The Emerald Series: Volume I I

By Kelly Savage

EMERALD EARTH, EMERALD ICE Bart finally finds his son, who was abducted as an infant in Book One. However, the shocking truth almost destroys him and his children. One goes to Vietnam in hopes of dying. John Jean and Karensa’s twin sons in Venezuela take different paths, one becoming an activist Catholic priest while the other undertakes a perilous rescue mission in the Amazonian jungle. The youngest son returns to confront the father who sent him away when he was a small boy. The four sons and daughter from Book One’s love triangle enter adulthood facing difficult trials and painful truths... EMERALD MISTS Kara is back. She finishes college and goes forth to claim her beloved ranch in Aspen, Colorado. She takes part in a wild mustang Gather and goes on an action-filled Amazon river adventure with two men, both related through to her through her grandparents, Bart and Karensa. One holds the secret of the lost Cherokee “Karensa Emerald”.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Oct 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483475059

Book preview

Ice

CHAPTER ONE

They had given the soil all they had for three years and still her selfish womb remained barren but for the millions of stone eggs it yielded as they worked the fields; their shoulders were raw with the effort to fertilize what would not conceive.

Ah, goddammit! Matt exclaimed, his despair and bitterness carrying over to Bart’s row as he held up a rotted turnip, Look at this, Dad, them worms got ‘em again!

Bart inspected them, the autumn sun shutting its eyes above. He had shed his sweater a short while back as the sun had leaned on him, heavy as the failure beneath his boots, but now he shivered.

Don’t let it get to you, Matt, he said deeply, aware of the boy’s frustration, The carrots are gone, too. I guess we’ll just have potatoes again this year.

Yeah, they seem to be all we ever get! Matt snorted, their efforts again reaped by the insects; the only life beneath the dusty soil, Must be we fool this damn earth into thinking they’re rocks.

Bart grinned wryly at Matt’s joke as they threw down the hole-ridden tubers and went to the pump outside the farmhouse, washing the brown blood of sacrifice off their calloused hands.

We ought to have the fattest bugs on the island in those fields, he said as he wiped his hands and rolled down his sleeves.

I don’t know, Dad, Matt replied seriously, taking the towel, The drought kinda messed up the highlands, too. Dr. Walters and I were out at the Chisholm’s last night—he’s the one with the horse that ripped its gut on the fencing—and he’s pretty disgusted, too. The corn weevils got his hog corn, so he was talking about slaughtering them, even though they’re not as fat as he wanted. He says he can’t afford to feed them now that the corn’s gone, too.

Well, at least we’ve got fish, Bart replied with a shrug, his eyes looking down to the sea, past the fields with their sun-whitened stones bunched in soft green grass like shells peeping out of seaweed on a beach.

Oh, fish is okay, Dad, ‘cept that it gets kinda boring, you know. Fish, potatoes and milk. I’m not complaining–

Well, then, you’re the only one who’s not! Bart said heartily, I’m pretty damn sick of it! Let’s go into town and get us a steak dinner.

Matt smiled and grabbed his jacket,

Do you want to take my Jeep? I’ve got to work down at the hospital tonight and can drop you back home after we eat.

That damn Walters works you too hard! Bart scowled as he climbed in, kicking Matt’s animal paraphernalia aside, He ought to pay you more for all the work you do.

They drove around the wide cove, blackened with sunset.

Matt nodded as Bart grumbled—it was a ritual; they said the same things often. What he was earning with Dr. Walters was unimportant to Matt: the knowledge he got was worth more than any salary. He had all of Gonzales’s old vet texts and had bought some that Walters recommended and he read them often enough to have memorized much of the material. He was making superior grades in the correspondence courses in zoology that he took from the University of Toronto and all of his work with Dr. Walters reinforced his book learning. Angus Walters didn’t treat him like a kid: he actually used him as his assistant, teaching and explaining to him everything he did. Matt didn’t care if he got paid or not. But Bart growled again about how his grades at college were suffering because of his long hours at the animal hospital.

The square jaw tightened and Matt pressed his lips together as he tried to decide whether to tell Bart or not. He chomped his teeth tight and then interrupted,

Dad, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about my performance in school— Matt took a deep breath, – I’m thinking about cutting my load to just the science courses that require labs and taking equivalency tests for a lot of the undergrad credits.

What? Bart shouted, grabbing the dash, I thought you wanted to go to veterinary college?

Well, Dad, I— Matt didn’t know how to say it without it sounding like bragging, Dr. Walters thinks that if I worked for him full-time for a couple of years, that with what I know now and all counting as practical training, I could just take the board exam and get my DVI without wasting all those years getting bored with what I already know.

He expected a bellowing protest and braced himself for the roar, but instead Bart asked a quiet question,

You aren’t doing this because you think I can’t afford to send you to college, are you?

Oh, no, Dad! Honest! That didn’t even enter into it—

And if you can’t pass those vet board exams?

