Paradise Island by Charmaine Ross Page A

another.
    There was another boom. The high pitched whistle bore down on them, splitting the air, screaming for blood. There was another explosion, not far from where they climbed. Gregory grabbed Estelle, pulled him towards her, locked his arm around her and grabbed onto a boulder. The wall of the cliff shook with the pounding blast. They were sprayed with stones. His back was powdered with flying shards of rock that ripped through his shirt and cut his skin.
    â€œKeep going,” he said.
    He didn’t bother looking behind him at the ships. He knew they were too close. Gregory saw tufts of green grass atop the rocky cliff, whipping all about with the wind. The edge from the blast had weakened the rock, so that it crumbled beneath his hand. He tried to find purchase, but his hand came away with a fistful of dirt.
    â€œThere’s nothing to hold onto,” Estelle said.
    â€œWe’re nearly there,” Gregory said. They were just out of reach form the top. He reached over to her and cupped her bottom in the palm of his hands. Her derriere fit snugly in the breadth of his palms.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she hissed.
    â€œJust grab the top of the cliff and haul yourself over when I lift you up,” he said.
    He braced his legs, locked his knees against the cliff and pushed her up as high as he could reach. He felt her grappling for a handhold. Her body braced and he felt the strength in her as she climbed from his reach and up and over the cliff.
    He looked upwards. And saw nothing. She had disappeared.
    He looked over his shoulder at the ships. They were as close as they could be to the shore without dry landing themselves. The black-clad crew watched him from the gun rails. They seemed eerily focused. Quiet. There were no shouted orders, no cursing men. There was a black flag flying on the tallest mast. A skull and crossbones. The mark of Jack Cutlass. Gregory could not comprehend how Cutlass could get his ships to sail as fast as they did.
    There was a movement from below the gun rail. A canon had moved, was being squared up on him. He was a sitting duck with nowhere to go. He clung to the rock and braced himself. Hopefully they would be on target and he would know no more after a few seconds. The agony would be if they missed, bringing him down with a ton of rock to fall on top of him and smash him to pieces.
    â€œGrab this!”
    Estelle crouched over the edge of the cliff, her red hair streamed in wild, writhing waves as she held a long branch down to him.
    He gripped the end of the branch and she pulled. Using his feet and knees to crawl upwards, he allowed her to haul him up until he reached the edge of the cliff, swinging himself the rest of the way.
    There was another boom. He rolled on the grass carpeted, level ground, found Estelle’s hand, stumbled to his knees, tripped to his feet and ran as fast as he could away from the ocean, away from the cliff. He didn’t see where he went, just stumbled with a death grip on her hand, enclosed now in a blur of green, of snapping branches and deep shadow.
    The whistle surrounded him, brought him swinging to his right. Trees grew like a twisted fortress around them. He hurtled over fallen branches, caught Estelle when she stumbled, snatched her from her knees and had them pounding the earth away from the whistling.
    The explosion cracked the air. The earth rumbled, protested. Trees splintered, branches toppled. The after waves of the blast struck him, gripped him in a gigantic crushing force, made Estelle stumble, hit the ground. He followed, his hand locked with hers. Something cracked onto his head and he went face down in damp dirt. Estelle’s hand went limp, entwined with his. He couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t focus. Too heavy. Waves pounded into him and he rolled beneath them in a blanket of total, impregnable blackness.

Chapter Nine
    The gentle crackling of burning wood reminded him of his mother’s kitchen. He