The Blizzard

CHAPTER TEN

  AFTER the eighth day, Jack stopped his retching. He could anticipate the lurch of the carrier as it toiled through the ocean. After a few exploratory appearances on deck, he had become a familiar presence on board. Despite the early warnings to stay out of their sight, the crew seemed to welcome the presence of the newcomers.

  The men were mostly native Germans, with a few Swedes and seamen from the Baltics. Among them was Krisoph, the only Pole, whose face was bisected by the purple birthmark. Sober he was a different man; he had wasted no time in apologising to the terrified Jack for his previous behaviour. Hours before setting off and facing his final drink for more than a month, he and his fellows had been marking their departure in traditional fashion when Jack had approached. The request for the mind-altering Nectar had awoken a dark monster inside him. The Pole’s younger brother was still in a psychiatric ward in Wroclaw. A cheap version of the drug, particularly unpredictable and often contaminated, was readily available in many Polish cities. Too many youngsters had been left paralysed by the chemical, he warned in halting English.

  “I’m sorry to hit you… I did not want you to end up as Mikhail…” But even as he expressed regret, the sailor began to grow red as he discussed this theme and Jack dared not oppose his deeply-held views.

  In the upper echelons, Nectar was used by poets, artists, and even chess players to push them to new heights of creativity. He remembered his own first experiences, the tightening of his forehead as it took hold.

  Created by doctors to stop brain illnesses, people were quick to discover its recreational potential uses, how it could open long-closed memories from childhood, days with departed loved ones, memories which the fully-conscious mind had no power to retrieve. More experienced users claimed they could influence the flow of thoughts, gently guiding the surge of ideas onto particular people, places, or concepts. Sure, there was a risk taking cheaper, street-versions of the chemical but he had never heard of any permanent side-effects from pure Nectar.

  Sheepish rather than angry, Jack he hid below in his cabin whenever the Pole was on deck to avoid further lectures.

  Secretly he had hoped for some entertainment from the man claiming to be cousin. But Zarius spent most of the day in his cot, carefully studying the black leather journal, flicking back and forth through its pages, trying to squeeze every last drop of meaning from it. The only time he left the cabin was to sit with the crew in the cramped galley, although Jack notice that he only appeared shifted the food around his plate.

  Although there were no more explosive dreams, Jack noticed that his companion had become withdrawn, far from the effusive character he had first encountered. And, although he seemed to do no writing, Jack noticed a glass phial of writing fluid by his bedside, which seemed to grow more depleted each day.

  Jack was unsure what had been said or promised in order to secure their passage. One evening, before he bedded down for the night, he confronted his companion on this point.

  “Oh sorry, dear boy,” Zarius looked nervous. “Thought I’d explained it all. How silly of me. I just explained to Captain Abbott the truth of our situation. That you were the relative of an executive at the UisgeCorp. You had been attacked by one of his sailors and that there was a very strong chance that his ship would have its engine removed if your father found out what.”

  “But how did you know I had been attacked and that it had been someone from the crew? You must have been on the boat when that happened?”

  “Well, I took a wild guess that something like that would happen. I supposed you’d get into one scrape or another and with the number of sailors on shore that one of them would be involved?”

  “And the captain believed you? There was no need to check my bracelet to confirm who I was?”

  “No, they seemed quite happy to take me at my word after I had shown them this.” Zarius pulled from nowhere a glossy folder, which Jack recognised as the prospectus for the Eric Meinher School. On the front cover a picture of a sullen teenager with a dark mop of hair, beside him stood a powerful-looking man with cropped greying hair and piercing blue eyes – his father John Brown.

  “And what about, Kristoph? Will he get in trouble for what happened in the bar? It wasn’t his fault what happened – or at least it was partly my fault as well.”

  “I asked the captain to refrain from punishing him although I daresay it will be some time before he is allowed back on shore.”

  Jack realised Zarius could not be trusted. Burglary, kidnap and blackmail: he was capable of all of them and more. Despite his simple joviality, there was something which made people feel deeply uncomfortable.

  These suspicions led him and to seek out the company of the men on board. Despite their rough appearance, they were friendly and forthcoming with well-worn anecdotes and stories, translated by one or other of the English-speaking crew. The captain and officers remained aloof, nodding politely at the visitors but refraining from dialogue.

