Son of Fortune (3 page)

“I am Captain Neils. That is Sven the Ancient. Go with him now. He will show you the bears!”

“Yes, sir.”

Aiden followed Sven the Ancient down a narrow ladder and through an even more narrow passageway. The ship smelled like tar and rope, stale smoke, dubious meat and the fusty damp of men living in close quarters. The old man ducked at a beam, then led him through the center of the ship. The ceiling was so low Aiden could barely stand upright. There was a wooden table, with benches on three sides and two chairs on the other. Not two feet away was a tiny galley, where a little stove was just going cold, with a pan half full of breakfast biscuits still sitting on top. Aiden's stomach lurched with hunger. His last meal had been over twenty-four hours ago, some scraps of stolen bread and cheese, eaten in a cave while hiding out a blizzard and waiting on death.

The old man led Aiden through a final dark passageway, then slid back the bolts on a door. He handed the lantern to Aiden and turned away, still without saying a word. Aiden crept cautiously into a small hold. The light shone on the bars of an iron cage and cast stripes on a yellowish heap inside. At first it looked simply like a pile of old sacks or moldy straw. Then two little polar bear cubs rolled out of the pile and stumbled awkwardly toward him. They chirped and whimpered. Their little legs didn't seem to know quite what to do with their dumpling bodies.

“Hello there,” he said as he pressed his palm against the bars. Both cubs began to lick eagerly at his hand. Their tongues were soft as lettuce. Then the moldy pile snorted, snuffed, lifted a massive block of head and charged. Great black paws slammed against the bars, claws carving the air. The mother bear roared, and Aiden felt her hot breath on his face. He scrambled back as far as he could, which didn't feel anywhere near far enough. The cage rattled and clanked, but held together. It was barely big enough for the bear to turn around in.

“There now, bear,” Aiden said stupidly. His heart pounded so hard his fingertips throbbed. Yes, he thought, cage or not, polar bears were frightening. Then the mother bear fell back weakly into the dirty straw. Her breathing was heavy, and the enormous ribs pulsed beneath the thin yellowed fur. The two cubs, oblivious to her distress, burrowed into her side, trying to suckle. The mother bear lifted her head a few weary inches, then gave a great sigh and lay still. The cubs gave up and stumbled back toward Aiden with pitiful cries of hunger.

Aiden added up the days that must have been required for her capture and transport from Alaska, and came up with a month or more. And it was January, so she must have been taken from hibernation in her birthing den, so she would have gone two or three months now without food, maybe longer. What a wretched journey she must have had, he thought. One day her world was all snug den and nuzzly babies. Then crashing men with shovels and nets and chains. Now this place of dank darkness and iron bars.

The cubs were certainly fat enough and could last the four or five days to San Francisco, but the mother might not. He knew the tortured breath and glazed eye of starvation; man or animal, it was pretty much the same. And the cubs would probably need to nurse for at least a few months more once they got to their new home, so if the mother died, they would likely be doomed as well. He felt the ship start to rumble as the steam engine roared to power. He had to decide now. His last attempt to do good had resulted in pain, death and banishment. But this time it was only bears.

iden liked hunting. He did not like the factual stab of death or the moment when life seeped from an animal's eyes, but he did not feel sad either, for death was meat and he had lived too long with hunger. But he liked tracking an animal. He liked testing his own skill, human and mechanical, against the animal's, responsive and instinctual. He had a weapon, but animals owned the world, so it seemed pretty fair. There was always a moment when he had the bow drawn and the prey in his sights that he felt connected to the animal. It was a sensation of both total excitement and total calm.

But hunting seals wasn't real hunting. They just lay on the rocks like plums. All he really had to do was not spook them. The big ship with its noisy steam engine would clearly spook them, so Aiden suggested Captain Neils anchor a few hundred yards out from the rocks and let them row in close with the dinghy. The sea was calm and the wind mild. The late-morning sun was a watery shimmer through the light fog. Aiden knew a little about how Indians along the coast hunted seals, but that was a group effort with many men in several canoes, armed with harpoons, nets and clubs. He had one rowboat, three other men, his bow and arrows, a gaff, a blunt hatchet, an odd scrap of cargo netting and a shotgun so old it might have hunted woolly mammoths.

