The Mariner
the new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part II

The mariner turned to see a small boat of islanders bearing down on him at a distance. There were six men in the dugout all told: four with oars and two stringing their bows with new arrows. The mariner took a length of rope that was tied nearby and fastened it to the wheel so the rudder stayed its current course, then he ran towards the front of the boat and yanked on the strings to raise the two foresails. In his haste, he lost his grip, and one of the ropes flew out of his hand. He swore aloud. Another arrow slammed into the starboard hull of the boat. As calmly as possible, he caught the loose rope and pulled up the remaining sail. Only then did he notice that the wind had all but died.

The islanders were gaining fast. In the elevated front portion of the dugout, the lead archer stood wearing nothing but a loincloth, his dark skin striated with tribal markings. With one leg propped on the front rim, he strung another arrow, a methodical poise in all his movements. He looked up at the mariner, judging the distance between them, then tipped his bow towards the sky, pulled back the string, and let it fly. The mariner watched as the projectile sailed in a high, elegant arch, and was forced to duck a moment before it struck the mast, exactly where his was standing. Bastard.

“Come on now, wind, blow. Blow, for Christ’s sake, BLOW!” said the mariner. But nothing blew. The wind that had the sloop moving swiftly before had just disappeared. Going the rate they were, the islanders would be on him in a matter of minutes. He ran below deck and grabbed a long dagger and his musket, swearing aloud. He rummaged through his waterproof box and found only a handful of gunpowder remained. He swore again and stomped back on deck.

Steadily the islanders closed in, and they did not look in the mood for tea. The mariner dropped his dagger on the quarterdeck and began loading his musket. May only get one shot at this, he thought as he rammed down the musket ball with a metal cylinder. Then again, even if I do kill one with this shot, five to one are still terrible odds… Come on, wind!

The man took a wooden barrel and rolled it until it stood in the far rear starboard corner of the quarterdeck, the whole time keeping an eye for incoming missiles. Then he knelt down and steadied the musket on top of the barrel as best he could.

A rower would probably be best. That would slow them down. He could duck from arrows all day long, but if they came aboard, he was finished. Unfortunately, the chances of hitting an rower, with only his head showing above the rim of the dugout, seemed less likely than his chances of hitting an archer, whose whole body was exposed. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t… The mariner decided hitting anyone would be better than missing, and so took aim at the most exposed person—the lead archer.

The two men gazed at each other across the waves. The mariner squinted his left eye, setting his sights in the fading light. His right forefinger came to rest against the trigger, waiting for his best chance, holding out for the dugout to draw a little closer…

The lead archer stood in his boat, both eyes wide open, the three fingers of his right hand stretching back the drawstring further and further, waiting for the perfect shot…

Two sets of eyes locked on each other, staring from one world to another. Two men who had never met; between whom nothing stood but waves and water and air and fading sunlight and the sound of threshing oars… At the same moment, they fired.

At first, the mariner thought it was the musket kicking back that caused a zing in his right shoulder, but when he turned his head he saw an arrow impaling his skin. He confirmed it hadn’t broken through the other side, then turned over onto his back and laid flat on the quarterdeck. He felt no pain yet. Moving swiftly, he clasped the shaft of the arrow with both hands, clenched his teeth, and tugged hard. There was a sharp, hot pain, but the arrow came out clean and blood flowed freely out of his shoulder, wetting his chest and pooling under his arm. He held the projectile in his fist for a moment, the rough-hewn arrowhead dripping red with his blood, then threw it overboard. He lay still for a moment, breathing heavily through the nose and listening.

The threshing had stopped. Peeking over the edge of the sloop, the mariner could see that the lead archer was down and the rowers were attending him. He was making angry sounds and someone was responding in their native tongue. Soon the rowers began again, and the other archer took the lead position in the front of the dugout.

The mariner turned over and lay on his back again. “Blow,” he said. “Just blow. Blow now and I’ll give up grog.” He took deep breaths, trying to ignore the deep, aching pain in his shoulder. “Blow now and… I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

A gentle breeze brushed the sails of his sloop, barely inflating them before dying once more.

“Come on!” he said pounding his fist on the deck, then immediately wincing. He got up on his elbows and peeked back at the islanders, not more than 100 meters away. He could see they all bore the same skin striations as the man he had wounded, though less elaborate. Another arrow pounded into the quarterdeck hatch. In a panic, his mind raced back to the last time he was caught in Polynesia… the fire, the screams, the pain of bamboo slats being shoved under his fingernails, expanding when they broke the skin, wet with blood…

“Blow now and I’ll forget this whole thing, OK? The gold, the girl, the god blasted jewel… everything. I’ll give it all up. Just blow. I’ll forget it all and never come back here again. I’ll never come back here. Never.”

The sound of the islanders’ oars threshing the water grew louder.

“Never.”

The wounded archer screamed an angry exclamation that sounded like a death vow. An arrow stuck into the barrel above his head. The mariner rolled over and clasped his dagger in his left hand.

“Never!” he screamed and stood up to face his enemy.

Out of nowhere, a huge gust of wind filled his sails and the sloop bucked forward, then rocked back, bridling the wind and skating across the waves. The remaining archer hastened to fire missiles off, but none reached their target. The mariner laughed aloud, his eyes widening with shock and joy. Though the islanders rowed ever harder and the wounded man continued to scream bloody murder, the wind quickly widened the distance between them. The mariner took the wheel and pointed the sloop further out into the open ocean. Before long, the dugout was just a speck blending into the landscape of black sea and navy blue sky.

Night descended and the mariner turned his attention to the wound. The aching had worsened and it was still bleeding. He felt weak and very tired, but he had to dress it properly before he slept, otherwise he was dead for sure. As carefully as possible, he did so by the light of an oil latern.

When he was finished, he walked to the main mast and pulled from it one of the islanders’ arrows. He felt the arrowhead in his hand; the hard, grooved stone cool to the touch. He noticed it was coated in a translucent substance, which made it sticky. The mariner rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and smelled them. His eyes glazed over in the light of the latern, and he tossed the arrow into the waves like a dead flower.

He knew then he had but one day left to live.