T-47 Book II (Saxon Saga 6) Read online

  Lori took a turn at the wheel, struggling to hold it steady in the buffeting breeze, and surprised how tired it made her. She turned it over after a half an hour, but took another try a little later in the late afternoon, noticing the effort required even more strength, but she kept her feet under her, and stood the brief watch without complaint. Clouds now dominated the sky, the sun gone, the sea darker.

  Dinner was served in the salon, a rolling affair, plates held in place with small squares pegged into the table top. The kits seemed excited by the change in routine, frequently popping up on deck to look at the seas, all steely-green in the evening.

  Lori watched the storm on the screen, figured it’d be close, but they could do it, outrun it to the north. The catamaran raced along, the speed amazing to her, spray now flying up and back at those on deck, and they all wearing foul weather gear in the cooler storm air. Eagle One hung just overhead, unperturbed by the weather, silent and observant.

  The decision point arrived, and the captain opted to continue north, along the coast of St. Vincent, that island just a light-specked mound of deeper blackness in the night, and not hazard the more open sea passage to Barbados. In the darkness, they flew onward, racing along, clipping the tops of the growing waves, gliding quickly up and over them, climbing and falling down ever larger mounds of water. Spray flew often, flying at them unseen in the night, just bright flares in the low lights as they hit whomever was in the way in the cockpit. The sails snapped, and the stays sang in the wind.

  After ten, Lori, again weary, opened the closed companionway, stood up and asked Rob how it went.

  “On course, sailing well,” he said, a dark shape in rain gear bending toward her, while sheets of horizontal spray strobed past him. “How are you holding up?”

  “Barely, ready for bed. Just want to know if we need to abandon ship before I try getting some sleep.”

  Rob chuckled. “You may remain on board, and I hope you’ll sleep like a baby.”

  Lori smiled, and again made the rounds with good nights for everyone in the salon. Hunter came and tucked her in, saying he had a watch in a couple of hours, but might join her later.

  “Not if you’re cold and wet,” she said, poking him. “Only if you’re dry and warm.”

  Smiling, he closed the door, but Lori lay awake for a while, noticing the pitch and roll this night. She overheard the men talking, someone said, “You really didn’t think she’d opt to fly away, even in the face of a storm, did you? After what she’s been through? Really.”

  “Still,” she recognized the voice of the captain, “The storm’s gaining. In a few hours we’ll have to decide, and probably decide quickly, to head to harbor, or try to ride it out here. And if it comes to that, I’m getting everyone, all the families, off the boat. But so far, we’re outrunning it.”

  No one argued, and Lori heard no more that night.

  The sounds of pounding rain awoke her at some point in the night, no one entered her bed, cold or warm, and she debated getting up to see how the storm looked, but waited, and fell back asleep again. More lashing rain sounded as a dull dawn arrived, and this time, she did get up, to go over to the wet companionway, holding on as the boat pitched and jumped. With a robe on, and nothing else, she poked her head out, and her mouth fell open. Large, really big waves raced at them from behind, the tops blown off flat, and rain poured down, or flew by in horizontal sheets. Two figures, covered in storm gear, stood at the wheel, looking unconcerned. For her?

  “What’s happening?” she yelled over the sound of the wind and sea.

  “A bit of a tropical storm,” Captain Rob said, leaning down. “We’re on the edge of it now.”

  “Do we have to run to shore?” she asked, feeling the rain soaking into her robe.

  “Not unless you want to, and really get tossed and turned,” he said, pointing a finger over the side, showing the direction they’d have to go, across the waves, not with them.

  “We’re OK?”

  “Sure. The sat says we’ll be out of this band of rain in an hour or two, and in the clear a couple more after that. Want breakfast?”

  “Yeah,” Lori said, hungry, and reassured by the Captain’s words. True?

  “Send me up a cup of coffee, OK?”

  “Make it two,” Hunter’s voice came from the other set of storm gear.

