HORROR THRILLERS-A Box Set of Horror Novels (9 page)

Far off toward shore
she could see a few dots of firelight. Behind the white beach and
the buildings of the new town the land rose like a clutch of
hump-backed whales, the forests black and thick.

She would not miss
the island. She was happily shed of it. Goodbye, she thought.
Goodbye!

She turned over in
the water, wallowing in the soft waves, and thrust out her small arms
to pull herself the rest of the way to the closest ship. She was
almost there.

Angelique lay inside
a wooden casket of cloth, breathing evenly. She had her things
stored at her feet. Though she had changed out of her wet clothes,
her hair still clung to her scalp and smelled of the sea.

While living in the
cave high up the mountain, waiting for the right moment to interact
with the Spaniards, she had taught herself a valuable skill. In
order to make time pass without it impinging on her conscious, she
perfected a way to shut off her mind, lower her heart rate, and close
off the world. She floated in a wandering way through a gray static
world that was too close to the outer void, but at least it saved her
energy and killed the time. That skill would be needed for such a
long, difficult sea voyage.

When she had gotten
aboard the ship and sneaked below decks without the soldier guard
noticing, she felt an exuberance overwhelm her senses. Free at last!
On her way!

Then when she had
slipped into the hold of the ship and smelled the tang of raw wood
that made up the ribs of the hull, she had to wait for her eyes to
adjust to the deep gloom.

She found the
stacked crates and chests and caskets of goods, opening the lids on
the ones she found unlocked until she discovered the large chest she
now lay inside. It was just half full of cloth, beautiful cloth,
sensuous to the touch. She fingered silks and satins and cotton so
smooth it was like caressing a baby’s skin. She almost
groaned with delight and clapped a hand over her mouth. She knew the
Spaniards were a civilized, developed people, but to possess such
exquisite treasure as this was beyond anything she expected. Not
since the time of ancient Egypt had she felt such beautiful material.

This, she decided
immediately, was where she would lie hidden. This would be her berth
for the long trip. Day and night she would lie upon this bed of
sweet-smelling material, dreaming of one day owning dresses made from
them. Silk would flow around her, satin would swath her shoulders,
cotton would wrap her in its crisp arms. As she lay dreaming inside
the darkness of the mighty oak chest, she would dream of a rich life,
a civilized life full of gold, jewels, and the finest cloth to dress
her little body. She would dream of meats in gravy and breads
leavened with eggs, of roasted peppers, exotic fruits, and wine to
wet her palate.

Yes, she would be
fine in the dark hold of the ship, rocking and swaying through the
ocean wide. She had food to sustain her, a source of fresh water in
great round caskets just down the aisle and near the stairs. She had
her cushioned bed, her dreams, her desires, and the future awaiting
her in a gracious land called Spain.

She smiled into the
secret dark. She was the luckiest angel in all creation.

She was not as lucky
as all that, she decided. They had been underway for merely minutes
when the ship lurched, slowed, and stalled. Overhead she could hear
pandemonium. She must see what the matter was. She crept carefully
from the chest, then up the narrow stairs. She lifted the hatch just
an inch oh so slowly then held her breath to listen.

The sailors were
shouting about a shipwreck on the rocks of the bay. They crowded the
railing while pointing and calling out.

One of the three
Spainish ships had been crushed on the rocks while trying to sail
away through the powerful undercurrent and resultant waves. While
she lay in the hold, held in darkness and quiet, the weather had
whipped up the waves and one of Columbus’ ships had foundered.
This was a disaster. They would turn back for the land. Her neatly
made plan was falling to ruin before her eyes.

Back at the chest
she sat upon the cushion of cloth and held her head in her hands.
She would have to start over. She would have to get off the ship,
hide in the jungle so the priest could not find her, and wait for the
remaining ships to set sail again. This meant replenishing her store
of foods and formulating the plan all over anew.

Her fists tightened
and her lips pulled back from her teeth. Curse these Spaniards! How
could they make such a mistake as to lose a ship on the reef? How
could she think to trust them to take her all the way to Spain when
they couldn’t get off the island intact? The fury built to
such a pitch in her heart that she wanted to shred the beautiful
cloth, tear off the wood slats of the chest, and kick over every keg
of water in the hold.

Yet she sat still
and quiet. She calmed herself with a discipline far beyond her
years. So it was with things of the world, she thought. Plans made,
then broken. Journeys begun and abruptly ended. Human beings were
faulty creatures full of mistakes and regular disasters.

She began to listen
to the noise above board while the hours passed. She would know when
it was safe to venture forth, to swim to the island.

Deliberately
clearing her mind, she sat with hands folded in her lap, waiting.

It was not that long
before the last two ships in Columbus’ small armada was ready
to try sailing out of the harbor again. Angelique used the time to
refine plans in her head and to daydream and fantasize about the
future in a new world. She had sneaked into the rectory kitchen and
found plenty of dried foods to fill her bags. She stayed in the
jungle just outside the new city, watching for the commander in his
fine breast plate. Wherever he went, her gaze followed.

Finally she saw the
men readying the outriggers to take them to the ships. They were
soon to be on their way for the second time. And though she had not
heard him, she was sure Columbus had threatened the captains and crew
about floundering on the reef this time.

That night she
re-boarded the ship. With great stealth she lifted the hatch and
shimmied into the hold, hurried to the waiting chest and climbed into
it. She knew they would leave at sunrise. That night she slept
peacefully on the luxurious mattress of fine cloth, happy once more
to be on her way.

