Excerpt of Rituals of the Dead by Jennifer S. Alderson

August 17, 1962

“Dip, scoop, pour. Dip, scoop, pour. Dip, scoop, pour.” Nick Mayfield’s dried lips cracked open as he repeated his mantra. Just a few more inches, then she’ll float as the survival guide had explained. He leaned against the t-shirt and bits of plank filling the gashes in the sides of the canoe, willing the stream of seawater to stop pouring in faster than he could scoop it out.

The sun was slowly descending, growing in size as it neared the horizon. Bands of pink and orange streaked across the sky, intensifying in color by the second. The new moon was barely a sliver. In an hour’s time, he would be plunged into darkness.

Nick squinted to orient himself, thankful he could see an emerald belt of jungle rising in the distance. He must be in Flamingo Bay, he reckoned, and not too far from land. Still, the expanse of blue-green water between him and the shore was vast. A strong wind tried to push him seabound. Only the weight of the water and a few crates of barter goods still filling its hull kept the canoe in sight of land. Nick sighed. He was in for a long paddle back once his boat was seaworthy again. 

Nick stopped scooping to reposition the jeans tied to his head, arranging the legs so that they covered most of his sunburned back. His thoughts turned to the eight rowers who had jumped overboard hours ago. Had they already made it to shore? Nick wondered for the hundredth time if he should have abandoned ship and swum back with them. Though his faith in his survival guide was unwavering, the water was rushing in extremely fast. The holes were too large to plug completely.

Nick gazed again toward the shoreline. He was a strong swimmer. He knew he could still make it to land if he had to, but he wouldn’t leave his boat unless there were no other options. His guide made it clear you should never abandon ship until all attempts to save it have failed. It was the captain’s code. Okay, the real captain had jumped overboard hours ago, but still. It was Nick’s collection trip that went amiss.

Nick shook his head in disdain, certain the locals had given up too quickly. They all sprang into the water as soon as they had discovered the first leak. If only they hadn’t moved that bag of beads, then the water wouldn’t have filled the hull so quickly. Nick bashed his coffee tin onto the bottom of the canoe as he scooped, his irritation manifesting itself as Albert Schenk entered his mind. That Dutchman should be here helping me, Nick thought. His fever couldn’t have come at a worse moment.

A few feet away, a gurgling noise made him jump. The second canoe finally took on more water than it could handle. As soon as the holes in both were found, he’d cut it loose along with the makeshift platform connecting them together like a catamaran. Nick’s face paled as he watched its stern slowly rise until the canoe was perpendicular to the water’s surface. The platform hung off it like a starched flag. Nick watched in fascination as it stood stock-still, seemingly frozen in space and time, before suddenly disappearing into the sea. Several large air bubbles broke on the surface, the only sign the boat ever existed.

Nick gazed down into the dark water and redoubled his efforts.

Inexplicably, a can of tobacco soon rose from where the canoe had gone under, and it bobbed next to him. Its airtight container would make a useful floatation device, Nick thought, resolving to keep it in sight. Almost all of his supplies had gone under as soon as he cut the second canoe loose. The rest he had thrown into the sea in hopes of making his boat light enough that the two holes in the stern would rise above the water’s surface. Not that he had to worry about wasting supplies. He had plenty more stored in Agats. Losing these trading goods was a minor delay, not a setback.

Nick laughed, splitting his lip further. Blood dripped down his chin as his thin bray drifted across the waves. Just as capsizing and sinking was a minor irritation, he thought, giggling again despite the pain.

Cracks of lightning tore across the broad sky. Thunder rumbled seconds later. The storm was closing in fast, Nick realized. He hadn’t taken into consideration the storms that frequently whipped across the jungle. If the rain started soon, he would never be able to get the boat floating enough to paddle back. Especially with only one oar to help—the rest had floated away in the ensuing panic when his rowers discovered the gashes in both boats’ sterns.

As a second streak lit up the sky, Nick cleared his mind and focused on nothing but his coffee can. Dip, scoop, pour. Dip, scoop, pour. He had to survive—he was a Mayfield. It was his destiny to do great things, not die in the open ocean. Dip, scoop, pour. Dip, scoop, pour. And as every Mayfield knew, he had his destiny in his own hands.