Lords of the Sky (51 page)

His body—those parts of it he was able to see—was tanned and hard, the belly flat, the muscles firm, laced with corded sinew. His fingers told him his mouth was wide and full-lipped, his nose broad; the hair that fell long about his face was straight and black; but the composition of his features, for all his attempts to catch his reflection in the sea, remained a mystery. As much a mystery as his name, or how he came to be here.

He eased stiffly to a sitting position, limbs grown adjusted to the hard contours of the stone cramping, his mouth dry, the tongue sticky, salted with the scent of the sea. To stand was an effort that spun his head, exploding brilliance behind his eyes, but he forced himself to it, flexing shoulders, turning a neck stiffened in fretful sleep to and fro until his body had resumed some degree of mobility. He performed a series of exercises he could not remember learning, their execution ingrained, habit.

Then with nothing better to do, he sat again, sighing.

He did not know how he had come here, nor how long he had been on this desolate slab, as unsure of those things as he was of … everything.

It was easier to enumerate those things he did not know than his knowledge of himself or his whereabouts. He did not know his name or the place of his birth; he did not know how this ocean that surrounded him was named; he had no idea how he came here, which in turn led to the thought that he did not know if he had enemies, or friends, a family, a
wife, or children. He did not know what he looked like, or how many years he had lived, or how he had lived them.

He knew so little: and that was the most frightening thing of all.

It seemed he was born full-grown upon this rock, birthed by the ocean itself perhaps, that awesome mother waiting to take him back, watching implacable as the sun fried his brain and pitched him into madness.

What might he do then? Plunge into the depths and drown? Or die withered by thirst and heat, his skin tightening over his bones until it cracked and fell away, leaving, finally, only a skeleton, perhaps for some other such as he to find. He was aware that he did not fear death in the same way that he knew such exercises as loosened his cramped limbs, but not how or why, and that blankness, that absence of memory, of self-knowledge, was the most galling aspect of this strange limbo.

He grunted, rising again, seeking in movement refuge from such melancholy contemplation. He was not dead yet, and whilst blood still pulsed in his veins, he would not give up, not turn to find death but flee from that embrace. He shaded his eyes, staring over the remorseless blue toward the scattering of similar rocks that jutted above the water. They were empty of life, though he suspected they held their caches of bones, offering no escape. He had thought of swimming to the closest—until he had seen the dark fins that occasionally clove the surface of the sea, judging from their size that the bodies beneath were sufficiently large to possess maws capable of swallowing him. In time, perhaps that would seem the more preferable option; but not yet. No: he was not ready yet.

He walked to the farther extension of the rock and crouched on the rim, peering down. Yesterday—or was it before yesterday? Time blurred in the amnesiac miasma of his memory—he had caught two crabs here, where the stone slab descended in a sharper curve to form a shallow bowl before slanting at a steeper angle into the depths. There had been more, moving about the pool, but he had been able to snatch up only two before the rest scuttled to the safety of the ocean. Neither was large, though he had received a painful abrasion from the pincers of one before smashing its shell against the stone, and the extraction of the raw meat
did more to tell him his teeth were sound than assuage his hunger. But they had offered some sustenance: now there were none, and the scraps of broken carapace he had set out in faint hope of catching fresh water should rain fall or dew form were empty, dry as his own arid mouth. He swept them aside, seeing them fly over the smooth surface of the ocean, watching the small splashes they made, and pushed wearily to his feet.

Back, fifty paces to where the rock swept gently into the water, the stone was already warm beneath his bare soles. Soon it would be too hot to tread, and he would huddle, drawing in upon himself, seeking to reduce the area of skin exposed to the sun, cupping his hands over his head as he felt the rays burn into his mind, removing them only when he felt the heat become too great to bear and it seemed his flesh must take flame and burn. Then he would fight the temptation to dive into the seductive water, knowing that he must either give himself up or emerge salt-caked, easier prey to his fiery enemy, those parts of him already burned screaming silently at the saline caress.