He looked over at Matt, his grey-flecked hair fluttering from the open Jeep window, the brown eyes squinting in his wind-burned, creased face. His glasses were specked with farm dust; he rarely bothered to clean them now unless he read. The end of his impetuous nose was peeling and he scratched it as Matt replied, his eyes wise, beyond his years,

"Are you kidding? I think I could pass them now!

Dr. Walters had some exam prep books in his stuff and I got all the answers right. He couldn’t believe it himself!

Bart looked at him steadily, not speaking until they drove around the hill called the Old Man due to the bushes that grew like curly whiskers on the side of its craggy face, and saw beyond it the lights of the town of Antigonish.

I think you’re old enough to know what you want, Matt.

Matt smiled, his throat tight in thanks.

I’ll be on full wages, too, he said, Maybe we’ll be able to buy something good to eat on a regular basis.

Oh, no: you’re not supporting your old man! Bart said gruffly, yet his eyes were twinkling at the boy’s unselfishness, And besides—I thought you said you liked fish, potatoes and milk!

I like steak better! Matt said with a grin, parking the Jeep with a jolt as they arrived at the restaurant.

CHAPTER TWO

Bart enjoyed the solitude of farming, but he couldn’t seem to get the farm to grow anything but feelings of frustration. He knew he would have to make the decision soon: to work off the farm or starve. His pride would not let him touch the tainted Moorehead money Kari had left. But he would not let Matt support them, even though he appreciated the boy’s gesture. They had grown together on the rocky farm in a way Bart couldn’t find possible in Globe. The long hours in the fields and at the chores and fishing had melded their flesh and minds closer than genes could have, uniting their hopes and dreams on strands of straw and sacrifice. He loved the boy as a true son and admired his innate abilities with the animals, without which he knew their efforts at dairying would have failed. After the last calving Matt had recognized the mastitis even before Bart had suspected a problem and they had avoided the loss of his best milker. He had a way with the sheep, too, getting them to pasture where he wanted without force. It was almost as if the animals read his mind, Bart thought, swigging the last of his ale.

He signaled the bartender for another and tried to decide what type of work he’d try to find for the winter.

Law enforcement was out, definitely: he’d had enough of that. And his repairs on the farm had convinced him that he wasn’t a carpenter, though Matt had the knack.

Truth was, he’d gotten too damn old, Bart thought with bitterness at how his endurance was failing him in subtle ways. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t keep up with Matt, which reason told him was natural, but pride made him resent any limitations where there had been none before. He had not realized that farming was such hard work when he had decided to move to the island, nor had he remembered how severe winter could be.

The storms had ripped his new pier to shreds and carried it out to sea the first year, the second year the drifts had blocked the doors and he had pulled a muscle in his chest from all the shoveling to the outbuildings. The pipes had frozen both years and they had boiled snow on the wood stove. And the wood chopping—that was a full-time job in itself, trying to keep a supply in to last the winter.

The work had not bothered him as it turned his muscles to iron and his hands thick with pads of roughened scale; what did bother him was the way nature would sabotage his sweat-stained labors, snatching what should have been his to reap in an unfair cycle of hope and despair, drought and freeze. Nature was the supreme thief and Bart was powerless to combat its victimization of himself and Matt. It was doubly frustrating for a man used to claiming victory over his enemies.

He asked the man next to him at the thick oak bar what he thought about the matter and the fellow grinned and said,

Aye, ye couldna’ get me on a farm again if ye whipped me!

That bad? Bart asked, his brows raised in curiosity at the man’s vehemence.

He watched the short, square, grizzled seaman gulp his ale, his striped sweater sopping the overflow over similar stains. He had an Irish elfin smile and his eyes were quick to dance with mischief. He was sea-leathered, the fair hair bleached and stiff, and he was likable for all his ugliness.

Bastard place took me wife and bairns.

Bart’s eyes lowered in sympathy.

Aye, ‘twas dud starvin’ thad got ‘em so weakened they didna’ have a chance againsd dud influenza. Bad epidemic thad year—got clabbers o’ Newfoundlanders. I’ve been ad sea ever since, he paused and said with gusto, Give me dud bloody sea any day! Ad leasd if ye’re gonna die, ye go quick!

You just fish? Bart asked, full of curiosity, Where do you live when you’re not on your boat?

The sailor laughed gleefully and started on another pint of ale,

Where are ye from? Ye ain’d o’ dis area or ye’d bloody nigh know dud answer!

I’m American, but I’ve got a farm just east of town.

Aye, t’oughd ‘twere so! he crinkled his eyes in scrutiny and then his lips twitched in mirth, Ye wand to know whad a man can do ‘ere fer a livin’ in dud winter?

Bart nodded, his large shoulders hunched forward as he leaned his elbows on the counter. He towered over the leprechaun-like sailor.

Well, ye kin hole up an’ live off yer harvesd, bud since ye wouldna’ be askin’ aboud work if thad ‘twas dud case, dud only other choice is dud sea, he finished his beer for emphasis, the eyes merry as he added, Bud I wouldna’ recommend dud fishin’ in winter fer someone who knows narry on’t.

