Читать книгу Thieves of the Black Sea - Joe O'Neill - Страница 19

Inez had been in the truck for hours and hours. Her stomach growled and she huddled her arms around her legs, pulling them against her chest to keep somewhat warm. With nobody to talk with, and nothing to read, she was resigned to staring at the back of her truck and the windshield of the truck behind them. Everything about the bed of the truck was noisy and uncomfortable. The hard steel bruised her butt and tailbone. Occasionally, she nodded off and her head drooped to one side, only to be woken up with a jolt when the truck tires hit a big bump.

Her ankles and wrists were tied, making escape an impossibility. Her mouth was gagged so she couldn’t call for help.

For the moment, she was resigned to being a prisoner.

At last, the truck stopped and a German man opened up the tailgate, grabbed her roughly, and proceeded to untie her and drag her by the arm to a bathroom in the rear of a filling station. Once she was finished with the facilities, he removed her gag, handed her a sandwich and a bottle of milk. After she’d finished her meal, he put her gag back on, tied her up and returned her to the back of the truck.

He did all of this without saying a word.

Once back in the truck, Inez felt much better. The truck rumbled along for hours and then, once again, they stopped at a filling station, she was allowed to relieve herself, given another sandwich and milk, and directed to the back of the truck.

A full day passed and once again it turned to night.

At one point, Inez thought she heard what sounded like Italian when the truck stopped to ask directions.

Again, the truck stopped, she used the facilities, was given yet another sandwich, and then got back in the truck. The man never said a word. He closed the tailgate and, instead of starting the truck, she heard him saying something to the other driver and the men disappeared.

That’s when someone leapt over the tailgate into the bed of the truck! The figure was like a shadow, and it moved so quickly that Inez thought she may have imagined it.

“Inez, don’t make a sound,” the voice said.

“Margaret!” Inez said in a muffled voice from behind her gag.

“Ssshhhhh,” Margaret whispered.

Inez could clearly see her friend Margaret Owen’s blond hair in the pale moonlight.

Margaret moved behind Inez and frantically began sawing at the ropes that tightly bound her hands.

“I have to cut these before those men return,” Margaret whispered.

Inez felt her arms being pulled and pushed as Margaret hurriedly tried to cut the rope with nothing but a rusty piece of steel. Inez began to feel the ropes loosen and then, finally, her hands were free.

They heard the men’s voices returning. Margaret immediately ducked behind one of the crates. Inez kept her hands behind her back when one of the drivers peeked in to check on her.

Inez tried to look pathetic.

Satisfied, he threw out his cigarette and went to the cab of the other truck. The two engines roared to life and the trucks began rumbling down the road once again.

“Keep your arms behind you in case he can see into the bed of the truck. We’ll have to wait for a chance when he’s not so close, and then we’ll jump out,” Margaret explained.

Crawling on her belly, Margaret began cutting loose the ropes from Inez’s ankles. She sawed at the rope in quick, scissor-like motions. Inez could hear her labored and quick breathing. She hoped Margaret wasn’t panicking.

Margaret stayed on her belly next to Inez for ten minutes. The second truck followed so closely that Inez could smell the engine oil just behind them.

The first truck went over a hill and then began to pass around a bend. The second truck’s engine faded into the background and its headlights dimmed from view as it struggled to keep up.

“We’re going too fast! The roads are slippery from a rain,” Margaret whispered aloud.

The truck continued to gain speed, whipped around a corner, splashed through a mud puddle, tossing both Inez and Margaret to the right side of the truck’s bed.

“What a fool!” Margaret whispered again.

The truck edged around another corner and both girls began to feel the tail end swerve. Then, the left side of the truck tipped up, both wheels off the ground, until the truck was completely out of control, moving on only one of its two right wheels.

The truck toppled over and down a dirt embankment. Margaret and Inez bumped and tossed around the back of the truck. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as the truck rolled down the hill.

At one point, the rolling slowed to a temporary stop, and Margaret saw an opportunity. Grabbing Inez by the armpits, she launched both of them toward the back of the truck, out of the bed and into the mud as the truck began to roll again, this time with much more momentum. The truck stopped only when it crashed into a tree.

Then there was stillness. The smell of gasoline permeated the air. The truck was smashed to bits. The windshield was crushed and broken glass was everywhere. The front grill was bent. The back was a mess of shards of steel and ripped pieces of cloth.

Inez could see the torso of one of the German soldiers slumped out of the passenger window. Blood poured from his head as his arms drooped to the side. She reached up to feel something sticky on her scalp, and her left elbow throbbed. Margaret looked a bit dizzy and was holding her ankle and grimacing. Inez couldn’t believe it when Margaret sprung to her feet and started barking orders.

“Let’s go!” Margaret ordered, and the two schoolgirls, bloodied and covered in mud, limped away from the carnage and into the beginning of a forest. They heard the second truck stop and then the voices of men behind.

“Hurry up Inez, we don’t have much time,” Margaret urged as they ran into the forest and away from their German captors.

The day wore on and the boys went about helping the crew with various chores and learning more about the Osprey. After a couple of hours, Tariq felt light-headed and tired. He carefully returned to his room, closed the door, and felt an odd sense of dread begin to overtake him.

The awful image of Melbourne Jack dying in his arms flooded his mind. Watching the life drain from Jack’s face, and then having to make the horrible decision to let his friend’s body slip into the sea.

Slumped on the bed, Tariq placed his face in his hands. He felt as if the strength was leaving his body.

Then, inexplicably, different images began filling his head. Images of places he had never been and memories he didn’t have.

