The eternal struggle, p.12
The Eternal Struggle, page 12
part #2 of Black Phantom Chronicles Series
Sitting in the silence of the room, Maco watched as Arnacin passed from deep to light sleep. The difference was marked by a gradual increase in restless movement.
Watching tears trickling past the confines of dark lashes, Maco wondered how long it would take before his own breathing would alert Xavior’s captive. Part of the shipwright hoped it would take quite some time, for he saw in that moment, as the dark, bitter shields were lowered, some of what lay beneath the hatred and distrust.
As those black lashes flickered a second later, however, Maco quickly feigned sleep.
If not for the mattress’s rustle as Arnacin slid off it, the shipwright would not have known the other man had moved. That sound cued his pretend yawn, and he lifted his eyelids in time to see Arnacin recoil warily.
“Do you wish to tell me why you won’t simply escape? Your ship is seaworthy once again.” Maco asked.
“They would shoot me the minute I cut the rope,” Arnacin whispered, closing his cloak about himself. “You yourself know Mr. Butter guards both ships almost ceaselessly.”
“He has never struck me as being so bloodthirsty.”
Arnacin only made to slip out the door. Hastily, Maco volunteered, “Arnacin, I’m willing to be your shield. They’ll only have one shot and, if they hit me, you’re free.”
Xavior’s captive stilled, yet the glance he threw the shipwright was like flint, a refusal to believe the offer, at least without more of a reason.
“I’ve lived long enough, here in particular,” Maco explained. “But if you wish to know the honest answer, once upon a time, you weren’t who you are now. I know,” he quickly added before Arnacin could interrupt, “that could be said for everyone on this rock, but they are far beyond recovering their former selves. Anything can happen, of course. But your past self lies just beyond reach. I have spent years trying to bring someone a little good. If I could help you avoid the shark jaws looming before you, my wish would be fulfilled.”
Bitterness blazed in Arnacin’s gaze, yet through it, the tiniest amount of hope flickered. A long moment passed. “It’s a pity I don’t believe a word of it,” he eventually said. As he made to leave, however, Maco boldly grabbed his arm.
“What don’t you believe?”
“Everything!” Arnacin struggled to pull his right arm away. “You yourself admitted you’re tired of staying here and that there are not enough captives to escape. Only a fool wouldn’t believe you were going to reverse that ‘shield’ at the last minute and use your knowledge of ships to escape yourself.”
“Your distrust blinds you, Arnacin,” Maco whispered.
With a lift of the chin, Arnacin stated, “I’ve seen enough manipulators to know better. So, don’t lie to me.”
His shoulders sagging, the shipwright let him go.
To Maco’s surprise, Arnacin was back in his shop the next day, resuming work on the shipwright’s maps, diagrams and ship plans. Shaking his head, Maco tossed the remainder of the seal hide he had been applying to the bottom of a gig. “You didn’t have to come back. I’m sure any amount of trust you possessed is gone.” He heard the note of bitterness in his own voice and looked away from the indigo gaze that flicked upward.
“How much more work will it take to pay for your labor and supplies?”
In surprise, Maco met his companion’s gaze. “Why should it matter? You’ve paid me ten times my usual recompense.”
Arnacin simply returned to his work.
Involuntarily, Maco smiled. “Oh, Arnacin.” He shook his head. “You would honor yourself straight into the hangman’s noose.”
“I already have.” The soft, serious whisper carried across the backroom, fixing the shipwright in place with the depth of defeat behind it.
A day later, Maco looked up as someone stopped in the doorway. It took a second for him to recognize the hazy figure rimmed in pink from the sun setting behind him. “Channing! What brings you here today?”
Coming around the counter, the healer settled himself onto the shipwright’s workbench with a huff. “I never leave an unfinished job. Are there any signs of injury now that he’s up?”
Smiling, Maco put down his work. “You can’t fool me, friend. You’re interested.” When Channing only folded his arms, the shipwright shrugged. “Islander’s working. He seems to be fine.”