O course, he amended after a few minutes of drinking, Ye could always do whad I do an’ hire on a ship. Do ye know anytin’ aboud trawlin’ or purse nedding?

Bart grinned, the red creases cutting deep into his strong face,

Hell, no! If I did, I wouldn’t have asked you what you do when you’re not on your ship! he winked conspiratorially, But if you’ll get me on one, I’ll learn damn quick!

Aye, an’ I’ll be dud one a’lookin’ like a fool fer vouchin’ fer ye? he replied with a twisted smile—though not a refusal.

I won’t make a fool of either of us! Bart stated firmly, his jaw sharp in affirmation, its strong angles highlighted from the pub’s grill flames.

Well, I guess I kin help a poor farmer, eh? he chuckled, winking in a delighted way, Only I won’ be goin’ oud again until late winter. Ken ye starve thad long?

Yes; I’ve got potatoes—

The sailor burst into giggles,

Who dud hell doesna’?

CHAPTER THREE

Dr. Cappen was not a political man, especially where politics and religion were concerned. It was not from apathy that he avoided mixing God and Government; rather it was from a sense of redundancy. He believed that a person with godliness needed no government to enforce morality. His theocratic principle was that one’s religion was one’s whole purpose in life and, that being the case; one would do no wrong to others. It was the case with him and he had made the villagers elect him mayor only for its legal weaponry that he was forced to wield against the souls of the oilmen in their silver web outside his town.

When he had returned after a year in the hospital in Caracas, he had wept at how they had changed his town.

John Jean remembered it now as he rested on the small cot in his office at the clinic, his tall frame withering from the paralysis and growing bent—a thing he had fought against all his life. He had always held his thin body tall and straight, his posture immaculately righteous. But now, he was forced to a mortal height in the wheelchair, his sinewy shoulders stooping as his faith grew straighter, as if to compensate.

The fine hair had been bleached from the blazing Venezuelan sun years ago so he did not notice its white regrowth replacing the blondness of his youth. John’s face was still stern and a look from his powerful eyes could still strike fear into a person’s soul, but the eyes now looked tired and far away as he recalled the months of operations and physical therapy in the hospital; the long hours of exercise that had called forth every reserve of strength from his limbs and spine, followed by the realization that the surgery was not successful. He had been tempted many times at night in the hospital bed to cry from total frustration, but had forced himself to read words of comfort from his Bible instead.

But upon returning to his cherished village—to the town he had carved with his own hands and with the help of the Lord—he had broken down and cried. He did not see Aaron standing beside the wheelchair in the village square, nor the lousy, faithless villagers who tried to cover their sins with retreat into their slovenly hovels. No, John Jean Cappen cried at the sight of the saloon and boarding house contaminating his Christian town, its litter the townspeople on the street in front of its liquor-stenched face.

He cried at his helpless, crippled state then, for the desire to run into that house of Satan and smash every bottle of Appolyon’s alcohol overpowered him and blazed out in the glitter of weeping steel above his long, thin frown of hatred.

He ordered Aaron to push him into its sleazy darkness, his voice hard and carrying axe chops that ripped apart the smoky noise within.

Who is responsible for this abomination? I speak for the Lord when I say that he is damned to eternal Hell for this crime!

The oilmen at the bar were silent; the bartender, one of the oilmen from the fields, started to open his mouth, but at the sight of John’s white rage, bowed his head instead and turned away. Les started down the stairs at the back of the room, the jingle of his belt as he fastened it jangling the unnatural quiet below. He saw the minister and stopped, his shock displayed as aggression.

So, the old Bible Boy is back in town! Never thought I’d see you and your son of God in my saloon!

Even as God cast Satan from Heaven, shall I cast you from my town! John shouted, his fist clenched and raised high, as if waiting for the Sword of Judgment to appear in its bony width.

Les laughed, his anger replacing nervousness. A young village girl appeared on the step behind him, her face and body painted with the make-up of whoredom. John Jean recognized her as the daughter of the village chieftain’s brother.

All I have to do, Preacher Prick, is order my boys down there to throw you out! You’re outnumbered seven to two!

John Jean’s face was tight, his nostrils colorless as he replied, the eyes narrow slits of disgust,

You and your men cannot stop me! I have all the armies of the Lord behind me! I shall see this place emptied of my people before the Sabbath.

Les walked down the stairs and over to John, his bloated, beefy face contorted in a snarl,

You want another lesson in fighting, Cappen? he held his fists close to John’s face, For if you do, I’ll be happy to oblige! his cigar-streaked whiskey breath spat into the long, stiff defiant face, Only this time I won’t show any mercy—I’ll kill you!

John did not flinch in his wheelchair. He pressed his long fingertips together and said steadily,

You speak as only a coward can. You would fight a man who cannot fight back with your crude, foolish fist—you and all the others that made me this way. But you would still be afraid, Les, for my power and strength do not come from the physical, animal world. My power is spiritual, and not of this world. It is omnipotent and you and your flesh cannot touch it. It survived before and it will survive in perpetuity, whereas your flesh will rot and fall away and your bones turn to dust from the wrath of the Lord. He has given you your mortal weapons; He has given me the armaments of immortality. You can kill me, but you won’t kill God! It’s Him you’re fighting this time!