  In want of something to do, he asked and was allowed to carry out the more simple chores around the ship, all the while enduring the gentle gibes of the crew.

  It was perhaps because of his proximity to the prow of the ship, where he was securing the one of the winches that Jack was the first to notice the movement in the water. The vessel was more than half-way through the Mediterranean. A blue haze was all that could be seen across the horizon – streaked by the ozone plume of the boat’s hydro reactor.

  A dull clang resounded over the low waves. Jack lurched forward, looking over the rail. Nothing to be seen. The second strike was more definitive and the sailors on deck yelled angrily as they too now peered into the water. This time a thick trail of foam had massed on the ship’s hull.

  Suddenly, the cargoman caught sight of it. A great fold of grey flesh, shaped like a sail, briefly parted the waters. Then nothing.

  A dozen men stood poised by the railings, anticipating the next thunderous movement, desperately scanning the secretive waters. A third knock came, and then a fourth cracked against the hull. The metalwork croaked under the pounding.

  Then as if anticipating the fear it had caused, the animal could finally be seen. A colossal head and body were the colour of rusted iron. Cruel teeth like kitchen cutlery flashed in the sun. Its tiny, malicious eyes glared malevolently at the crew as if challenging them to prepare for its next strike.

  Jack felt movement behind him. Zarius was waddling towards him, the spiked, metal globe in his arms.

  “Quick take this,” he thrust the antique into his arms. Jack staggered under its weight, nearly collapsing as the ship again lurched to the side.

  “Hey!? What do I do with-?” But Zarius was already running across the deck to the prow.

  “Over there! It’s right over there.” He grabbed the rail and leaned over, peering into the waters. “Drop it in the water, dear boy! Now!”

  Jack was wet and cold and it looked like he was going to die. But he was too confused to argue. Bundling the bulky sphere over the sides, he watched it spin into the waves. For several long seconds there was nothing, just the foam indentation where the curiosity had punched the water.

  There was an ear-splitting sound, and then sky. Jack was knocked onto his back. The ship swayed wildly. Salt water hailed down on the deck. Cargo shirked its bindings. But all Jack could only hear ringing silence. Gradually he acknowledged the screaming. He looked round expecting to see carnage, dismembered limbs and gaping wounds. Instead Zarius was yelping and dancing across the deck, hand still wedged in his coat, as stunned sailors helped each other to their feet.

  “Well done! It’s a direct hit.” He slapping his fat hands together. “Now before it sinks to the ocean floor, grab that rope and follow me. We need to get its spleen!”

  Before anyone else could react, the rotund figure had leapt over the rail into the water and started swimming to the shredded remains where a red stain was now growing.
>
  “Are you mad?” the Estonian helmsman bellowed in disbelief. “Where there’s one, there will be others.”

  “Kill the engines, do it quick!”

  “Come back Zarius. What the hell are you doing? We don’t even know if it’s dead yet!”

  But the portly figure in the ancient sea costume battled against the sway of the rolling water, his arms lashing out wildly but with surprising speed. Soon he was in the centre of the bloody pool, chunks of warm flesh floated around him like a rich stew. He pointed to the remaining torso and shouted excitedly.

  “Throw me a line, good man! Throw me a line!! We need to bring it on board.”

  Over the roaring waves, the crew could not hear his words but the message was loud and clear.

  “We should leave him there.”

  “Who is that madman?”

  “Quick! Get a line and haul him onboard! I want to kill him myself.”

  But Zarius would not take the line. Instead he wrapped it around the bleeding torso and refused to leave the water until the sailors, still stunned by the attack, had first hauled it aboard. The headless carcass thumped onto the wooden floor, weeping blood and clear fluid, just as the captain appeared on deck.

  His head was swollen and his eye blackened as if he had not long ago been struck by some loose cargo. He began barking orders at the crew, shaking them out of their stupor as Zarius himself cleared the rails beaming like an idiot.

  Hands were quickly laid on him and he was hauled before the master, still smiling as if what he had done was the most commendable thing in the world.

