They had led a golden life, he and Jocelyn. Deeply and equally in love with each other—that equal bit was not all that common in marriages and relationships—healthy, good looking—no, Jocelyn was beautiful—and with enough financial resources to possess that greatest luxury of all—time to enjoy themselves and pursue the things that interested them.
One cloud marred their happiness and at times threatened to come between them. At the age of 19 Skye had come down with a severe case of the mumps. Some years later, at the insistence of the family doctor, he underwent tests that determined he was sterile. Not impotent, Skye smiled to himself at the thought, but sterile.
Jocelyn occasionally remarked that this had done much to shape Skye’s character—that he compensated for it by flying airplanes, riding jumping horses, engaging in extreme-level skiing, and cultivating an insatiable curiosity about things. “It also,” she had once added, “is probably why you are so chivalrous.”
“Chivalrous? Me?”
“Yes, you. You are chivalrous, Skye. In the old-fashioned sense. You are quick to help people. Believe me, I’m not complaining. Far from it.”
In the early years of their marriage Skye’s infertility was not an issue but then Jocelyn began to long for a child. Skye was prepared to adopt a child, but that wasn’t enough for Jocelyn. She wanted to bear her own child, and in order to do that, she was prepared to be impregnated with sperm from an anonymous donor whose credentials would be thoroughly checked by the fertility clinic. The idea horrified Skye and for years he resisted it adamantly. But he loved his wife and finally couldn’t stand making her unhappy. Ironically, he had planned to tell her to go ahead on the last day of the fatal ski trip.
Spray from an errant wave splashed Skye, snapping him out of his reverie. The whaler was closing the south coast, and Frigate Island, Manchineel’s closest neighbour, loomed out of the darkness. The few scattered pinpricks of light attested to the fact that it was virtually uninhabited, save for a skeleton caretaking crew. Skye sometimes thought of it as Manchineel’s dark sister. The island took its name from the frigate birds who soared in from their endless oceanic wanderings to nest in the mangrove swamp on its windward coast.
The island had been purchased four years ago by the Frigate Company, a company incorporated under the laws of the Turks & Caicos, one of several Caribbean tax havens. The intent had been to turn it into an exclusive resort, like Manchineel. But the company had encountered difficulties in raising money; it was rumoured that some potential investors were scared off by the fact that the island lacked a suitable beach. It was indented with many coves and cays, but they were ringed with rock and gravel, not powder-soft sand. And it also seemed that the market wasn’t ready for another expensive resort. Whatever the reason, Frigate remained undeveloped and deserted.
Once, Skye and Jocelyn had taken the whaler and a picnic lunch into Hurricane Hole, a deeply indented mangrove swamp on the leeward side. They intended to explore the island, but had been warned off by a rifle-toting guard. Adrienne had once let slip that one of the guards was a high-ranking houngan, but this one had looked much too young for that exalted office.
Jocelyn had been researching Manchineel’s history, beginning with its days as a sugar plantation. She intended to publish a booklet on the subject. In the course of her research she had come across some interesting material about the neighbouring islands, including the fact that Frigate had a history of failed enterprises. Years ago some enterprising souls set up a fish packing plant on the windward side. Tumbledown plant buildings were the sole reminders of that ill-fated venture. Some local farmers tried to raise goats on the island, but even they failed to thrive on its barren soil.
Skye raised his hand and Overfine throttled back. With the motor idling, the only motion was the gentle swell of the sea. Unexpectedly, Overfine began to sing in his powerful, choir-trained voice. Skye remained seated, his head bowed, as the familiar, comforting words of “Abide With Me” rolled out across the dark sea. When it was over, he reached down and lifted the bronze urn from its case. Unscrewing the top, he stood up, the soft onshore breeze cool on his face. Exchanging places with Overfine, he tilted the urn over the stern, the ashes fanning out in a fine, grey veil. Fragments of bone made a small splash as they fell into the water. For an appalled moment Skye thought they were going to float, until they began to slip beneath the surface, the teeth sinking first. Upending the urn, he shook out the last remnants of ash, then rinsed it in the sea. Now Jocelyn’s memory was safe. The urn. He hadn’t thought about that. He hesitated for a moment, then filled it with water and watched it sink, throwing the top in after it.
Standing on the shore, Adrienne Jones focused the 3 Ox spotting scope Skye had given her after she had let him watch his first voodoo ceremony, and smiled her satisfaction. She had been sure that Skye would scatter the ashes off Tamarind Beach.
Skye was about to put the motor in gear, when he caught a movement on the periphery of his vision. A native pirogue, travelling without lights, its long, low silhouette barely visible in the faint sky glow, was heading south. With four men paddling, its passage was silent and swift. It was carrying a cargo of some sort; a large shapeless hump rose above the gunwales between the two pairs of paddlers. It was covered with some material.
“I wonder what they’re up to?” murmured Skye, wishing he had brought binoculars. As he and Overfine watched, the pirogue changed course onto a southeast heading.
“They be going to Frigate. Probably some of the guards reporting for duty.” Overfine reached out and held Skye’s hand before he could touch the throttle. “Best we wait till they be further away.”
“Funny that they’re paddling. I would have thought that the guards would have insisted on having at least an outboard for transportation.”
“Paddles don’t make no noise. Outboards do.”
The pirogue disappeared around a headland but there was no doubt that it was headed for Frigate. A few minutes later, the whaler got underway. But instead of heading back up the coast, Skye pointed it south. Overfine shot Skye an uneasy, puzzled look, then stood up and grabbed the painter as they cleared the headland and smacked into the waves surging through the channel between the two islands after an uninterrupted journey from the coast of Africa, thousands of miles away. It was called Commotion Channel because of the choppy seas churned up by the sudden constriction of the waves.
Adrienne cursed softly and lowered the spotting scope. What was Skye playing at? Being thrown around in the Commotion Channel in a tiny whaler wasn’t what you would call a pleasure trip. He would probably turn back soon. Just in time to catch her in the act. Shit! She shook her head at her companion and pounded a stake in the sand, lining it up with a lighthouse on Mayreau. The riding lights of an anchored yacht off the same island provided a third triangulation point. Then she sat down on the gunwale of the pirogue and checked out her diving equipment one more time.
Despite Overfine’s efforts to hold the bow up, both he and Skye were soon thoroughly drenched with spray. Wiping his eyes, Skye throttled back and peered ahead. The pirogue had disappeared into the darkness of the night. Effortlessly keeping his balance as the whaler lost speed, Overfine looked over his shoulder at Skye. His look was questioning, as if asking what had made Skye go tearing off in pursuit of the native craft. Skye couldn’t have told him; he had reacted instinctively, without conscious thought. Still, there had been something sinister about the pirogue as it slipped silently through the night with its mysterious cargo. He waited for a gap in the rolling waves and quickly turned the whaler around. The ride back to the shelter of Manchineel’s leeward coast was much smoother, with the waves quartering their stern.
Adrienne watched the whaler’s approaching lights with relief mixed with puzzlement. She couldn’t figure out what Skye had been doing out in the channel. Had he been heading for Frigate? Anyway, he would be safely out of the way before the restless sea had a chance to make away with her prize. She waited until the whaler’s lights disappeared behind Seabird Point, halfway up the coast, then nodded