John turned and wheeled out of the smothering, rancid bar, the crowd outside parting to let him and Aaron pass. They had heard his words and were ashamed. They had seen his son, Aaron, now a man and so similar to his father as to be a clone. One Cappen was a force to be reckoned with: two Cappens were invincible.

Maureen Farrier met John at the door to the clinic. She had heard him arrive and would have gone to meet him, but she was assisting Shumu in the operating room and could not leave, even though she did not like the appearance of avoidance it presented.

Welcome back, Father Cappen, she said, explaining her absence, her freckled plainness bordered by the white surgical cap and gown. Her bold eyes stared at Aaron and she felt a blush in her breast at the sight of the tall, lean blond man, even if his expression were severe.

Where is your father? John Jean demanded, furious with Farrier for his failure: no, more than that, for his allowing the destruction of all John Jean had worked for.

Maureen lowered her eyes briefly and then replied, raising them and her voice out of shame,

He was called back to his own mission, Dr. Cappen. As you remember, when he first offered to fill in for you, we had no idea that your absence would be so prolonged. He has his own responsibilities, you know, her eyes were flashing in defense of her father.

She knew his real reason for leaving; she had seen his utter, hopeless ineffectualness in the village and had urged him to go back, not wanting to see him further battered by John’s condemnation.

Did the saloon open before or after he left? John Jean asked stiffly, fired with her impertinence.

After, Maureen lied, I was powerless to stop it, Father! They tried to hurt me when I–

Yes? John Jean asked sharply, wondering at the red flush over her cheeks.

They tried to hurt me in the way that only a man can hurt a woman— her cheeks were burning with shame; a shame she hoped would be interpreted as being for her feminine frailty and not at her falsehoods.

With God on your side, you should not have been afraid of their physical threats, John Jean stated with supreme accusation.

Aaron gasped and cried,

Father! You do not understand! They tried to make her party to the sin of the flesh!

Maureen felt a tear brim her red lid and run icily down her cheek. She had never lied before, especially to a minister. She wondered if God would forgive her since it was done to protect her own father.

Aaron glared at John Jean as he consoled the girl over John’s smarting doubt. John dismissed the matter abruptly as he wheeled into the clinic and said,

Where is Sister Joan?

Maureen wiped her eyes and knelt in front of John, her grey-blue eyes honest again and sad with what she had to say.

She’s dead, Father. Shumu said it was lung cancer, though she worked hard even as the pain consumed her—

Shumu? John Jean asked, forgetting the nun’s death in his surprise.

Yes, Dr. Cappen. He came back after you left.

Maureen felt a sickening thought sink her lie: Shumu would tell John Jean when the saloon really opened. She had been desperate when John confronted her, but now she would have to undo her deceit. Unless she could see Shumu first and ask him to agree with her story.

Maureen jumped up and said,

I’ll get him: he’s in the O.R. finishing on a patient!

John Jean frowned on the cot in his steamy office. He had been mad at Shumu that day for deserting him again. No note this time, just cowardly desertion at the sound of his voice when Maureen went to find him.

He had sent Farrier’s girl back to her village and Aaron had left to return to his studies in Caracas. Then he had become the equivalent of mayor and had set some laws of Man down for the weak men of Man and not of God.

Without his legs he could do little to physically right the wrong of the saloon, but he had it walled off from the rest of the town; he had encapsulated its nidus with adobe walls eight-feet high and a foot thick, blocking the unsightly bleb of Babel from his town, containing the virulent virus of vice within its own shell.

The only entrance to it faced his window. He saw exactly who entered and that had discouraged many of the villagers, though it didn’t stop the oilmen who were immune to the pillory and stocks he had installed in the square.

John Jean sighed. Why did he have to treat them like criminals instead of lambs? He disliked the measures he was forced to take, but he was doing it for their souls, even if they could not understand.

He sighed again.

Would they ever?

CHAPTER FOUR

Bart was chopping wood when it began to snow, the clean white flakes crystallizing on the logs he had dragged near the woodpile. Once split they would be stacked into the long wall that stretched back from the house.

The sky was pearl grey and Bart drew large lungsful of the salted air as he worked, his eyes wandering over the frost-browned fields, over the cut hay and wild willows, the flowerless hawthorns and rich spruces. He had been expecting snow all week—the sea was flinty and restless and the frosts had gotten some of the pumpkins and squash that he and Matt had tried this year.

He was happy to see it, despite the problems it was wed to. Bart loved the way the farm looked after a snowfall; he loved the gentle mounds of white that blew millions of tiny stars into the gusty winds offshore and the sticks of hay that punctured the frozen waves of snow, casting blue shadows as night neared.

