The longboat's prow lifted with the surf and scudded on loose ground. Captain Pender jumped out with the others to pull the boat ashore. Cold seawater ran over the tops of his boots. His feet squished with every step as he fought the tide to climb the stony beach. Once the boat was secure, he turned to survey the lay of the land. A hundred paces past the shoreline, steep hills rose to the feet of the cliffs towering tall above them. From here he could make out a few breaks in the redoubtable stone wall. A powerful smell fouled the air like rotting carcasses.

“Spread out!” he said. “Find me a spring so we can get off this miserable spur.”

Manck sidled up to him. “This place has a hellish stench, eh?”

Captain Pender clenched the finger and thumb of his left hand. “Water or no water, I want to be off this rock before sundown, Mister Manck.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Manck left to lead the search, Captain Pender stared up at the cliffs. He felt like he was being watched by unfriendly eyes. He wondered briefly if the island had any inhabitants, but discarded the notion. The only vegetation he saw were sickly brown vines clinging to the cliffs. He heard no birdcalls, no chattering monkeys. This place was as dead as a tomb.

Scuffing his boot heel in the gravel, he spotted a bloated fish higher up on the shore, likely washed up with the tide. It looked like a bonefish of some type. He paid it no mind until he heard an odd sound, like gentle suckling. He cocked his head and followed the sound to the fish corpse. He leaned over the body. The flesh was mainly intact. As he watched, the corpse rose and fell in a slow rhythm. Nudging it with his boot, he flipped the body over, and recoiled in horror. He reached to his belt for the sword hilt that was not there and pulled out one of the pistols. A huge, blood-red worm had been attached to the underside of the fish, its toothy maw slicing into the flesh while it fed, but it withdrew into a hole in the gravel with startling swiftness. He backed away.

“Captain?” Manck limped over to him, eyeing the pistol. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Captain Pender said. Feeling foolish, he slid the pistol back into its holster. It had only been a worm after all. Yet, something about it had triggered an instinctive response in him. He couldn't help thinking how it would feel to have the thing attached to him, sucking out his insides. “What have you found?”

“Nothing. There's no water source along the shore here. We'll have to go inland.”

Captain Pender looked up to the cliffs. “Well, let's be about it then. Gather the men. We'll all go together.”

Yells from outside launched Birch to his feet, but opening the cabin door took great effort against the wind. Once outside, he beheld not a typical storm, but like the Dutchman had said, ‘something from the bowels of Hell.’ Toward each horizon the sea was calm, with stars and a near-full moon visible, but the waves under and around the Beholder lifted her on ten-foot crests and the sky above her was a swirling black mess.

The captain yelled orders but the roaring wind snatched them away, so he pulled himself along rails and ropes until he found men and sent them to their tasks. Then, as he looked toward the prow, the dim light silhouetted the strange girl standing with arms spread wide and hair whipping wildly around her face.

Hed been warned and didn’t listen. The girl had seemed harmless yet now, due to his stubborn negligence, his ship may suffer the same fate as Sibylla.

“Stop!” he yelled into the maelstrom, but the girl ignored him and the storm strengthened. The air chilled suddenly and the clouds above them lightened in color, glowing green as a massive whirling column twisted its way down to the frothing waves. The vortex touched water just aft of the Beholder and then separated into three thinner tails.

The air between the three waterspouts crackled with blue light and for just a second Birch thought he saw two moons in a pale purple sky. The vision faded as the cyclones separated further, with one moving up the starboard side, another to port and one remained aft. They grew thick and hissed as they spun. The Beholder’s only escape route was dead ahead.

“Look. What the hell are they doing now?” Sureshot drew their attention back to the totem pole, where one barelegged pirate scrabbled up the rear of the sculpture until he sat atop the highest head. The Rum Runners paused in their revelry, and every man among them rose to their feet, faced the totem and raised their drinks in silent salute. The pirate atop the idol raised two wineskins, removed the stoppers, and began pouring their contents down over the top totem head's oversized bottle. “It's not spilling over,” the young topsman said. “The bottle must have some kind of opening on the top, hollow inside. Why would‹"

“That's it. That's their secret.”

