THE MOON WAS full, and the pale sky was almost day-bright as Luc and Pons headed out to fish. The mistral had finally ceased blowing, and the first days of April were warm and fair. Luc wore his new green shirt, cuffing up the longer sleeve. He whistled as he carried the net along the path that led to the beach. Pons had coiled the baited long lines around his shoulders, and he carried the rolled sail in his arms. His face was spiked with gray stubble, and his hands were worn, scarred by fish hooks and eel bites, his fingers crooked with age.
Mattie was right about the boy, thought Pons. Just what I needed.
He patted Luc on the back, and they shoved the boat into the water and climbed aboard. Luc leaned with the roll of the sea, watching the pitch-dark water meet the silver of the moon-bright sky. As dawn approached, he heard the cry of a sole gull and watched as it soared and disappeared toward the shore. On this early morning, there was no wind, and the sea sparkled as the moon slipped toward the horizon; the April morning was chilly, and Luc was glad for his new shirt. Pons rowed until his hands ached, and Luc took the oars. Because the sea was calm, they took the little boat into deeper waters.
“Pull in the oars; we’ll drift for a while,” Pons said as he lowered the baited long lines. Earlier they had passed a few other fishing boats, but now they were alone, without even a gull in the sky. “It’s just us and the fish,” he added.
As they bobbed gently, the sea went from black-blue to deep blue, and the sky went from pink to red. When the yellow sun rose, it hung in a blue, cloudless sky. A soft breeze ruffled the water.
“Guess I was wrong about the fish,” said Pons after a few hours of drifting. “It’s just us. No fish today.” He handed Luc bread, cheese, and a handful of raisins, and they each took swigs of watered wine from a goatskin bag. “No sign of your lucky dolphins this morning, either. I hoped we’d catch your first tunny. That would be a fine way to start the spring. Land a big tunny. Though I’d wager you’d rather be ashore helping Beatrice mend the nets or work the garden.”
Luc tore away at the bread and chewed big mouthfuls. He squinted and raised an eyebrow, looking at Pons. “Now, why would you think that? I love the sea.”
“Oh yes, I see that, but I think there is something you’re even more fond of, no?” When Luc just smiled, Pons added, “Though I’d have to say there is nothing in the world that could beat hooking a tunny.”
Luc laughed and shook his head. “I don’t know how it feels to hook a tunny, and I don’t think I’ll learn that lesson today.”
“Perhaps tomorrow. Time to head in if we want to be home by midday. Take the oars while I check the lines. Maybe we’ll have better luck on the trip in.”
Luc settled into the middle seat and began to row. His hands had callused in his months of fishing, and although he was still slender, his shoulders and arms had strengthened. He leaned into each pull. The boat rose in the water and pushed ahead with each stroke. As he rowed, Luc scanned the water for the color changes that might mean a school of fish. Way out on the horizon, he noticed a dark speck.
“Pons, there’s something out to the south of us,” he said, pointing.
Pons squinted. At first he saw nothing. Luc continued to row, studying the distant edge of his vision, where the sea and sky met.
As he watched the speck grow, Luc said to Pons, “It’s a boat. She’s moving fast.”
Pons looked up and across the water, shielding his eyes with his hand. He took a deep breath.
“We shouldn’t have come out so far. Put everything you have into those oars, Luc. I’ll take over as soon as I have the lines in. I’ll hoist the sail, too. Pray for more wind. I wish we had a second set of oars.”
“That vessel has two sails. Three-cornered like ours but red and bigger. She’s heading for us.”
Pons raised his sail, and it luffed; he pushed the tiller until the canvas puffed out. He slid forward, and controlling the tiller with his bare foot, Pons took over the oars.
“Let me row. When you’re rested, we’ll each take an oar. We need to get in before they catch up to us.”
“Who is it, Pons?” asked Luc, rolling and massaging his sore shoulders.
“I’ll not say what I fear. Not yet.”
The speck on the horizon grew, and soon Pons could pick out the two masts and the varnished hull of a dhow cutting fast toward the little fishing boat. Luc took one oar, and he and Pons rowed, pulling with every bit of strength. Together they hunched forward, and together they snapped back, the oars rising and dipping, both pulling hard against the sea. The little fishing boat surged ahead with each stroke, but they could not outrun the larger two-masted dhow that was closing in.
