-1Chapter Nine

Sara was bewildered by the whole ordeal. For days she pressed her brother about his treatment of Leon. She knew well that he once had been very friendly with the old man. Sara joined him a very few times out on the beach, watching him spar and listen to the stories Leon would tell. The old man never quite rubbed Sara the right way, but Simon was always rapt for his attention, and studied hard the things he had to teach him.

There was a time, in the last few years during Simon's leave time that he would spend more time with Leon at his shack than he did at his own home or with his father. The doctor would barely notice that his son was not there with him, so long as he made his appearance at the dinner table or the breakfast table. Doctor Harwell was far too busy, taking care of the plantation and the villagers under his protection. The man spent every morning touring the villages, helping those who were still steeped in magical traditions.

Sara knew that somewhere inside he was feeling guilt over what he had done to his one time mentor. On that particular day, Sara found herself berating him. "Go to father right now and explain to him what you did."

"And what would the point of that be?" Simon looked at her with his placid cocksure smile.

"To free an innocent man from the stocks."

"Sara. You know as well as I do that he made the decision to come to this house and fire a cannon. If he is to have a spell in the stocks as a result, that is on his head and not on mine." Simon crossed his arms and continued to look out across the water. Far in the distance there was a high dark blue of swirling in the clouds, and the winds over the last few days were becoming unfavorable.

"Who have you become, Simon? When did you become a person that could let someone else suffer for his crimes?"

"Crimes? You talk to me about crimes and you do not even know who this man is that you are defending. Why would someone with a power like this hide out on an island in the middle of the Atlantic? How could someone hide this from the world."

"He had his own reasons and who are you to judge him?" Sara's face was becoming red with agitation. "Spending a few years on a boat and suddenly you are the moral authority of the Caribbean."

"Sara." Simon felt the wind flow out of his sails. "I can't talk to you about all of this now. Maybe in the future, when we have had some space from the event-"

Doctor Harwell interrupted them as he walked into the room. "Simon, Sara. We have word from the fleet. A Hurricane is brewing out in those waters now and it should arrive at our shores by midnight."

"A Hurricane?" Sara's eyes became as big as saucers.

"Not a terribly uncommon thing, I know. But this could be as bad as any that has hit before. And I need the both of you to prepare and to help me. We haven't much time." Sara stood straight and Simon followed her. "Sara, get the servants and begin moving what you can into the storm cellar. First, what we need and then only the essential pieces of art or antiques that you think will be needed. After all, it is your legacy we are saving. And Simon, you and I are going to go down into the village. The people down there have the right to a fair chance of surviving this storm. That requires going door to door. Are you with me?"

Simon nodded and watched as Sara left the room. "I will be with you in a moment."

"Fine. I'm readying the horses." Doctor Harwell disappeared and Simon attacked his hideaway cabinet, the same place he had stored all of his most precious childhood materials. There was a ball of twine, a piece of silver and a wooden doll still collecting dust. His new addition was wrapped in a strip of satin. The compass fit well around his neck and he hid it behind his coat, buttoning as he ran down the stairs to join his father on the road into the village.

Wind was slashing more and more as the two progressed from thatched hut to thatched hut. The villagers great them with a mix of muted respect and disdain as Doctor Harwell explained to each of them the dangers of the oncoming storm. It had been over a generation since a storm like the one on the way had hit that island and the young people did not have a full grasp over how bad it could get. If the family were lucky enough to have a person that was slightly older, perhaps children at the time of the last big hurricane, the family would decide it was a big enough reason to move inland.

"Why do they not believe you?" Simon asked as they moved to the farthest house in the village, the home of the old Shaman and his family.

"The memories of this island do not go back as far as they should. When I say storm, they can only imagine what they have already seen. To be told by a man, a white man, an English man, that everything they have built, that they have today, will be gone by tomorrow. We can only believe what we have already seen. That, combined with fear and stubbornness is the absolute harbinger of blind ignorance. I fear that no matter what we do, many lives will be lost tonight."

"Then why do any of this?"

"Because for us, those that have the knowledge, to do nothing would be a greater sin than I am willing to bear."

Simon sat silently with his father until they approached the final thatch house. The largest family on the island gathered about the place, the home of the Shaman, Seaga. A practitioner of Voodoo, the witchcraft, Seaga was the man in the village that all turned to when they were ill, or frightened or needed direction. Simon never understood why they would go to a man that had no formal education, not when his father was there for them, and always seemed most cheery when he could do something to help them out.

"I am afraid of this man." Simon whispered to his father.

"Don't be. Seaga is a reasonable man."

"He does witchcraft."

"That may be." Harwell had a smile on his face. "But when I arrive with my medical instruments and my books of knowledge, to them, that is just the same. Witchcraft."

"Surely even they can tell the difference."

"You do not have to come inside, but I must have a word with Seaga. If anyone can get the others in the village to do the sensible thing. It is him." Harwell leapt from the carriage and walked to a little shirtless boy leaning his body into the wind. "Boy. Is your grandfather here?"

The boy looked at him blankly for a moment before dashing into the hut. Harwell followed and Simon jumped down, passing the boy as he sat inside, kicking a ball leather ball between his ankles. Simon recognized the ball, since it had once been his. He felt a tinge of anger that his father should just give his things away until he looked up and around him. There were no less than ten people sitting inside the cramped little space, and it struck him that there was absolutely nothing on the walls and nothing on the ground but the very sand one would find outside.

Doctor Harwell was sitting with a terribly wrinkled old man in the corner. He was surrounded by the trappings of the voodoo shaman, from skulls of animals to runes carved in blocks of Beachwood. Harwell was speaking in hushed tones to the old man. But Seaga's eyes were not looking at the Doctor, but rather he was staring with trained focus at Simon's neck. Not his neck, he could feel the cold stare on the little piece he had tucked away behind the folds of leather and cloth. He could somehow sense or see that Simon was carrying the compass.

Simon's neck was tingling, his hairs standing on end. His ears were growing hot and burning, sweat dribbled down his face and Simon excused himself, stumbling outside, nearly doubling over before he came to the carriage. Simon watched the boy, kicking his ball about from the corner of his eye and scrunched his lids closed. He tightened his fist, whatever the old man's gaze did to him, he would have to fight the feeling away. Simon concentrated on the wind, whistling high, and waves, lapping against the surf. He waited, channeling all of his thoughts to the gentle sounds of the beach, until all the disorientation vanished, and pulled himself into the carriage, laying his head back on the cushion.

"Are you all right?"

His father peeked his head into the carriage. "I will be all right. Just a touch of nausea." Simon feared telling his father what condition came over him would lead to too many questions.

"We are done here, besides. I believe he listened to me. Old man came down with a case of shingles not a year ago and despite his prowess in the dark arts, it was good English medicine that cured all his ails. He may not think much of us, but I have, for the moment, won his respect. These people may yet be saved." The thunder clapped heartily and a steady torrent of rain showered about them.

"Come, we must join your sister."