“Can we just drift in from here?” Aiden whispered as they neared the rocky island in the rowboat. He was pretty sure all the sailors spoke English, though two of them had said no more than “Hello” or “Sit there.” The third was a bit friendlier. He had offered Aiden the leftover biscuits and, defying his captain, a cup of coffee, still slightly warm. He had introduced himself as Fish, and at first Aiden thought he was misunderstanding some odd Swedish name.

“No—Fish,” the man had said, wiggling one hand in a swimming motion. “Like a sardine.” There was no further explanation. He might have been related to Captain Neils, Aiden thought, perhaps a brother, for they shared the same stocky build, blue eyes and thick blond hair, but Fish had none of the captain's odd twitches or strange manners and seemed in general more easygoing. He was younger, maybe twenty, and had no accent, only a slight lilting rhythm to his speech.

The island was the size of a small-town churchyard, with about thirty seals basking lazily in the weak sun, and another dozen swimming around the broad, rocky fringe. A sharp odor sliced over the boat. One of the sailors murmured some words of Swedish disgust.

“Go on,” he growled. “Shoot one and let's go.”

Aiden stood, braced his leg against the wooden seat and lifted the bow. He had not tied any string to his arrow, since any string, except for sewing thread, would be too heavy, and sewing thread would be useless. He was hoping for a good shot and an instant kill. He didn't know if a seal would float or sink, so he picked one that was dozing near the center of the island, hoping the rocks would prevent it from rolling far. But a kill shot from a bobbing boat was going to be luck as much as aim. He tried to feel the rhythm of the swells, but it was like playing the accordion: nothing remotely like anything he knew. Besides that, he was feeling a bit seasick: coldly sweaty, hollow behind the eyes and ghastly full in the stomach. As he drew the bow, he felt pain stab through his injured ribs. He loosened the pull, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and focused beyond the pain.
Find
your
center.
Aiden opened his eyes, drew again, sighted his prey and shot. The seal reared its head, gave out a bellow, twitched its flippers and tumbled down the rock, coming to a stop just a few feet from the water's edge. The little island erupted with noisy chaos as all the other seals lumbered toward the sea.

“Go! Go!” Fish cried out excitedly. The rowers gave a few hard pulls, then steered carefully through the skirt of rocks. It looked for a minute as if the seal were in hand, but just as they neared, it suddenly lurched up, flippered wildly and splashed into the water. A faint trail of bubbles frothed up through the calm surface.

“Back!” Fish directed the rowers. “Watch the rocks.”

Aiden kept his eyes on the seal. “There!” he shouted. It floated motionless just below the surface.

“Grab it quick and hold on,” Fish said. “I'll get the gaff.”

Aiden leaned over and grabbed one of the rear flippers just as the body began to sink. It felt so strange he almost let go. It was furry but slick, dense but bony, impossibly heavy but somehow delicate. He strained to hang on until Fish came alongside with the gaff and hooked the body. Together they held the carcass until the men rowed them out of the surf zone.

“How do we get it in the boat?” Aiden panted. His arms were trembling from the effort to hold it. From the sea the seals had looked no bigger than dogs, but this one, though medium-sized, still weighed at least two hundred pounds. Even if they could manage to haul the dense jelly body into the boat without tipping it over, the extra weight might sink them.

“We don't,” Fish said. “The captain will bring the ship to us, then haul it up with the winch. We only have to row out a little more, away from the rocks to deeper water. Get the rope there—we'll tow the seal.”

Of course. Someday, Aiden thought, he might not always be stupid. He tied one end of the rope securely around the seal's tail, took a turn around one of the flippers just for good measure, then fastened the other end to an iron ring in the stern. He suspected the sailors would be judging his knots, and he wasn't going to risk embarrassing himself by them coming loose. Once the seal was secured, Fish deftly unhooked the gaff. The body drifted back, trailing a wide slick of blood. The boat jerked as the cumbersome weight tugged on the rope.

