Son of Fortune (23 page)

he
Lady
May
's launch did not stop by the next morning to collect Aiden. Alice sent a note on the afternoon mail boat, thanking Aiden for his help with the sample collecting and explaining that they would spend the next few days testing and cataloging everything. But then nothing. Christopher invited them to a games party aboard the
Raven,
but they declined. More days passed, all alike. The weather never changed. New ships arrived and old ones departed, while those still at anchor waiting to load counted off the days that never changed. Aboard the
Raven,
there was little to do. Every morning and evening the sailors hauled up buckets of water and rinsed and brushed the decks stem to stern, but they were still always slippery from the dust. Laundry was hung out only overnight but was still often coated and slimy. Hatches were closed during the day, making the cabins generally unlivable. Fish kept the sailors busy in the mornings with repairs and general maintenance, but they were mostly idle the rest of the day. Everyone in the anchorage was mostly idle. Nearly two thousand men and at least a hundred women simply passed the days in small hours, seeking any entertainment or diversion they could.

One couldn't swim or even take a dip in the anchorage because of all the garbage from the ships, and the sharks that prowled about feasting on it. Some of the sailors rigged little sailing boats and held races around the islands. Some rowed out and passed the days fishing. But most of the idle hours were spent on the saloon ships. Fights were common and sobriety was rare. Guano ships, after all, did not attract the best of men.

Christopher went to the North Island every day, easing his boredom in the card games and always seeking the vital connections that might speed their escape from this place. Fish often went with him, but Aiden found the place too depressing. It was littered with detritus from the mining days, valueless bits of machinery, rusting gears and the splintering scraps of wood that were too flimsy even to be hauled over to the Middle Island for coolie shacks. The North Island was now nothing but bare rock, with only a glaze of new guano. Ten thousand years of accumulation of guano—three hundred feet, five million tons, countless millions of dollars' worth—had been hauled away in just ten years. Aiden tried taking walks there but always felt depressed after; there was a bleak and ghostly desolation in the air. None of the locals who sailed out from Pisco to do business in the anchorage would even spend a night in a boat offshore.

“Too many spirits,” one of the cooking women explained to Aiden in halting English. “Very bad place.”

Bad place or not, there was nowhere else for most of the ship-bound to go to escape the boredom, confinement and dust, so they came here to frolic amid the ruins.

It was five days after the day of the rock before he saw Alice again, on board another ship for another dinner party. She was distant and formal with him. As the punch was passed on deck before dinner, she stood fixed by Nicholas's side. Throughout the evening, she was the very picture of a quiet, proper wife. She was even dressed differently than she had been at the
Lady
May
's dinner, in the more traditional boned corset and full skirt with petticoats, and looked very prim. Aiden was seated too far from her to have any conversation at the table. Instead he nodded his way numbly through an endless discussion of labor unrest in England and the lack of quality house servants in India these days. But after dinner, when brandy was being served on the deck and Nicholas was smoking cigars with the other gentlemen, Aiden managed to have a few minutes alone with her.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked. “Have I offended you someway?”

“No, no, of course not! Don't think that.”

“You won't talk to me and will barely look at me. What should I think?”

“That life is complicated and often goes askew,” she said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

“I miss your company,” he said simply. “And here,” he added less formally, “I have something for you.” He took the little shard of pottery from his vest pocket and handed it to her. Alice's eyes brightened immediately.

“One of the coolies gave it to me,” Aiden explained. “I forgot about it for a few days, then, well, I didn't see you until now.”

“Did he say where he got it?”

“He found it in the guano. He says he has more. Probably wants to sell them.”

Alice examined it closer. “It could be from the Incas,” she said. “I don't know much about pottery, but I would love to see more. Will you go back and see what else he has? Oh, please, Aiden?” Her eyes were suddenly full of tears.

“Of course—but have I upset you?”

“No, not at all.” Alice wiped her eyes quickly on her handkerchief and glanced around the deck as if expecting to be scolded. “You are the least upsetting thing in the world. It is just this place. I am trapped here. I have nothing to do and nowhere to go. I am kept from all that is interesting. Captain Nickerly never approved of me climbing all over the guano in the first place, and after the…troubles, I am forbidden to return.” Her voice was strained. “It is selfish of me to complain that I have lost my small freedoms when a man has lost his life.” She squeezed the little shard in her hand and pressed it to her chest like it was a magic charm. “But this is the sort of thing a lady scientist is allowed to do—look at bits of pottery. I have some books on the Inca civilization. It will give me a pursuit and keep me from stabbing every single person on our ship through the heart with a dagger at night as they sleep.”

