Ghost Sea: A Novel (Dugger/Nello Series) by Ferenc Máté Page B

close. And why would they be so careless as to light a fire? Maybe they thought it safe so late at night. Or maybe they had to. Had to why? And why the hell would they have made less than ten miles since last night, unless something happened to them? Or to her? It was hard to breathe down there; I went above.
    “It’s all rocks in there,” I said. “You can’t get near those islands, unless….” I didn’t have to say more, Hay stared at me so hard I had to look away. “There’s a reef this side of them. We’ll drop the headsails and ghost. No anchor—the chain makes too much noise. You two handle the ketch. I’ll row the skiff in.”
    “I’d like to come along, if you don’t mind,” Hay said, but he wasn’t asking.
    “I don’t think—”
    “She’s my wife.”
    “Fine. But not a sound.”
    “Sailors say,” Nello cut in, “that flames on the sea are an evil omen. A spell. They draw boats into waterspouts, onto reefs.”
    “St. Elmo’s fire,” Hay said. “Or ignis fatuus , fool’s fire.”
    Nello went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Some sailors say those ships came to a bad end all because the captain or helmsman who saw the flame was deranged to start with. Went and followed it and sailed the ship to its death.”
    “Barroom gossip,” I grumbled, heading down the companionway. I unwrapped the Winchester from the oil-cloth and loaded three bullets. I didn’t need more. I’d probably only get one shot.
    When I went back up, Nello was on the foredeck silently lowering the jib. Hay held the wheel. He froze when he saw the gun. “What’s that for?”
    “I don’t speak Kwakiutl,” I said, and took the wheel from him because he had almost brought us into irons. I fell off and headed for the islands. When Nello came back and he saw the gun leaning in a corner, he looked silently at me. His eyes said nothing. With only the main up, we had slowed—we were less than a quarter mile from the rocks.
    “Another thing us kids used to do,” Nello said in a hard whisper, “was to try and help people who had been hexed. My brother had a woman almost kill him. Didn’t mean to, just wanted him so bad. We would be out fishing, then he’d suddenly get the shakes and say “I gotta go,” And he went. She lived at Gilford Island, a good ten miles, and he’d paddle his canoe as if the devil had him by the balls, then he’d run across the island through the salal, sweating and bleeding, and he’d grab her and off they rushed to do the work. He’d stay a few days, then come back and fish. Then, wham, off again. He was down to skin and bones. Our aunt lived in the woman’s village and spied on her. One day when she went swimming, the aunt went through her clothes and found it. Tiny, wrapped up tight in the belt of her skirt. Our aunt ran home and put it in water to take it apart, otherwise the spell might have killed him. It was all wrapped in hair—his and hers—and there were two clay figures inside: a man and a woman. She had her tongue in his mouth and he had his pecker inside her. With great care, the aunt took them apart and threw her in the fire and sank him in the sea. My brother never thought of her again.”
    “He had some good times, though, didn’t he,” I snapped.
    We were so close in, I swear I felt the reef rising below us. I signaled for Hay to take the wheel.
    We lowered the skiff stern first over the rail and Nello handed down the oars and rifle. He held on to the rifle and pulled me so close his face almost touched mine. “Be careful,” he whispered. “Something’s up.”
    “I know,” I hissed. “We’re hexed.”
    “Hexed, I don’t know. Him , I do.” He jerked his head toward the companionway. “A bonfire to light a pipe?”
    Hay neared and Nello pulled away. We pushed off.
    I rowed in short, even strokes to keep the oars from banging the gunwale. The ketch began to melt into the darkness. As I glanced over my shoulder at the islands, a fish jumped with a loud splash