He would lie in bed and hear the fearsome howl of the wind that rattled the windows and wonder if the house could withstand such battering night after night. It had bothered him the first winter with its reminder of the island’s storms, but now Bart looked forward to lying in the white and blue bedroom under the down feather quilt with just the sound of the night winds sweeping through him, calling him into the wilderness of sleep.

He winced as a log pinched his nearly numb fingers, but did not curse to disturb the flake-sprinkled peace. A peace that was violated suddenly by the loud buzz of a small plane flying low overhead.

Bart cupped his hands around his glasses as he peered into the burning grey above, his mouth drawn in a wince of anger at the intrusion. He saw the plane circle lower and then lower still and then saw it land on the road that ended at his farm.

But then he threw down the axe and jogged towards the plane as it taxied closer to the house, his red plaid jacket flapping over the thick turtleneck. He stopped, waiting while the plane taxied, its engines purring.

Dad! Katrina shouted as she opened the door and jumped out.

Kat! What are you doing— he stopped, watching the tall pilot jump out and walk jauntily towards them, And who is this?

Hi! Karlton smiled as he neared, his hand extended in greeting.

That was a damn fool thing to do—to land there! Bart replied angrily, I thought maybe your plane was in trouble and was making an emergency landing!

Sorry if I alarmed you, Karlton replied, his arm around Katrina’s shoulders, his air of happy confidence erasing Bart’s displeasure. It was hard to be angry with him, especially when he was teamed with his beautiful daughter.

He was giving me a ride in his new plane and suggested visiting you, Katrina explained, It’s all my fault, really.

I hope you’re more responsible flying it that than you are landing it! Bart said gruffly, his dark brows in a mock scowl.

Oh, Dad, Kat said, laughing, her black hair flying out from under her white wool cap, ’He’s just the best pilot you ever saw! His break for Thanksgiving began before mine so as he flew all the way from Colorado to Toronto just to see me, I invited him to the farm for the week.

Bart then grinned as he accepted their company, his smiling face appreciating their youth as Katrina gave Karlton a tour of the farm.

"What’s in that shed?’ he asked, pointing to a miniature version of the barn to its right.

Oh, that’s just Matt’s—he keeps all his animal equipment in there. He built it himself after he and Dad redid the big barn.

Karlton said with quiet appreciation, He did a good job. It looks as old as the stone cottages I saw in Ireland a few years back. Even the roof looks the same.

Seeing the briefest flicker of irritation in Katrina’s eyes, Karlton frowned. He had done it again: he had covered his true feelings of inferiority with a type of name dropping. Why, he wondered angrily, why couldn’t he say to her that he was jealous because he’d never built anything with his own two hands before and that he’d love to try? Why did he use snobbish references to his privileged past instead of honest conversation? Why, he thought, his eyes on the natural loveliness of her as she petted an ewe, why even with her? He longed to be open with her and tell her all his secrets, but his damn male ego tripped him every time.

The closest he had come to revealing his innermost being was when he had taken her up in his Piper cub. He had felt the awful words– the braggadocio– about the expensive plane, a gift from his guardian, along with the long hours of lessons off base begin to form but she had silenced him with her awe as she marveled at the scenery growing smaller beneath their wings.

And then he had said what he truly felt: how he wished he could live as a bird, flying freely in the pure sky, above everything. He confided to her the joy he lapsed into, the serenity he found up there.

The first time I soloed, Kat, I felt as if my umbilical cord to Earth had been cut and that I was reborn as a child of space. The endlessness of the skies just overwhelms me. Sometimes it’s so bright up here it brings tears to my eyes. Yet the brightness has no warmth to it as outside the plane the air is freezing. I’ve wondered so much—perhaps too much, he said with a grin to detract from the seriousness of his monologue, about how something can be so bright and yet so cold. I want to try for the astronaut program after I graduate, he added almost in a whisper, not sure of how she would react.

She had set his mind free with her silence and did not call it back from its flight into his cloud dream and he loved her deeply for it. His soul melted into the air as would one born of sky and not earth and she had understood completely.

That week, after he flew the plane to the Antigonish airport, he had taken her up in several flights over the island, each trip precious for its escape into the blue sky and for their sharing of the experience.

She had laughed as he soaked in the farm, his questions and observations endless as they roamed the fields and shores. They walked through the woods and she dared him to climb the highest pine, which he did, confessing afterwards that he had never climbed a tree before.

Katrina raised her brows, her green eyes wide with amazement,

You mean with all the places you’ve been and all the things you’ve done, you’ve never scaled a tree?

Karlton turned serious. His jaw twitched as he picked the needles off a dead branch, his hands blackened with sap,

I was cheated of the simple things, Katrina. Of course I didn’t know it—I thought all kids spent their childhoods exploring pyramids and playing in German castles. You must think I’m really odd, his eyes looked into hers, their hazel green meshing with her clear emerald green in a deep pause, Here I’ve been acting like a kid on your father’s farm—I guess I was a kid; I mean I was just enjoying all the things that I never had a chance to do. There was always someone telling me to act like a grownup when I was a kid.

