Mukat crawled through the folding legs and out the other side, to be faced with yet another foe. Weary, he raised a hand, grabbed a wrist and flung the attacker to the side. His half-naked body was cut and bruised and bloody, but he was a warrior and would never surrender so long as breath occupied his body. A sailor fell at his side, reached out for his neck and tried to throttle him. Mukat broke the wrist and jumped up. To his left and right men surged in tiny clusters, grappling, stabbing and bludgeoning. The ship rocked slightly in the small swell. On the beach the victors stood watching, their hatchets and war clubs held high. Scalps were being waved. More canoes were being readied.
Mukat ran from enemy to enemy, stabbing and breaking bones, helping his warriors where he could. The sailors backed away, suddenly rallied by one noisy individual and forming lines, one behind the other. What they had left of their guns were raised and aimed. Someone shouted and the first rank opened fire. Balls of shot screamed out of muzzles. One of the weapons exploded, killing its owner and the man at his side. Warriors fell, some dead and some wounded, their blood painting the deck.
Mukat leapt for the newly opened gap, squirreling his way among the ranks, slashing and hacking. The second rank opened fire, killing more of his brethren, but now they were all charging and closing the gap at a rapid rate. Fearless they came, even as the third rank opened fire before falling to pieces under the Cahuilla onslaught. Enraged, the warriors hacked until they were spent, the carnage around them the proof of their bravery, their manhood and their victory.
Mukat stood upright in the aftermath, basking in triumph and listening to the groans of the wounded that — on one side at least — would soon be silenced, enjoying the stiff breeze from across the sea that cooled his fiery skin. Their homelands were safe, their families and treasures secure from one more pillager. Time now to relax and reap the rewards of their sacrifices.
Mukat made a sound that called the braves together. He directed groups to the top of the ship and others inside, reminding them that lone stragglers may still remain, especially where the valuables were being stored. As he spoke the wind whipped up again and storm clouds scudded across the dark skies, torn by an approaching storm. The Cahuilla were used to predicting bad weather and Mukat suddenly knew there was something coming that not even his warriors could obstruct.
“A storm approaches,” he said aloud, eyeing the swell of the sea and the rock of the boat. By the moment the wind began to whip up. “We will make this quick.”
What the Cahuilla might term a valuable might be far removed from what others called the same. Mukat knew this. Clothes and material, certain foods, weapons, other raw items — these were all precious treasure to them. Gold coins and baubles not so much, although they too might have their place if the missions ever sprung back up.
His men swarmed the ship, looting what they could and dragging many items up to the deck. Some were discarded. More canoes came alongside, preparing to carry the plunder. Even now the swells were tricky in the shallows and the errant gusts of wind were beyond dangerous. More than one canoe capsized, though the Cahuilla were all strong swimmers and swam ashore. Mukat eyed the approaching storm with fear. Had they angered the gods in some way? The demons, perhaps? Or the Trickster himself? Surely defending their lands was no reason to punish them. But then demons were fickle things.
Mukat helped drag several items to the edge of the ship where braves were ready to lower them into the waiting canoes. Still more men came running up from the depths of the vessel, gesturing wildly.
You have to see this, he understood.
He cursed the gods. The Cahuilla had taken a great victory here today, defeating soldiers who meant them harm even if they didn’t initially know it. After a hard-won victory came the chance to gather the spoils of war; they could use these goods to improve their lifestyles. Now, the great approaching storm was threatening to take all that away.
Mukat cursed into the coming gales. The deeper darkness of rain clouds swarmed towards him like a fast-moving sand blizzard, seemingly reaching out with inky black fingers. Water spat at his face. The waves churned. The gods, it seemed, were indeed angry.
Dare he defy them further?
Mukat lowered his head and ran to his men. Even now, they held items of plunder in their hands, some weighed down so heavily they could barely stand. Someone told him about the great chests in the lower hold, once heavily guarded but now defenseless, and the enormous locks and straps that held them closed.
Clearly they posed the source of the ship’s greatest riches. And just as clearly the Cahuilla could not open them. Not in so short a time frame.
Mukat rushed by them, dragging one man with him to lead the way. The huge ship began to rock as the storm enveloped it. Mukat knew his men would be escaping even now — they would not wait for him and rightly so. He ran past open and closed doors, bright lanterns and burning bodies. He ran past a table bigger than his entire tepee, lavishly set with goblets and golden plates and heaps of food. He ran past a groaning man who reached out two hands, beseeching him for help. This ship was such an odd place to be — even paintings hung on the walls. Sometime later he reached the hold, stopping as flickering lanterns picked out the source of all his men’s interest. Seven chests sat in a row, very large, each so big they would take many men to lift and have to be removed one at a time. The obvious answer was to empty them, but Mukat now saw the cause of his men’s torment.
Locks larger than any he had ever seen were attached to the sides. Mere spears and even rocks would not quickly dent them, let alone open them. In addition, two broad, solid metal straps wrapped around the circumference of each chest, imposing loops interrupted only by the addition of yet more locks.
Mukat blinked rapidly. Yes, the chests presented a great deal of trouble but it was that simple fact that told him they were worth the effort.
As the ship rolled under the onslaught of the storm he knew the answer was but a simple one.
“We leave,” he said. “And later, we come back.”
“Why don’t we stay?” his companion asked.
Mukat eyed the dark hulk all around him. “Devil’s home,” he said. “Not ours.” He would never be able to relax inside this unfamiliar, imposing, ghost-ridden place.
The two men turned and ran hard. Even down here they could hear the storm’s fury. Mukat again considered the depth of that anger. Had the gods sent these men to save the Cahuilla? Possibly from an upcoming event?
Mukat pondered as he ran, at last emerging from the nightmarish below-deck environment and into his real home — the great outdoors. The scene that greeted his eyes, however, was not at all inviting. Torrents of water lashed sideways through the air, peppering his face with little painful darts. As the ship listed toward the seaward side, great rolling waves greeted his vision, bigger than any he had ever seen. A forlorn canoe bobbed around out there, smashed from wave to wave, empty. The hellish skies pressed down as if trying to smother all life from the earth. Lightning danced from cloud to cloud, demons and devils skipping and cavorting at the top of the world.
Mukat fought his way to the ship’s rail, holding onto his companion as best he could. Together they gripped the solid wood and looked toward the shore. People were gathered up the beach, beyond the reach of the foaming waters, people drenched and miserable and frightened but still determined to wait for their leader. Mukat would not disappoint them. Grabbing his companion, he stared into the man’s eyes and nodded.
“We swim,” he said. “We live.”