Luc saw the crew: dark-skinned, bare-chested men with shaved heads, leaning over the sides of the dhow. On the prow stood a robed, turbaned figure with his arms folded against his chest. The fishing boat continued to lose ground against the larger vessel, and soon Pons and Luc could hear the voices of their predators.
Pons turned to the boy; his face was gray, and his lips were pale. “Put down your oar, Luc. We’re lost. Pray to the Lord, for surely this is the worst, and maybe the last, day of our lives.”
Pons crossed himself and dropped to his knees, but Luc took both oars and put everything into his strokes. The dhow was pulling alongside; one of its sailors heaved a sharp and heavy iron hook. The smaller boat shuddered and rocked steeply as the hook crashed into its bow, tangling the rigging and splintering the mast as it fell. Before Luc could take a breath, strange men were screeching and howling, throwing ropes, and clambering into his boat. Pons was felled with a single punch.
Luc scrambled to reach Pons, but he was plucked up and tossed over the thick shoulder of a man who shinnied up a rope ladder to the larger boat. In vain, Luc hit, kicked, and squirmed. The sailor tossed him onto the dhow’s deck, and someone bagged him with a rough cloth. Luc struggled, but unseen hands tied a rope around the sack, binding him in a dark, airless roll. He could barely breathe, and he felt himself being lifted and dropped, falling a distance into what felt like a pile of cloth. Gasping for breath, he sucked in sacking and little air. Luc rocked madly to and fro. He coughed and almost choked before the fabric was pulled away from his face. Luc gulped hot air, and then he screamed. A tall man with a scarred face and a neckerchief crouched over him. The sailor kicked Luc in the side, before he turned and disappeared up the narrow stairs. The hatch slammed shut, and Luc was in darkness, trussed and desperate.
Luc fought against the ropes, but he was bound tightly; he couldn’t free himself. The hold was dark and hot, and he heard only muffled footsteps and occasional shouts from above. His heart pounded, and he couldn’t breathe fast enough. He rolled and struggled, until his chest burned. It was hopeless. Luc was exhausted, more than exhausted: he began to sweat and to shake until he grew cold and heavy. He wet himself, and he didn’t care. He was falling, slipping out of the awfulness of this nightmare and into a dream.
Luc became half aware that the tall sailor with the kerchief was back beside him, untying the rope binding and unrolling the sacking. The sailor wrinkled his nose and stripped off Luc’s green shirt and his hose. Luc had no idea where he was; his thoughts had ceased to form words. He sat up slowly and blinked in the half-light from the open hatch. When the sailor tried to hand him a cup of water, Luc just stared at it, and the sailor threw the water in the boy’s face. Luc didn’t move. Then the sailor seized Luc’s legs and clamped a thick iron ring around each ankle; the rings were connected by heavy links. Luc watched. His mind was empty. The sailor fetched another cup of water. With one hand pinching Luc’s chin, he forced open the boy’s jaw and poured in water. Luc sputtered and coughed. The tall sailor laughed and turned to Luc’s discarded clothing. He tucked the knife that Pons had given Luc into his waistband and emptied the pouch that had hung from the boy’s belt. Squatting, the sailor sifted the contents: a scrap of woolen cloth, a strip of leather, a dried white flower. When the tall sailor picked up Mattie’s wooden ear, he turned it over and over. Then he grabbed Luc by his hair and began to comb through it with his fingers. He backed away, scowled at the boy, and vaulted to the deck, taking the steps two at a time.
Luc was alone again, but not for long. Three men, including the tall sailor and the turbaned, robed man who had been on the prow, descended into the hold. The tall sailor grabbed Luc’s chin and wrenched his head to the left. A short, toothless sailor with a lantern frowned and pointed his thumb downward. The robed man—who, Luc would later learn, was the captain of the boat—squinted at Luc and stroked his beard. The tall sailor handed the captain the wooden ear. The captain turned it over and over in the lantern light. He began to laugh.
“He’s a scrawny, worthless freak,” the toothless sailor said. “Why waste water and bread on him? One ear? We won’t be able to give him away. Throw him overboard.”
The captain juggled the wooden ear. “This is a marvelous piece of carving. If the boy made it, he’s worth something. If not, well, look at his hair. Someone will buy him for that.”
Luc understood nothing that was said, but if he had, he would have learned that the wooden ear had saved his life.