEGAN
VANESSA
YASMIN
PAUL
VANESSA
V. THE COST OF FREEDOM
MEGAN
YASMIN
MEGAN
ISMAIL
VANESSA
YASMIN
MEGAN
YASMIN
ISMAIL
YASMIN
VI. THE RENAISSANCE
PAUL
VANESSA
ISMAIL
MEGAN
PAUL
MEGAN
VANESSA
ISMAIL
YASMIN
MEGAN
ISMAIL
PAUL
VANESSA
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I am in the sea and a sea is within me.
—AHMAD -E JAMI
The devil flows in mankind as blood flows.
—MUHAMMAD
Whatever things may appear, the meaning is always deeper.
—GAARRIYE
I
THE WAY OF THE GUN
In those days there was no king. Everyone
did what was right in his own eyes.
—THE BOOK OF JUDGES
DANIEL
MAHÉ ISLAND, SEYCHELLES
November 7, 2011
Daniel Parker woke with a start, a line of perspiration on his brow. He looked around the darkened cabin of the sailboat, searching for her face, but she was gone. He shook his head, as if the sudden motion could shake off the anguish of the dream, but the chains of the past bound him to her, as did the vague whisper of a prayer that she was wrong. Her words were stuck in his mind, like a prophecy playing in an endless loop, the truth of half a life spoken as if from the beginning.
It won’t last.
The declaration had escaped her lips without effort, but not uncharitably. She had smiled at him when she spoke, her green eyes dancing above the dimples in her cheeks, her candlelight dress and red-brown Bissolotti violin luminous in the concert hall.
Nothing does. Why would you expect us to be different?
<
He placed his feet on the polished mahogany floorboards and took a slow breath, relishing the smoothness of the wood on his skin. He had loved the feeling of going barefoot on deck since he was a boy handling lines and trimming sails on his father’s Valiant 40. But he had paid a price for it. The soles of his feet were a patchwork of scars.
He opened the door to the saloon and slipped stealthily into the living quarters. Dim light from the harbor filtered in through the curtains covering the windows, but the saloon and galley were still shrouded in darkness. He stepped around the weak spots in the floor and took care not to wake his son, Quentin, who was sleeping on the settee berth across from the dining table.
He flipped on the accent lights in the galley. The LEDs glowed softly under the cabinet rails, illuminating the gas stove and granite countertops. He heated a pot of water and filled his French press, waiting precisely four minutes before pouring the steaming coffee into his Naval Academy mug. His father had given him the mug at the rechristening ceremony of the Renaissance, along with a hearty laugh and a slap on the back. It was as much a gag as a gift, for Daniel had gone to Boston College instead.
He opened the main hatch and inhaled the moist island air. Across the water sat the city of Victoria, tucked like a jeweled blanket between mountains of granite and the hem of the sea. He rummaged in the locker by the stairs and retrieved his writing chest—a genuine gift from his father, an antique from Zanzibar, in honor of their voyage. He collected the mug and went topside.
On an ordinary morning the sight of sailboats at anchor crowned by winking stars would have brought a smile to Daniel’s face. But this morning he scarcely noticed them, troubled as he was by the portents of the dream. He sat down in the cockpit and put the mug on the bench beside him, opening the carved wooden chest and laying out paper and pen on the life raft container, which he used as a writing surface. He lit a battery-powered lantern and took a sip of coffee, struggling to suppress the dread her words had inspired. They were wrong. They had to be. The smile, the dress, the violin, the concert hall—all were exactly as he remembered. But her words had carried a different meaning. They had been ironic, not tragic; a welcome, not a farewell.
His mind raced on the current of memory. New York City. April 1993. Daffodils blooming in Central Park, buds on the dogwoods and azaleas, a blaze of sunlight chasing away the early-spring chill. He had seen the handbills posted all over Columbia University—the Juilliard Orchestra performing at Carnegie Hall. He wouldn’t have given the concert a passing thought, if not for the photograph of the soloist. Her name was Vanessa Stone, and she was a student at Columbia, not Juilliard—a double major in biology and music. She was pretty but not remarkably so in New York City’s hall of mirrors. It was her expression that made him pause—then halt—his mad rush to a law school seminar to which he was already late. He took down one of the flyers and studied her more carefully. She held her violin tenderly, her bow just touching the strings, and looked at the camera almost curiously. The question in her eyes was as frank as it was astonishing: Why are you staring at me?
