CHAPTER EIGHT - CORT

 

 

When I first introduced Anya to the jump rope her face was a mixture of sadness, confusion, and many years of lowered expectations.

I’m pretty sure she thinks that no one can read her, but I can read everyone. We might be silent for very different reasons, but the outcome is the same.

Silence lets you hear things that aren’t said.

Silence lets you see things unseen.

Silence gives you space.

And space is a gift if ever there was one.

My first trip out to this Rock was when I was around five. Udulf had just acquired me and I was not in the mood to comply with anything he had in mind for my first night at his estate.

I ran. I hid. And when they found me, I kicked, I screamed, and I bit.

It didn’t stop him. He did with me what he had planned to do with me.

He beat me senseless that first night. He beat me so hard, and for so long, I just passed out. And really, that was a gift as well. Because I have no solid memory of that night. Or anything that came before my first trip out here to the Rock. The only thing I have left of the life that came before Udulf is the Lectra dream.

And that’s not reality.

When Udulf dropped me off on the lowest platform of the Rock that first time, I stayed for three months. Alone.

There was no food, but there was water. And that was so cruel. You can die in three days with no water. It takes months to waste away from starvation. Even a small boy can last many weeks without food.

It was good water, though. Bottled. Sealed. Clean. A hundred cases at least. I had so much fresh water, I bathed in it. The rig had only been decommissioned for a few months when I arrived. It was still clean. And you could walk all the way down the steps to the water without slipping on slick algae and breaking your neck if you weren’t careful.

All the housing containers had been removed but there were still leftover things inside the permanent building on the middle level. Clothes, and blankets, and even a deck of cards. And there was the kitchen, of course. Bathrooms, too. Those were built into the frame of the topside for electrical reasons, and couldn’t be disconnected.

Food, on the other hand, that was hard to come by. There was no leftover food on the rig and it would take me weeks before I successfully caught my first fish down on the lowest platform using a steel beam as a spear and a discarded net that was stuck on the rig’s frame, just above sea level.

But that wasn’t what kept me alive.

The bird kept me alive.

Just one bird back then. One wayward albatross who should’ve been on the other side of the world. His wing was bent in a weird way and he didn’t fly very well. I don’t know how he got here, since the natural habitat of the royal albatross is sub-Antarctic and this rig is equatorial, but he was here. And he could still fly—just not well enough to go home.

I think he knew I was in the same position. So we were in it together.

I gave him water and he brought me food like I was his chick.

Little fishes. Little disgusting fishes that he spit out and I swallowed whole, so I didn’t have to chew. And even though I could’ve talked to the bird, I didn’t. Not at first. He didn’t say anything either. It was like we both knew there was no fucking point. We were stuck here and that was that.

I liked it. I won’t admit that to anyone, but I liked it out here on the Rock. It was my first real taste of freedom. For the very first time I was in charge of my life.

Udulf came back months later, expecting me to be dead and only there to drop off another disobedient house boy who was actually thrown off the rig and disappeared into the dark, choppy water without ceremony before we left.

By that time, I didn’t want to leave.

That bird, he was the only family I had left.

That was the last time I cried.

And that is how I learned to be silent.

 

When I finally got off the Rock, I was taken to Udulf’s training camp. Apparently, in Udulf’s world, you are either a house boy or a gym boy, and he had decided that I was a gym boy.

His camp back then was nothing like my camp right now. And it would take me ten long years before I had won enough fights and killed enough boys to earn my own camp.

But on that flight from the Rock to the shore, Udulf had come up with a new way to separate the wheat from the chaff, thanks to me. Every boy from then on would do three months on the Rock. Alone.

He lost a lot of boys that way. But they were disposable, weren’t they? And anyway, that was in my favor. Because if any of them had come back, they would be formidable opponents.

Pavo Vervonal was the first to make it off the Rock, but by that time, I was nearly eight and he was just five. He followed me around like a sad, lost puppy when they brought him back but he was sold just a few months later so I never thought about him much. I don’t know if Lazar was the one who bought him originally, it doesn’t matter. The point was, Pavo had earned his place as wheat and that fight last night was nineteen years in the making.

