The loud burst of an air horn split across the water.
Gray turned. The bow of a large boat pushed out of the smoke and headed their way, a ghostly but familiar apparition.
It was Captain Huld’s fishing trawler.
The boat slid alongside them, expertly piloted by Huld’s son.
The captain called from the open deck, wearing a wide grin. “What the fjandanum did you do to my island?”
Huld met them at the stern deck and helped them aboard. Ollie, still weak, had to be carried, slung between Monk and Gray.
“A bunch of drowned rats, the lot of you,” Huld scolded. “Come. We’ve got blankets and dry clothes below.”
“How did you find us?” Gray asked.
“Spotted that little blinkin’ light of yours.” He pointed to the emergency LED at the raft’s bow. “Plus we couldn’t leave the area till we found you. She wouldn’t have it.”
From the wheelhouse, a lithe form limped out, wrapped in a blanket, her left leg bandaged from calf to midthigh.
Seichan . . .
Gray came close to dropping Ollie in a sudden desire to rush forward.
Monk swore in surprise.
“Darnedest thing,” Huld said. “That same pod of orcas we saw earlier has been hugging our sides since the fireworks began, like frightened kids hanging on to our skirts. Then suddenly the whole lot of ’em goes and sinks away. Thought they were abandoning us. Only half a minute later, they pop back up with your woman, nearly drowned, and nosed her over to the boat.”
Gray knew that the term killer in killer whales was a misnomer. In the wild, no orca had ever attacked a human. In fact, just as it was with their close relative, the dolphin, there were reported cases of orcas protecting humans in the water.
It seemed the playful pod—fed and respected by Huld—had returned that affection today.
Seichan hobbled over to join them, looking more angry than relieved. “I could’ve made it to the surface on my own.”
Huld shrugged. “They did not think so. And they know these waters better than you, my stúlka.”
She scowled.
“I’ve got Ollie,” Monk said, shifting the caretaker’s weight. “I need to get him somewhere warm, do a more thorough exam. He swallowed a lot of seawater.”
They all had, but Gray urged Monk to do as he’d suggested.
Huld went to help his son, but not before passing on some news. “Been listening to the shortwave. Word is this eruption’s gone ahead and triggered some magma blowouts along the rift that splits the seabed here. Before all is through, we may have another island or two.”
With those dire words, Huld left them alone on the deck.
Seichan stood with her arms crossed. She wouldn’t look at Gray and stared out to sea. The boat trudged away from the blasted island, slowly drawing clear of the ash cloud.
“I thought you were dead,” Seichan said. Her voice was a whisper. She shook her head. “But I . . . I couldn’t give up.”
He moved next to her. “I’m glad you didn’t. You saved our lives by making Huld stay.”
She looked at him, searching his face, seeing if he was being flippant. Whatever she found there made her turn swiftly away, but not before Gray noted a rare flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
She wrapped her blanket more snugly around her. Neither of them spoke for several breaths.
“Have you searched the bag yet?” she asked.
He was momentarily confused until she glanced over to the backpack he’d abandoned on the deck.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him.
She was right. Now was as good a time as any.
Gray crossed to the bag, knelt next to it, and opened the main compartment. Seichan hovered over him.
He sifted through the sodden contents. There wasn’t much: a couple of wet T-shirts, pens, a spiral notepad whose pages had become mush. But buried within the nest of shirts, perhaps meant to cushion it, was something sealed in a plastic Ziploc bag. Gray pulled it free.
“What is it?”
“Looks like an old book . . . maybe a journal.” Gray unzipped the bag and slipped out the contents.
It was a small leather-bound volume, brittle with age. He flipped the book open carefully. A meticulous handwritten script filled the pages, along with drawings that had been done with an equally precise hand. The book definitely appeared to be a journal or diary.
He scanned the writing.
“French,” he said.
He turned to the first page, where a set of initials was floridly etched.
“A.F.,” he read aloud, and stared up at Seichan.
They both knew those initials, the author of this journal.
Archard Fortescue.
Chapter 23