Jack and Sabine hauled the skiff onto the beach, each breaking wave aiding their efforts, until they were sure it would not be dragged back out to sea. Jack knelt and examined the hull, and the damage was even worse than he’d expected. There were three ragged holes, and several other boards were badly fractured. He could perform a repair job, he was sure, but it would not be quick. And without the correct tools, it would be ten times the challenge.
“It’s not good,” he said, but when he turned around, Sabine was facing away from him, looking across the beach and inland. She was so still that he thought she might have seen something dangerous or startling. But the scene was peaceful, and he took the moment to survey where they had landed.
Approaching the island, he’d been able to judge its width as perhaps half a mile. One end was mainly beach and low-lying land, the other rose steadily to a ridged hill perhaps two hundred feet high. It was crowned with a spine of sharp bare rock, but much of the rest of the island was green, cover broken here and there with protruding shoulders of stone. Birds called, insects buzzed, and somewhere to their left he heard the musical whisper of a stream finding the ocean.
There was no sign of habitation. The sandy beach was untrodden, and the jungle that grew to within twenty feet of the sea appeared untouched by human hands. The whole island exuded a wildness that was familiar to Jack, and that did little to unsettle him. At the same time it seemed to him that they were in the middle of a pause, as if the island was aware of their presence and was waiting to see what happened next. He had been subjected to such dispassionate scrutiny before. He wondered what the island saw.
“There are no people here,” Sabine said. “But there were once. Two men lived here for several years. Bad men, alone and lost. The shelter they built is beyond the spit of land to the north, close to the beach.”
“A shelter would be good,” Jack said. “So, you know all this?”
“I know it all. Each breath is history.”
“And you read it.”
“Well…” Sabine turned back to him, and he saw the remnants of a sad expression smiled away. “I live it, though only in brief flashes.” She looked pained, as if talking about her talents was revealing her darkest secrets.
“Come here,” Jack said, holding out his hand. “Help me with the food and water. We’ll walk and find this shelter. And if you feel like talking as we walk, I’d love to know more of your life. I want to know all of you.”
“Ghost,” she said. She looked past Jack and out to sea, and over the horizon storm clouds still hung like bruises on the sky. Lightning flashed there, so far away that the thunder never arrived.
“We beat him,” Jack said. “We won.”
He felt a rush of unalloyed joy at their escape, and he swept Sabine into his arms and hugged her tight. Dry land felt good beneath his feet, a mark of their survival, an acknowledgment of success. But when he released her and Sabine pulled slightly away so she could look into his eyes, her delight was less intense.
“But Ghost is not yet dead,” she said softly.
“That doesn’t matter. He might not be dead, but he’s many miles away.”
“And we are trapped on an island with a holed boat.”
Jack looked around again. There were fruit trees growing close to the stream running down the beach. Birds flitted from tree to tree. There would be fish, and farther inland perhaps small mammals inhabited some of the nooks and shadowy areas of the island’s topography. Even with violence still playing across the horizon, this place might well be paradise.
“Let’s find that shelter,” he said.
As they started walking, Sabine told him why she was a mystery to herself.
“I remember the Great Boston Fire of seventy-two. I watched downtown burn, and even though I brought rain, it was only a light autumn mist. It had little effect against such flames. I saw a man I cared about die that day—he was not the first, and will not be the last.”
They were walking along the gently curving beach, aiming for where a shoulder of land thrust out into the sea. Jack hoped they could climb this without needing to go too far inland, but he was not troubled. He enjoyed hearing Sabine’s voice, unconcerned at being overheard and unworried about whether Ghost would like what she was saying. Her voice sounded different, and perhaps the difference was that she was finally free.
As they started walking, Sabine told him why she was a mystery to herself.
“I was in Quebec during the Lower Canada Rebellion. I was looking for a man who might have had knowledge of my history, but I never found him, there or anywhere else. That was 1838. I remember watching the Colonials burning down three buildings where they thought rebels were hiding, only to find that they had fled the night before. They’d left their families behind, believing them to be safe. The screams that day … horrible.”
That was decades ago, Jack thought, but he did not speak. She had already told him that she was old—ancient, she had said—and he wondered how much further back she might go. He glanced sidelong at her; beautiful hair, radiant skin. Somehow she remained young, and he had the feeling that despite her age and sad wisdom, her heart remained youthful as well.
They left the beach and headed into the jungle, seeking a safe route over the ridge of land. Giant fronds hung from palm trees, creepers trailed across the ground, and blazing orchids spotted trunks and grew from rocks tumbled from higher inland.
“In the mid-seventeen hundreds I spent a lot of time in Europe. I worked for some time with Jean-Étienne Guettard as he created the first geological map of France. Time and the ages fascinated me back then, when I thought perhaps they could answer some of my own questions about myself. But nothing like me can exist in layers of rock or the formation of gems. My history is a vaguer thing.
“I had returned to America during 1608, through the Jamestown settlement.”
“Returned?” Jack asked. He tried blinking away the shock, heart thumping as he weighed the significance of what she claimed. And yet be believed her without a shadow of doubt. She had no reason to lie, and he felt the pain that excavating these memories inspired in her.
Sabine paused, and sunlight passing between heavy, moving leaves dappled her skin. “I have much more to tell,” she said. “Earlier memories are not so clear, and it’s difficult for me to recall the years.” She leaned against a tree, closing her eyes, and Jack went to her, fearing her ill.
“Sabine?” He held her arms and she was cool, and when she opened her eyes again, she was in control, calm and unconcerned at her surroundings. She stared only at Jack.
“How can you claim to love a creature such as me?” she asked, and Jack felt his stomach sink in despair and sympathy. Was she really so consumed by her own strangeness? Lesya had been aware of her abilities, but mad at the same time. Sabine was not mad … but did that mean the weight of her years must crush her down?
“I claim nothing,” Jack said. “My love for you is a fact. And if you truly believe yourself a creature, then I am a…” He scraped a shred of bark from the tree she leaned against, and an ant ran across his finger. “An ant. I am an ant.” He dug deeper, and a glistening grub was exposed. “Or a grub, born, living, and dying in the dark. Because you are a fine, proud creature compared to me.”