The Urn Read online

  Water had rushed in, and yet a hopeful shout came from me, for I sensed by the urn’s buoyant character that there still was air inside—it had not flooded completely. The container floated half-free of the waves, and even aided my clumsy efforts to swim for shore.

  Many yards from me, the Westerner slid off the rocks in pieces and sank beneath the waves. The ship’s two halves lolled in the surf and its torn hull continued to rasp as the powerful tides raked it over the jagged stones, lifting its broken sections on the waves and pulling its pieces toward the depths.

  There was a powerful bang that sent ripples through the water as the ship continued its iron screaming, coming apart in mammoth shards; the tons of ragged steel and splintered wood tumbled over the black rock, dragging survivors that clung to it into the deep.

  I strove in darkness to stay afloat and avoid that fate. The urn itself still remained buoyant but was unwieldy, and my own sodden clothes dragged at me.

  Then to wrench my heart, I felt sudden spastic action inside the urn that thumped repeatedly from side to side and then went still. Praying to Saint Sarah I hoped that what life was growing within might hang on a moment longer for I had glimpsed a distant line of pale sand that marked the shore.

  But the Westerner’s sinking had acted like a damn that had broken, and those waves it had held back with its bulk now poured over the rocks that had sunk her and pounded after me.

  I fought to stay afloat against a new barrage of white caps but was sent rolling over a reef of stone and coral and pushed down finally, spinning and tumbling in the cold. I thumped and scraped against the rocky bottom, unable to protect my face from the buffeting as I clung to the master’s urn.

  My lungs burned and my temples throbbed as I rolled beneath the frigid waves, but still I held fast to the container, despairing; for its contents had surely been flooded.

  As proof of this, steam and froth and bubbles issued from the vent when the currents pushed me suddenly to the surface, and the foaming tumult left me in shallows. Weeping, I sought my footing on the rocks beneath the water as a roaring sound came to me, and I turned to see a wall of gray hurtling near.

  I managed a lurching stagger and jump but could not escape the towering surge. Just before the great wave hit and drove me down against the rocks and sand, a plaintive, bubbling cry burst from the urn.

  I awoke upon my back far up the sandy beach and saw the purple glow of approaching dawn creeping into the sky, a dim backlight to heavy palms and tall, slim-trunked trees that held thick clusters of leaves high above me. In dips and valleys of this variegated ceiling I could see distant black mountains looming.

  Toward my feet, the glossy strand flickered from some few flaming remnants of the Westerner that had floated to shore and still guttered where the surf crashed some yard or two from my boots.

  My ringing ears could barely hear the waves as I craned my neck to see the light from the warming sky hint at bobbing shapes in the swell. These looked like corpses that were soon beset by white caps and twisted debris.

  The sea still tossed but the storm had passed into the darkness that clutched the southern clouds.

  Miraculously, my frozen hands yet gripped the master’s urn and had kept it upright by my side, even in my senseless state; its metal vent was pointed skyward and held hope for me that the contents had survived the dangerous landing.

  A hope that was dashed when I clambered to my knees and opened the fastenings that held the lid in place—inside, the water reached almost to the top!

  Crying out, I tipped the urn on the sandy shore and in terror watched the foaming broth pour out. Slippery it was with slime or scum as it gushed over the beach, and was red-rimed with fleshy bits of wrack that scattered in the murky morning light.

  “No!” I bellowed to the savage dawn, and turned the urn so that I might better look at its interior, the contents were liquefying now it seemed—and almost lost. I thrust my hand into the gelatinous mass within, mortified to feel something solid slip and thump lifelessly against the side.

  My action shifted the contents further and caused something to protrude from this mass, the sight of which caused my spirits to sink completely. A pale gray thing, weakly veined in black and brown lines slid through the jelly-like substance that oozed out onto the sand. It was featureless, unfinished—little more than an unformed infant in size and shape, but lifeless, possessed of malformed limbs; the muscle and bone dissolving in the morning gloom as I watched.

  The disintegrating body had the consistency of cooked cabbage.

  And it was dead, quite dead.

  In despair, I lunged forward to sweep up these remnants in my wet embrace, and from my harrowed eyes bitter tears poured upon the lifeless thing as it continued to crumble in my grasp. I wept upon the wave-washed shore, and thought only of my dear master, taken from me, and I shed new tears as I cursed my poor fortune to have guided him to this end.

  And then I wailed at my own fate, alone and shipwrecked on a savage shore, my mission in tatters and a failure, with my own life soon to echo the master’s ignoble end.

  I lifted my swollen eyes and looked into the jungle; its shadows fighting the morning light. Instead of being torn apart by wind and wave like my master, I would be riven by the claws and fangs of savage beasts.

  I looked down at the disintegrating form that dripped through my fingers and onto the wet sand, and I swore to make some better end for my master than this. I could wear my sorrow until my own end, but now could indulge his memory by maintaining some grace in my service.

  Horvat be damned; I would embrace the dignity that he carried in life even on that brutal shore, and so conforming to my master’s ethic, I would bury him with what honors could be given in so desolate a place as the African coast.

