CHAPTER 1
Graham lay very still in twilight darkness until the nausea lessened, a blessing, he didn’t want to puke. He swallowed the horrible bile, felt his innards settle. At least his head didn’t pound quite as much. When he’d awakened, he’d cried because his head had hurt so badly he thought he’d die. And what good had it done? None at all except make his cheeks itch with dried tears and now there was nothing he could do about it. His hands were tied behind his back.
He had to calm, he knew that, but it was so hard. He forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly, slowly, and a bit of the awful fear lessened. He realized he was in the hold of a boat, had to be small because it rocked gently side to side. He was probably in the hold of a skiff. How long had he been here slumped against rough boards, his wrists and ankles tied with stout hemp? Where was he?
Someone had hit him on the head, tied him up, brought him here.
How much time had passed?
Where was his brother? “Simon?”
He called out his brother’s name again, and another time, but there was only the creaking of the boards beneath him.He didn’t want to, but he had to believe either Simon wasn’t here with him or he couldn’t answer him.Or he was dead. Graham felt shock, awful fear, no, no, maybe they’d gagged Simon after they’d struck him down like Graham. But wouldn’t he have awakened by now? He knew he’d have heard his younger brother breathing, even gagged.
He called his name again, then again.
Simon’s dead, Simon’s dead.
He leaned back against the wooden hold wall, closed his eyes. In his gut he knew he could shout for help forever and no one would come and if someone did hear him, he wouldn’t care.
Graham had to accept he was in deep trouble. Someone had done this to him. But why?
He was hungry and really thirsty now. Wait. He heard voices from above him on the deck of the skiff, then a louder man’s voice, but he still couldn’t understand the man’s words. Were there two men? And they were arguing?
Calm, calm, he had to be calm and think. It only made sense he and Simon had been taken for ransom. Their father was wealthy. He would also be mad with fear, willing to pay any ransom to get his sons back. He knew to his soul his father would offer up his own life to save him and Simon. He felt tears choke his throat. Simon. No, he didn’t have to be dead, maybe Simon was bound as he was and unconscious behind those wooden crates stacked opposite him, secured to the wall with stout rope on the other side of the hold.
He tried again to pull on the rope tying his wrists behind his back. Maybe he could roll over and over and open one of those crates, maybe find a knife, anything he could use to get himself free. He tugged and pulled forward and realized soon enough he couldn’t roll anywhere. He could only move a foot from the wall because there was a rope securing his tied hands to the boards behind him. He pulled and pulled, but itwas no good. He felt blood on his hands, felt wrenching pain in his shoulders and arms.
He couldn’t give up, just couldn’t. There had to be something, some way to get free—his thoughts turned back upon themselves, repeating over and over in a loop, and he finally felt frozen in place. Over and over he tried to think of who could have struck him down and brought him to this boat. And Simon? Of course he’d been struck down too. Had they been separated? But why? Why wouldn’t the men have put them together?
Think, Graham.
It’s not for ransom.
The men who’d struck him down and brought him here wanted something else, but what? He was fourteen years old, Simon thirteen. What could two boys give them if they weren’t taken for ransom?
Simon is dead, they hit him too hard and he died.No, Graham couldn’t, wouldn’t accept that. How many hours had passed since he and Simon had been in the home wood arguing about the best position to hold a bow before letting an arrow fly, arguing as only two brothers could, calling each other names even as they ran back toward the shed where their bows and arrows were stored. Because Graham was fourteen months older than his brother, he was ahead of him. Then Simon had called out to him, and now Graham realized there’d been something strange in his voice. Did he want him to slow down? No, Simon would never say that, he’d only run his feet off to catch Graham. He’d stopped, ready to taunt Simon when suddenly, he’d been struck on the head and the world was gone.
Had Simon seen their attackers? And he’d called out to Graham, to warn him? How many men were there? There had to be at least two, one to bring down each brother. Without warning Graham felt his belly twist in on itself, not fromnausea but from raw fear, for himself and his brother. He leaned over and vomited, dry heaves since he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. When was breakfast? How long ago? One day, two? How long had he been tied here in the hold of this skiff?
Graham pictured his father’s face, frantic with fear, searching everywhere, shouting their names, tearing up the countryside to find him and his brother, all their people, all St. Lucy Head’s townspeople searching with him. But who would ever look on a small skiff? And where was the skiff? Bobbing in the waves near the cliffs in the Channel?
No, the skiff wasn’t in the Channel. He’d sailed many times in and out of Sally’s Cove. He knew how the waves flowed and rippled or soared high and deadly, and this wasn’t it. This was slow, gentle rolling. But then where was he? Where was the skiff? How long had he been here?
Yet again Graham worked the ropes on his wrists, but there was still no give at all. If he stopped pulling and jerking on the knots, would the blood on his hands dry? He fell back against the wood-planked wall, and felt hope leach out of him.
Get yourself together, Graham, don’t just sit there and give up. You use your magnificent brain. Come on, you’re my son, you never give up.
Not his father’s voice this time—it was his mother’s, loud, insistent, right in his face. But his mother was dead, dead when he was only five years old, but he remembered her voice, the strength in her arms when she hugged him, her kisses on his cheek. And her laugh, full and happy and loud, and more kisses. He whispered, his voice thin and frightened, “Mother?”
Of course she wasn’t there. He wanted to cry again, but wait—she’d told him to use his magnificent brain? He had a magnificent brain? If he hadn’t felt so rotten, he would have laughed. No, no, be calm. Never panic. He felt new resolve, at least he believed it was resolve, one of his father’s favorite words, or desperation, more like.
He gritted his teeth and pulled with all his strength. To his amazed surprise, he felt the board behind him split. He pulled away from the wall. He worked his bound wrists to the top of the board and off. He felt the rope dangle between his wrists. He managed to roll onto his side and began inching his way across the wooden floor, not more than eight feet away. The boards beneath him weren’t even, jagged in places. The skiff was very old. He felt a nail rip into his shirt, and he yipped with pain, but kept inching. Slowly, awkwardly, he managed to push himself up and press his back against the boxes, breathing hard.
He said his brother’s name. No answer. He whispered his brother’s name, prayed. No answer.
He hadn’t seen clearly from across the hold, but now he saw the stacked crates were tied with not one, but two ropes. One above his head. He felt his will crack. No, no, he had to somehow get the rope untied, he could do it, he had to, no choice, no choice. He was limber, skinny as a snake. He managed to scoot his tied hands under his butt and work out his legs until his hands were tied in front of him.
He felt elated. He began to work the knots with his teeth.