In response, the healer only pursed his lips. But in the silence, Maco inched closer, admitting in a whisper he hoped would not carry, “I’m concerned, Channing. With how he is, he’s never going to accept help. He’ll die before he does, or Xavior will kill him. He himself insists it will be so.”
“Maco, why do you think I have no belief anymore in all that meaning and purpose stuff? You can work yourself into the grave, and everyone does exactly what they please with no desire to change.”
“But you can’t deny that Arnacin is different.”
With a snort, Channing rose. “That doesn’t mean you can do anything to help him. He’s still content to damn himself. Let him, since he’s so determined.”
Grimacing, Maco picked up his tools. “Only a part of him is determined. I want to find the other part before it’s too late.”
“I think you’re a fool to try and I can’t help you, but if you think he’s physically well, I’ll come back tomorrow. Something might have changed by then.”
Shaking his head, Maco smiled grimly. “I know better, Channing. You’re not really the least bit afraid of missed injuries.”
Without making any answer, the healer left.
Ships sailed off the island as spring approached. However, the Zedelious did not. Meanwhile, Arnacin grew ever more restless. With growing frequency, he would leave Maco’s shop after the mornings to wander through the forest, especially now, with Channing’s visits becoming ever more common. Yet, even long walks were no relief from the prison of that island.
While shuffling despondently to the woods one evening, Arnacin paused after hearing raised voices and pounding feet headed up the street toward him. As the islander stepped out of the road, a pirate stumbled headlong past him, purposely knocking over anything that could fall into the street as he flew by.
The shouts grew louder. “Cayd! Rat!” Pursuers came hard behind with blades drawn and eyes glinting. Beholding those faces—faces that matched those of the pirates by the geysers months before—Arnacin’s heart burned with hatred. Yet for a moment, he did not move as he watched the crowd disappear into the woods ahead.
He cared little what they did to each other. Every single one of the pirates deserved the backstabbing they received. And yet…
Relenting, Arnacin yanked his hood up and disappeared into the woods on the trail of the hunters.
Following the shouts and snapping underbrush, Arnacin shadowed the pirates to the geysers’ edge. There, the pursued pirate, Cayd, jerked to a halt and turned. Now that he was unable to run any farther, the horror and fear on his face quickly gave way to defiance as he confronted his leering opponents and drew his blade.
Slowly, the victim’s attackers closed in, but Arnacin did not give them the chance to strike. Like a wolf, silent in the hunt, he charged the nearest pirate.
Only a brief gurgling scream as the Tarmlin blade sank through that pirate’s abdomen alerted his compatriots. “Islander! Islander!” The hate-filled cry rose into the air. Many pirates whirled to face their new enemy, only to find they were in the middle of a two-front attack.
In the confusion that followed, Cayd broke through, dashing into the woods. After finishing off his current assailant, Arnacin followed.
He heard the pirates give chase with angry shouts and their crashing through the underbrush. Yet he lost them in the woods. Pausing only long enough to mark the position of the fleeing victim by the softer sounds of cracking branches and rustling leaves, the islander took off in the same direction.
Catching up with Cayd, Arnacin jerked him behind a thicker tree. “Follow every move carefully and as softly as possible,” he hissed.
Meekly, the pirate nodded, and the islander set off on a zigzag flight.
Until darkness overshadowed them, they led their pursuers in circles about the woods. Then, as Arnacin heard Cayd falling behind in the dark, he slowed the harsh, twisting pace.
“They’re not that far,” he whispered, stepping aside to avoid collision with the night-blinded pirate. Torchlight flickered forty paces away. If they were quiet, the lights might pass by, but counting on that was insanity. “Do you have a hood?”
“On board me ship. Cap’n won’ be pleased, ’ough.”
“I’ll find you something. Lie down close to a tree and stay still.” So ordering, Arnacin slipped off.