It’s hard to believe that it’s over.

Almost too good to be true.

 

Anya is staring at me. Then her eyes drift down to the hose in my hands. She looks disoriented and confused.

I would not call her clean, but the blood and the paint has been stripped off her flesh. She is red now, not pale. And for the first time, I take a good long look at her body.

Her breasts are firm and her nipples are bunched up into tight peaks. Her hips are wide and her waist is narrow. Her hair is blonde, but looks brown now that it’s wet.

She is pretty. Even like this, and without recalling her from yesterday when I had just arrived on the ship, I can see her beauty. I can see why Lazar kept her around long after her usefulness wore off.

He could’ve sold her. And she would’ve fetched a lot of money if her buyer wasn’t put off by her silence.

But Lazar kept her long past her, for lack of a better word, usefulness. And then he chose to put her up as a sacrifice.

Why? Was he really so sure that Pavo would beat me and she would not be killed? Or was it something else?

Anya steps forward, reaching for the hose, and I have to shake myself out of my introspection. It happens to me out here. I lose myself in the open sea, and the wind, and the birds.

There are a lot of birds now. Not all of them albatrosses. Lots of gulls too. And is it irony or fate that this old rig has turned into an unsanctioned breeding colony of vulnerable wayward seabirds?

I don’t know. But I smile about it anyway.

I slip my shorts down my legs and stand still. Most of the paint and blood has melted away with the sweat from the day’s workout. But it has left filthy, disgusting streaks down my legs.

Anya turns the hose on and it hits my body at full force, making me take several steps backward and grab at my ribs.

She turns it off and shakes her head. Like she didn’t mean to do that.

I sign to her. Go ahead. I’m OK. She doesn’t understand the first part, but everyone knows the sign for OK.

The hose hits me again. This time, she has figured out the mechanism for pressure, and while it’s still strong and it still hurts, it’s nothing I can’t handle.

I place both my hands on top of my head and stand there, naked and with my eyes closed, as she washes me off.

When she’s done, I coil the hose back up, hang it on the hook, and then nod for her to follow me. It’s not the best way to get clean here on the Rock, but it’s the only way to fully enjoy what comes next.

We go down to the training level, but this time I take her in to the building. It’s dark, so I prop the door open with a large rock, sign for her to stay put, and then I turn and walk forward down the hallway.

There isn’t a whole lot to this building. It’s got the switch for the generator, which lives in the small building on the top level. A lavatory with about a dozen urinals and a few stalls, minus the showers, since the living quarter containers that used to populate this rig all had private bathrooms. A clinic that is mostly stocked. And a small kitchen that was only used for the construction crew, because when a rig is running it has a proper mess container.

I find the switch, kick it on, and the whole place comes to life with a rumble.

Back in the hallway I flick on the lights and find Anya standing in the open doorway where I left her. She looks me up and down, and I do the same. Like we’re both just now noticing the other is naked.

We are also both still wet. And she is shivering a little. I should probably give her a towel, but it’s not really necessary.

I beckon her with a crooked finger and then disappear into the kitchen. She follows me, standing in a new doorway now, just watching as I take things out of the cupboards and hold them out for her to see.

I’m not your fucking cook, these gestures say. I will cook for you tonight because you’re new. But I’m not your fucking cook. So take notice of where I find these things and what I do with them.

I think she gets it because she unconsciously sneers her lip as she watches my hands.

I show her how to wait for the water to run clear when I turn on the tap. I show her how to make rice in the small cooker. I show her the pre-packaged dehydrated meat. And then, when everything is cooking, I nod my head and make her follow me down the hallway again.

There is one more room to show her today. The best room. The whole reason why we hose off first.

And when she sees the tub, and when I turn on the water and it begins to steam, she sighs. No. She fucking moans.

I chuckle out loud.

It’s not a bathtub, it’s a therapy tub. Meant for athletes, not spa days. But the end result is the same. Warm, pampered muscles after a long day of work.