The darkness was little better, though it brought a slight lessening of the heat, for then it seemed the ocean woke, great bodies moving within its suspension, half-seen things rising and diving, black bulks etched by the same moonlight that silvered the water, filigree patterns formed by the ripples. He looked then on stars he could not name, though he knew instinctively—or felt he did—in which direction north lay, and east, south, west, though he could not say what lands boundaried the water. Indeed, he could not say that the sea ended, could not be sure it did not extend forever, circling back on itself, this unknown world in which he found himself ocean-girt and he the only living human creature on it. Save that he felt in his bones his homeland lay to the east; and that others had preceded him: there was skeletal evidence of that.

He clung to the belief that he had come here through human agency: thus might he hope to escape by the same means. Perhaps some vessel would pass and take him off. Or grant him the boon of a boat; water and some means of shelter, at least.

Or perhaps not,
said the unseen figure waiting at his
shoulder.
If men cast you away here, why should men succor you? Why should they not pass you by?

“Because they are men,” he answered, “and not all men can be so cruel.”

Can they not?
Death asked mildly.
Do you know that?

He paused before he shook his head and said, “No,” hearing soft laughter at the admission.

“You are not there,” he said, “I am talking to myself. Perhaps I am going mad.”

Perhaps,
came the response.

“No,” he said, and shivered despite the heat, and drew his hands down over his face, tasting the sweat that already beaded his palms. “Go away.”

He forced his watering eyes to focus, studying his hands, hearing Death’s soft chuckling—or the steady murmuring of the sea, he was not sure which—as he fought despair.

They looked strong, his hands, callused about the bases of fingers and thumbs, across the palms, as if accustomed to wielding some implement. Hair grew dark from the backs, divided by the pale traceries of old scars, that patterning continued along his forearms: the blazons of remembrance. He sensed his past there, knowledge of himself: what he was, and what he had been, elusive as a rainbow’s ending. He struggled to pursue the hints, to chase them down, like a man seeking to define a fading dream. It was as if he tried to clutch fog in his hands: hopeless. He blinked as heavy droplets of perspiration ran down his forehead and clung thick to his lashes, clouding his vision like tears: he wiped at his face, his concentration breaking. He ground his teeth and shook his head lest he weep, unaware that innate pride shaped the movement, glancing up to see the sun risen higher, wondering how much longer he could last.

Not long; not without shade and fresh water, food. Already his lips cracked, and it seemed he could feel the swelling of his tongue, the engorged flesh cloying to the roof of his dehydrating mouth, tender against his teeth. Soon his skin would blister, likely the relentless shimmer of sky and ocean would blind him, and then …

I shall have you,
said Death.

“But not yet,” he answered.

Why not?
demanded the unseen speaker, gently.
You
must come to me in the end, and what reason is there to prolong this suffering?

“I do not know who I am,” he said. “I want to remember.”

Is that a reason?
Death laughed, dismissive as the softly echoing sea.
Does it matter who you are? You are a man alone on a rock in an unknown sea. What more need you know?

“Who I am,” he said. “What I am.”

You are nothing,
said Death.
You are a sack of flesh stretched over bone that soon will scorch and wither and come to me.

“Then wait,” he said. “Wait until I am ready.”

You draw out your agony,
said Death.
No more than that. You condemn yourself to needless suffering. There is no one to witness this, no honor in it

Honor:
he felt the sharded strings of his memory tugged. “There is me,” he said.

And you are no one,
Death countered.
Come to me.

“No!” He shouted now, the sound startling him, so that he looked up and saw the sun had passed its zenith and was moving toward the western horizon. “You see?” he told his adversary; told himself. “I have survived another day.”