It was weeks later
before the first blow descended to toss the ship like a toy through
monstrous waves. Where she lay in the chest, she was lifted right
off the stacks of cloth, slamming into the lid, shielding her face
with an arm. She let out frightened cries that only served to scare
her further. She was tossed to one side of the chest and then rolled
back to knock against the other. She spread out her legs and dug in
her bare toes, trying to grip the wood to keep herself from being
thrown around inside the chest.

She could not hear
the howling wind or feel the sting of torrential rain, but she knew
the ship was being lifted on waves tall as mountains and dropped into
sloughs deep as crevasses. Biting her lower lip hard enough to bring
blood, she fought to keep herself steady in both body and mind. She
could not let the storm undermine her determination to survive the
voyage. Nothing short of death was going to keep her from Spain. If
the ship floundered, if it rolled or sank, she would go down with it.
There was nothing to be done about that, no way to prevent it. She
could imagine the cold waters filling the chest, rushing over her,
closing off her air. Drowning, drowning, going down into the dark,
silent deep.

In times of crisis
she had no one to pray to, no god to save her. Just as the ship was
a speck on the great roiling ocean, she was but a dot in the greater
universe, equipped with only her wits and few supernatural powers to
hold off catastrophe.

The winds blew. The
storm screamed. The ship bucked and groaned, rose and dropped, yawed
and teetered like a terrible drunk. But it held fast. And in the
end, after hours of terror, Angelique felt the sea change that
brought quiet. It was as if after the violence, the dragon sea, worn
out, had suddenly gone to sleep.

Pushing up on the
chest lid, she carefully crawled from what could have been her final
resting place at the bottom of the sea. She had to hold onto the
crates around her to get her sea legs working before she collapsed.
Her hands trembled. She breathed heavily. Once she could see in the
dark she noted that most of the goods had weathered the tossing and
turning. She needed to repack and straighten the few that had come
loose and spilled their bounty across the hold’s flooring. She
did not want the Spaniards looking in and having to tidy up.

Finally, calming
herself, she hurried around the hold, lifting and storing and
straightening until all appeared as it had been before the storm hit.
Satisfied with her work, she went again to her private chest and
crawled into it with a sense of despair. How long would the voyage
last? How far was the country of Columbus? Would her food stores
last? Would another storm rend the ship into splinters and send her
to the dark sandy bottom?

The nagging
questions would not cease until she deliberately turned off her mind
and let her consciousness float away into the still darkness. She
had faith she would survive the trip. She had to. It was her
destiny. She had not survived two hundred years on the primitive
island only to lose this body to the winsome sea. In the hull of an
explorer’s ship. In the wooden chest of beautiful cloth. God
had no power over her on this plane of existence. He could not harry
nor dispose of her. He had kept hands off this planet since its
beginning.

He could not cast
her out.

More storms struck
the ship during the journey, but the worst that happened was when the
wind died and the ship stood still. In these quiet days at sea she
could feel the tension among the crew as boredom set in. One of
Columbus’ people came into the hold merely to rummage around.
Angelique did not know what he searched for but she suspected he was
just trying to find something in which to occupy himself. He wasn’t
supposed to be there, she knew that. Each day a crew member came
down the steps to take water from the stores, but other than that the
hold was off limits to the crew.

When she sensed the
lone searcher near her chest, she held her breath. Go away! She
thought frantically. Go away from here. If he opened the chest and
discovered her, she would have to take action. She kept a silver
handled dagger close by her side in the darkness. It had been stolen
from the priest's study. She would bury it in the man’s eye
socket were he so unfortunate as to look into her hiding place. But
he did not. He passed by her, stumbling as if drunk, and moved on to
another part of the hold.

A month after that
close call, there was a noisome furor above decks. Land had been
sighted! She heard them calling out, Land! Land ahead!

She sighed into the
darkness, closing her eyes. Finally they had finished the voyage.
It had been a long, perilous trip. She had run out of food days
before and had been forced to roam the ship looking for the larder in
the night. All she had found was a bit of rancid fried bacon and a
crust of hard bread. She had wondered then if they would ever cross
the endless sea. She wondered how much longer she could keep herself
hidden.

Yet here they were.
Land. Spain. Home.

This night would be
her last imprisoned in the chest in the stuffy hold. Once the
Spaniards had gone ashore, she would crawl from the chest, take her
bag of gold coins, and scamper down the gangplank to the new land.
Over the long journey she had formulated a plan to survive in a
Spanish city. She could not do it alone, being a child. She needed
an accomplice.

A helper.

Someone she could
rule.

CHAPTER 12

LIFE IN A CITY

Her name was
Patricia. She was in her late twenties with good teeth and a strong,
square, peasant's face. Angelique had disembarked the ship without
incident and lost herself in the throng of people still on the
streets late in the evening. She had no choice but to hide until
morning, skulking like a little mouse behind dark corners and in the
shadows of buildings.

When morning came
she walked the crowded streets eying single women, looking for a
mother candidate. For how was she to live the way she wished without
a mother? A child alone in a civilized society was no more than an
orphan or a victim. Probably both.

The woman caught
Angelique’s eye. Patricia was an energetic beggar, rushing up
to finely dressed men and women hoping for a small coin. “I am
hungry,” she pleaded with such abasement, with such sincerity.
“A coin, sir, a coin, lady, please. Have mercy.”
Angelique watched her for hours before making a decision. Patricia
was relentless. When she was given a coin she tucked it away in the
pocket of her long, dirty skirts and again hit up the next passing
pedestrians for more charity.