The first thing John felt was the weight of the sun. It pressed down upon his face like a furnace, the kind that baked the deck of a ship until one could smell the tar beneath the boards. He groaned, shifting against the coarse sand, and blinked his eyes open. The sky above was blindingly blue, unbroken save for the slow drift of a few clouds.
He was alive.
That realization came to him slowly, like the tide creeping back over the beach. He lifted his head and coughed, the taste of salt still thick in his throat. Every muscle in his body ached, and the wound on his abdomen burned with renewed fury. For a long moment he simply lay there, breathing shallowly, afraid that moving might tear him apart.
When he finally rolled onto his side, he saw that the rowboat had run aground a short distance away, half buried in wet sand. The chest of gold still sat within it, its metal hinges glinting faintly in the sun. A strange mix of gratitude and dread knotted in his chest. The thing had nearly cost him his life, and yet it was now the only proof that his suffering hadn't been for nothing.
He pushed himself to his knees, swaying. His vision swam from hunger and thirst. It was then that he noticed a line of coconut trees behind him, their tall trunks swaying gently in the sea breeze. A few coconuts had fallen to the ground beneath one of them, brown and heavy with promise.
He stumbled toward them like a man possessed. His fingers fumbled clumsily as he tore at the husk of the first one, breaking a nail and cursing under his breath. After several failed attempts, desperation lent him strength. He smashed it against a stone until it split, spilling its sweet water into the sand. He caught what he could, pressing the broken shell to his lips.
The first mouthful was heaven. Cool and faintly sweet, it soothed his parched throat and made him gasp aloud. He drained it greedily, then broke open another, and another, drinking and eating the soft white flesh until his stomach protested. When at last he stopped, his hands were sticky, his beard matted with coconut milk, but for the first time in days, his mind began to clear.
He sank down in the shade of the nearest tree, leaning back against its trunk. The sound of the waves filled the silence, slow, steady, and eternal. He exhaled deeply. The pain was still there, dull and persistent, but his thoughts began to take shape again.
Where am I?
He looked out toward the sea, judging by the angle of the sun and the lay of the coastline. The land stretched narrow and long, with low brush and distant palms. He wasn't far from the equator; that much the heat told him. Drawing upon the memory of trade charts and maps he'd studied in the captain's quarters, he guessed he was somewhere near Lamu, one of the smaller islands along the East African coast.
The realization steadied him. Lamu meant proximity to Mombasa, perhaps a day or two by sail, less if he could find a fisherman or trader bound that way. There, he could find a doctor. And more importantly, safety.
He looked back toward the boat, where the chest sat like a patient beast in the sand. A frown furrowed his brow. Bringing that gold to Mombasa would raise too many questions. He was no fool; he knew that men killed as easily for rumor as for proof.
No. The gold had to remain hidden until he was strong enough to claim it properly.
He rose, wincing as the movement tugged at his wound, and began to drag the chest inland. The thing was heavy—too heavy for one man in his condition, but determination lent him strength. He heaved it inch by inch, the metal fittings scraping against the sand until he reached a patch of ground near a large outcrop of coral rock.
There, he paused to catch his breath and looked around. The place was secluded, shielded from the beach by a few shrubs and twisted roots. It would do.
He knelt and began to dig. The sand gave easily under his fingers at first, but the deeper he went, the coarser and damper it became. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. Every few minutes he stopped to rest, his chest heaving, before resuming his work.
When the hole was finally deep enough, he sat back and wiped his brow. He reached for the small pouch that had been tied to the chest during the voyage. Untying it, he found a scatter of coins, a few rings, and, curiously, a small iron key.
He turned it over in his fingers, his thoughts darkening.
So this is how they opened it, he mused grimly. The key that once hung around the dhow captain's neck was taken, perhaps, by Pembroke's men after the slaughter. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.
He fit the key into the chest's lock. The click it made felt louder than it should have been. Lifting the lid, he stared for a moment at the gold within, gleaming even in the filtered shade. Coins, bangles, small ingots, and delicate jewelry crafted by hands that would never know where their work had ended up.
He reached in and took a handful of coins, letting them jingle softly before filling the pouch with several more and a few pieces of jewelry. Enough to sell or barter for passage and treatment in Mombasa, no more. The rest he closed back inside.
He sealed the chest, lowered it into the hole, and began to cover it with sand. When it was hidden, he scattered dry leaves and bits of coral over the spot until it looked as though nothing had disturbed it. He stepped back, studying his work. From a few paces away, even he could scarcely tell where it lay.
A faint breeze came off the sea, carrying the scent of salt and sun-warmed vegetation. John took it as a good omen.
Back at the shore, the small rowboat waited, rocking slightly in the shallow surf. He placed the pouch beneath the plank seat, pushed the boat into deeper water, and climbed aboard. The oars felt foreign in his hands, but he set to rowing steadily along the coastline, following the curve that he knew would lead him toward Mombasa.
The hours passed quietly. The rhythmic splash of the oars against the sea and the soft hum of the wind were his only companions. His thoughts wandered, not toward gold nor vengeance, but the simple relief of being alive.
It was mid-afternoon when he spotted a small dhow-like fishing vessel not far ahead, a narrow wooden craft with lateen sails half-furled. Two men stood aboard, drawing in nets. He angled his boat toward them, raising one arm weakly.
The fishermen noticed him and shouted something in Swahili that he couldn't quite make out. He reached into the pouch and withdrew a gold coin, holding it up for them to see.
Their reaction was immediate. One of the men's eyes went wide, and he began to gesture eagerly, beckoning John closer. Within moments, they had drawn alongside his boat. Their skin glistened with salt and sun, their expressions curious but friendly.
John pointed toward the south, mustering the few words of Swahili he knew. "Mombasa… tafadhali."
The older fisherman looked at the coin again, then at John's pale, weary face. He nodded solemnly and took the coin from John's hand, biting it once before tucking it into his belt. With a smile missing several teeth, he motioned for John to climb aboard their vessel.
John obeyed, leaving the little rowboat adrift behind them. As the dhow caught the wind and began to move, he sat down against the hull, exhaustion washing over him once more.
He looked back toward the horizon, toward the invisible line where he had buried his fortune. The sea glimmered innocently, betraying no secrets.
I'll come back for it, he promised silently. When the time is right.
The fishermen's song drifted softly over the waves as the dhow turned its bow toward Mombasa, carrying John Halsworth, wounded, weary, but alive—back toward the world of men.