Two days later, Daniel walked into the grand lobby of Carnegie Hall clutching the handbill and the face he couldn’t forget. His seat was on the parquet level of the Stern Auditorium and close to the stage. He settled into his chair and listened to the musicians tune their instruments, annoyed at the butterflies crowding his stomach. At last, she appeared with the conductor at her side. She was dressed in a diaphanous gown that complemented her auburn hair. She nodded to the audience and then placed her violin beneath her chin, waiting for her cue.
His eyes never left hers from the beginning of the performance to the end. The music was Beethoven, his first and only violin concerto, and she played it immaculately, even the most virtuosic passages in the Kreisler cadenza. At the close of the third movement, the audience gave her a rousing ovation. She received it with an almost perfunctory bow and exited the stage with a swiftness that confirmed Daniel’s suspicion. She had come to be heard, not to be seen. The magic was in the violin.
The receiving line outside the auditorium was long, and Daniel took his place at the end. While he waited, he tried on phrases like costumes until he felt more confused than confident. When the moment came and she offered her hand, thanking him for coming, he spoke purely by instinct.
“You play like your name,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, taking back her hand.
“Vanessa in the old Greek. It means ‘butterfly.’” Something changed in her eyes, but she didn’t reply, so he forged ahead. “It’s like you’re somewhere else—in the air, dancing with the sun.”
She stared at him for long seconds before her lips spread into a smile. “It doesn’t last,” she said, surprising him with her candor. “It fades like everything else.”
“But it’s why you play, isn’t it? Even when it makes you uncomfortable.”
He saw it then: the inquisitive look she wore in the flyer in his pocket. She tilted her head and her eyes glittered in the light. “Do I know you?”
He shook his head. “I’m Daniel.”
“Are you a student?” she asked, trying to place him anyway.
“Columbia Law,” he affirmed.
“Law. I would have guessed poetry.” Suddenly, she caught the eye of the conductor as he bid farewell to his last guest. “I’m sorry. I have to go. It’s nice to meet you.”
She said it almost regretfully, and he took courage. “When will you play again?”
He saw it a second time, her instinctive curiosity. “I’m graduating in May.”
He nodded. “So am I.”
She glanced at the conductor again. “I really have to go. There’s an after party.”
“Right,” he replied, feeling the moment slipping away.
Then she said the words that changed his life. “I practice at Schapiro Hall. Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.”
Daniel picked up his pen in the waning dark and began to write her a letter. “Dearest V: Is love like the body? Does it begin to die the day it is born? Is it like the breath of transcendence you feel when the Bissolotti is in your hands—evanescent, a chasing after the wind?” The words flowed onto the page like spilled ink as the sky brightened and the dawn came. The first light caught him by surprise and pierced his eyes when he looked toward the east. He took another sip of his now lukewarm coffee and watched the sun rise above the distant masts of a large ship. The advent of day transformed him, lifting his spirits. He looked down at the unfinished sentence before him and thought, She doesn’t need this.
He folded up the pages he had written and placed them in the chest. He took out fresh paper and began again, telling his wife about Quentin, about climbing boulders with him on the island of La Digue, about the transformation he had seen since they set sail so many months ago. He signed his name and wrote out the address on an envelope. It would take three weeks to reach her. By then he and Quentin would be in South Africa—her last chance to join them before the long passage to Brazil.
“Morning, Dad,” Quentin said, appearing in the companionway dressed in board shorts and a T-shirt, his wavy brown hair past his shoulders now. He had been growing it long since he met Ariadne in the South Pacific. The Australian girl had transformed everything about him—well, the girl and the sea. Every day, he seemed surer of himself, less afraid. He was even calling himself Quentin again, after years of going by “Quent.” The eighteen-year-old boy was slowly becoming a man.
“I checked the Passage Weather report,” Quentin said, taking a seat in the cockpit. “Steady winds out of the north at eight to ten knots, seas less than a meter, and no tropical activity in the forecast. We should make decent time with the gennaker up.”
