Riptide

Chapter 47

Woody Clay lost his footing on a patch of seaweed, banged his shin, and came close to using the Lord's name in vain. The rocks along the shore were slippery and algae-covered. He decided it was safer to crawl.

Every limb of his body ached; his clothes were torn; the pain in his nose was worse than he could have ever imagined; and he was cold to the point of numbness. Yet he felt alive in a way that he had not in many, many years. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, this wild exhilaration of the spirit. The failed protest no longer had any significance. Indeed, it had not failed. He had been delivered onto this island. God worked in mysterious ways, but clearly He had brought Clay to Ragged Island for a reason. There was something he had to accomplish here, something of prime importance. Exactly what, he did not yet know. But he was confident that, at the right time, the mission would be revealed to him.

He scrambled beyond the high tide mark. Here the footing was better, and he stood up, coughing the last of the seawater from his lungs. Every cough sent a hideous pain shooting through his ruined nose. But he did not mind the pain. What was it St. Lawrence had said, when the Romans were roasting him alive over a brazier of hot coals? "Turn me over, Lord. Cook me on the other side."

As a child, when other boys had been reading Hardy Boys mysteries and biographies of Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb, Clay's favorite book had been Foxe's Book of Martyrs. Even today, as a Congregational minister, he saw nothing wrong in quoting liberally from the lives of the Catholic saints, and even more liberally from their deaths. Those were people who had been blessed with visions, and with the courage to see them through, no matter what the cost. Clay was reasonably certain he had the courage. What he'd been lacking recently, he knew, was the vision.

Now he had to take shelter, get warm, and pray for the revelation of his purpose.

He scanned the shoreline, gray against a black sky, blasted and pelted by the fury of the storm. There were some large rocks off in the dimness to his right—the kind fishermen called Whale-backs. Beyond was the unnatural dry lagoon formed by Thalassa's cofferdam. Except the exposed seabed was not entirely dry. He noted, with a grunt of satisfaction, that the surf was battering the cofferdam relentlessly. Several of the stanchions were bent and one of the reinforced concrete slabs had warped. Every blow of the waves sent massive plumes of spray over the top of the wall.

Clay walked up the rocky shore and found shelter in the large earthen embankment, beneath some overhanging tree roots. But even here the rain was lashing down, and as soon as he stopped moving he began to shiver. Standing up again, he began walking along the base of the embankment, looking for some kind of windbreak. He saw nobody and heard nobody. Perhaps the island was tenantless, after all: the plunderers had evacuated in the face of the storm, scattered, like the moneylenders from the temple.

He came to the point of land. Around the edge of the bluff lay the seaward side of the island. Even from here, the sound of the pounding surf was intense. As he rounded the point, a strip of yellow police tape caught his eye, one end torn free and fluttering wildly in the wind. He moved forward. Beyond the tape lay a trio of braces, made out of some shiny metal, and behind them a dark, ragged opening led into the embankment. Maneuvering around the tape and the braces, Clay stepped into the opening, ducking his head under the low roof as he did so.

Inside, the sound of the surf dropped dramatically, and it was snug and dry. If it wasn't warm exactly, at least it wasn't chilly. He reached into one pocket and took out his little supply of emergency items: the flashlight, the plastic match case, the miniature first aid kit. He shone the flashlight around the walls and ceiling. It was some kind of small chamber, which narrowed to a tunnel at the far end.

It was very interesting, very gratifying. He had, in a way, been led to this tunnel. He had little doubt it connected somehow to the works that were said to honeycomb the center of the island. His shivering increased, and he decided that the first course of action should be to build a fire and dry out a bit.

He gathered some small driftwood that had washed into the cave, then unscrewed the circular plastic case and upended it. A dry wooden match fell out into his hand. He smiled with a certain suppressed feeling of triumph. He had carried this waterproof match case on every boat trip he'd ever taken since coming to Stormhaven. Claire had teased him about it, of course—being that it was Claire, kind-hearted teasing—but it had rankled nevertheless in that secret part of Clay's heart kept hidden from every living creature. And now, that match case was going to play its own part in his destiny.

In short order, a little fire was casting merry shadows on the wall of his cave. The storm howled past the tunnel entrance, leaving his nest practically untouched. The pain in his nose had subsided to a dull, steady throb.

Clay huddled closer, warming his hands. Soon—very soon, now—he knew the special task that had been set aside for him would at last be made clear.