  I was surrounded by encroaching wilderness that no doubt teemed with savage carnivores, but I would delay my own survival to guarantee his eternal rest.

  So, with tingling hands and fingers, I placed my master’s remains back into the urn and carried him inland along a natural dirt path edged by long grasses and large trees that drooped with willow-like branches.

  Sobbing without tears, I staggered forward with my sad burden until the trees fell away to either side and the path opened on a broad clearing full of tall grass and leafy plants. From a great flat center place the land swept gently away and upward in all directions to a crest where impenetrable jungle grew to ring it around.

  Yet as I sadly staggered, I noticed hot and feral points gleaming where some beast glared hungrily at me from the thick forest edge atop the slope—the orbs set aflame by the reflecting sunrise.

  My hair stood on end when the eyes disappeared behind the windswept curtain of fronds that masked the jungle floor, and I knew I’d never live the day through if I did not find or construct a place of safety.

  This notion was reinforced when something deep within the forest howled hungrily, and another thing let go a ravenous scream in return.

  My blood turned to ice in the silence that followed. I had to find some safety.

  And what of grace, dignity and my master’s burial?

  Would I live long enough to pay my final respects or be eaten while digging his grave?

  And yet, I might do more than this. Something struck me then, some notion, perhaps the hard spine of my Szgany warrior nature stiffened, and I thought of the brothers I’d left so far behind. Many dead and others still retreating to our camps—had they been revenged?

  Had the master? And his legacy—what of that?

  In the moment, I realized I could not cease my struggle. What good my master’s grave, if there was no one left to tend it?

  And what good his chronicle, if there was no record of it. If no one knew his end?

  Before seeing to my own needs, I carried the urn and its precious contents and climbed a nearby tree using natural hand and footholds in its rough bark until I was 25 feet from the ground. There I wedged the urn into a cleft made by two thick limbs growin
g close to the heavy trunk.

  I prayed its elevated position would keep it secure for the time I needed to build a place of safety for myself, so that I might see to the solemn task of my master’s monument, and afterwards, provide me peace enough to finish writing the story of his last adventure.

  And so it was with heavy heart that I set to work.

  As the sun rose over the eastern mountains its golden rays fell upon the lush forest that grew from the heights and swept down in a shimmering green avalanche toward the clearing and the beach beyond. There at the shore, the trees were smaller and of a bushier type that thrived in the sandy soil. Farther in, however, all about the open space, the varieties of trees grew to over a hundred feet in height to where their branches wove into an unbroken ceiling of dark green, vine-draped shadow.

  This leafy covering would keep sunlight from falling directly into the clearing until midday, and then partially for only an hour or two before and after. It was plain by the lush grasses and plants that the wet and humid conditions in the open space were perfect for life.

  With the sun came every kind of sound, birds at first, I was sure; but those were quickly joined by other things I could not hazard to guess. It was taking some time for my hearing to return to normal, as the explosion of the Westerner still echoed in them, but as they healed, I was rewarded with the sounds of a wide array of living creatures.

  Whether the calls came from insects or hoofed, clawed and slithering beasts, I knew not the authors of the raucous overture that harangued the jungle; but they gave me no end of starts and surprises as the sun continued to rise, and forest music played.

  Certainly, birds I came to recognize in time as dominant in the symphony and these harmonized well with other tunes that were clearly sung by benevolent mouths, but there were creatures also in the chorus whose throats seemed shaped for a darker song and their contributions intruded upon the lighter rhythm.

  Their terrestrial notes rang willfully within the cloud of avian music, screaming and calling with what were clearly voices to me, or so I thought, and though they spoke no words that I could understand, the discordant cries echoed through the verdure and left me thinking of the strident and savage hearts of men.

  Other things also filled my heart with dread, which I soon paired with the disruptive noises in question. Great disturbances high in the branches, deep in the leafy blind, would explode and the trees would sway and lurch about beneath the action of monstrous muscles. These violent outbreaks were preceded and followed by moments of stillness in the crowding jungle that left me shuddering, and fearing the authors of the next disturbance.

  Worse, those still moments might draw out until my dread diminished into calm, only to have that detonated by yet another scream and vibration of the canopy as a dark and terrible creature hidden there announced its escape from hell.

  All of this eventually deflected my initial purpose and sent me hurrying to the open beach in search of flotsam from the shipwreck in which I hoped to find weapons. I still had my sword in its scabbard, my long knife, churi and pistol. My powder flask had been soaked in the landing, but most of its contents appeared dry. I had separated out the damp powder and set it on great flat leaves to dry in the sun.

  By it, I had also placed the master’s book, my fur hat, the journal and other sodden articles.

  I was pleased again also that I had chosen my old coat over the new for in its damp pockets I found one leather pouch containing almost 250 percussion caps for my pistol still well-wrapped with most of its contents dry, and a sheet of linen I could use to patch the lead shot. I found seven loose lead balls in one pocket and in another was tucked the bag of 30 that I had purchased in Varna.

