�How is your wife faring?�
Sinclair came closer, his boots sliding on the slippery deck.
�The good doctor,� Addison continued, �tells me she remains unwell.� His tricorner hat was tied to his head with a frayed crimson sash running under the chin.
Sinclair knew that if there was one thing on which he and the captain could agree, it was on the utter unreliability of the ship's physician. Every man aboard, in fact, was of a suspect nature, but it was only on just such a boat that Sinclair could have booked immediate and unquestioned passage.
�She is better,� Sinclair replied, �and resting.�
Captain Addison nodded thoughtfully, as if he cared, and gazed at the overcast, starless sky. �The winds remain against us,� he said. �If we don't change course soon, we shall find ourselves at the pole itself. Never seen such winds, in all my time.�
Sinclair read into the remark precisely what the captain doubtlessly intended�a reminder that the foul weather was attributed to the presence of these mysterious passengers on board. Women were considered bad luck to begin with, but the fact that Eleanor was ailing�that she appeared as white as a ghost�only made matters worse. Initially, Sinclair had done all that he could to enter into the life of the ship, to make himself a steady and agreeable guest, but between his duties to Eleanor and the conditions imposed by his own secret infirmity there was simply no way that he could carry it off. Even the two crewmen on deck�their names, if he was not mistaken, were Jones and Jeffries�glanced at him from under their woolen caps and the rags knotted around their faces with unconcealed malevolence.
�Tell me again, Lieutenant,� Captain Addison said, �what was your business in Lisbon?�
It was in Portugal that Sinclair had booked passage.
�Diplomatic matters,� Sinclair replied, �of a sensitive nature. Nothing that I may disclose even now.�
The wind picked up, whipping the ragged sail around the captain's legs as he stood with both hands gripping the wheel. In the strange penumbral glow of the night sky, he looked to Sinclair like an image from some daguerreotype, washed of all color, reduced to shadows and shades of gray.
�And was it there your wife fell ill?�
The plague, Sinclair was aware, had visited the city only a few years before.
�My wife is ill with no contagion, I can assure you of that. It is an internal disorder, which we will see to when we reach Christchurch.�
Sinclair noticed one of the sailors�Jones�throw a glance at Jeffries, a glance that clearly said,
�If we
reach Christchurch �� It was a question that haunted Sinclair, too. Would they have come so far, in such haste, only to perish in a frozen sea?
The next words from Addison's mouth were swallowed in a sudden gust of wind that set the sails billowing and the masts creaking, but which carried with it a strange sight indeed�a giant, soaring bird. An albatross. Sinclair had not yet seen one, though he knew from the lines of Coleridge's marvelous poem that this must be one now. It hovered overhead, its underbelly white, its outspread wings�no less than ten or twelve feet wide in Sinclair's estimation�tipped with black, its long beak a ruddy pink. Even in the tumultuous air, the bird maintained an attitude of utter serenity, dipping and turning around the masts, tacking on the invisible currents with no greater movement than a slight adjustment of its feet.
�A gony� Jones said, using the seaman's term, and Jeffries nodded appreciatively; the albatross was a bird of good omen and brought misfortune down only on those who tried to do it harm.
The ship hit a rising wave, its hull grating on chunks of broken ice, and Sinclair had to grab hold of a rope with both hands to keep his footing. The albatross swooped low, across the brig's prow, then up again and onto a shuddering yardarm. There, it perched, its wings now furled, its claws clutching the slick wood. Sinclair marveled at the sight; how, he wondered, could the great bird survive, flying for countless miles over nothing but rolling seas and slabs of ice, under such a desolate sky?
�Captain, sir! Captain Addison!�
Sinclair turned his head, and saw Burton clambering up onto the deck from below, his frozen beard as stiff as a plank; right behind him came Farrow, cradling something beneath his black sealskin jacket.
His legs spread wide for balance, Burton marched toward the wheel, without so much as a glance in Sinclair's direction. �Something to report, sir!� he bellowed. �Of great concern!�
Sinclair had to crane his neck to see, as Burton and Farrow seemed intent on blocking his view. He saw the flash of something� glass?�and heard the men jabbering away, in low tones, over one another. Addison held up his hand, as if to calm them, then looked down at the prize they carried. Sinclair could see it, too, now, and to his dismay, saw that it was a wine bottle, marked MADEIRA.
The captain looked puzzled, then indignant, as if he were not a man to be trifled with. �See for yourself, Captain!� Burton urged, but Addison was still resistant. Farrow pulled a glove off with his teeth and used his bare fingers to pull the cork from the bottle. He held the open bottle under the captain's nose. Spitting his glove onto the deck, he said, �Smell it! Better yet, Cap'n, touch it to your lips!�
Addison reluctantly lowered his face to the bottle, then recoiled, as if affronted by an especially foul odor. But it was only when Dr. Ludlow crawled up on deck, too, and silently nodded his agreement, that the captain, an expression of horror on his face, peered at Sinclair.
�Is it true?� he said, taking the dark bottle from Farrow's hand.
�It's true,� Sinclair said, �that you hold my wife's medicine. Stolen, no doubt, from our cabin.�
�Medicine?� Burton blurted.
�Bloody hell it is!� Farrow threw in.
�Didn't I tell you they was trouble?� Burton shouted to Jones and Jeffries, who understood nothing but looked ready to welcome any mayhem about to ensue.