Katrina smiled and snuggled into his embrace,

I had to act older than my years, too, she confided, her voice as soft as his wavy auburn hair in her fingers, When my Mom died, my childhood ended. I was a mother figure to Matt, she smiled self-consciously, I thought I was the only person around with so much responsibility. I envied you your money and excitement and now you tell me you were envying me!

Katrina, there will be a time—soon—when neither of us will ever envy the other, for what I have will be yours and I will have you and your past for my own.

They deeply locked in a kiss of promises and futures and each wanted that time to come soon when they would be man and wife. Their future shone as bright as the sun over the November snow, their love as deep as the black expanse of sea in the distance.

Shumu shook a piece of bamboo filled with small stones over the body of an old man and chanted in Yanomaqui for the gods to cure him. He ran his dust and berry painted hand over the dying man’s chest, its grizzled grey hair matted with dried blood.

He knew this one had a fractured skull from a fight that had resulted in infected meninges so he didn’t even try any of his ingenious compounds on him. Without antibiotics he would not live and that was the end of it.

The hardest thing for Shumu to accept after returning to his people was the helplessness he had to admit to in the face of the primitive tools and resources in the jungle. He had taken two of John’s scalpels and a small kit of necessities from the clinic—a microscope, sutures and needles, extra clamps and a hemostat, a vial or two of medicines—none of which John would miss as Shumu had ordered them in the doctor’s absence. But he knew when his skills could not help and after the miracles they worked on the Llanos, he found the constant diet of limitations hard to swallow. He could operate as the natives constantly drugged themselves into insensibility so he needed no anesthetics but he could not X-ray or combat the tuberculosis or staphylococcus infections that ran rampant in the village.

He butted against tribal rules and taboos every time a decision was made, especially if it concerned a precious woman. Shumu remembered an abundance of women from his childhood, but he did not know that they were stolen from other villages and he only vaguely remembered what had happened to the men from those tribes. He saw the raids to replace the women who had died at the hands of the savage husbands, only there was no cannibalism to celebrate a victory afterwards. It had been peculiar to his small tribe and not the rest of the Yanomamo (now called Yanomami) bands in the jungle, and John Jean had put an end to it many years back.

John’s God-like appearance and performance that night in the hobi had scared Shumu’s people and had made Shumu into a demi-god in their eyes when he returned, a thing that had been favorable at first. But unable to save the dying, he had lost status. Shumu tried at first to stop the awful violence of club and flesh and the snorting of washaharua and he had tried to teach the people principles of hygiene and told them about God, but they had rejected him. He then donned a loincloth and smeared himself with paint to be more like them in order to convert them, but he had failed. He had relied on his knowledge of chemistry to develop herbal medicines that approximated John’s manufactured ones, yet none of the ignorant, slime-soiled, stinking natives gave him any credit or acclaim for his work.

He was depressed. He knew the symptoms and recognized them in himself: the sloppy hygiene, the insomnia and lack of appetite and restlessness. He had even contemplated blowing the vile hallucinogenic green powder up his nostrils to deaden his feelings of trapped failure, but reason had won and Shumu had gone off alone for a few days, risking capture and death by a rival tribe in the jungle.

He wanted so much to change the people, to enlighten and help them, but without proper tools he knew he was doomed to repeated rejection. It was so odd, to be a part of the tribe and yet to have nothing except the color of his epidermis in common with them. He was a different race inside, he felt, a white man masquerading as a Yanomami. He didn’t even know whether to thank John Jean or curse him for feeding him the apple of knowledge.

He had been given a woman when he first returned—in his demi-God days—but he had not beaten her, he had been kind and considerate and had helped her to learn something other than masochism, yet his teachings had been thwarted by the tribal elders. She was taken from him, pregnant with his child, and given to another man who bludgeoned her for her attempts to go back to Shumu.

He bore the guilt of her death as he wept over her lifeless form with its lifeless child within, for he knew that his kindness to her had been responsible for her refusal to yield to the other man’s way of life.

That had been when he shed his western clothes and turned native, hammering blows on the murderer without mercy and finishing with a blow to the critical spot at the nape of the man’s thick neck.

He shook his head at the memory, ashamed of his rage as it was not what John Jean had preached. But he was not ashamed of the act—and that bothered him.

Now he picked up his rattle anew and shook a string of beads in his patient’s face, herbs burning in a small pit next to him. They understood this, Shumu thought with disgust. He did not and never would understand their preference for ignorance and failure instead of true healing. He gave them both, but without pleasure.

Shumu had felt his patience and his Christian understanding and selfless sacrifice grow thin in the face of the primitive belligerency surrounding him. He had become full of hate for the baby murderers and wife beaters and was beginning to see that hardness of heart was possibly where John Jean’s real power lay.

He shouted God’s wrath as he shook the rattle hard and then smashed it into the now lifeless head of his father.

