Riven Isles

41 | Aquian Acquisition

"The Aquians!"

Simon stares up at me, his spectacles far down on his nose, his brow a quilt of woven creases.

"The Aquians," I repeat more calmly. I tuck my painting safely into the doctor's jacket. The sleeves hang just past my fingertips. Pushing them up, I nod to him urgently. "They can heal. Right? We'll bring them here."

His head slowly shakes, the creases unfolding an increment. Without taking his eyes from me, he pushes himself very carefully to his feet. As if afraid I might attempt escape—like a frightened lamb—his hands hover before his person in an infuriating manner, telling me he won't hurt me. Gesturing that everything is fine, that he is a friend, that he only wants to help. Like a dog-catcher gestures to a cornered mutt.

I step back, my eyebrows sinking.

"Walter..."

"No." I slap his reaching hand away. "You never liked him. Of course I could trust you to leave him to rot. I—I don't need you. I'll find the Aquians myself."

I take another step away from him, then look to the captain. His eyes are open, still wet. Gray skin. We might need to wait a few days before we start diving in the lagoon for his old ship's wood, but, with help from the heathens...

"Walter, please wait," pleads Simon.

My hand touches the bark of a slender white pine, fingers curling. My knuckles scrape the sandy texture.

"May I have a look at your injury before you go?"

"There's no time."

"I'll come with you."

I leave. Into the woods, through the bush. Debris snap like bones underfoot. The afternoon is in its adolescence, the light through the trees a pale sunset red. Ash still comes, a few flakes tickling my cheek in their infrequent descent. I don't look back for Simon. There is no stealth to his pursuit of me.

He hangs back, trampling his own noisy path. Good.

My left shoe squishes uncomfortably with each step, sodden with something thick.

A leaf skips against my shoulder on its way to the ground and I look up. Imagine sword-fighting on those branches. The lowest ones are as thick and round and leaf-bare as the booms upon which the captain had defied all our doubts in him and fought with Increas. One-legged, with a crutch. Unafraid.

I smile at the low branch as I duck under, running my hand lightly over its textured surface.

We always doubted the captain, didn't we? And he always proved himself against the doubt, no matter the circumstance. Always. This time would be no different, according to the patterns. He is not going to—

My leg gives out beneath me and I tumble forward into the leaves with a cry of terror. They are damp in my hands, mud and rot clinging to my palms. Pine needles of a bitter, deathly smell poke at my flesh, stinging. Laod, my breathing seems so loud. Perhaps it is just that the afternoon is quiet. The voices in the field have diminished from hundreds to few, and now scarcely reach my ears. Far away, unknown animals click strange noises.

A hand falls on my back, knees land beside me.

My teeth clench and I stand. I throw my elbow back at the man to get him off and walk again. I must have tripped. The quiet exhale he responds with gives me no satisfaction.

"Walter," Simon begins patiently, "could I at least remove the bullet? Please?"

Pine needles and leaves cling to my shin. I glare back at him without stopping and throw a branch out of my path and into his.