Anya leans against the door frame as the tub fills and I go searching through cupboards for soap and shampoo. We don’t keep anything fancy here and for a moment I wish we did. It was a long day for her and she didn’t complain. So I want to make her feel better—or at least understand that what I do here has a purpose and it’s got nothing to do with torture. Luxury soaps and lotions are just an easy way to do that. But Anya doesn’t seem to care that the toiletries are industrial-grade.

I hold out my hand. She pushes off the door frame and walks towards me, accepts my help as she walks up the four wooden steps, and then squeezes my hand as she swings her leg over and lowers herself into the hot water.

I climb in after her and we settle on benches placed opposite. The water hits her mid-waist so I have a very nice view of her breasts. If this bothers her, she doesn’t show it.

And why should it bother her? She is a Bokori house slave. An old one, for sure. So she probably hasn’t been touched in a while. But she was raised naked. Like me.

They do that to strip us of any lingering sense of self. To make us into things to be used. To take away our humanity.

And once it’s gone, it doesn’t matter what happens next. It doesn’t matter if the nicest man alive buys you, takes you into his home, treats you like a person, gives you plenty to eat, and never even looks at your body like it is just a thing to be used.

It does not matter how good it gets after that first shattering.

You don’t come back from that. You are dead inside. And you are a killer on the outside.

Anya Bokori is a killer. And so am I.

She straddled Pavo Vervonal last night and thrust a knife into his gut. I practically cut off his head five seconds later and then ripped his body open and tore out his heart.

There is no happy ending for us.

A tub of hot water on a rock in the middle of a dark ocean with birds that look like they came right out of Jurassic Park flying overhead, ready to pick apart your half-dead body and feed it to their chicks—this is about as good as it gets.

Anya washes herself quickly. She soaps up her hair and dunks under to rinse it off. And in less than three minutes she is done. Her blue eyes find mine, filled to the brim with questions.

She looks at me like she doesn’t know what to do next.

I’m more careful. My ribs are actually screaming at this point. I overworked them today and every time I draw in a breath, a sharp pain shoots through my upper body.

I point to my eyes, then her. Then close my eyes. Then open them and point to her again.

She gets it. And she sighs, maybe letting down her guard a little. Because she slouches down, her foot bumping against mine, and closes her eyes.

I watch her, fascinated, as I wash up. And then I do the same. I slouch down and stretch out my long legs, then decide to prop my feet up on her bench, brushing them against her hips.

I peek, just to see if she will object to that with a sharp look. But she doesn’t open her eyes. Instead, she props her feet up on my bench. Brushing them against my hips.

And then it’s my turn to sigh.

The buzzing of the rice cooker down the hall wakes me and I sit up, a little bit disoriented. Anya is as well. She rubs her eyes and breathes heavy as she tries to make sense of her surroundings. Like she was in a deep sleep and it came with a dream that had nothing to do with me. Then she looks at me and her gaze is one of understanding.

I get out of the tub, grab a towel from a shelf, wrap it around me, then go looking for clothes. I find us t-shirts and shorts and take them back up to the tub room.

Once we’re dressed, I take her into the kitchen, scoop the rice and meat mixture into two bowls, give her a fork, and signal for her to follow me out onto the training platform. We sit on the hard concrete and lean up against the wall. Normally I like to eat up top. I sign this to her one-handed as we both shove the food into our mouths. But the birds will steal the meat right out of your bowl since you’re new here.

I don’t think she understands, but I don’t care.

If it really were just me out here tonight, I’d be signing things to the General—that’s the name I gave my old bird buddy. I’d be filling him in on the last eight months of my life. So having Anya here instead, this is like a bonus, even if she doesn’t talk back.

The General never really did either. I mean, I always gave him points for trying, but while his vocabulary is interesting, it’s not very big.

I’ve done a lot of research on the albatross over the years. They are monogamous birds. They find one soulmate and that’s it. Just one. And even though they live solitary lives when they’re not breeding, soaring over the ocean for months and months at a time without ever touching solid ground, they meet up every other year to raise a new chick.

