fully open. Father’s hair was a rat’s nest, his face bruised, his spectacles gone. His shirt had torn and now hung in strips off his shoulders. I knew in that instant that the storm had been no dream.
Father chuckled and turned to Grendel, replying, “He’s awake.”
“Aye, good,” Grendel said. “There’ll be four of us, then.”
I gripped Father’s hand. The words chilled me. “Only four of us remain?” I asked.
“I thank God,” Father said softly, “that I am holding the most important of them.”
“We’re not likely to last much longer if we can’t rig the ship to sail again,” Grendel said grimly. “And with the masts all snapped off, I don’t—”
I heard a sudden shout from above. Musa. The fourth survivor.
“Can’t understand the blasted fellow,” Grendel said. “Too much trouble for him to learn English, I suppose—”
“‘Land,’” I said.
Grendel stared at me. “Say what?”
“Musa,” I explained. “He said, ‘land.’”
Grendel raced away from us, up the ladder. Father followed, then I, on shaky legs.
Abovedecks, I nearly reeled backward from the intense daylight. Where roiling fists of blackness had smothered us, now the sun blazed in a dome of cotton-flecked blue. Musa’s face was streaked with tears,his gap-toothed smile resembling the keys of a small piano. Dancing wildly, he gestured over the port bow.
On the watery horizon was a distant frosting of yellow green.
Schwenk. Coopersmith. Martins. Vizeu. Pappalas. Roark. Llewellyn. Finney. Gennaro. Caswell …
Grendel recited the sailors’ names, placing for each a perfect seashell on a mound of sand. Reciting a prayer, he touched the white scrimshaw that hung around his neck on a leather strip: a crucifix carved into the cross section of a whale’s tooth.
The battered Enigma lay anchored out to sea, tilted to starboard. It rocked on gentle swells, its timbers groaning in ghastly rhythm to Grendel’s prayers. I felt the heat of the pink-yellow sand through the soles of my shoes. Behind us, a thick scrim of jungle greenery stretched in both directions. Animals cawed and screeched, unseen. A great mountain loomed in the distance, black and ominous, as if the storm itself had gathered to the spot and magically solidified.
Earlier we had managed to reach the shore via rowboat. All morning and into the afternoon we had traveled to and from our wounded ship, salvaging kerosene, sailcloth, wood, a small amount of salt beef and hardtack, a leather pack, a sopping wet blanket, and Father’s revolver—the only firearm that had not been submerged in seawater and damaged. Miraculously I also found this journal, relatively dry and not yet used, which I put directly into my pocket—and a pencil. Everything else had either washed away or been ruined.
I had helped Musa and Grendel build four small tent huts, then briefly explored the jungle, finding a flat stone into which I scratched my name. Father had just unloaded and cleaned the gun, and he gave me a lesson in its use. He’d been unable to find extra ammunition, so we had only five bullets for hunting and protection. Accuracy would be essential. I was skittish about shooting, but Father scoffed. “Your aim was excellent when you were spitting wadded-up papers at your schoolmates!” he reminded me.
Now, as Grendel prayed, I bowed my head. But I could not concentrate due to a prickly sensation at the nape of my neck. I had the feeling I was being watched. I turned.
A shadow slipped from the trees toward Grendel.
“Behind you!” I cried out.
The little creature was swift, a scraggily monkey with one eye missing and a wicked grin. It snatched the scrimshaw from Grendel’s neck, scooting back into the jungle with a triumphant, chattering cry.
Grendel bellowed a string of words I was not supposed to know. Grabbing the gun, he added, “I understand monkey meat’s a grand delicacy, and I’m hungry. Who’s coming with me?”
Father eyed him warily. “Can
Father chuckled and turned to Grendel, replying, “He’s awake.”
“Aye, good,” Grendel said. “There’ll be four of us, then.”
I gripped Father’s hand. The words chilled me. “Only four of us remain?” I asked.
“I thank God,” Father said softly, “that I am holding the most important of them.”
“We’re not likely to last much longer if we can’t rig the ship to sail again,” Grendel said grimly. “And with the masts all snapped off, I don’t—”
I heard a sudden shout from above. Musa. The fourth survivor.
“Can’t understand the blasted fellow,” Grendel said. “Too much trouble for him to learn English, I suppose—”
“‘Land,’” I said.
Grendel stared at me. “Say what?”
“Musa,” I explained. “He said, ‘land.’”
Grendel raced away from us, up the ladder. Father followed, then I, on shaky legs.
Abovedecks, I nearly reeled backward from the intense daylight. Where roiling fists of blackness had smothered us, now the sun blazed in a dome of cotton-flecked blue. Musa’s face was streaked with tears,his gap-toothed smile resembling the keys of a small piano. Dancing wildly, he gestured over the port bow.
On the watery horizon was a distant frosting of yellow green.
Schwenk. Coopersmith. Martins. Vizeu. Pappalas. Roark. Llewellyn. Finney. Gennaro. Caswell …
Grendel recited the sailors’ names, placing for each a perfect seashell on a mound of sand. Reciting a prayer, he touched the white scrimshaw that hung around his neck on a leather strip: a crucifix carved into the cross section of a whale’s tooth.
The battered Enigma lay anchored out to sea, tilted to starboard. It rocked on gentle swells, its timbers groaning in ghastly rhythm to Grendel’s prayers. I felt the heat of the pink-yellow sand through the soles of my shoes. Behind us, a thick scrim of jungle greenery stretched in both directions. Animals cawed and screeched, unseen. A great mountain loomed in the distance, black and ominous, as if the storm itself had gathered to the spot and magically solidified.
Earlier we had managed to reach the shore via rowboat. All morning and into the afternoon we had traveled to and from our wounded ship, salvaging kerosene, sailcloth, wood, a small amount of salt beef and hardtack, a leather pack, a sopping wet blanket, and Father’s revolver—the only firearm that had not been submerged in seawater and damaged. Miraculously I also found this journal, relatively dry and not yet used, which I put directly into my pocket—and a pencil. Everything else had either washed away or been ruined.
I had helped Musa and Grendel build four small tent huts, then briefly explored the jungle, finding a flat stone into which I scratched my name. Father had just unloaded and cleaned the gun, and he gave me a lesson in its use. He’d been unable to find extra ammunition, so we had only five bullets for hunting and protection. Accuracy would be essential. I was skittish about shooting, but Father scoffed. “Your aim was excellent when you were spitting wadded-up papers at your schoolmates!” he reminded me.
Now, as Grendel prayed, I bowed my head. But I could not concentrate due to a prickly sensation at the nape of my neck. I had the feeling I was being watched. I turned.
A shadow slipped from the trees toward Grendel.
“Behind you!” I cried out.
The little creature was swift, a scraggily monkey with one eye missing and a wicked grin. It snatched the scrimshaw from Grendel’s neck, scooting back into the jungle with a triumphant, chattering cry.
Grendel bellowed a string of words I was not supposed to know. Grabbing the gun, he added, “I understand monkey meat’s a grand delicacy, and I’m hungry. Who’s coming with me?”
Father eyed him warily. “Can
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