  “Keep a firm grip on him boys. We will deposit him with the port authorities when we reach Aden. I hope for our sake and for his they see fit to put him in the stocks for as long as it needs to cure his madness. Hans! Put him down in the food store until we can find somewhere more suitable to lock him up. Give him a change of clothes; I don’t want that mess contaminating the meat. You men, help me push this monster back into the water! Why in God’s name did you bringing it on board? I don’t care if he was the one that killed it and I don’t care whose father this boy is. Is this madness contagious?”

  Zarius jerked into action, lurching out of the strong grip of the sailors with effortless ease.

  “No, no, captain! If you must throw away the carcass, please allow me to examine it first. It is essential to my…errr. To my…-”

  Strong hands wrapped around his shoulders, pulling the rest of his body towards the lower deck.

  “Captain Abbot,” Jack said quickly, without thinking. “Don’t you know who this man is? He is Theodore Bouscht. The most respected oceanologist in the field of shark-hunting. His many papers on the habitat and behaviour of these predators are the textbooks for students across the world? Surely you must have encountered some of these papers?”

  “I can’t say that I have young master, but-”

  “No, well even from a position of inexplicable ignorance, you will at least not contest how masterfully he has dealt with this particular incident. Needless, to say, his deterrent techniques have saved many sailor’s lives.”

  “That may well be true. But it doesn’t explain how this -”

  “And of course these techniques require constant refinement and study. It is therefore vital that he inspects the carcass of this creature to see what fiendish new tactics its species will unleash upon mankind before it is too late.”

  After some further remonstration and an inspection which revealed that neither vessel nor crew had sustained serious damage, Zarius was released and grudgingly allowed to inspect the carcass.

  “He has five minutes and then the beast is thrown back where it belongs. And if I see him once more during this voyage or he attempts to interfere with the running of my ship, he will be joining it at the bottom of the sea.”

  When Zarius grinned inanely as if nothing had happened, the captain continued ominously. “It is as well that both of you will be leaving us at New Alexandria. We have no desire to see you again no matter how much money you have.”

  Jack gulped in relief. Such a tremendous lie went against the groupthink but felt strangely liberating.

  The crew stood in cowed silence as Zarius approached the stinking remains of the giant, which had now leaked heavily so that the shoes of all on deck squelched in red pus.

  “What are you doing with that book?”

  “Oh, it’s got directions for removing this creature’s spleen. We need it in one piece of course”

  “We need it’s what?”

  “Can you ask one of those men for a knife or something sturdy that will go through the flesh? I think it’s about here – yes just here if I remember right. Have you got something? Yes that will do. Now I’m going to read the instructions from the books and tell you what to look for.”

  Jack – who was unsure what a spleen was and if he himself also had one – peered into the cavity that his cousin pointed to. Quickly he turned away as the smell overpowered him.

  “Why can’t you do it Zarius? You know what you’re doing.”

  “I’m afraid it has to be you that does it dear boy. You were the one that killed it and it says here that the spleen won’t work unless you remove it?”

  “Won’t work? What do you mean?”

  But Zarius had already started reading. Barely overcoming his instinct to empty his own stomach, Jack somehow found himself carrying out his relation’s gruesome instructions.

  After several minutes, he located the relevant parts of the monster. Over the wet sounds of his work, he heard his cousin call to the sailors behind him.

  “My good people, we need some sort of container and lots of ice. Can one of you please oblige us?”

  The items were found and the organ – a half-filled football with its floppy ventricles – was placed inside, packed with pebbles of broken ice, and then wrapped again in thick oil skin. Zarius finished by binding tightly with thick black tape.

  Indicating to the remaining sailors they were now was finished with the carcass, Zarius marched to the galley and deposited the bloody package with the ship’s cook, ordering that it be stored in a deep freezer until they arrived at their destination.

  The men talked in low murmurs trying to make sense of the monster.

  Of course large creatures were not unheard of these days. The reduction of sea traffic following the energy crunch had led to a resurgence in aquatic life. Marine biologists were baffled. Fish stocks had increased beyond their wildest estimations, creating a new and plentiful source of food for bigger predators. Sailors who had returned to the open sea in the years following the introduction of hydropower were discovering the oceans were much wilder than they remembered.

  Jack returned to the cabin and changed out of his blood and salt soaked clothes.

  He was unable to get any meaningful explanation for the tumult nor the reason for their impromptu dissection.

  Fortunately, the rest of the journey was uneventful. The awkward passengers were shunned by the crew. Meals were sent to the cabin. Jack was not permitted to carry out any of the chores he’d previously been tasked with.