Even cloaks would not be able to hide them should anyone see beneath their hoods, and the palpable nervousness of Cayd shifting beside Arnacin under the lantern of the healer’s door made it more likely someone would find them. “Do not even look,” Arnacin breathed. “Not back, not to the side. Pretend someone in your crew needs a doctor—that is all.”
“And if theer righ’ be’ind us?” The pirate quivered.
“Stop trembling and you should hear them.” Yet Arnacin knew they were being watched. He sensed it.
Just as Brother Channing opened the door and Arnacin shoved Cayd nearly into the healer, burning pain shot up the islander’s left arm. His haste carried him forward, and he slammed the door on the charging pirates. Only then did he glance down to see a knife hilt protruding from his upper left arm.
Someone struck the door from the other side. “’ealer!” An angry voice demanded. “Send them two out or we’ll come in!”
Brother Channing simply ignored the demand, quickly closing the space between himself and the islander. Arnacin ducked away. “No! I can take care of it.”
“Is it through the bone?”
The islander shook his head. Yet as he made to grab the hilt, the healer snapped, “Don’t yank it out!”
Sending Brother Channing a baleful glance, the islander proceeded to inch the knife out. All the same, the slowness made it even more agonizing. Arnacin could barely control his sharp hisses every time the blade moved slightly.
“Theey’ll come in!” Cayd’s outburst captured the healer’s attention, as if in sudden recognition of his existence and of the continued demands from outside.
Rummaging in his supplies, the healer coolly stated, “They know they can’t harm anyone under this roof.”
“Oh, yes,” Arnacin hissed through his torment. “It’s cursed. What terrible endings befall them here?”
As the room swayed, thick wool pressed beneath the blade. The islander jerked away, yet Channing seized his injured arm with the warning, “Don’t move.” In a softer tone, he commented, “Islander, why would you put yourself to such trouble for him?”
“For him?” Arnacin scoffed despite gritted teeth. “I’m just saving myself. Nothing can save them from where they’re going.”
“Sure, you are… By making enemies of every captain and crewmember in existence? My, my…”
“What am I gon’ do?” Cayd spoke up again.
Struggling through the pain, Arnacin gasped, “The Dawn Beer sails tomorrow morning. Do yourself a favor and be on it.”
“In the meantime,” Brother Channing added without looking up from the ever-darkening red cloth, “you may take yourself into that back room and sleep. I swear, nothing will attack you while you are here. Men of my sort are able to curse their enemies as they see fit.”
At the dangerous tone in the healer’s words, the pirate shuffled off in submission. Arnacin watched him leave before weakly returning his attention to the man holding his arm, who had finally freed the knife from the wound. “I don’t suppose you have ways of proving that.”
“You don’t believe, I see. Why ever not?”
“You should be grateful most of them are a superstitious lot. I am not.”
“Then you also won’t believe that I know some magic tricks that are enough to convince them.” Sitting back on his heels as he lit a candle and held a needle above it, Brother Channing asked, “Would you like me to wash the blood out of that shirt when we’re done here?”
Flinching away, Arnacin asked, “Does this shirt look like I care about bloodstains?”
“You don’t want me to say what that shirt makes me think,” the healer quipped without looking up.
It was almost amusing how wrong Channing was, how his suspicions protected the truth that Arnacin was actually hiding the massive scar over his right shoulder. Yet… the healer was right. Miro had murdered Arnacin of Enchantress Island and Xavior had finished whatever was left.
As that thought wiped the slight grin from the islander’s face, silence fell in the room. Outside, the voices drifted off as the pirates left. While the healer stitched the wound through a wide rip in the sleeve, Arnacin held his breath.
Only when Channing finished binding the wound with herbs and clean linen, did he say, “I would suggest wearing a sling for a few days or the stitches may break.”
“Oh, yes, as if that’s a fear when a sling will just shout, ‘He’s injured. Attack!’”
“I did not suggest leaving this house, Islander.”
Arnacin’s gaze darkened. “I’m not staying here.”