Death did not answer, and the man slumped afresh, his breath a ragged panting that seared his lungs until the sun once more touched the water, a great ball of burning gold that lanced flame over the soft undulations of waves, the sky darkening to the east, as if the descending orb drew behind it a curtain. It disappeared, and for a little while the sky was a glory of crimson, of salmon, of coral. Then blue velvet pricked with stars and the slender crescent of the moon. The air cooled, and he sighed, luxuriating in that benison, heaving unsteadily to his feet, that he might feel the faint breeze that briefly wafted the air over all his tortured body. He felt his sweat dry and become cold; something splashed, unseen in the darkness. He groaned, lowering himself, and curled upon the rock, closing eyes that still saw the sun, reminding him that so long as he clung to life, he must face it again.

Finally, he slept.

The next day, he woke as the first rays spread like molten metal over the sea.

His lids were heavy, the orbs beneath hot, itching as though their moisture were leached out and drawn into the
sun. He thought of rising, but the effort seemed too much and he lay watching the water grow brighter, until it became too bright, driving pinpricks of pain into his skull. His skin, too, felt it, crawling with the heat, and that galvanized him to action: he husked a curse and tottered to his feet. Perhaps there would be crabs again in the pool. Slowly, delicate as a dancer or a drunken man, he moved toward the farther end of the rock. The fifty paces had become eighty now, and the incline steeper. His muscles felt drained of moisture, knotting, movement painful. He halted at the rim, closing his eyes against the nausea that gripped him, fighting the dizziness that roiled his senses as he lowered himself cautiously to his knees.

The pool remained empty, as if the taking of the two crustaceans had rendered it forbidden territory to their fellows, the clear water shimmering, pricked with myriad points of brilliance that stabbed his vision, inflaming the dull ache inside his skull so that it pounded against the confining bone.

This is quite pointless,
said Death.
You will find neither food nor water. There is only suffering here.

“And you,” the man answered, curling up on the rock, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms encircling his spinning head.

And me,
Death agreed affably.
Your true companion.
“You name yourself my friend?” he demanded.
Of course,
Death said.
Do I not offer you release from this pain?

“Then tell me who I am,” he challenged. “Tell me that, and then perhaps I will come to you.”

Do you not know?
asked Death.

“No!” he croaked. “I cannot
remember.
Tell me!”

I
could,
Death said. I
know it as I know all men’s names. Come to me, and I shall tell you.

The man thought on that awhile, still huddled, his eyes closed. It seemed to him, not knowing himself, that he was not afraid of dying but loved life more. “Not yet,” he said.

Death’s laughter was soft: the lap of undulant water on stone.
Why delay it? Why suffer? You have no hope—come to me.

“I live,” he said.

But you do not know who you are,
Death said.

“But still I live.”

Crouched, curled, his arms wrapped about his head, he could not see, but he thought Death shrugged, negligently. “Tell me who I am,” he repeated, “and then perhaps I shall agree.”

There was a shadow on the featureless sea, a blur of darkness that flickered in and out of his sight on the swell. Perhaps it was some trick of Death’s, to convince him of the futility of clinging so obstinately to the frayed thread of his life. But as he squinted, willing the vision to be real, it coalesced into solidity: a boat, blue painted, propelled toward him by four sweeps, the shapes of men at prow and stern. He fell to his knees, careless of the abrading rock, bracing himself on trembling hands, and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. He did not know if there was a god or gods; or if there were, whether or not he believed in any deity, but still he gave up thanks, and said to Death, “You see? You shall not have me yet. I have beaten you.”

Death gave back no answer: the boat came closer. He thought it a fishing boat, though why he could not say, nor how he should know one vessel from another. He knew only that it offered salvation: he raised his arms, waving.

None on the craft returned his wave, and rather than coming straight on, to where its passengers might find landing, it turned aside. The man’s mouth, already open, gaped wider at that, and he croaked a hoarse denial, forcing himself to rise, tottering ungainly as he turned to stare in horror, hands outthrust, as if he would draw the boat to him. Almost, he plunged into the sea, to swim to the vessel, but for all his fear it should abandon him, he knew the effort of traversing that distance would be too great, that he must drown before he could reach his goal.