Beyond paradise (24 page)

Twenty-three

Sylvie didn't know how long she had been asleep nor when she had fallen into dream. She remembered lying on the bed, fully clothed, not even deigning to crawl under the blanket. She had neglected to turn out the lantern, had lain in the depressing bright light and listened for his footsteps, suspecting she would not hear them, but hoping nonetheless. She had been biting her nails, a perfectly awful habit her mother had tried to breed out of her. The attempts had been successful for the most part, but it only took one relapse to completely wreck her progress, and last night, she had certainly had such a relapse. Her hands looked awful. She remembered trying to sleep a couple of times—no serious attempts, but a few determined closings of the eyes. She remembered glancing out of the porthole and thinking how depressing it would be if the sun rose before she had even napped. But she could not for the life of her recall the moment she had actually fallen asleep. Yet, it must have occurred.

The sun had only begun making its threat to rise when Sylvie was awakened by a frightening wave of noise. There

Elizabeth Doyle

was running and shouting and cursing overhead. Her first thought was Jacques, are you all right? And then she felt a bang that nearly tossed her from her bed. The whole cabin shook as though there were an earthquake, though she thought that was a highly unlikely explanation. Determined to make sure the others were all right, she ran for the door, glad that she had slept in her manly clothes. The noise upstairs was so loud that she hesitated. It was truly terrifying. She could hear the crew yelling, but much worse ... she could hear unfamiliar voices yelling as well, and not in French. A piece of her wanted to hide in the cabin. But what good would that do? She took a deep breath, and reminded herself that Jacques was up there. The very thought of him being hurt was enough to make her toss all caution aside and fly up the steps.

"Get out of here!" Sebastien cried, running down the steps, smothered in sweat and terror. "Listen to me, woman! Get down!" He grabbed her arm and yanked it, causing her genuine pain in his attempts to drag her to her own cabin.

She didn't care about the pain in the muscle he had just pulled. "What's going on?!" she cried.

And though he wasn't in the mood to chatter with a woman when his very life was in danger, the fury in her eyes forced him to speak. "We're under attack!" he cried, stating the obvious. "Now get in there, woman! And don't come out!" He tried to shove her, but she ducked, just as Jacques had taught her in their lesson the day before.

"Who is attacking us?!" she cried.

"Pirates!" he cried to her astonishment. "A bunch of filthy pirates! They don't even know that we're pirates as well because we didn't have a flag! Thought we were merchants. They've rammed our ship and boarded! Get out of here, woman! We're outnumbered and our ship needs repair. Go!"

Finding herself calm in the face of catastrophe, she had the sense to feign a retreat. She allowed Sebastien to think he

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had placed her securely in her cabin, and then emerged the moment he had disappeared. She grabbed her knife.

To Jacques, there was no clamoring of swords, no desperate voices of men shouting their way through battle, trying to be heard among the commotion before falling to their watery graves. There was no ugly cursing, and the ocean did not wail in reply. To him, there was only a flicker of light on the horizon of a gray, morning sky. His cutlass moved silently through air, thick with wind. His opponent's face was wrinkled and fearful, angry and sweaty. His mouth formed shapes Jacques did not strain to comprehend. He just noticed the movement and went on. To Jacques, a battle was a lonely thing. He fought as though there were a bubble around him, and anyone who stepped inside would have to die. He was too busy to understand who the intruders were, because he couldn't take time to see their words. And when he didn't know what they said, he didn't know their thoughts or their identities. People who were wordless were also faceless.

Jacques had lived all of his early years among people who were, therefore, faceless. Until he had learned how to see lips, and to reproduce the lips' movements, all hearing people had been anonymous. And they were the keepers of the asylum, never the inmates. The world had seemed fiill of cruel, powerful strangers who could not talk. And he alone had seemed to be conscious, communicative and aware. The other wards taught him hand signals, letting him know that there was a way to tell someone what was happening in his mind. But so few could hear him. The ominous wardens who beat him never knew his thoughts, never took the time to understand the gestures of their wards' invented language. Jacques had learned to fear those who could not comprehend him. He knew why they beat him. It was because they

Elizabeth Doyle

couldn't hear him, and how could they really know that he was alive if they didn't know for certain that he had thoughts?

