Marianne and the Rebels

Witch, so that she now had some vague idea of where she was.

This was in the region of the Cyclades, the constellation of islands which makes the Aegean Sea a kind of terrestrial milky-way. If she went on in an easterly direction, she was almost bound to come across one or other of the islands before very long and there was always the possibility of encountering a fishing boat. After all, as the unspeakable Leighton had said, this was not the dreaded Atlantic Ocean, where she would have faced certain death.

As much to warm herself and provide a distraction from the terror induced by the vast loneliness around her, as with any very real hope of hastening her salvation, Marianne got out the pair of oars from the bottom of the boat, fitted them to the thole-pins and began to row energetically. The boat was heavy and so were the oars, designed for the calloused hands of seamen, not for the soft palms of a lady, but the physical exercise did provide a kind of comfort.

As she rowed, she did her best to sort out in her mind what must have happened on board the Sea Witch. When they had carried her on deck, she had certainly been blind with rage, but not so blind that she had not registered the fact that Leighton had only a handful of the men with him: not more than thirty or so out of the hundred or more who made up the crew. Where were the others? What had the doctor done with them? A strange kind of doctor, who seemed as well able to make men sick as to cure them! Were they prisoners under hatches? Drugged… or worse? The villain must have had a whole arsenal of diabolical potions at his disposal to enable him to get the better of normally strong, intelligent men. Her own experiences in Venice had taught her how a potion, a philtre, or whatever such devilish brews should be called, could break the will and unleash buried instincts, bringing a human being to the verge of madness. There had been a strange look in Jason's eyes during those last hours on the ship.

That there had been mutiny aboard, Marianne was now quite certain. Leighton and his supporters had made themselves master of the ship. She refused to believe that Jason, however hurt or angry he might be, could have changed in an instant, so radically, into a rapacious freebooter, scheming to take both her jewels and her life. No, he must be a prisoner, and powerless. Everything in Marianne's mind rejected the idea that Leighton could have struck at the life of a man who was his friend and who had welcomed him aboard his ship. In any case, Jason's skill as a seaman must make him indispensable to the navigation of such a vessel. He could not possibly be dead. But… what of his lieutenant? And the prisoners?

As she thought of Jolival, Agathe and Gracchus, Marianne's heart contracted. The evil doctor could have no pressing reason to spare their lives, the Vicomte's and the young coachman's at least, unless he suffered from any qualms about adding further needless crimes to an already overburdened conscience.

As for poor Agathe, the use they had for her was all too clear. Kaleb, who since his attempt on Leighton had been numbered by Marianne among her own people, had, because of his commercial value, nothing immediate to fear beyond the prospect of being sold back into slavery at the first opportunity. Yet that was bad enough, and Marianne felt an overwhelming pity for the dark and splendid being. His nobility and generosity had made a deep impression on her, and now, once again, he was to know the chains of slavery, the cruel whips and fetters of men who differed from him only in the colour of their skin.

Marianne rested breathlessly on her oars. The sun was up now and beat down on the sea with a glare that hurt her eyes. It was going to be a hot day, and she had nothing to protect her from the burning rays.

To guard against sunstroke, she tore off a strip from her wrapper and wound it round her head like a turban, but this did nothing to shade her face which was already starting to burn. In spite of it, she rowed on doggedly, eastwards.

There was worse to come. By midday, thirst was beginning, slowly and inexorably, to make itself felt. At first it was no more than a dryness of the lips and mouth. Then, little by little, the dryness spread to her whole body. Her skin grew hot and parched. She made a feverish search of every corner of the boat in the hope that food and water might have been stowed aboard in case of shipwreck, but there was nothing, only the oars: nothing to quench the thirst which was becoming a torment, nothing… only the blue immensity of water which mocked her.

She sought some relief by taking off her scanty clothing and hanging over the side to scoop sea-water over her body. It revived her a little and she moistened her lips and even tried to drink a few drops of cool water, but this only made things worse. The salt smarted on her lips and merely accentuated her thirst.