“Islander,” the healer warned, “you can’t go through life trusting no one. If you never trust, there will likely come a day—such as this one—when you have no choice. To choose not to trust is to choose death. You, yourself, admitted that a sling will be an invitation for everyone on this island to end your days. Yet without one, that wound will open and infection could set in. If it does, you will die without help. I think I have enough experience to know. Must I further convince you?”
When Arnacin remained unresponsive, Channing added, “You may not trust me, Islander, but in times like this, you do have someone to trust. He will not allow your death until your time.”
His gaze flicking back up to meet the healer, Arnacin breathed, “You’re assuming something.”
“I doubt you would feel duty-bound to rescue criminals unless you acknowledge His presence. No one else, no other god, would spare them. I know your trust doesn’t go beyond that knowledge, but my strongest advice is for you to change that. He might help.” He said no more and just sat there, as if waiting. Arnacin ignored him, though his heart tightened.
Surrendering, Channing whispered, “Rest, Islander. You can be sure no harm will come to you under this roof.”
As if his words held some spell, Arnacin’s eyelids grew ever heavier, despite his resistance. In moments, sleep conquered him.
An hour before dawn, Cayd left without a word. Channing sniffed in disdain, yet Arnacin Islander showed no sign he even noticed. Glancing at his remaining guest, the healer returned to rolling his linen bandages.
Although Islander was still curled on the floor, his head pillowed on his right arm, Channing noticed his left fingers rested over his hilt. It would have been terribly unwise, however, to mention how idiotic it would be to draw the blade with that hand.
Finally, Channing inquired, “For curiosity’s sake, Islander, how are you saving yourself by inciting the hatred of three thousand pirates?”
He expected no answer and for some time he received none, yet he felt those eyes studying him. Then, softly came the reply. “You call yourself a healer. Can you live with yourself when everyone around you tortures and kills one another while you watch and do nothing?”
Such answer gave Channing pause, and he appraised Arnacin Islander anew. Eventually, he shrugged. “There is nothing to do to stop it. I’m here to take care of wounds, that’s all.”
He dropped his gaze back to his linens. A second later, his attention snapped back to his companion as Islander breathed, “Then you’ve lost as much meaning as I have.”
Those blue eyes were shuttered again, but the healer replied, “It doesn’t matter what you do, nothing changes. They like to kill themselves. And who believes in meaning as something that can be lost, if it’s there at all?”
“An islander’s parents said every worm is born with purpose, although it is easily destroyed.” Islander’s words were even softer, as if he was talking to himself.
Silence again fell in the shack.
“You are stalling, brother,” Jabril growled, his fingers tapping on his arm. “It won’t gain you what you want. Islander will not become a pirate.”
When Xavior only shifted against the column, Jabril insisted, “I don’t care that he’s killed as many as he has. It is the island’s policy to allow individuals to seek their own justice unless the captain protests. That way, everyone but the dead is happy, the population is never too large, and the island’s location is a secret they’ll all keep, since they’ll want the safety from—”
“What are you trying to say?” Xavior snapped. “If you mean that I should remove Islander’s weapon since he is a captive, you’re mistaken. He’d be dead within a moment. And on board the Zedelious, he only attacks when he has to defend himself. As far as I’m concerned, the fear the crew has of him will be useful if he ever becomes captain.”
“Ah ha! You say if. Then you also realize that he is the enemy of every ship’s crew because he’s not a pirate and they know he’ll never be one.”
Xavior only looked at him. Angrily, Jabril threw up his arms. “For Zedelious’s pride—the pride of our heritage—I am willing to execute him in private. He will simply disappear, and no one will know what happened.”
Compressing his lips, Xavior turned away.
“I want him dead, Xavior, because I can only foresee him destroying our heritage. I know that not only is he a Zedelious, but his appearance reminds you of your dead son. Yet I look at him and I see death in his face—not greed or power—death. You failed to train anything else in him. He is the Black Captain manifest. Do you know that poem?”