“Okay.” Fish waved at the other sailors to continue rowing, until they were twenty yards from the island, over clear, deep blue water. Then Fish pulled out a whistle and gave a few short blasts, which were answered by the ship's bell. The fog was starting to burn off, so they would be able to see the ship approaching in just a few minutes. The sailors shipped the oars and took out their pipes. Aiden leaned back against the stern and watched the seals swim and splash, still barking objections to the disruption. Now that the excitement of the hunt was over, lame as it actually was, he felt extraordinarily tired. He had traveled many miles and slept only five or six hours in the past three days. But soon enough they would be back on the boat and he would have nothing to do for days but ride along. Soon mother bear would eat and her babies could nurse and all would be well. Aiden trailed his right hand idly over the side. The cold water felt good on his scraped palm. For the first time in days, he felt safe. There were no plans to make, no action to take. He was half dozing when he felt a slight push of water wash over his hand. Then something hard brushed across his knuckles. Thinking it a bit of driftwood, he pushed it away. Odd feeling for driftwood, though, he thought vaguely. It was smoother than any log, and rough, like sandpaper. He felt it again, a harder knock this time. Suddenly the seals all erupted in loud, urgent cries. Aiden opened his eyes and saw them leaping frantically out of the water onto the rocks. Then he saw a dark shadow pass beneath the little boat. He thought at first that they had drifted over an old sodden log. Then the log turned and showed a white belly and a great black eyeball. A glossy fin split the tranquil surface.

There is a big gap in the brain between seeing a shark and realizing it is indeed actually a shark. Time went slow and strange. Five seconds or an hour passed, then a huge gray head thrust out of the water. White dagger teeth flashed. The shark grabbed the dead seal, shook it violently and tossed it into the air. A spurt of blood arced across the sky. Red drops hit the water, loud as stones. Then the shark disappeared. The dead seal bobbed behind the dinghy, still tied, but with a ragged bite mark slashed across the middle of its body. Strings of flesh and intestine drifted out like party streamers. A thread of air bubbled out from some punctured inner cavity. A thick swirl of blood stained the water.

No one spoke, no one moved. For many long seconds, the only sound was the gentle lapping of water against the fragile hull of their very tiny boat. Then the shark roared up again, mouth open like a bear trap. The shark was nearly as long as the dinghy, and almost half as wide. It clamped down on the seal's body and thrashed it side to side, so hard a wall of water washed into the little boat. Time shifted again, speeding up now. Aiden felt all his senses overlapping. Somehow he understood what was about to happen. The rope had not snapped, and the shark's glistening gray head, unnaturally fine and terribly real, was alongside, the seal carcass in its mouth. The two-hundred-pound seal looked as small and limp as a dead dove in the mouth of a dog.

The shark yanked the boat hard. A wave of cold water rushed in. The rope held. The knots held. The bolt held. The shark let go again but swam back and forth in tight, jerky passes, puzzled by the unexpected difficulty of obtaining this simple morsel that had been dangled in front of him.

“The hatchet!” Aiden shouted. “Give me the hatchet! We have to cut it loose!”

Aiden saw Fish struggling to his knees and reaching for the shotgun. Aiden doubted that the wet gun would fire or that it would do much to such a huge beast even if it did. He crawled forward, climbed over the seat and grabbed the little hatchet.

Then one of the sailors screamed, and Aiden saw the rush of water as the shark charged again. He heard the futile clink of the gun. He saw a constellation of teeth. The shark clamped once again on the dead seal and yanked it away. But still the rope didn't break. One side of the boat was dragged completely underwater, pitching the other side up. Aiden managed to grab the high-side gunwale and hold on. Fish did not. Aiden watched him topple soundlessly over the side. The little boat righted itself, but as it did, the rope recoiled, pulling the seal into the swamped dinghy. Now the dead seal was bobbing right there between their legs, entrails swirling around Aiden's ankles. Aiden grabbed hold of the rope, flung it over the oarlock and whacked it with one stroke of the little hatchet.