A field covered in mud and barbed wire. Two trenches, only a hundred yards apart, and then two armies running at one another. Thousands of men, some in strange masks, charging at one another across the field through a light fog, rifle shot after rifle shot ringing out, and a collision of bayonets and the sick sucking sound of a young soldier’s breath leaving his body, his belly pierced by a bayonet. Blood spurted from the boy’s mouth and dribbled down his chin. Tariq watched the scene unfold in his mind—so clear and so real—until the young soldier collapsed onto the muddy battlefield. A young boy with blond hair, barely older than himself.

He was so close that Tariq could have touched him.

The awful images continued until he forced himself to sit up and relax in the stillness and safety of his cabin.

What were these images?

Looking at the side table next to the bed, he noticed his brown and green bag, which was made from crocodile skin and resembled a small knapsack.

Opening it up, he pulled out a diary, its pages made from some kind of thin leather. Sketched on the pages were words in an ancient dialect, alongside many diagrams and calculations.

This was the diary of Alexander the Great.

Tariq had guarded it with his life on the ocean and now scolded himself for leaving it unattended in his cabin. From now on, it would never leave his sight.

He rubbed his hands along its cover.

Find the panther to begin your journey. Return the diary, Tariq!

The voice belonged to Melbourne Jack. Tariq heard it so clearly that he almost jumped. During his delirium, he thought he had just dreamt about Melbourne Jack, but now he understood that Jack’s continued presence in his life wasn’t just a dream. And now, Jack seemed to be in the room with him, giving him instructions.

Breathing heavily and still dazed, Tariq held the diary in his hands. It felt sacred, like it was becoming a part of him.

“Are you here, Jack?” he whispered.

Begin your journey, Tariq! Find the panther in Constantinople!

There was the voice again inside his head. It was unmistakably that of Melbourne Jack.

Tariq suddenly felt himself tire. A sense of peace came over him, and he leaned back on the bed, holding the diary tightly to his chest, until he fell into a deep and restful sleep.

Tariq awoke with a start, still clutching the diary. Miraculously, he felt refreshed—the dizziness and weariness had left him. His body was no longer sore. He wasn’t sure how long he had slept, but his energy had returned.

After placing the diary in the bag, Tariq put his head and arm through the strap and wore it around his neck and shoulder. The crocodile skin felt cool against his chest. Melbourne Jack had ingeniously designed the bag so it would be completely waterproof and impervious to almost any puncture. There was an interior lining made of ox leather, treated so it would be fire resistant and then folded over once more to prevent any kind of water from seeping in. The outer layer, made of thick crocodile skin, was so strong it could almost stop a bullet. It was secured by a leather strap, braided to add strength and then woven into the lining of the bag.

Putting on a cotton shirt to cover up the bag, Tariq made his way back up on deck. It was almost dusk; the sun would descend in the horizon in another half an hour.

Fez and Aseem were playing with Panos and throwing scraps of fish to Lako over the side of the boat. The boys laughed as the shark eagerly ate the chunks of tuna and mackerel.

Standing next to them, Tariq smiled. Panos handed him a piece of fish and Tariq tossed it to the hungry shark.

“Are you okay? We checked on you a couple of hours ago but you were sound asleep,” Aseem asked Tariq, obviously concerned.

“Yes, I am fine, thank you,” Tariq replied, appreciative of his friends’ concern.

“Tonight, Captain Scopas told me he would begin teaching us about celestial navigation. That’s how sailors navigate by the stars. They’ve been doing it for thousands of years,” Fez explained.

“How far is it from Morocco to Constantinople?” Tariq asked.

“Just over one thousand six hundred nautical miles. We’re traveling about eight knots an hour and a knot equals one nautical mile. So, we’re travelling approximately one hundred and ninety nautical miles per day!” Fez explained.

“Why do they call it a knot? Why not just say mile?” Tariq asked.

Fez shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’m not sure—maybe because a nautical mile is longer than a regular mile?”

“That’s silly,” Aseem said.

“Everything is different on a boat. It’s not even called a rope; it’s called a line. Left is port and right is starboard. The front is the bow and the rear is the stern.”

“Why do they call everything different?” Tariq asked.

“I guess when you’re stuck at sea for weeks at a time, you get pretty bored,” Fez replied.

After explaining about how a keel keeps the boat upright beneath the water, Fez and Aseem sheepishly looked at one another.

“Tariq, we wanted to do something to honor Melbourne Jack, but we didn’t want you to think it was dumb,” Aseem explained.

“What?”

“We were talking—that when Aji died, Zijuan told you to light a lantern to honor him. I was thinking we could make lanterns to place on the ocean in memory of Jack?”

Tariq nodded his head and put his hand on Aseem’s shoulders.

“I would like that very much,” he replied and smiled.

Aseem went over to a wooden pail and took out some small pieces of driftwood and tiny pieces of candle cut from a much larger candle given to them by Scopas. Fez helped place the pieces of wood and candles on the deck between Aseem and Tariq.

As the boys constructed the small floating lanterns, Tariq shared with his friends the last conversation he had with Melbourne Jack.

“Jack told me he didn’t want to be mourned. He wanted us to be bold in our lives and be true to ourselves and each other,” Tariq said quietly. “He made me promise to return the diary to his circus, to Foster Crowe. He didn’t know where the circus is now, but that if I go to India I can learn its location.”

Fez and Aseem nodded and solemnly focused on the project of making lanterns from the pieces of driftwood, each with a tiny candle in the middle. They were careful to provide plenty of leverage on either side so the wood wouldn’t collapse. Once finished, they lit the candles and then placed them in the wake of the Osprey. Slowly, the floating lanterns all drifted away, flickering in the dusk.

Each boy closed his eyes in silent prayer for Melbourne Jack, and then each bowed in deference to his memory.