During the night Ric slips into the fitful doze of the lone yachtsmen. He doesn’t allow himself to fall fast and deeply asleep which, given half the chance, is exactly what he would like to do. All it takes is the briefest trembling of a sheet or the thinnest slap of a wave to jerk him rudely awake.
And yet, during the moments in between, he dreams.
And he dreams light, frivolous fantasies of Manou and the boy he came to know in Corsica. And he dreams of Camille, the white-haired old fox whose boat he now sails, and the kindness and generosity of the people he has met in the small harbours of the east coast of Sardinia: Fabrizio the mechanic in Santa Maria Navarese, Giuseppe the carpenter in Arbatax, and Carmelo the harbour master of Cagliari, where he has passed most of the winter.
Camille, in signing the small yacht over to Ric, has sent him on his way with various letters of introduction, which is fortunate, because in just about every harbour along the way, some old salt pitches up to press him: Where is Camille? Why is it that this stranger is on board the Mara without him? And, perhaps more to Ric’s liking, will the new owner come ashore and take a little wine, as Camille surely would have?
The Mara is old, like her previous keeper, and many of her small things – her padeyes, bails and the snap shackles of her rigging – are brittle and occasionally break beneath his clumsy fingers. She is old, but she is not ancient. Rather she is old in the way that one instantly recognises a great aunt who is old and therefore very naturally deserving of respect; as though the moment you recognise the light of wisdom in her eyes, you understand that she has seen much and knows more.
The Mara is an elegant and distinctive sloop; ten or so metres of hand-planed Cedar of Lebanon, slim at the hips and lithe through the water. But, what she wants more than anything from Ric is his time; time for him to understand that she is happier just off the wind as opposed to running fast before it; time for him to attend to the helm, which jams occasionally; and time to sort the rigging, which snags whenever he reefs the main. And that is not to mention the bilge pump, which runs only when it sees fit.
But it is Manou he misses most. Eight months have passed since he left the tiny bay at La Tozza on the south-eastern coast of Corsica and every time he closes his eyes she appears before him. It is as if she commands the approaches to his sleep in the same way Cerberus commands the gates to the underworld.
But, though Manou monopolises his sleep, there is good news. For Ric knows that if it is Manou’s face he sees whenever he closes his eyes, it means the dream hunter has at last departed and with him he has taken the faces of the dead.
Tonight is Ric’s fourth night out of Cagliari. A strong and steady Libecciu has been blowing out of the south-east and he hopes it will take him only another day or so to reach his destination.
But Aeolus has other designs for him. The devious son of Poseidon prefers to toy with Ric, just as he has toyed with so many other seafarers who pass too close to the islands of his birth. The God of Winds is bored and, by way of distraction, turns his eye to simple amusements. He stills the Libecciu and replaces it with a thick, clinging sea mist.
The choice, for Ric, is simple: either wallow at the mercy of the current or run up the motor so the Mara can make some way. He furls the jib, hauls down the mainsail and returns to the cockpit to start up. After a few juddering objections, the engine coughs, clears its throat and settles to a purr.
Ric maintains his westerly heading; gliding like a lean ghost through the white mist, which opens and then closes swiftly behind him.
If the Mara possessed even the most basic radar, he might sleep more restfully. But, she doesn’t have radar in the same way that she doesn’t have any other more conventional navigational aids and conveniences; the mast head and crossbar lights being the only concession the Mara makes to modernity. The old boy, Camille, hadn’t needed them. He’d merely gone wherever the wind had taken him, just as Ric is now going wherever Aeolus drives him.
He wakes, startled. The deck beneath him stirs and he grows aware of small waves lapping at the side of the hull.
But the night mist still blinds him and he wonders how it is that without the wind, the sea is disturbed. He hears a muted thump, like a bass drum beaten once, and becomes aware of a dull crimson glow high up ahead.
From disturbed, the sea is very soon distressed and the Mara begins to pitch and yaw. The waves increase in height and weight and he has to hold the wheel firmly to maintain his heading. Ric glances at the compass and notices the needle is uncertain about its bearing.
The crimson glow, an explosive incandescence he recalls from a far-away-field, burns bright and intense; an eerie fire on a hillside high up beyond the prow of the little boat. And the odours of the very same far-away-field now lay siege to his senses: sulphur, mustard and bad eggs, and the bitter, stinging, acrid edge of cordite, of urgent exercise in oppressive heat and, inevitably, of decomposition.
Ric is unnerved by nature’s sudden display of energy. He is humbled and apprehensive. He cannot think what this lurid apparition means.
A second thump from the same drum results in a thick spray of garish liquid; a vivid spout of fresh blood, like that from a bullet wound. It shoots high up from the summit and falls back to earth, radiant and piercing to his eyes: the dazzling reds of the cherry orchard at dawn, the blazing yellow of the desert sun at midday and the deep purple of last light in the mountains. And the nearer he comes to the volcano, the greater grows his fear.
The sea is bewildered; the waves wash this way and that, not knowing which way to run. The compass still swings wildly and Ric, now standing at the helm, his blood thundering through his veins, realises that immediately in front of him must lie some significant land mass and that he must turn away to avoid it.
He feeds the helm to starboard and steers the Mara away so that the volcano comes to rest over his left shoulder.
The drum is, for the moment, silenced and the fire, though casting its strange glow about the boat, grows dim. The sea settles, the waves drop in strength and frequency, and the compass is once more steadied.
Ric stays standing, alert, at the helm. Whoever was beating the drum has decided to leave him to wander through the mist.
Thinking to give the island a wide berth, he steers south-south-west. There is a small group of islands lying to the south of his projected route and, because he can’t recall their names or their disposition, he makes a mental note to check their lie at first light.
He looks at his watch: there are still a couple of hours before dawn. Now wide awake, his senses heightened by the sudden emergence and slow disappearance of the strange light, he figures he’d be better to stay on watch. If he has drifted south, he might be somewhere in the shallow channels between the islands. In the fog, where he has no hope of making out any of the harbour lights, and without radar, he will have to stay awake until the morning sun burns away the mist.
The Libecciu has given up on him and Ric is now beholden to the Mara’s screw and the rhythmic swell beneath his feet.
Aeolus, like the gamekeeper and his dogs, is stalking his prey.