The Ocean Dark

2

The Mariposa rocked gently on the open sea, adrift and silent. Braulio flitted at the edge of consciousness, cradled and swayed by the boat as though in his mother’s arms. His eyes fluttered open and for the first few seconds he felt pleasantly numb. Then the pain blossomed anew — a wave of gut-deep agony that nearly drove him down into the blackness again.

He cried out — half in pain, and half to force himself to stay conscious. With the pain, and that cry, memory returned in full. Limbs slow and leaden, he turned slightly. Fresh pains stabbed at his abdomen and leg, seared his face and chest, and blood began to seep from wounds he feared had already killed him.

Angelique.

He squeezed his eyes closed and wept once more, hating the weakness of his tears. Images of his granddaughter’s face filled his mind. Six-year-old Angelique had been a gift, her birth bringing his son, Marvin, back into his life. The boy had been the result of a single night’s fumbling with a waitress past her prime — a woman who had taken an interest in Braulio when he had been young and handsome, or at least young. He’d had very little contact with Marvin over the years, but that had changed with Angelique’s birth. Abandoned by the baby’s mother, and his own having passed on years before, Marvin had needed help. Braulio had little enough money, but he did what he could. His time, though, he lavished upon the girl.

Angelique was worth living for. Worth fighting for.

Sunlight shone through the small vent in the outer wall of the head. How long had he been out? Was this morning or afternoon? A wave of nausea rippled through him as he wondered how many hours remained before night would come again. Would the devils return? Was it even safe to assume they came only at night?

He steadied his breathing, stopped his tears, gritted his teeth against the pain, and listened. The creak of the ship. The clank of cables and pulley against the winch. Nothing else. Not so much as a gull’s caw to indicate he might have drifted toward land.

He thought of the captain, of the guns they’d brought to the island.

Of the radio.

Did he hear the soft crackle of static, even down here? He thought he did.

Mustering what little strength remained to him, he forced himself to stand. Waves of pain tore through him and he grunted, too weak even to cry out, and he pressed his hands more tightly to the seeping wound in his gut. Fresh beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and back and began to trickle down his skin. Blackness swam around the edges of his vision and he fell against the door, began to slide to the floor, unconsciousness claiming him yet again.

But Braulio fought it. Breathing through his teeth, lips peeled back, he forced his eyes to open. He adjusted one hand to clamp tightly on his wound and with the other he scrabbled at the lock and the handle, fingers slick with his own blood.

The radio.

The door had buckled in the middle, dented by the pounding of the devils. It stuck in its frame, but Braulio kept the image of his granddaughter firmly in his mind — that smile with the missing tooth in front. He pulled, heard a pop, and as the door opened something tore deep inside him and a fresh gush of blood squirted through the fingers he held clamped over his abdomen.

He wouldn’t allow himself to think of it. If the devils were still on the boat, would they smell it? Surely they would hear him. It didn’t matter. If he couldn’t radio for help, he would die.

But his instincts had been correct. As he slid himself along the wall and into the main cabin, nothing moved. The sun shone through the windows and he caught glimpses of blue sky. Sorrow engulfed him as he thought about Angelique. He needed to see her, to touch her face, to smell her hair. Braulio knew he had sinned in his life, and knew there would be hell to pay someday. Then Angelique had come into his life and, for an instant, he had changed his mind. How bad could his crimes have been if heaven could bring such a light into his life?

But no; now his payment had come.

He staggered up the steps into the wheelhouse. His vision blurred and he held tightly to the handrail. If he fell unconscious here and did not wake before nightfall … He had to use the radio and then get back to the head, lock himself in again.

Then it would be up to God who found him first — men, or devils.

In the wheelhouse he paused, listening. Where was the hiss of static? The radio had gone silent. Steadying himself, blinking to focus, he stared at the radio, thinking it had died.

Then a voice, clear and crisp, came from the radio.

“Mickey, this is Donald. Come in, Mickey.”