  She delivered the two cups of hot coffee herself, carrying them in a small pail, moving slowly with the surge and rolling of the boat and wearing only a raincoat. Her lower legs and face were immediately soaked with rain and spray, as she braced herself with one arm, and handed out the coffee mugs. She pulled the last out for herself, and looked at the sea again, and for her air car. It floated there, a bit ahead of them at maybe 15 meters over the top of the waves.

  “How can you stand here in this?” she said loudly, to be heard over the storm.

  “Just hold on, one hand for yourself, one for the ship,” Rob said, sipping the coffee.

  “The self-steering rig is running the ship, we’re just enjoying the ride.”

  “It’s a bit of a challenge. We’re trading off every fifteen minutes,” Hunter said, grabbing the rail as a wave washed over the side.

  Lori turned forward, into the blast of water-filled air, and looked upward, watching Eagle One cruising along, rain streaming off its back and underside, bobbing up and down just a little in the wind. She noticed the sails heavily reefed, only a tiny portion exposed to the wind.

  Looking at Hunter, she said, “I want a turn. At the wheel.”

  “Told ya,” Hunter said, to Rob. To her she said, “OK, but only if one of us has a hold of the other side, it’s a job here today.”

  She dropped her coffee cup in a holder, moved around behind the wheel, and Hunter moved back to give her some room. “What’s the course?” she said, seeing the compass reading streaming through numbers, never stopping for long on any one.

  “Try to keep it at 23 degrees east, or as close to that as you can. We’ll turn off the auto-pilot.”

  “You have to be up here all the time? Can’t you trust the auto-pilot?”

  “Sure, but we’d have to be here anyway, in case it gets carried away in a gust, or something. So this way we get our aerobics for the day,” Hunter said. “You ready?”

  “Yeah,” she said, spreading and bracing her legs, and taking the wet wheel in her hands. It felt cold, and slippery.

  “You got it,” Rob said, and she felt it nearly yanked out of her hands. He held it, helped her steady it, she turned it a little, trying to find the right reading, and moved it again as a wave reached them.

  She soon had a rhythm of sorts, feeling the waves through her feet, and watching the reefed and lowered sails for the wind shifts. Her legs wide, her bare feet planted, she held the wheel, concentrating on the compass, and the water ahead. She noticed the ship fairly sailed itself, going rather smoothly ahead, and her fifteen minutes passed by, and another, the men let her do the sailing. Water hit her face and ran down, some inside her slicker, cool and annoying. But not so much she minded. Finally, her arms starting to ache, her legs now very wet and getting cold, she said, “When’s my time up?”

  “Past time,” Hunter said, taking over. “Go below and get some breakfast, OK?”

  “Yeah. You want any more coffee?”

  “Later, after you eat.” OK, good, she was invited back.

  Lori sailed the ship again later that morning, the rain squall past, the wind lower, the seas still big, but with lighter sky ahead, and gray clouds that soon broke and yielded to pale blue sky.

  “Where are we?” she asked, as Hunter again relieved her on watch, the self-steering gear again doing the work.

  “Just past St. Lucia, coming up on Martinique. Want to stop, or go on to Dominica?”

  “I’ve never been there, Dominica, I mean. But let’s sail on, OK? Get out of this.”

  “Onward,” Rob said, pointing ahead.

  The sailing continued excellent as they left the storm
behind, and they passed Dominica on much calmer seas, heading for an overnight in Guadeloupe, somewhere.

  Halina popped up and said, “Personal message on your private address, Hunter. Msr. Rothfeld heard you are in the Caribbean again, and invites you to drop on by, if you’re in the area. Stay as long as you’d like, too.”

  Lori heard, and thought a few days on the island would be wonderful, and said so. The sailing had been excellent, just the sort of controlled excitement, for just long enough, what she wanted, but really not as restful as she’d expected, a distraction, actually, and no swimming or snorkeling either, but that would be available on any of the islands if they stopped, assuming the tourists and locals would leave them alone, which was doubtful.

  “You want to go to the Isle de Palmes, again?” Hunter said.

  “Yeah, I do. I would. What do you think? Too far?”

  “Captain,” Hunter shouted, “Change course for next port. We sail to Isle de Palmes.”

  “Aye, Sir,” he said, and almost immediately, the boat turned, veered westward, the sails jibed, and they cut into the Dominica Passage.

