Майкл Салливан - Deep Magic. Fourth Collection

He stared over the expanse, dark waters dappled in silver by the rising moon’s brushstrokes. The ship groaned as swells flowed along it and lapped its barnacle-encrusted sides. Capricho exhaled the stale air of the cabin, replaced it with the sweet breath of the sea. He stood motionless, the ocean his hourglass, the waves its falling sands.

“ You are my mistress,” he whispered to the sea.

With a gentle bow, he returned to the cabin.

His berth was in a corner; dark shadows beneath the bunk tugged at him like the force that turned the needle on a compass. He tried to resist, but desire pulled. He dragged a chest from under the berth, worked a key, popped the lid. The crisp cedar-scent rushed around him as he fished through the contents and pulled out a scarlet scarf spun from rarest silk. Lifting it to his nose, Capricho inhaled deeply, and, in the grip of his need, believed he could still smell pressed lavender oil resting within its folds.

He carried the scarf to the table, sat in his chair, wove the fabric through his fingers. He tugged it through them ever so slowly, remembering how good it felt whenever Diedre had coyly done it to him.

Pain seared him again. He grabbed the pitcher, filled his chalice to the brim, blew out the lamp.

It was a long wait for sunrise.

Daybreak. The sea boiled. The ship bucked her head like a mare in heat, shaking a mane of white froth over the bow.

Capricho rushed up the sterncastle ladder, stood upon the high quarterdeck, spied the oncoming storm. Salvador hunched over the hood of the helm, giving orders to the helmsman who worked the whipstaff that steered the ship. The purple mountains of Jamaica reared starboard, but as Capricho faced fore, his stomach lurched. Bruised clouds and funnels burgeoned ahead, thrashing the heights like angry sea serpents.

“Mother of God,” Capricho shouted. He turned back to Salvador. “The squall comes for us!”

Salvador’s look was dark. “We have been heading straight for her gullet all night! What is your call?”

A blast cuffed Capricho. His heart hammered. Decisions made in the splits of seconds would determine whether men lived or died.

“Sound the bell. All hands! We bring her about. Douse the topsails, reef the rest. Tell helm to set course for the leeward side of the island.”

Rain pelted the deck as rigging screeled. Capricho stood at the rail, looked down at his men.

“Ready to come about!”

As the bell rang and orders barked, decks and rigging swarmed with grim men. Tackle squealed as they reined in the bucking ship, changing the angle of spars and rudder.

They came about. Slack sails filled in a thunderous clap ; the hull heeled to the wind. The galleon groaned, lumbered forward. Capricho scanned sails from bow to stern, gauged trim against gusts.

“Too much sail!” he shouted to the sail master. “Reef the main! Ándale! ”

Cold rain strafed the deck. Capricho looked back. Congealing thunderheads bounded toward the galleon. He blinked. Blinked again.

Jaguars?

The clouds had boiled into shapes of mottled leonine creatures, their eyes spheres of ball lightning. As black maws opened, snarls of thunder struck the ship.

Capricho’s mind defaulted to something he understood: barking orders. “Salvador! You call this heading leeward? Tiller hard to starboard! We get around that point, the mountains cut the wind!”

Salvador slammed his fist against the helm’s hutch. “Felipe can’t work the whipstaff! Too rough!”

“Disconnect it! Get two below to crank the tiller tackle. Ándale! ”

As Salvador bounded off, Capricho faced amidships, gripped the rail. The sail master stood below by lashed longboats, illuminated in the greenish glow from the sky.

“Pedro! Pedro!” Capricho got his attention. “Get the mizzen—”

Pedro pointed up the main, and Capricho turned to look. Men scattered across ratlines faster than a fleeing school of fish.

A serpent of brume twined around the mainmast. Battered wings quivered against its body. The sea serpent reared its horned head over a yardarm, scanned the decks. A shaft of rippling air swept with its gaze, parting the sheets of rain.

The swath struck Capricho, trapped him in its lidless fury. His muscles froze. The creature hissed; breath fled Capricho’s lungs. He strained against unseen bindings, could not breathe.

The bow swung, punched by a wave. The mainsail spilled its wind, luffing violently.

The serpent jerked away, tracking the sound. Fangs that looked of cloudy ivory slashed the sailcloth to ribbons.

Freed, Capricho gasped, able to breathe again. What kind of devilry was this?

Wind Howlers.

He swung onto the ladder, descended to amidships where he could climb the mainmast. Somehow, the apparition must be stopped. He’d be damned if he’d let any spawn of heaven or hell tear his ship apart.

The galleon groaned against a broadside. Water lunged over the gunwale. Capricho hooked an arm around the ladder as the wave surged, flooding the deck. Not a wave. A liquid jade jaguar rumbled over longboats, bounded forward, swiped a paw against Capricho’s legs.

Capricho flew from the ladder, thumped on the deck, tumbled in the beast’s swirling grasp. They slammed against the gunwale. Capricho rolled into the curve of the planks, caught a grip on the rail and held fast, while the jaguar’s momentum and semifluid form sloshed it over the rail. A snarl lashed out as it hurtled into the sea.

Thunder clapped. Capricho jumped up, spun toward the sound. In the center of the ship hopped a one legged apparition, a liquid giant bearing a feathered Mayan headdress. It hoisted a crackling staff, sighted on Capricho.

“ Dios mío! Not again!” Capricho jerked the chain that hung around his neck. As the giant’s staff rippled white-hot, Capricho thrust his crucifix forward.

The apparition roared, averting its eyes. The strike veered, struck the bulwark, exploded. Splinters blasted the air. Capricho hurtled up, up, up as the world spun end over end.

He sailed overboard into the churning maelstrom.

“Salvador!”

Chill water engulfed him, booming like cannon volley. A wave slammed his chest, swallowed him whole.

Capricho descended through the cold and glistening blue, his body shuddering, thrashing, kicking . . . then surrendering to the silent peace of the depths. This realm, just a fading tunnel of murky light, closing, closing, closing . . .

A silver flash.

The face of a goddess.

Así que este es el paraíso. So this is heaven.

Capricho moaned. Had his head been used for cannon shot? His eardrums ached. He cracked open his eyes. He was on his back on a tiny island staring at a cavern dome. A cenote, for the limestone peak had cracked, admitting shafts of light that dappled slick stalactites, igniting water droplets that collected at the tips. The air was cool, refreshing, scented with notes of brine and algae.

He slid his palms on the stone he was sprawled upon. It was slick, covered in succulent seaweed. Something slid him up a bit; he felt the warmth of flesh press against his bare back. He blinked, squinted, stared up into a Mayan maiden’s face. She cradled his head to her chest.

It was her, the goddess. Her hair fanned the air, strands of black and indigo. Her eyes were more enchanting than a moonlit sea.

“Rest now, captain. You are safe.” The woman’s voice winged in husky harmonics through the cavern.

“Where am I?”

Her lips touched his forehead. “Home. I rescued you from the Wind Howlers.”

“Howlers?” Capricho tried to sit up. His head whirled. He fell back. “Who are you?”