On some level, whenever he fought, he became his own enemy. He didn't truly believe that his opponents had feelings and families and concerns. Because as long as he couldn't receive their messages, it was easy to pretend they were nothing but scary outsiders trying to break in. He had just felled his opponent when he felt a frosty, cold blade at his throat. He had the strange reaction of smiling rather sarcastically. He knew he was finished. Those frightening outsiders had finally gotten him, and he would die on the deck of a ship he didn't even love. His eyes lifted to the clouds, and he wondered for the first time whether there was a life after death. Then he had one more final thought. "I wish I didn't have to die without Sylvie." He felt no shame for thinking it, for he was a dead man, and free to think whatever sentimental nonsense he wished. That was his way of seeing it. But the knife at his throat, rather than slicing into him, suddenly dangled rather loosely.

Sylvie had come up behind Jacques's assailant. Placing a knife furiously at the back of his neck, pricking the skin just enough to let him feel her intent, she was distantly aware that her forehead had grown hot with determination. She would not let anyone kill Jacques. Never. "Drop it," she told him, leaning into her knife just a little. Jacques's assailant froze, but he did not drop the knife as he was told. "Do you think I'm joking?" she asked. "Look at me and tell me if I'm joking." The pirate's hand had softened around Jacques's neck, and gradually, cautiously, he turned around. Of course, he was planning to assault whatever he found on the other side of him. That it had a female voice only increased his confidence that he could overcome the obstacle. But her murderous eyes stopped his breath. He had never seen a woman

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wear an expression so powerfully hateful. "Drop it," she repeated.

He smiled, enjoying the thought of killing a woman. But Jacques spun around and knocked him senseless. It was only then that he saw Sylvie. He was stunned. With wide brown eyes he observed the knife in her hand, the fierce look in her eyes, and the rather large man, now crumpled on the planks, who had come so close to killing him. She had saved his life . . . again. And what's more, he looked around him for the first time in a while, and saw that he and his crew had gained victory. There was blood and filth, and men collapsed from exhaustion, panting against the rails. But there were no enemy pirates still at battle. They had all either surrendered or been slain. His own crew, by no means, looked as victorious men ought. They were wounded, tired, and still very angry. Two were dead. But they had won.

"Remi!" Jacques called between gasping breaths. "Remi, what happened, how did we win?"

"I don't know," called the long-haired pirate, clutching his wounded arm. "It just happened."

"We had our good-luck charm!" cried Frangois, jerking his head at Sylvie.

Jacques smiled at that, and cast Sylvie a look of absolute bafflement and awe. "You are amazing," he said, shaking his head. He had not scraped his chin, so he was adorned with the handsome, rough beginnings of facial hair that Sylvie found most enticing.

"Oh, don't be silly," she said. "There's no such thing as a good-luck charm."

"I didn't mean that," he panted, still trying to catch his breath from the excruciating battle. "You know what I meant. You saved me again."

Vulnerability flickered in her eyes, and she soon found

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herself casting them down. "I ... I had to, Jacques." She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "I couldn't let them. I—"

He returned her bashful smile with one of his own. "I'm sorry I walked out last night. It was wrong of me, it was childish."

"Don't... don't," she said, reaching out to put a finger on his lips. "It doesn't matter—I ... I understand."

He thought about telling her that she had been his final thought when his toes had hung over the edge of that cliff of mortality. But he didn't want to scare her ... or maybe he didn't want to make himself vulnerable again. "Sylvie, I. .. I owe you an apology. I've been unfair to you. I ... I never should have—"

"Not now," she said with exasperation, "not now. Please. I'm just so glad you're alive." She tossed herself into his arms, hoping he would squeeze her, hoping he would forgive and not think too ill of her for being so bold. She just had to feel his warm arms supporting her and cherishing her. She had to hear his heartbeat through his shirt. She had to smell the masculine scent of battle. He gave her all the hugging she could want. He did not push her away or freeze up as she had feared. He responded kindly, holding her and stroking her back, as though he knew exactly what kind of a hug she needed. She didn't understand how he could know. He squeezed her with just the right amount of strength, shared just the right amount of warmth through his skin, and finished the hug with a perfectly strong and reassuring kiss upon the crown of her head. "Let's go," he said. "We'd better examine the other ship."

