DoG

back and slid his weapon back under his jacket. He jerked his thumb toward the door. Frank and Culann ducked their heads and hurried out into the deluge on the deck.

With the engines out and no working radio, the Orthrus bobbed on the stormy sea within sight of land for half a day before another ship came along. The whole time, Culann feared the Captain would peek under his bed and find the orb missing. But the Captain was fortunately preoccupied with the ship’s mechanical difficulties and efforts to arrange a tug back to shore. While the Captain, Gus, and a few of the handier sailors struggled with the engines, the rest of the crew lounged in absolute boredom down in the mess. Crammed together with thoughts of frustration on their minds and home tantalizingly out of reach, a few scuffles broke out. Worner busied himself by duct-taping the combatants’ wounds.

The storm broke around dusk, about which time a ship came close enough to see a few dozen sailors waving frantically from the deck. About an hour later, a tugboat pulled the Orthrus back into Three Fingers. When they disembarked, Culann stumbled as his feet felt the firmness of earth for the first time in over two weeks and he toppled to his knees. The other members of the crew, more accustomed to the transitions between land and sea, snickered at him as they shoved by. He was still a greenhorn, after all.

Twenty minutes later, they all boarded the ferry bound for Pyrite. As the boat pulled away, Culann watched the Captain smoke a cigar on the deck of the Orthrus while waiting for mechanics to arrive. The Captain shrank as the ferry neared Pyrite and then disappeared. For good, Culann hoped.

“You know what day it is?” Frank asked.

Culann had lost track of time almost immediately after going out to sea. He knew they’d been gone for seventeen days because others had said so, but he’d been too overwhelmed and exhausted to count the days himself. He couldn’t recall when they’d gone to sea.

“It’s the Fourth of July,” Frank said with a grin. “Party time.”

Part III RETURN TO PYRITE

Diary of Culann Riordan, Day 6

I guess I haven’t talked about the fog yet. Christ. As if living in the land of constant sunlight wasn’t bad enough, the whole island is surrounded by fog. Sometimes it stays back. Other times it rolls in and soaks everything. When it gets like that, I feel suffocated. It’s as bad as the dogs.

On top of that, I’m always hearing thunder. It doesn’t sound too far off, but I never see the lightning, presumably because the fog is in the way. I’m worried that lightning is going to strike one of the trees on the island and squash the dogs who are ceaselessly pissing on them. It’s odd, in light of all the dead humans I’ve had to deal with in the past few days, but the thought of even one dead dog really bothers me. I guess it’s because the dogs can’t understand what’s happening to them. Although the people who died were in the same boat. Maybe I just like dogs, which is a recent development.

Well, back to the fog. They say that people with old injuries can feel it when it rains. My injuries are new, but they are constantly throbbing as if to tell me that the weather sucks out here. Maybe if the sky cleared up a bit, I could go 24 hours without smoking pot. Which reminds me…

That feels a little better.

Oh, I almost forgot. The weirdest thing happened today. A fish — I don’t know, a trout or something — jumped out of the water and landed on the dock when I was working on the shore. As I said, I don’t want to see anything else die. It took me awhile to get over there, but it was still alive when I got there. I scooped it up and tossed it back in the water. Not thirty seconds later, the same fish (I assume, but who the hell knows?) jumped back up on the dock and slid across the planks and into the water on the other side. I waited for a good half-an- hour, but it didn’t come back. Weird, right? In hindsight, I guess I should have fed it to the dogs before they starve to death, but then I would have missed the completed trick.

1

By the time the ferry docked, the handful of Pyrite residents who’d remained ashore were already well into the Independence Day celebration. Dozens of dogs barked excitedly before charging forward to greet their masters. The crew of the Orthrus paused briefly to accept this gracious welcome before descending upon the beer tent. The crew arrived unannounced, so Alistair had to send a few guys back to the bar to round up additional provisions. Culann quickly downed his first beer and poured himself a second.

His time at sea had done little to diminish his thirst, but he’d earned this. He inspected the fat pink scar on his palm for a moment and then dumped his second beer down his throat.

He thought of nothing but refilling his plastic cup with more lukewarm keg beer.

Worner came over and draped an arm around Culann’s neck.

“Let’s see it, kid.”

“Oh, right,” Culann replied. “I’d almost forgotten about it.”

He crouched down and unzipped his duffel bag. Drawing forth the orb, Culann ran his fingers across the impossibly-smooth surface. The symbols were not as he’d remembered them. Had they changed? He recalled each one being a separate, quasi-geometrical shape. But now, they seemed to have grown together. Each shape had expanded to touch the symbols around it. The orb now contained a spiderweb of interconnected symbols even more perplexing that what Culann had first seen.

A crowd gathered around as he examined the orb. Word quickly spread of the Riordan boys’ daring exploits, and their two accomplices eagerly described their own roles in the heist. The other members of the crew who’d all been intimidated and mystified by the Captain’s silent authority admired the pluck of the lucky greenhorn who’d managed to outsmart him.

They passed the orb around, reigniting the debates about its origin. Culann had gotten enough of these arguments on the ship, so he snatched up his duffel bag and slipped through the crowd. McGillicuddy followed.

“Hey, greenhorn, come meet my wife.”

McGillicuddy introduced Culann to Margaret, a lanky woman with curly red hair who looked more like his sister than his wife. She smiled with her whole face as she pumped Culann’s hand.

“Well, it’s a real honor to meet such a celebrity,” she teased. “Only in Pyrite can you become a hero by stealing from your boss.”

“You’re right about that,” Culann said with a smile. “I’m glad I finally found a place with a moral code that aligns with my own.”

“Oh, yeah,” McGillicuddy jumped in. “I forgot to tell you, Margie. He’s not just a thief; he’s a pervert, too.”

Culann averted his eyes, but Margaret let out a series of deep belly-laughs.

“Is that right?” she said. “You should run for mayor.”

“Don’t let Alistair hear you say that,” McGillicuddy said. “He’s already salty with the greenhorn for laughing at him.”

“You think he’s still mad at me?”

“Probably not,” McGillicuddy replied, “but he’s a weird dude. It’s hard to know what’ll set him off. Just mind your manners from now on, and you’ll be fine.”

Culann’s first day in Pyrite seemed like a lifetime ago. He could barely remember his initial encounter with Alistair. Alcohol was certainly part of the explanation for that, but Culann felt like a different person now. He’d survived his ordeal and been reborn.