�Found it under the bedclothes, I did!� Farrow cried, in an apparent bid to claim the lion's share of the credit. �That's no denying!�
�And ask �im what happened to Bromley!� Burton went on, his beard shaking with fury. �Ask �im how a man like that, an able-bodied seaman who twice rounded the Horn, fell overboard while keeping watch!�
Suddenly, everyone's voices were raised and a half dozen other crewmen spilled from the hold, four of them carrying the trunk that Sinclair had just secured. They dropped it upside down on the ice-rimed deck, with the sound of spurs jangling against the bottles still inside. Before Sinclair could even reach for his sword, he felt his arms pinioned and a coil of rope slipped over his wrists, then knotted tight. His shoulders were pressed against the main mast, and
while he shouted his protests, he saw Burton and Farrow charge back below.
�No!� he cried out. �Leave her be!�
But there was nothing he could do now; he couldn't even move. Captain Addison shouted at one of the seamen to take the helm, then strode across the deck. Staring directly into Sinclair's eyes, he said, �I'm not one to believe in curses, Lieutenant.� He kept his voice low, as if confiding a secret. �But with this,� he went on, brandishing the bottle, �you have pressed my hand beyond endurance.�
The sailors holding his arms tightened their grip.
�The men already hold you responsible for the death of Bromley, and I no longer doubt it myself.� Weighing the black bottle in his hand, he whispered, �I'll have a mutiny on my hands if I don't do it.�
�If you don't do what?�
But Addison didn't answer. Instead, he looked over at the hatchway, where Burton and Farrow were maneuvering themselves back onto the deck, holding Eleanor in a blanket like a sling. Her eyes were open, and one arm was held out toward Sinclair; her makeshift bonnet had fallen off, and her brown hair, once so thick and glossy, blew in loose tendrils about her head.
Farrow brandished a rusted chain in the air and Captain Addison, neither nodding assent nor demanding a halt, turned away. As he went back to the wheel, he hurled the black bottle, without so much as following its course, over the side.
�Sinclair!� Eleanor cried out, her terrified voice nearly lost in the tumult. �What's going on?�
But it was all too clear to Sinclair; he struggled at the rope and tried to kick his way free of the mast, but his riding boots scrabbled on the icy deck, and Jeffries suddenly landed a roundhouse punch to his gut. Sinclair doubled over, trying to catch his breath again, and saw only boots and ropes and chains as he was dragged toward her. She was standing now, though barely, held up by Burton, as Sinclair was forcibly pressed against her, back to back. How he wished he could embrace her, one more time. But all he could do was whisper, �Don't be afraid. We'll be together.�
�Where? What are you saying?�
She was not only frightened beyond words but delirious, too.
Farrow, cackling like a hen, kept circling them, using his gloved
hands to wrap the chain around their knees, their waists, their shoulders. Their necks. Wherever the freezing metal touched their bare skin, it seared, like a plaster. Though he was facing in the other direction, Sinclair could hear her ragged breath and feel her mounting panic.
�Sinclair,� she gasped. �Why?�
Jones and Jeffries, having abandoned their watch, hauled them, bound together like two fireplace logs, over to the gunwale. Sinclair instinctively dug his boots into the wood, but someone kicked them loose, he lost his footing altogether, and in a matter of seconds, he found himself staring down into the churning water below. Oddly, he was glad that Eleanor's gaze would be fixed on the sky, on the white albatross he hoped still clung to the yardarm.
�Shouldn't we say some words?� Dr. Ludlow said, a tremor in his voice. �It all seems so � barbaric.�
�I'll say the words,� Burton shouted, leaning low to glare into Sinclair's face. �May God have mercy on your souls!�
Sinclair felt many hands lifting the two of them off the deck.
�And the Devil take the hindmost!�
Someone laughed, and then he was plunging, headfirst, with Eleanor screaming in terror, down, down, down, toward the water. It seemed to take longer than he expected before they crashed through a thin scrim of ice. Her scream stopped dead, everything went silent, and with the chain weighting them down, they sank swiftly, spinning in circles, into the frigid, black water. He held his breath for many seconds, but then, even though he might have sustained it for several more, let it out in one great rush � embracing Death, and whatever else might await them both, at the bottom of the sea.
PART I
THE VOYAGE OUT
�And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong;
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.
With sloping mast and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.�
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1798
���
CHAPTER ONE
November 19, noon
THE DOORBELL WAS RINGING,
and even though Michael heard it, he did not want to wake up; the dream he was in was too comforting. Kristin was with him, and they were driving in his Jeep on a mountain road. She had her bare feet up on the dashboard, the radio was blasting, and she was laughing, her head held back, her blond hair blowing in the wind from the open window.
The doorbell rang again, a series of short bursts. Whoever it was wasn't going away.
Michael lifted his head from the pillow�why was there an empty bag of Doritos next to his face?�and glanced at the lighted numerals on the clock�11:59. And then, even as he rubbed his eyes, it flicked over to noon.
The doorbell, again.
Michael threw the blanket back, dropped his feet onto the floor. �Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,� he mumbled. He grabbed a bathrobe off the back of the door and shuffled out of the bedroom. Through the opaque glass in the front door, he could see a shape�
somebody in a hooded parka�standing on the stoop. Michael moved closer.
�I can see you, too, Michael. Now open the door�it's freezing out here.�
It was Joe Gillespie, his editor at
Eco-Travel Magazine.
Michael turned the bolt and opened the door. A cold rain spattered against his bare legs as his visitor hustled in. �Remind me to get a job on the