"Wait, Jacques," she sighed, looking at him as though he were a beloved dog that she adored and couldn't keep. "I... I have to tell you something. Now. While I'm still feeling brave. I ... I want to tell you that... well, I want you to know, I.. . I really, really, really ... like you."

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How many 'realty's was that?" he grinned. 'Tm not sure," she said "but it was a lot of them, Jacques." "Hmm. I wonder how many 'really like's are there in a 'love'?"

"Six, I think." She beamed sardonically. "Six?" He laughed and panted out the last of his exhaustion at the same time. "Well then, we're halfway there " He placed his hand on her waist and led her forth. It was a simple touch, a courteous gesture, but it gave Sylvie chills. "Come. Let's go see whether our enemies carried enough food and water to get us to Europe."

"Europe?" she asked, startled. "Are we going there?" "If we can feed ourselves that long, that's the plan." That tickled something inside her, something she hadn't known was there. France. How many times had her mother prayed that the family would return to France? How many times had she told Sylvie of the romantic city of Paris with its cafes and carrosses a six sols, the Luxembourg Gardens, alight with lanterns all night long for the sake of strolling lovers, and, of course, Versailles, the home of the Noblesse de cour. Sylvie had always nodded patiently through her mother's ramblings about the glories of Paris and the hopeless inferiority of life on an "uncivilized" Caribbean island. But somehow, she realized, a seed had been planted in the folds of her mind, because the mention of visiting Europe excited her beyond reason. "Paris?" she asked, trembling during the pause which followed.

"Yes," he shrugged, "I think Paris would be the choice for most of us. It's deep enough inland to hide us from pirate hunters at the docks, and crowded enough to conceal us." He spoke of practicality, but Sylvie was flooded with dreams. What a joy it would be to write her mother from Paris and tell her that she had made it—that she was seeing the things her mother had always wanted her to see, doing the

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things she'd always wanted her to do. It might almost make up for ... well, not quite. "Do you know how to play yew de paumeT she asked excitedly. "My mother says it's very popular in Paris, but I would need someone to teach me. Or trictrac?"

"Sylvie," he half-laughed, half-scoffed, "those are games of the nobility. Where would I have learned something like that?"

"Oh, that's right. I'm sorry."

He shook his head disbelievingly at her flush. She had to be the only daughter of the Noblesse d'epee who frequently forgot about it.

They stepped to the edge of the rail, examining the grappled enemy ship. It was not as fine a vessel as theirs had been before it was damaged. It showed signs of age, battle, and men with untidy habits. The deck was littered with wads of expelled tobacco and empty dishes. The rats were having a feast with all of the leftovers no one had bothered to sweep up. The ship was blackened by gunpowder and splintered with wear. But nonetheless, it was a square-rigger like their own, and very seaworthy. It had a full suite of massive sails that stepped up the masts, nearly touching the sky. "We should probably switch ships," said Jacques. Some of the men were leaping aboard the new vessel, ready to scour it for food, water, and valuables. But he just propped his boot up on the rail and held Sylvie's hand. He didn't think she'd want to make the leap.

"If we change ships," she suggested, "Jervais won't know which boat is ours, and it'll be a lot safer."

"My thoughts exactly." But they were also sharing another thought. They would miss their superior ship with its luxurious accommodations. It could hardly be helped, though. "We wouldn't have to worry about repairs, either," he said, trying to convince himself further.

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That* right"

He looked in her eyes and they shared a smile. Their hands tightened around each other. Then, suddenly, Sylvie heard a shout. She shook Jacques's hand anxiously to alert him to it. He looked around, but couldn't see what she was pointing to. "Over there" she said. "It's Remi. He's calling to us."