THROUGHOUT THE AFTERNOON and the night, the little fishing boat drifted shoreward in a calm sea. Finally, slowly, as day broke, Pons sat up and rubbed his head. He closed his eyes and relived the horror of the afternoon. He was alone. Luc was gone, and the old man wept. He had a tender lump on his head, but he was sound. He noted the position of the rising sun and figured that, overnight, he had drifted north and a little east. When he scanned the horizon, Pons saw that he was near enough to shore to see the faint outline of a village. He looked about at his boat. The slavers’ grappling hook had destroyed the rigging, and the sail was useless. The mast was splintered and ruined. Pons detached the torn sail and pulled the stub of the mast from its fitting. Then he tipped the broken pole into the water and watched it roll away from the boat. Now the little boat was lighter, and Pons took the oars and slowly headed in. By afternoon, he had rowed back to Mouette. A returning fisherman and his son ran to help as Pons struggled to drag his boat onto the shore.
“Mattie’s been worried sick, knocking on doors, asking if any of us saw you yesterday. She feared the worst, Pons, but I hoped you hooked a tunny and fought it through the night,” said the father. He was a tall man with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low on his forehead. “I was a lad when you brought in a tunny that was bigger than your boat.”
“Father still talks about that fish,” said the son, a lanky youth with dimpled chin and dark eyes.
“Luc is gone,” murmured Pons.
“Drowned?” asked the son.
Pons shook his head and could barely spit out the word: “Saracens.”
The other two fishermen crossed themselves.
“Saint Pierre have mercy. Saracens? Here?” asked the father.
Everyone who lived on the Mediterranean coast knew the old stories of Saracens, heathen invaders from the East who pillaged the coast and kidnapped Christians. Hundreds of years ago, some coastal towns had been abandoned and people moved to new villages, perched on the hillsides, high above the sea, with sturdy walls and watchtowers to warn of the Saracens. But the maritime invasions had stopped long, long ago. The coast had been peaceful for generations beyond memory, and once again villages were built on the shore. But just lately there had been new rumors of fishermen who disappeared at sea and reports of people who were snatched from the land, taken by Saracen ships, and never seen again. These tales of pirate invaders had been like the tales of sorcerers and dragons; the fear was distant and unreal. Until now.
Pons sat down on the beach and covered his face with his hands. Shoulders hunched, he began to weep. The father removed his hat, looked down at Pons, and waited until the old man was quiet.
“Come. We’ll take you home,” he said gently.
His son draped Pons’s arm over his shoulders and helped the old man walk, while the father grabbed what remained of the sail, the net, and the fishing lines. Before they reached the cottage, Cadeau bounded out, tail wagging, licking Pons’s feet and barking. Then he circled and sat, his tail thumping, watching expectantly for his master.
Mattie charged out of the cottage and threw her arms around her brother. Beatrice followed, and the three of them hugged and cried.
“Luc?” asked Mattie fearfully.
Pons shook his head.
Beatrice crumpled to her knees crying, “No! No!”