“Um…” Marius looked around him for any chance of help. Nothing. He pointed at the rings in the witch’s hand. “They’re mine.” Something inside him cringed, and disavowed all knowledge of the idiot who just said that. To make matters worse, his body now seemed to be acting independently of his thoughts, and was edging along the body to crouch and extend a cautious hand between the King’s legs. Marius checked in with his conscious mind, only to find it repeating the phrase “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t” in a small, frightened voice, so he let it be. To his immense relief, the only thing his hand deigned to touch was the witch’s hand. Before he could protest his innocence, his hand snapped up the rings and slipped them onto his little finger. With nothing else to do, he straightened, and found himself face to face, inches from the king.
“I, um…” He smiled, a helpless, crazy thing that crawled across his lower face and refused to leave. He stepped back hurriedly, doing his best not to trip on the witch’s body. Desperate to look anywhere but the blank, non-accusing stares of the villagers he glanced over the King’s shoulder at the surf breaking on the sand. His jaw fall open, and without thinking he ran forward, bumping past the King and splashing into the surf.
“Where are the boats?” he cried, turning to face the natives. “Where’s the captain? Where are the fucking boats?”
The natives were looking past him, out towards the horizon. Marius went very still. He turned to follow their gaze, knowing as he did so what he was about to see.
Out towards the curve of the Earth, barely visible even with Marius’ dead sight, a small, muddy patch of white might just be a sail in full billow. As Marius watched it grew smaller, and dimmer, and faded away completely. The cows hide slipped through Marius' suddenly unfeeling fingers, and fell into the surf with a soft splash. Marius followed it seconds later, his legs giving way beneath him as if cut through by an axe.
“They didn’t do that by accident, did they?” he asked nobody in particular. Behind him, a multitude of feet shuffled, and slowly slithered across the sand, back towards the village. Within a minute he was alone, naked in the water.
SEVENTEEN
Marius sat in the sea for two days. Behind him, life for the natives returned to normal. The new King took up residence in his roundhouse. The bones of the old King were recovered from the embers and loaded into a large cane basket, which was taken to a tree at the highest point of the island, overlooking the bay, and hung amongst the remains of all the previous island rulers – no matter what he might face in days to come, the new King would be comforted by the knowledge that his forebears watched over him. The cane tables were broken down and returned to their various huts. The spoiled food was buried where native pigs could root it out later and eat, safely away from the local children. Those who had travelled from outlying villages made their goodbyes and wandered back down the forest paths towards their own homes. The timeless struggle of life on the Dog Crap Archipelago went on, much the same as it had every day of the previous three hundred years.
Marius squatted in the surf, dead eyes staring blindly at the empty horizon. The sun crawled towards its peak, driving the villagers indoors as the relentless heat reached its apex. Marius reddened under the onslaught. The surf slowly deepened, covering his outstretched legs, rising over his waist. The islanders returned to their tasks as the sun began the long descent towards night, and still Marius remained unmoving. Towards dusk, a thousand tiny stirrings announced the arrival of mud crabs from their lairs beneath the sand. They crawled over Marius’ immobile form, something in his flesh persuading them against an exploratory nibble. Birds arrived, attracted by the crabs, and as the water deepened into the night, fish. Still, they ignored Marius and he ignored them. He had no thought for survival. He had no thoughts at all. With no escape, and no possibility of returning to Scorby with a ruler for the dead, he was finally, irrevocably trapped. There was nothing to do but wait. The dead would arrive in their own time. After that, whatever fate could be considered worse than death, well, it would be his.
As the sun rose on the third day, several men emerged from the King’s round house and drew an outrigger from its berth amongst the dunes. They dragged it down the beach and into the water a foot or two to Marius’ side. A minute or so later a hand fell on his shoulder. Marius shuddered. Slowly, as if having to remember how to do so, his head swivelled around to view the hand, then followed the arm upwards until his eyes met those of the new King. He blinked. The King tilted his head to indicate the boat behind him. Marius’ gaze followed the movement. He stared at the boat, then back at the man standing over him. The King took a step backwards and offered his hand. Marius stared at it for several seconds, as if unable to work out what it was. Then, slowly, he reached out and took the hand in his. The King leaned back, and hauled Marius to his feet. Together they sloshed through the surf towards the boat. The islanders held it steady as the King climbed in and took his seat in the prow, then two of them took Marius by the arms and hauled him inside, seating him halfway along the boat’s length. The villagers clambered in behind him. The King barked a short command, and they leaned into their oars, driving the boat past the first line of breakers and out towards the ocean.
It took less than ten minutes to power their way clear of the bay. Marius sat in silence, watching the King’s broad back as the waves sped by underneath the boat. He leaned forward into the spray like a pet dog leaning out of a carriage window, face extended high to catch as much of the breeze as possible. The rowers sat around Marius, impassively leaning forward and back with each stroke, looking neither left nor right as they concentrated on their rhythm. Lulled by the regular pushing of the boat against the water, the heat, and the absence of human sound, Marius found his mind wandering to the journey ahead. There seemed little doubt that the King had decided to chase the Minerva. Understandable, really. A dead body on the beach and then Marius sitting in the water, all in the first few hours of his reign – these were the sort of things that could easily be seen as omens of bad things to come. Marius could admire the speed with which the King had arrived at a solution. When in doubt, make a decision, any decision, and deal with the consequences later. Any movement is better than none. Advice, he recognised with a rueful grin, he would have done well to follow instead of wasting two days in despair while the ship raced onwards. The island men seemed indefatigable. Perhaps, if they took the task in shifts and the Minerva ran out of wind somewhere along the way, they could catch up. Then what? Wait until night, row silently under the view of the watch, a stealthy ascent of the outer hull? And then… well, then he would make a decision, and deal with whatever consequences arose. No matter the result, he decided, he would remember the King’s kindness, and find a way to reward him in suitable fashion.
As Marius was pondering, the boat slowed and came to a stop. The rowers immediately fore and aft of Marius shipped their oars. Marius peered at the surrounding ocean. Featureless water rolled away on all sides. The King had turned in his seat, and was staring impassively at Marius. Marius raised his eyebrows in enquiry.
“Is something wrong?” he croaked, noting with surprise how thin and broken his voice sounded after almost three days of exposure. In response the King looked beyond him, and slowly nodded once.
Immediately, strong arms wrapped themselves around Marius, pinning his arms to his sides. The rower in front of him turned. In one fluid movement he swept up a net from the floor of the boat and jammed it over Marius’ head. While Marius was still stunned into immobility, the sack was drawn tight. Hands gripped his ankles. Marius found his senses and began to struggle, but it was too late. He was hoisted from his perch, and swung into the air. The tension on the net ceased. He hit the water, and immediately began to sink.