The General is somewhere around thirty years old right now. And he’ll live another thirty, if he’s careful. So I guess I did win in the end, didn’t I?

I do have a family. A rather big one, actually.

The General has raised ten chicks on this rig with his mate, who I call Seeker. I don’t know where he found her—and it’s entirely probable that they were mated before he got lost and she actually found him after he disappeared—but either way, they live here now.

Ten chicks over twenty-two years. It’s not a bad record for an albatross.

And every single one of those chicks has left the nest, has found their own wayward mate, and has come back here every other year to meet back up.

This rock of death is an unsanctioned breeding colony for the largest flying bird on earth.

This prison, this punishment of a place, is also home to something a little bit… magical.

And that’s only one of the many reasons I love it.

Dinner is over too soon. I catch Anya staring into her empty bowl, wishing for more.

I explain that things are scarce here at the moment. And even though she doesn’t know any signs and I get the feeling that this vow of silence is something she takes very seriously, she nods her understanding. Frowning though. It comes with a frown.

I take our bowls back into the kitchen and dump them, wash everything up, and put it all away. Then I go back out to the platform and find her standing near the edge, looking out over the dark ocean.

Night out here can be one of two things: deeply terrifying or indescribably peaceful. I know what my first night on the Rock was like and even though Anya’s position is much more advantageous, it’s got to be unsettling.

I walk over, tap her on the shoulder, and motion for her to follow me. Then I open up one of the huge shipping containers to reveal stacks and stacks of sleeping mats. I hand her one, then grab one for myself, and direct her to follow me up the stairs.

It’s night now, and there are at least a dozen albatross chicks sleeping on makeshift nests and another dozen adults with their heads under their wings, also sleeping. There are twice that number up in the air somewhere. Most are far, far away. Out hunting so they can bring food back for their mates and their chicks.

They’re quiet at night. And they don’t even look up as we walk past them, out towards the southern edge of the platform. I lay down my mat and Anya does the same. Then I ease my aching body down, trying to be mindful of the ribs, and let out a long breath.

I overdid it today. I think it’s because I was still high on the Lectra and the drugs. But all that has worn off now, and every time I breathe, that sharp pain is there to remind me of what happened yesterday.

It’s easy to forget. At least for me. I’m so far away from that ship right now—so far away from everything that reminds me of who I am and what I do—that it’s just too easy to forget.

But Anya isn’t me. And she has not forgotten.

Anya sits down on her mat, but she doesn’t lie back. She hugs her knees and stares off into the distance. There is a shipping lane about fifty miles south of here that I sometimes like to watch. And on the north side of the platform I can see the city lights of São Luís, the capital city of Maranhão. If I were in a pensive mood, I would imagine I can see my base camp, which also lies in that direction. But I’m not pensive tonight. I’m content.

I point to the barely visible sliver of moon out of habit, glancing over at Anya to make sure she sees this. She does, but she’s not interested. So I put my hands behind my head and look up and study the stars. I don’t know a single constellation name. When I’m out here, I often wonder what they’re really called and how to figure out which one is which. But of course, wondering things out here does me no good. There is no internet to look things up. And when I’m back at home, I don’t have time to watch the stars. No one gives a fuck what stage the moon is in. The sky is just the space above us so I have never bothered to learn the names of the things up there.

Anya sighs and lies back just as one of the birds wanders over to me and sits down next to my head, snuggles in to me and then tucks her head back under her wing and falls quickly back to sleep. I catch Anya smiling out of the corner of my eye when another one wanders up and does the same, pushing her large body against my broken ribs until I wince. Then all the adults are wandering over. They have missed me.

Anya sighs and this makes me turn my head so I can see her face over the large back of an albatross.

What does she think of all this?

Does it scare her? To be out here so alone? Among these giant birds that could, if they wanted to, rip her to pieces with their massive beaks?

Or does she like it the way I do? Does she feel free and safe?

I would ask. I want to ask, actually. But she won’t answer, so I don’t bother.

I just look at the sliver of moon and settle back into life on the Rock.

And then, before I even realize it, I’m out.

There is no hope of sleeping past sunrise on the Rock.