  Again I mourned the loss of my musket that would surely be at the bottom of the ocean because I knew that its range would have made it a finer tool for hunting than the pistol.

  Regardless, my old coat continued to offer little flashes of happiness, for I found 20 sodden matches in the bottom of one pocket beneath my fine tinderbox.

  I had begun to regard the old coat with a bittersweet eye, for I knew the unexpected “treasures” were the greatest gift the garment could deliver now, and the heavy coat would be too warm to be of use in these tropical climes; but I blessed it just the same, vowing that it would forever have a place of honor in my heart.

  On the beach in daylight, I saw a few remnants of the Westerner jutting up from just below the surface 50 yards from shore. Near it a tall column of rock rose from the water to stand some 20 feet above the wreckage with another shorter fist of stone to its side followed by more in a chain where in stages they angled back toward the beach like a pier or breakwater promising safe harbor that the shallows and submerged rocks would deny.

  Certainly, Captain Banks had thought it so.

  The tidal currents that had lashed the beach the previous night had pushed pieces of the ship, its contents and dead or wounded crew far to the south. I could not risk a lengthy walk without much better armament, but was quickly rewarded during a casual saunter when I stumbled upon a small bag of lead shot attached to the belt and short, loose pants favored by sailors aboard the Westerner.

  There was no sign of the man who had worn the garment, though wine-colored stains at the waist and knees suggested a terrible fate. I put aside the grim notion, and confiscated the shot before returning to the clearing, there eventually to test the dryness of the black powder, and to expose also the percussion caps to the sun to ensure that their brief dousing in seawater had not destroyed their effectiveness.

  I decided to do no more beachcombing until I had created a safe place from which to work.

  The grassy clearing was some 100 paces across and roughly circular. The flat space I had noticed rose toward the back to where a few trees of medium height grew closely together but stood out from the others and were separated from the jungle proper by about 40 paces of open ground on the inland side.

  Those trees were stout, and showed many years upon their gray bark. They grew together in a close gathering where the five solid trunks vied for space by overlapping their thick limbs.

  This drew my interest for it seemed to me that nature had taken care to prepare the stout base upon which I could build a shelter, as I gauged a place about ten feet from the ground where their broad branches tangled to form a platform with the tree trunks combining to act as a columns.

  It was not two hours after sunrise, so I determined that I had a full day to prepare something temporary up in the trees that I could defend and stay safe within as I began work on the larger structure. I could see several errant branches that sprang up from the intertwining nexus of crowded trees that would have to be dealt with, realizing that even with a saw and carpenter tools it would require many hours to knock them out of the way before I could build a floor...

  ...but first I would construct some shelter. Temporary, I would call it, but many days would pass before I could complete the main construction, and consider it secure, so I would need some guarded place to sleep until that time.

  After climbing up into the tangle of trees that would stand as the larger work’s foundation, I looked around and wondered.

  I had some skill as a builder and some as carpenter from my years at the master’s castle. It was an ancient structure that my brother Gypsies and I would be embarrassed to admit had deteriorated to a sad condition with some areas of it dangerous and in other cases impassable. We did what we could to repair it and shored up those pieces of construction that could be saved or threatened collapse and we reinforced areas that had adjoining ruins.

  In some parts of the castle massive old oak doors bound in iron had collapsed upon their rusted hinges. Those that we could not fix were often bricked over. We could not have the place fall into ruin, and yet the master had not requested any ongoing renovations.

  Neither myself nor my Szgany brothers would dare to presume our lord’s intentions, and so would not undertake any larger rebuilding or conscripting of trade
smen from the nearby villages. Most of the locals would have been too terrified of the castle and its occupant to approach or accept employment there, and we well knew our master did not easily accommodate presumption.

  So we did what we could to keep the castle safe, but took no greater steps to modify a building that the master clearly accepted the way it was.

  Regardless, we had all learned some necessary skills from the various trades...

  My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the repetitive squawking of some exotic bird high overhead that was answered or challenged by a high peeping and warbling from others, and I had to laugh despite my introspective mood.

  There I was in an African tree thinking of a Transylvanian castle.

  The angled trunks below me came together, so and so...warping inward to form a pedestal and rough platform of their branches... It was clear what I needed to do.

  I could see the place to put a temporary elevated structure, if only I could find the materials required to build it and make it secure—to work then...

  Certain hardship, admittedly “courage” would be required to survive the first few nights so exposed, for I did not relish sitting astride a jungle branch with sword in one hand and twigs in another as the shadows gathered around me. So this reality could serve as impetus to push the project faster, knowing that a drawn-out enterprise would wear me down, and make me vulnerable to predators that must have been already after my scent.

  So with that concept in mind and sword in hand, I followed the path back to the beach where I began searching along the sand to the south for any wreckage that I might use for building, all the while scanning for signs of food or fresh water—and keeping both ears and eyes peeled for hungry carnivores.

  Always the birds and animals were singing and calling in the shadowed green on my left, but they were interrupted at times by sudden silences, and it was in those quiet spaces where I kept the keenest watch, for surely some beast of prey had frightened the others.