  “We’ll sail by Montserrat, that’s the island where your Grandma made that great rescue when the eruption started, back in ‘78,” Halina said. “And nearly lost Grandpa. Good thing she didn’t or none of us would be here.”

  “Tell me about it,” Lori asked Amanda, and she and Ricky did.

  Another night at sea, and another day, or part of one, before they’d arrive at the Rothfeld’s. Lori looked forward to that. And so did everyone else, she noticed, confinement on the small boat starting to get to them all.

  They let her sail the next day, the breeze strong, the waves still big, just enough challenge to keep her alert, and not wear her out on the hour or so at the wheel. They passed few other ships, and none took notice of them, or their passengers. Just as well.

  Late that day, they slowed, and approached Isle de Palmes. A security air car flew out to meet them, followed by a plain looking motor launch, both announced and watched closely by Eagle One. After Rob anchored off shore, Eagle One flew them all to the front of the mansion, to a warm welcome by the Rothfelds.

  “Ma Cherie,” Mme. Rothfeld said, hurrying up to Lori, her face distressed, “What have they done to you?” She took Lori’s arms in both her hands, real concern on her face, tears almost in her eyes, which had darted to the several dressings still on one leg. Then hugging Lori gently, she said, “Comment ca va? You have been through so much, you look so thin, so pale. And now, a terrible tempest. Quell damage.” She leaned back, and said, “Tell me. How was it? Before.”

  Lori started to pass it over, but saw the genuine concern in the hazel eyes looking intently at her. Everyone else held back, waiting, no one was near. She said, almost unable to help herself, and barely audible, “Awful. Horrible. A terrible battle in the forest, in the dark. I was shot and burned and covered in dirt and gore and slime and even wet myself, I felt filthy, like I could never get clean again. And still do. And so does everyone else. Even Hunter. He doesn’t want to touch me, no one does.” She slowly shook her head. “That’s what’s the worst.” She shrugged, her eyes wet, Mme. Rothfeld’s hands still on her arms holding her. “Physically, I’m getting better, I think...”

  “Ah, Cherie, the Spirit, that is what is still needs amends, n’est-ce pas? Tres bien. Ici, c’est passee. Here, you rest, you relax, and we feed you and spoil you all day.” She released Lori, and let her go.

  M. Rothfeld came to her, repeated the greeting, asking what could they do for her.

  “Inviting me to your wonderful island, and to visit you again is more than I expected,” she said, as they walked slowly into the coolness of the main house, the kits already gone, racing ahead and out to the pool, followed closely by Tarue.

  Mme. Rothfeld let them go, intercepting Hunter as he approached, and held him back. She looked at him seriously, and asked him the same question. Somehow, he felt drawn out by this small and intense woman, and said, “I’m OK. Getting better, the leg’s almost completely healed, it’s her I worry about,” and he nodded in the direction Lori went.

  “Que?”

  “She’s not...” he shook his head, “Getting better. Here, in her head,” and he tapped his temple twice. “I know it was hell for her, but she won’t speak to me about it, or anyone, I think. And I know she still hurts from her wounds. I’m afraid to touch her, to hurt her more, and she won’t let me in to...help. I don’t know what to do. It’s been hell.”

  “Tres bien, monsieur, we will see what can be done.” And she smiled at him as they turned to follow the others into the house. Once there, everyone settled in, the kits into the pool. Mme. Rothfeld called to her husband, and they held a brief conference, and he hurried away, his phone out.

  Lori sat on a soft chaise lounge, and drinks and snacks arrived immediately. Soon, she asked for a walk, and they all strolled down to the beach, and watched the kits jump into the warm water, like they’d just been there yesterday. But it had been months. And it seemed so far and long ago to Lori, like a different time in a different place. She stood on the shore and let the small waves wash up and over her feet.

  They returned to the patio as the sun set, to a small luau already underway, Hawaiian music by a live band, and a smokey BBQ going. The hosts plied Lori with food, way too much, she sampled everything, but ate little. Hula dancers appeared as entertainment, dragging everyone to the dance floor, but after just a small shake of her head, and a wave of Mme. Rothfeld’s hand, they left her alone, to watch and smile at the antics of everyone else, Tarue and the kits included.