It was the first time Nelson Terwilliger had spoken since they left the rowboat, and all eyes trained on him.

“Don't you see? The Rum Runners, all the legends, all the inhuman things they're capable of. The things we saw when they attacked us, and now we're seeing men who should be dead, walking around right as rain. This is how they do it! This is the source of their power! The rum, the idol . . .”

Captain Considine cocked an eyebrow at the scholar. “Nelson, are you saying what I think you're saying?”

Sean shot a sidelong glance back at the totem. “You're saying that thing is some sort of‹"

“Rum for the rum god!”

The lone climber cried out first, and a deafening chorus crashed back like a tidal wave from every pirate in the clearing: “RUM FOR THE RUM GOD!”

A subtle but noticeable thrum rippled outward from the towering idol and washed across the landscape, including the explorers. They didn't hear the wave so much as feel it in their bones.

Nelson Terwilliger pointed meekly at the totem. “Yep. Rum God.”

“The man became obsessed with learning her fate, but none could tell him. Had she been slain when her ship was boarded? Was she living unwilling in a New York brothel, or sold in some distant port where her golden hair would be a curiosity? If she'd come to disgrace, did she yet live? Since all the pirates who might answer these questions were dead, the judge went to certain wise men among the slaves and learned from them how to seek the spirits of the dead.”

Now, I must have made a sound, because the captain looked over at me in time to see me cross myself. “Does this tale trouble you, Little John?”

“I'm not afeared of any man alive,” I said, honestly enough, “but I don't like talk of spirits and haints and suchlike.”

“Do you believe in such things?”

He asked this like my answer mattered to him, and I told him truly that I did believe. Many a man I'd sailed with over the years come from heathen lands. From what they told me, it seemed like their dead stayed close to hand, having no Christian Heaven or Hell to repair to. As for that, there was ghosts aplenty in the ruins near the village where I was born, even though people in that part of Ireland are Christian, or close enough.

The captain turned back to Natty and went on with his tale.

The crewman grunted and continued on.

After he'd gone, Nole asked, "Why do they speak to you with such contempt?”

“Because of what I was,” Zhayim said, and held up his stumps. “They take the left hand as punishment for past acts of piracy, the right thumb to prevent the holding of a blade. I was a pirate, Nole. I was caught, punished, and sold into indenture. I lied when I told you I was not a criminal. I am.”

Zhayim expected shock or anger to greet his admission, but Nole continued to stare out at the dark western sky.

“Did you hear my words?”

Nole nodded. “I did. But you did not lie. You are no longer a criminal. So you said, and so it is.”

The Votaries simplicity bothered Zhayim, challenged him. “How do you know that, Nole? We have only met this day.”

“I do not know. I believe. Did you ever kill anyone?”

Zhayim shook his head quickly. “Never. I was the spinner. I just . . .”

He had just told stories to cutthroats and murderers, watched them do violence to others, partaken in stolen loot. And throughout it all, done nothing to stop any of it.

Nole stood up and smiled down at him. “I knew you had not. You are a kind-hearted man, despite your past. I would like to hear more of your stories, as would the children. The elders have approved it. Is that possible?”

Zhayim felt flattered and . . . strangely nervous.

“I know only sea stories, Nole. The children fear the sea.”

“Perhaps your stories will ease their fears. In any event, they will help pass the time until we reach the Far Shore.”

“Nole . . .” Zhayim started to tell him that the Far Shore was unsettled jungle but swallowed the words. "Bring the children around after your evening prayers tomorrow."

Nole thanked him, bade him good night, and took his leave.

Zhayim lay wrapped in his blanket, hand aching. When he finally slept, he dreamed that he was telling stories to the underfed, terrified children who lived in the filthy slave pens of Hellhole. They asked him to help them, to kill them. He refused. They told him the end of the world was coming and he believed them.