CHAPTER FIVE

Abraham Cappen stood inside the red brick building on the St. Francis Xavier University campus as he knotted his scarf against the March wind. He was pleased with the recent approval of his application to their monastery and hummed as he started down the hill of the campus, whose red walls overlooked the town of Antigonish and its highland farms. His long black woolen robe blew about his tall, thin body and he wished momentarily that he had worn his long johns beneath it. He opened the door to his small car and remembered the file he had left at the Extension Department building concerning the soil analysis they had run for the province of Cape Breton that he was assigned to.

He ran back up the hill, slowing as he walked to the classroom where it lay, slowing further as he heard the instructor in front of a class of visiting nuns.

On the blackboard behind Father Duncan were written the three Faiths of the Antigonish Movement that Abraham had become a part of and loved:

#1: The time for learning anything is when you need it.

Goal: Study groups to learn what is wanted in villages.

#2: Economic and social reorganization cannot rise spontaneously from the people unless they understand their relation to the society they live in.

Goal: Build canneries, sawmills, etc.

#3: Higher Educated must share abilities with lesser.

Goal: to serve the primarily lobster-based Picton County, Antigonish, and the coal-dependent Cape Bretoners.

The instructor noticed him at the door and smiled.

I’d like to introduce you to one of my prize pupils, he said to the Sisters of the Sacraments as he beckoned Abraham into the room,

Brother Cappen is working with the fishermen, farmers, and miners on Cape Breton. He joined our University from Caracas, Venezuela.

Abraham blushed under their stares, his blond hair growing damp next to the high, pale forehead, his blue eyes bluer against the color in his cheeks. He mumbled about the file and nervously answered a nun’s question while reaching into the desk and retrieving it with his long fingers. He apologized for not being able to stay and say more, but mentioned that he would miss an appointment if he didn’t leave immediately.

The whole experience had made him feel uncomfortable and he resented Father Duncan’s foisting it upon him, though by the time he left the town’s slushy streets behind he had forgotten it and was enjoying the gulls and terns on the shifting, tectonic plates of sea bordering the road.

Bart sat in the Argyll Arms waiting for MacIntyre McCulloch, or as the leprechaun of a man called himself, MacMic. (He had added that it wasn’t to be confused with the Indians down near the Gaspe Peninsula who were Mic Macs.) Bart had drunk with him often during the winter, learning much about what to expect onboard an Atlantic dragger. MacMic had brought a wooden needle and net into the bar and taught Bart how to mend nets, all the while regaling the crowd of fishermen with jokes and stories as they gathered to watch Bart’s clumsy attempts. This evening MacMic wasn’t bringing rope or nets with him—he was hopefully bringing a job offer to Bart and Bart was nervous about the extent of the lies MacMic had told the captain about his abilities. He intended to live up to what Mac claimed and hoped the fisherman had kept that in mind.

The bartender’s grimace matched Bart’s as they heard MacMic’s warbled, off-key rendering of ‘Danny Boy’ precede him into the pub. He danced a jig as he entered and winked at Bart, his tobacco-stained teeth exposed in criminal delight,

Ye kin crack ou’ yer celebratin’ Scotch! he shouted to the barman, Ol Mac’s a’ goin’ back tad sea!

He gulped the amber too fast and began to cough and Bart slapped his back, waiting for him to regain his breath before asking,

What about me?

He gave Bart a mournful, dog-sad look and shook his head, I’m afrain dud news is lourd fer ye, Bart’s smile sagged and the leprechaun continued, Aye, it does look as if ye’re a’ goin’ wid me, ye poor devil!

He burst into giggles at his joke and did another jig.

I’ve got us on a codder—she’s a good size stern trawler, over 125 feet. We were lucky she was big fer dud smaller ones don’ take on many men. This one needed a man to split and ice her catch and I got ye dud job. It’ll keep ye down below oud of dud mauzy weader an’ I’ll teach ye aboud dud neds an’ haulin in yer off-time, he winked and added, Thad is if ye ged any! Dud Captain we’re a’workin fer likes ta catch them non-stop, an’ doesna go back inta pord until his ship’s a’ groanin wid ’em. Thad’s why he takes so many men—ta work them roun’ dud clock.

I don’t mind hard work, Bart replied sincerely, although he regretted having to leave Matt, I’ve worked my ass on the farm for no wages.

Well, ye won’ be makin top wages in dud fish room, bud id’s bettern potatoes, eh?

Just then Matt opened the heavy stained glass windowed door and strode firmly up to the bar, his wide shoulders and firmly muscled back appearing behind Bart as his deep voice announced,

Angus just asked me to fill in for him while he goes on vacation, Dad.

MacMic smiled a great, gapped grin and ordered more scotch to celebrate; the young man shot a puzzled look at Bart, and then drank it down.

Fine lookin lad ye’ve god, Bard. ‘Tis a shame he’s not interested in fishin.

Bart looked at Matt appraisingly, his black–brown eyes wrinkled with pride at the man that Matt had become. There was none of the stringy blond religiosity in this boy. He had shaped the Cappen out of the boy, replacing genes with guts. There was only Karensa and Bart in him now, but still it was not the same as looking at his real son. Sometimes it was, but at other times he felt compelled to continue to search for the little Edward that had been kidnapped away from him and Kari. Bart smiled as he thought of how ironic it was: his real son would be a total stranger to him and yet Matt was closer than flesh and blood.

