Limekiller!

So, now, he turned his face shorewards to get a better guess as to how fast he might be going: the shore was bare of a single human figure. Where, a moment ago — surely, only a moment ago? — there had been twenty to forty figures strolling on the strand, now his eyes saw not a single one. Not one, not even one. It was as though they had been been swallowed up by the sand. Which was of course impossible. It was of course possible that they had all been bound for one destination, some local equivalent, perhaps, of a barnraising or a husking-bee. maybe one of the jollifications locally called “funs”. and had all turned up one and the same path. Possible.

If so, however, he had been day-dreaming and had lost track of time. He returned his attentions to the mist.

And the mists parted, in part, and he saw the man in the longboat.

The man in the longboat was bent over, Limekiller could not see his face, only the arch of his back under his white shirt. He might have been searching for something at the bottom, or doing something else — somehow, his position suggested strain — could the man be sick? According to ancient and local maritime custom, Limekiller ought to have had a conch-shell next to his free hand, ought, also, to have had a distinctive conch-call all his own. ought to have known what call to sound upon this oldest of sea- horns to signify, Are you in trouble? — or, simply, Get the Hell out of my way! As, however, he had no conch and the whole custom was almost in complete abeyance, he merely shouted, “Longboat ahoy!”

It worked. The man looked up. The two vessels were getting closer now. He could see now that the man was not wearing a white shirt. The man was not wearing any shirt at all, the man’s face and throat were reddened, tanned, by sun and wind, but his body was the white of a White man who does not usually go shirtless. The man in the longboat started to raise one hand — the other seemed, although Limekiller could not be sure, seemed to be pressed to his side — they were not close enough for Jack to be sure of that, or sure of another notion he had, that the man had no clothes on at all — Hell, yes! — the fellow was sick! — Sick or injured. what a look of pain and agony upon that face!

“Hold on, hold on! I’ll throw you a line! I’ll

He was not sure what else he was about to offer. He saw the man raise his other hand, streaming with blood — The mists closed in as though a curtain had been pulled across. Jack swung the tiller sharply. Surely to God he would not want to run down a boat with a wounded man in her! The man might not be able to swim, and even though one wras always being assured that sharks w^ere seldom to be seen in close to shore around here, still. He did not run the boat down. He did not see anything of it. He called into the mist for the fellow-' to give him a hail so he could put about for him — There was no answer. The mists showed nothing, then the mist was all around him, and, oh, God! What piercing cold!

It could onlv have been a matter of seconds. He had sailed through the mists. He was shivering, shivering, trembling, under the hot sun. Never mind any of that, had to find that fellow, find his boat. He put his helm around.

There was no mist.

There was no boat.

Curasow Cove was deep. It was not the Mindanao Deep, to be sure. It was deep enough for the Saccharissa to come right up to shore. In fact, Limekiller was able to moor her to a palm tree. He w^as in several ways grateful for this; for one thing, he had not relished the notion that he might have to do Robinson Crusoe stunts and float elements of the cargo ashore. The timber, for example. To say nothing of many, many trips of the skiff for to fetch the nonfloatable items: nails, paint, corrugated iron, and such. Fortunately, Curasow Cove was deep enough so that he didn’t even get his feet wet, unloading. It was so deep, Limekiller mused, bethinking himself not to trip with the anchor-chain round either ankle, it was deep enough for Full Fathom Five’s father to be lying there, now, his bones turned to coral and his eyes to pearls.

The curve made in the shore by the water was paralleled, a bit back, by another curve made in the bush by absence of bush. Either a difference in the soil, or some recent “cleaning” of the land, or what. like the tonsure of a Celtic monk, the ground curved gently back against the trees. not far away. never far away, trees, in those latitudes… a sort of lawn, covered with heartshaped green leaves containing, measure for measure inside, a red- heart-shaped design. These were locally called Bleeding Heart, and they looked mighty dignified and worthy of a bishop to wait him with.