“Well, I am generally in favor of not stabbing,” Aiden said. “So I will gladly go.” Returning to the guano mine would never be done gladly, but he felt honored—was that the right word?—to be given this task for her. His feelings for Alice were a complete jumble, scattered somewhere in the broad plain between sisterly affection and romantic desire, complicated further by his admiration for her intelligence and his simple happiness to be near any woman after these months of only men.

“I'll go tomorrow. Will Nicholas and Gilbert want to come?”

“No!” she said, a little too quickly. “I mean, you are better alone.” She glanced around nervously. “This place is a horrid little village,” she whispered. “Full of gossip.”

Aiden had no idea what she was talking about. But before he could ask anything more, Nicholas walked over to join them.

“Our launch is second in the queue, dear,” Nicholas said, slipping possessively back to her side and resuming his hold on her arm. “Are you ready?”

iden had not been back on the island since the day of the execution, and he felt a sick twist in his stomach as they rowed toward the dock. But the punishment rock was empty, the chains clinking faintly as they were knocked by the occasional high wave. Everything was back to normal. He walked up the path past Koster's office and down into the mine site. He glanced at every coolie he could as he passed, but he didn't recognize the one who had given him the pottery shard. Aiden didn't expect he would. He had only briefly seen the man's face, and then he had immediately been nearly crushed by an avalanche of guano. Besides that, the coolies were all of similar build, with identical hair and clothing—and covered in dust. People in San Francisco joked about the Chinamen all looking the same, but Aiden had to admit that their features were still so foreign to him that he probably couldn't have picked the man out even with close inspection.

But whatever the Chinaman's real game—the sale of genuine artifacts or some kind of scheme—Aiden knew all dealings would have to be done through the scar-faced guard anyway. The coolies had little to offer for sale or trade, but what they did have was always brokered through the guards. Some made small wood carvings or decorative bone buttons that were popular as souvenirs. There was one valuable business, but it was never done in daylight. The bodies of coolies who had been buried for a while in the guano were passed off to museums or collectors in Europe as ancient Peruvian mummies. Sailors rowed out in the dark of the moon and returned with tightly wrapped bundles that, if successfully smuggled home, might earn them double their pay.

Aiden walked around the mine site pretending to be taking more samples of the guano, waiting for the scar-faced guard to approach him. He had no idea how he would receive the rest of the pottery bits. Neither the coolie nor the guard would have known he was coming. But there were always ways to arrange commerce.

It wasn't long before the guard appeared almost silently at Aiden's side. Aiden had seen plenty of rough-looking men in the lumber camp, but this man had the most frightening appearance. His eyes shone red in a face so black that, with the glisten of sweat, it looked like ink. The scar on his cheek was raised and ropey, knitted down the whole side of his face, from eyebrow to chin. His bare chest was coated with the yellow dust but striped with trickles of sweat. Aiden took the pottery shard out of his pocket and held it on his palm. The guard nodded slightly.

“Go to the houses at noon,” he said in Spanish, glancing toward the coolies' village. “Do not let others see you go there.”

Aiden knew enough words in Spanish to understand. But then the guard spoke in English, the words clearly learned just for Aiden's benefit. “See man near Buddha shrine.”

“Gracias,”
Aiden said. He had assumed that the guard would expect some kind of payment for his part in the arrangements, so he had brought a few twists of tobacco, a universal currency. The guard tucked it into his pocket and walked quickly away.

Aiden climbed up to the first terrace and crossed to the far side of the quarry. No one seemed to pay him much attention. He skidded down a rough path and walked toward the village. The shacks were clustered haphazardly, as the rocky terrain allowed. There was one main path, barely a yard wide, with dozens of narrower paths snaking off it into the warren. The ramshackle buildings tumbled and leaned into one another, so it looked as if one strong push would topple them all. The walls had such large gaps between the boards that Aiden could see through two or three rooms sometimes. It would have been crowded for a hundred men, but Aiden knew there were twice that many living here. Each shack held only a pathetic collection of rough wooden bunks with rolled-up reed mats and a few wooden crates. Aiden followed the main path until he came to what seemed like the center of the place, an open area, no more than twenty feet on each side—the village square. There were pieces of driftwood, a few canvas stools and some ancient, rusted pieces of a wheelbarrow arranged as seating. At one corner, a smooth, flat stone had been carried up from the shore and set upon a bed of smaller stones. In the middle of this altar was a Buddha statue about six inches high, carved from wood.