Hunger came later, and was not so bad. Marianne would gladly have gone without food for two days for the sake of one glass of fresh water, yet a time came when she could no longer ignore the gnawing in her stomach. Her condition, the fact that there was a new life dependent on her own, only made her body more demanding. It was not long before she was suffering badly from fatigue. The sun was merciless. With a last effort she managed to ship the oars and lay them in the bottom of the boat, then she lay down, shielding herself from the killing rays as best she could. Still there was no land in sight, not even another boat, and if help were not forthcoming soon, she knew that she would face death – the slow, appalling death that she no longer doubted had been meant for her by Leighton. Yet, the man was a doctor and must, at some stage in his life, have sworn a solemn oath to succour anyone threatened by sickness and death.

The fact that she had not so far encountered any other human being, nor even caught a glimpse of a sail, suggested that the Sea Witch had already deviated from her course before setting her adrift. They must have put her overboard somewhere in the midst of the broad stretch of open water that lay between the Cyclades and the island of Crete. Leighton's purpose had not simply been to get her off the ship: he had condemned her, quite coldbloodedly, to death.

She very nearly cried as the cruel reality of her situation came home to her, but she forced back the tears with all the feeble strength left to her, knowing that she could not afford to waste a drop of the precious water that remained in her exhausted body.

Evening brought some relief from the heat but the dehydration that seemed to be draining her body, like a vampire, only grew worse. Soon even her bones seemed to be crying out their torturing need for water.

As she had done earlier, she scooped sea water over herself and knew a momentary relief. With it came the temptation to let herself slide into the blue water and seek a final end to all her sufferings. But the instinct of self- preservation was stronger, that and the odd little flicker, like the night-light burning in a sick-room which keeps the shadow of death at bay, which still flared up in her and bade her live, if only for the sake of revenge.

The temperature dropped unexpectedly after dark and, after suffering from the heat all day, Marianne shivered all night long in her thin lawn, without a wink of sleep. Not until the sun had risen once more over the empty sea, did she manage to drop off and forget her parched and aching body. But the awakening was all the more painful. She was stiff and sore and desperately weak.

Even so, at the cost of an almost superhuman effort, she succeeded in sitting up, only to fall back motionless into the bottom of the boat, at the mercy of the sun which now increased her torment.

After that, the mirages began to occur. She seemed to see land on the burning horizon, and fantastic shapes of ships, and great sails racing towards her, bending over her, but when she stretched out her arms to seize them in her delirium, she touched only the empty air and the wooden sides of the boat, and was left weaker than before. The day passed with infinite slowness. In spite of the little she had managed to contrive in the way of shelter, the sun beat down on her with hammer strokes, and her tongue, which seemed to have swollen to three times its normal size, had grown too big for her mouth and was threatening to choke her.

The boat drifted gently: in what direction Marianne had no means of telling. For all she knew, or cared, it might have been moving in circles. She was lost, and she knew it. She could hope for no help, now, but death. Opening her burned eyes painfully, she dragged herself to the side, determined now to drop into the water, if she could find the strength, and make an end of this inhuman torture. But her body had become like a baulk of dead wood and she could not raise it.

Something red passed through her misted field of vision. Her hands touched water. She thrust harder. The rough wood scraped her chest but she did not feel it, insensible now to any pain but the vast fire that was consuming her whole being. Another little effort and her hair was trailing in the sea. The boat tipped gently and Marianne slipped over into the blue water which closed, mercifully cool, over her head.

Too weak and too indifferent to swim, asking nothing but to get it over as quickly as possible, she let herself sink. Her mind shook free of the real world and consciousness receded.

Yet the terrible need for water which had tormented her seemed to pursue her into death. She was haunted by water, it invaded her, she was dissolving in it. Sweet, life-giving water was flowing over her, as spring water wells up and covers dry stones. It was no longer the bitter, salt sea-water but a fresh draught, light as rainfall on