  For some reason, Zarius had now cast off his previous ill-humour and abandoned his notebook. But the incessant chatter, bad jokes and unwanted observations grated on Jack’s nerves, especially coming after weeks of reflective silence. Once or twice the teenager, sick of his cousin’s savage optimism, tried to sit with the sailors but was ignored throughout the course of the meal.

  They departed the ship without ceremony at New Alexandria. Zarius attempted to thank the captain but his deep bows were not returned.

  The only crewman that said goodbye was Kristoph. Despite reminding him for the hundredth time about his lobotomised brother, the Pole hunted out the teenager while his older companion was making arrangements on shore. The crewman pressed a handful of small metal discs into his hand.

  “They still use these”, he said in
his thick accent. “You will need them I think. They will be good instead of bracelet.”

  Within minutes of setting foot on the pier, Jack and Zarius had acquired a small entourage of hawkers, street kids and touts who sensed a rare opportunity to fleece genuine sight-seers rather than sea-hardened sailors they expected.

  With a caravan of would-be helpers in tow, Zarius explained they would “easily” find another fare through the Red Sea to Media.

  “First, however, I have a couple of messages to run before we can see about booking our next trip. Can I trust you to stay out of trouble while I set about them?”

  Jack nodded. Zarius spoke suddenly to one of the street children and pointed to a parcel he held under his arm. Red splotches seeped through the paper; it was the guts of the shark. The child spoke excitedly and began to pull Zarius towards a series of covered wooden shacks. Jack watched them go.

  Unable to shake the crowd of followers, Jack tried as hard as he could to ignore their presence. After weeks on board The Peregrine, he missed the cooling sea air.

  His unseasonal winter clothes clung uncomfortably to him as he paced the baking streets of the capital. Electric cars and their tiny engines jostled with donkeys, carts and cyclists. Everywhere was dust and noise. Street dealers sold all manner of fish, figs, nuts and oranges to headscarved women but Jack could spot the occasional visitors like himself – each trailing a retinue of enthusiastic hangers-on.

  These foreigners, along with elegant locals, sat out on the verandas of bars and hotels watching the traffic fight with itself. Jack had never seen so many carriages and carts – not even in Edinburgh or Berlin.

  The wide boulevard, which stretched far beyond the horizon, was filled with a thousand beasts and drivers, inching almost motionlessly to their destinations.

  From the corner of his eye, Jack could make out signs for Wep equipment. There might be news from back home. But he was uncertain about how to pay without his bracelet? T

  The metal discs that clunked unfamiliarly his shirt pocket. What was it Kristoph had said? They were a physical form of credit. Many of the locals wore nothing on their wrists. Jack decided to try his luck.

  Within minutes he was sat in front of a teleprinter, feeling the cooling benefits of air conditioning. He fingered the ivory type pad, tuning the receiver to the operating station of his homeland. His last thought was to check his messages, perhaps his father had managed to get in contact this way. He tapped in the retrieve code, instructing the operator at the other end to check and send any messages which had been left. He waited as the machine beeped and dashed its response; slowly a thin noodle of paper grew out of the printer. Instead of the stream of invites and gossipy messages from school friends there was only one dispatch. Jack read the tiny black letters:

  MY DEAR JACK STOP I TRUST YOU WILL DO ME COURTESY OF READING MESSAGE STOP KNOW YOU ARE ANGRY WITH ME AND HAVE A RIGHT TO BE STOP FORGIVE ME FOR NOT BEING HONEST SOONER STOP I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE YOU NOW KNOW THE TRUTH STOP YOU ARE NOT MY SON BUT THAT OF HIM WHO HAS BETRAYED ME STOP I LOVE HIM AS A BROTHER AND YOU AS MY SON BUT HIS WEAKNESS HAS THREATENED TO DESTROY ALL STOP GREAT MEN MUST ENDURE GREAT LOSS STOP IF YOU REJECT ME AND RUN I UNDERSTAND STOP MAY YOU ONE DAY BE INSPIRED AS I WAS BY YOUR FATHER TO BUILD A NEW PROSPEROUS ERA STOP YOUR GODFATHER JOHN BROWNSTOP

  BOOK TWO

  SAND