Aiden had seen shrines in Chinatown in San Francisco, but they were always cheerful and brightly painted, garlanded with flowers and surrounded by little dishes for offerings of rice, candies, fruits and incense. But this poor Buddha shared the barren world of his worshipers. There were, of course, no candies or fruits, but some pieces of old newspaper had been folded into flowers and placed carefully at his feet. Some kind of grass or reed had been cleverly twisted into a necklace for the idol, with tiny shells woven in like jewels. Tin can lids had been hammered into bowls. One held the stub of a candle, another a few grains of rice, a third a shriveled twist of orange peel. There were also three cans filled with water. Beyond recognizing the Buddha, Aiden knew nothing about the religion, but like all the other religions he was aware of, it didn't seem to be doing much good for its people.

In the corner opposite the shrine was a pile of rags on a reed mat, perhaps dirty clothes or bedding waiting to be carried down to the shore for washing. The rest of the square was empty—there was clearly no man waiting here for him. Had he misunderstood? Was the guard toying with him? The wind swayed through the flimsy shacks, making them creak eerily. There were no signs of life except for tiny lizards darting in and out of cracks and the omnipresent seabirds scraping the sky.

Where might a bag of pottery shards be left for him? Would such a thing have enough value to the other men that it would be well hidden? Of course, anything that might be sold for a few pennies to a sailor would have value here. Aiden searched all around the shrine but saw nothing. There were no weeds or brush to hide anything in, and the ground looked well trampled—no hole had been dug or rocks obviously rearranged. He walked carefully around the perimeter of the square, looking under every crate or bit of scrap. He came to the pile of rags and hesitated. It was dirty and stinking, but it was really the only place to hide something. Gingerly he plucked at the corner of one cloth and lifted it up, then jumped back in horror. A skull stared up at him from the pile of rags.

Was this a hideous joke? Then the skull gasped. Aiden realized, with even more horror, that the thing was not yet a skull. There was still skin over the bone, but it was pulled so taut over the cheekbones and forehead that it looked glossy and mottled, like mother-of-pearl. The man was still alive. His mouth was open, and shriveled lips curled back from toothless gums. There was a twitch in the sunken eye sockets, and two tiny jet buttons appeared, staring wetly at Aiden. The man breathed a faint, bubbly exhalation that smelled vaguely sweet and yeasty, like when you opened a cask of cider. A thin, witchy hand reached out from under the rags and tapped at the wizened lips, clearly begging for water. Aiden felt both a rush of compassion and a stab of revulsion.

His hands shook as he took out his canteen and pulled out the cork. He did not want to touch the man, partly afraid to damage him, partly revolted. But mostly he didn't know how to do it. Even if he sat the man up, his mouth was too tight and his jaw too stiff with rigor to drink from a cup. He couldn't just pour some in his mouth—the man would choke. Finally Aiden took off his bandanna, shook out the guano dust and soaked a corner with water. He dabbed the wet rag on the man's lips. The jawbone jerked forward and the man began to suck eagerly on the wet cloth. Aiden wet the bandanna a few more times, suckling the dying man like a newborn calf until he grew too weak from the exertion to suck anymore. The skeleton man's head sank deeper into the rag pile. The bony fingers spasmed at the air in a gesture of thanks, then groped weakly at the cloth that covered his body. He pulled back a corner, and Aiden saw a small bundle nestled against the man's sunken belly. The man's arm fell on top of the bundle, but he lacked the strength to pick it up. Aiden picked up the bundle and felt the crunch of broken pottery inside.

“Thank you,” Aiden said to the man. What should he do now? Say a prayer? He didn't know if the Chinese believed in prayer. He didn't know if he believed in prayer himself. And the man didn't speak English anyway. Did the Chinese believe in heaven?

“Rest in peace,” he finally said. Everyone believed in peace. He turned to leave, but the man made another sound, the desperate, frightened cry of a small animal. His eyes opened wide and the tiny claw-hands groped at the rags. He thrashed his head side to side and blinked rapidly. Then he raised one useless hand and waved it at the sky. The birds. Of course. Aiden shuddered. He lifted the ragged cloth back up over the man's face, tucking it around him and carefully covering his eyes.

Aiden stood motionless. He wanted to run away but couldn't. Movement equaled time. If he didn't move at all, time would not pass. If time did not pass, nothing more would happen. He clutched the bundle of broken things against his heart. The relentless birds filled the sky. The almost-dead man did not move. Nothing moved but the birds and the wind and the useless ticks of time.