Yes, he’s a fine lad, Bart replied slowly, paternally clapping Matt’s shoulder, He’s got his mother’s strong will, but thank God he doesn’t have her temper!

Aye, dud temper always is inherited down to females! Mac laughed, raising his glass high,

A toast to the biggest bitchen’ female o’ them all! Dud Atlantic Ocean, byes!

The other fishermen laughed and joined in the toast, but Bart didn’t share their affirmation. He agreed with Jeff about the island in the Pacific. Nothing would out-bitch that hell.

As he toasted he murmured under his breath, I hope you got it, Jeff. I hope you blew it right out of the water!

CHAPTER SIX

The crew of the Mexican freighter was quiet, in contrast to the howling storm wracking her hulls with warm and cold waves and her decks with warm winds and cold rain. The crew was tired from tying down cargo in the muggy, thunder-shot dawn, but that did not explain their silence. The scent of death or worse, derangement, seeped out in moans through the captain’s quarters and chilled the speech out of the men as they breakfasted to the wild squall rocking their ship.

The First Mate knocked at the Captain’s door and then entered, shutting it quickly behind him to stem the flow of pain into the corridor. He watched Jeff roll in anguish on the cabin floor and then very gently lifted the wasting, bald-headed captain onto his bunk. He knew the captain’s condition, and had since the day three years past when Jeff had called him up to the wheelhouse and told him of his cancer and his wish to die at sea: a captain until the end.

I’ll get some morphine from the locker, sir, he stated as Jeff began to moan anew.

Jeff stopped the acting captain with a hoarse shout,

No! It doesn’t work anymore, Mariel, he then pointed out the porthole as he was seized with pain and broke off, his pupils retracting down into pinpoints, I want to go outside… a life boat…

The slender First Mate sadly tried to dissuade Jeff, but he felt pity at the sight of the Captain’s struggle and offered his help as they haltingly went above into the spitting aftermath of the squall.

Why didn’t you tell me we were near an island? Jeff shouted, bent against the rail as he pointed to a tiny atoll in the distance. The spray of waves and wind made his tanned head glisten with mock sweat.

I wasn’t aware of it, Sir, Mariel lied, knowing Jeff’s obsession with an island near their course, Besides, it’s just an insignificant atoll—

Jeff’s stare did not break, though his muscles whitened with the raw attack of pain through his head. His throat pulled as he hoarsely proclaimed,

That’s the son-of-a-bitch I’ve been looking for!

But Sir, they all look alike, the First Mate discouraged, trying to import reason into Jeff’s crazed imaginings.

Not that one! Jeff replied, his throat pulsing as he whispered, Get me out there, Mariel. There’s something I have to do before I die.

The waves are too choppy for the boats, Seňor! Capitan, he discouraged, And besides, we’ve been blown off course and should be getting back—

Jeff didn’t listen. He was clutching the rail and working his way to the dingy. He shouted for the metal locker in his room to be brought on deck and for crew to load into the boat. After Mariel had exhausted his attempts to stop Jeff, it finally was.

Row me out, boy! Jeff said to the sailor that had fetched his box, Don’t look at him! I’m the Captain!

Mariel shook his head as he watched them bob and dip out to the white-ringed atoll. He recalled what the engineer had told him the first time he’d heard Jeff’s madness during a storm, It’s the weather, sir. It makes him like that.

He brought his binoculars up and saw Jeff on the beach and the sailor carrying the box through the surf to him. They argued and Jeff sent the boy back to the small boat. Mariel saw the indecision on the young man’s face as he pushed out and waited in the lagoon.

Jeff yelled again at him and he rowed out more, worry drawing his young face in a frown.

I should have sent more with him, Mariel muttered, raising his binoculars again to the soundless drama viewed through little circles of wet glass.

Jeff forgot all pain when he stepped onto the cold beach and saw the sand-filled foundations of the stone house back towards the line of trees. The vegetation had thickened inland, yet was totally gone from the windward side of the atoll. Gone was any hint of man’s presence here, except for the jagged, irregular bones of coral that were scattered about the eroded foundation.

He stumbled over to it and wept, remembering the awful battles that he had waged within its walls. He stumbled further along what used to be trees and what now was beach and wondered if Chin and Blake’s graves had been washed away by the storms that had damaged the house. He lay on the cool, wet sand and cried in anger for the spell he imagined hanging over the atoll.

The sailor yelled from the boat and Jeff waved him further out. His hands shook under the miserable marionette master that dangled the pain as he set the sticks of dynamite into the beach. He was rambling incoherently, panting and muttering as he worked, stopping to laugh insanely at the island.

I’ll get even with you! You thought you’d get us but I’m gonna get you first!

The veins in his temples were bulging with strain as he finished. The torch he had was sitting in the sand near the first charge that Jeff planned to light just before he got into the boat and pulled away to safety.

He sat down near it, resting before he called the young sailor back in. He was smiling with