The gulls scream the moment the sun first peeks out over the horizon. They circle and squawk, soaring above us and diving down to poke at us, and Anya is on her feet, waving her hands in the air to ward them off.

The albatross who huddled with us all night are gone now, either tending to chicks or out looking for food. But the damn gulls—they prefer to steal their breakfast. And now that I’m back, they remember how to do that.

We pick up our mats, go back down to the training platform, and there they are, dozens of gulls waiting patiently near the door to the kitchen. I chase them off, but this is a losing battle. The albatross don’t come down here. They prefer the open air of the top platform. But gulls are a different kind of bird altogether. They don’t breed here, thank God. They would quickly take over the platform and there would be no way to get rid of them once that happened. But they are curious, and smart, and will steal anything they can carry unless you’re diligent.

I don’t need to be diligent in the morning. Because there will be no breakfast.

Anya follows me over to the container and we drop our mats inside, then I close it back up. I can hear her stomach growling and I know she is expecting food. Maybe even coffee. Which makes me internally chuckle. But bringing her to the Rock with me wasn’t in the plan and even though we have food, when we left here last year, we only rationed enough for me when I came back. So there isn’t enough food to feed two people for the length of time that we will be here.

So. One meal a day and that’s still pushing it.

I go over to the jump ropes, pick them up, and then hold one out for her.

She doesn’t take it.

I drop it at her feet and shrug. She will skip rope today. She will do a lot more than that too if she wants to eat tonight. But she can pretend she won’t for a little while, if that makes her happy.

I start skipping. My ribs are still screaming and they will continue to do that for at least a month. But it is what it is. A few broken ribs aren’t enough to interrupt my training schedule. I casually make my way down the length of the platform, then back again.

Anya has gotten herself a drink of water and she’s dragging her finger over her teeth. I stop skipping and stare at her, shaking my head a little.

She doesn’t get it. And I suddenly understand that she might have the willpower to withstand my rules and decide I need to make a point here in the interest of saving time.

So I walk over, take the cup of water out of her hand, dump it out so it splashes up her legs, drop the cup on the ground, and point to her jump rope.

Her expression never changes.

And… we’re back. Petulant Anya has decided she is too tired to jump rope, or she is too sore to jump rope, or she is too hungry to jump rope, or maybe she is just too fucking good to jump rope.

She picks up the cup, fills it with water, walks back over to me, brings it to her lips.

I take the cup, dump it out, throw it on the ground, and point to her jump rope.

She picks up the cup, fills it with water, walks back over to me and throws it in my face.

Cold water hits me in the eyes and runs down my chest. I look at it. Then back up at her. She is still defiant. No expression. Just a flat line of a mouth.

I grab her arm. Hard. Hard enough to make it blanch. She tries to pull away, but there is no hope of that. Her arm is a spindly thing and my hand is so large in comparison, I almost completely encircle it. If she wants me to leave fingerprints on her skin, I will. And there’s no one here to stop me.

I pick up her rope with my other hand and shove it at her.

She refuses to take it.

You get one chance with me. If I were talking, I’m sure this little rebellion of hers could be squashed with one or two harsh threats, but I’m not talking, and she never talks, so the easy way isn’t an option.

I drag her over to the stairs. She resists, of course. But now I’m fucking pissed.

I drag her down one level, throw her on the ground, and then shut the squeaky chain-link gate and clamp the combination lock closed on the latch.

She just looks at me from the floor. Unmoving. Disbelieving.

I sign at her, my hands and fingers moving quickly. Believe it, princess. This is happening. And I’m only going to do this once. Do it again, and you will go in the ocean.

She doesn’t understand the signs. But she gets it. Because she stands up, rushes over to the gate, wraps her fingers around the chain link, and rattles it.

I turn my back.

One chance. That’s all you get with me. I’m not fucking around.

I leave her there, climb back up the stairs, and start my workout.

And you know what the nice thing about her is? She’s silent.

There is no screaming, there is no kicking, there are no hysterical threats.

She is easy to forget.

So that’s what I do.

I forget her.