  With the music and dancing still going on, and the party lively, Lori slipped away, and Mme. Rothfeld followed and guided her upstairs to her former room, all cool and dim in the evening. Eagle One sat on the deck outside, and she walked out and said goodnight, undressed, and lay down. Sometime later Hunter joined her, with a sleepy kiss, and a warm hug, but she could hardly roust herself, figured maybe he wanted to make love, but she did not have the energy.

  Four eyes stared at hers when she awoke in the morning, the room bright even with the drapes drawn.

  “You are alive again?” Nif, Tarue’s daughter, said, peering at her.

  “Yes. Good morning Nif. And Dayu.”

  Both kits jumped up. “We can go and play now, and swim. We had to be quiet until you are alive again. Bye.” And they raced off. Hunter called to them to send up some coffee, but he needn’t bother, a soft knock, and a rolling cart arrived, with two Kobi servants, the aroma of fresh coffee, fresh bread and rolls, and fresh flowers drifting in after it. Lori sat up against the cushioned headboard, and pointed out what she wanted from the tray.

  The Kobi, natives of the one of the twin planets, Kalimanta, stood taller than the Damai, and upright on two legs. With a narrow head, two arms, a stout body and tail, short neck, furry, and a serious disposition, they often worked as domestic help on Earth.

  Immediately, Mme. Rothfeld arrived, wearing a profusion of golden necklaces, a waist chain, and floppy slippers, nothing else. She greeted Lori enthusiastically, bent down with a kiss, and stepped back. A Kobi servant slid a chair behind her, and she sat down close to the bed. “Now, Ma Cherie, tell me everything that happened to you.” She took a cup of coffee, and looked at Lori.

  “Well,” Lori started, but Hunter interrupted, and told the tale, while Lori lay back, listening. She didn’t interrupt him, nor correct him, even if she could a couple of times. Mme. Rothfeld sat and listened with attention, sipping coffee from time to time, and didn’t ask questions, or anything, either. Lori added a little about the bodies and parts flying about and the mud and the dirt and the bloody gore, most landing on her she said, and the RPGs and whatnot exploding around her, the fires, the smoke, the confusion, the feelings of hopelessness, the loss of Eagle One, until the very end, when it returned, and so did her hero, her man, to rescue her, almost too late, and by then, she remembered but little. She stopped, the last of the co
ffee nearly gone, what remained, cold and tasteless. She put the cup down.

  When they finished, Mme. Rothfeld nodded a few times. “They treated you very badly, those bandits. Tres mauvais. Now, how do you feel?”

  Lori made a few faces, and said, “Weary. Worn out. Discouraged. I feel like such a failure–to my guests, to my air car, to me. No energy, I’m tired all the time, it seems. Can’t get going.”

  Mme. Rothfled nodded at that. “Oui. Quell dommage. Tres bien. Now, here, you will rest. You will get your strength back. Anything you need or want, it will be provided. Mais, oui. But first, today, you will come with me, and be cleansed.” She pulled the sheet up and off and away, and tugged on Lori’s hand. “Come, come. Vous aussi, Monsieur, maintenant.” She led the reluctant couple down the stairs, out the mansion, across the lawn, and down a faint trail to a small cove by the sea. No one else followed them. At the water’s edge, a tiny opening in the vegetation exposed a small, pebbly beach. A single, round large rock provided a place to sit. Just beyond, and all around, multicolored clayey banks lay exposed. A small depression near the sitting rock lay full of gooey, thick, silty, clay. “Sit,” Mme. Rothfeld said to Lori, and she did. Two Kobi appeared, servants, or something? Yes, they filled two small pails with the clay, lifted them as Mme. Rothfeld kicked off her sandals and approach Lori.

  “This is what happened to you, non?” Mme. Rothfeld said as she dumped one, then the other, onto Lori’s body, the first on her shoulders and back, the second over her head and neck, showering, covering her, with cold, thick, slimy clay.