The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure (18 page)

“Now, if that wasn’t a forty footer,” said the first mate of
the
Engelenburg
in awe.

 The rain came, blinding and stinging in its ferocity. The
party on the wall hid behind the ramparts with its sandbag topping. The ships
on the bay were no longer visible. After half an hour somebody made a sensible
suggestion and the officers’ corps of the home-bound fleet went below under
cover. The commanders crammed into the commodore’s quarters while the junior
officers stood around in the hallways. There was nothing anybody could do but
nobody suggested going back to their lodgings. They ate together from a meal
prepared in the officers’ mess and kept up the vigil. From time to time a
junior officer climbed up to the wall and brought back news of developments. It
was not getting better.

“Actually, this is very unseasonal,” said commander Steffers
of the
Standvastigheid
.

“The company sailing instructions are clear that Table Bay
should be avoided from mid-May to mid-August,” said commodore Van Rijkhoff,
confirming that he was doing everything by the book. “This is only March so I
must agree with you.”

“At least the company cannot charge us with negligence for
anchoring in Table Bay,” said commander Kikker, who had his first command of a
ship, the
Zoetigheid
. Since the incident off Mauritius he had had enough
of sea disasters.

“No,” said the commodore, “but the directors will be very
upset. You don’t know how they will react.” In a locked drawer of his desk on
the
Engelenburg
there was a scathing report regarding the seamanship of
commander Kikker. He was going to take a lot of the blame for the lateness of
the convoy.

“I don’t understand this. How can we have tides like this in
early autumn?” asked commander De Klerk of the
Rotterdam
.

“This is just normal high tide. We have the spring tides
with us in the northern hemisphere of course,” said commander Schouten, the
veteran amongst them. “Which means the problem cannot be the tide. I think we
are dealing with an unseasonal storm of extraordinary proportions which has
been driving a mass of water before it over a vast stretch of ocean. Now it is
pushing all of that into the Bay.”

“My guess is that we still have hope,” said Muller of the
Herstelder
.
“May it be a case of ‘quickly come, quickly go’.” He lifted a glass of rum,
which they all needed after the exposure on the wall.

“What else can we do but hope that you are right,” said
Schouten, “but this is the Cape of Storms. The Portuguese were right to name it
like that. We all know the foul conditions of the Channel and the North Sea but
how often do you see waves like these in a lifetime of sailing up there?”

They had to wait until midnight for the sound they all
dreaded – a cannon being discharged at regular intervals. Those who were dozing
in chairs woke up in a flash and followed the rest out the door, up the
dangerously slippery steps and onto the sea wall of the castle. The rain drove
ice cold into their faces and down their necks. Over their hunched backs flew
entire strips of yellow spume that crashed in the courtyard, showing scant
respect for the laboriously stacked sandbags. Eager eyes pierced the darkness
but there was nothing to be seen. A few people held lanterns over the side. The
whole of Strand Street was awash. It was indeed as if they stood on the quarter
deck of a ship, surrounded by the sea. Only the familiar motion was missing.

While they were leaning over the side a wave actually
splashed into their faces. “Sixty feet!” shouted a voice. A minute later
another cannon started booming in the darkness, and then another. Some cowered
behind the ramparts. Others stood in the rain and let it all in as they listened
to ship after ship sending its distress signals. Van Rijkhoff was one of those
who could not be bothered. The directorship was gone. He knew that now. What
was left? It did not take long before he was soaked to the skin but he stood –
all of seven hours until the first grey of the new day broke. They counted and
recounted. Ten ships had sent distress signals. What happened to them? What
happened to the rest?

Behind them and long before daybreak there was the sound of
hammering. The soldiers were constructing gibbets, which they carried out into
the soggy darkness. It appeared that nobody had slept.

The first light of day brought the answers to many
questions. The major thrust of the storm was over. It rained only
intermittently and the wind was backing and not so strong anymore. The seas
receded. The first thing they could make out was a fish flopping in a wagon
wheel rut in the street below them, where its shiny sides reflected the very
first suggestions of day. As the light improved, commanders scanned the bay for
their ships. They had counted correctly. Only five ships were to be seen out
there. As for the rest, they were driven on the rocks to the right, where one
could make out several wrecks on the coastline.

Van Rijkhoff’s eyes were drawn to the beach itself.  On it, familiar
bales, barrels and casks lay strewn about, having been hauled out by the sea
from the broken hulls of ships. His mind started calculating the monumental
effort and costs involved in bringing these items to this point. He could get
no further because he found himself on his knees. His shaking hands grabbed for
the rough stone but they had no power in them anymore. Other hands picked him
up and carried him down to his bed. There he was diagnosed with a raging fever.
The next day he slipped into a coma. The surgeons from the ships and the Cape
could not quite agree as to whether it was pneumonia after spending the night
on the wall, a recurring attack of the bad airs of Batavia, the pox or perhaps
a combination of all three that took him away.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Three centuries later, late on an afternoon brightened up by
the sun that found a clear patch of blue in the west and with only a light north-easterly
breeze blowing, Grant leaned into the companionway of his sleek ocean cruiser.
“Change of the watch!” he called.

This time Madeleine heard him and she responded with a shout
that he did not understand but took to mean that she was coming. She was there
in five minutes, clearly having slept for some time, even though it was daytime.
She was adapting.

“Oh, whow!” she said when she saw the fish steaks in the
plastic bucket. “How many is this?”

“Only one. But it was a big fish.” On the camera’s viewer he
showed her the selfie that he took of himself and his catch.

“I’m glad I did not have to see it die,” said Madeleine.
“It’s such a beautiful fish.”

“Well, now you can see it as food only. I gutted it, cleaned
it and cut it into pieces. How you prepare it is for you do decide.”

“There’s way too much for one meal. I’m going to freeze most
of it.”

“Makes sense. You go ahead in the galley and I will get an
update on the weather. I would like to see how our storm is doing. Hopefully it
did not simply die in mid-ocean.”

“Talking about storms, look at that!”

“My, oh my,” said Grant. “Just like this morning!” The sun
had dipped into a loose scattering of clouds and the entire western horizon
lighted up in colour. “Now that’s what I call deep purple.” 

“And orange, as well as red,” said Madeleine. “I like the
way it reflects on the blue of the sea.”

“My eyes are probably playing a trick on me,” said Grant,
“but I swear the sun had turned green there for a moment.”

“I saw it too,” said Madeleine. “It’s quite rare but it’s
not a trick. I’ve seen it once before. It is something that you only see in the
area of the Gulf Stream.”

“Or in the Triangle.”

“If you like.”

They watched the last of the colours disappear and went
below. While Madeleine made it sizzle in the galley, Grant downloaded some
weather faxes and remembered to keep his scheduled call with the routers.  When
he turned his attention to the galley she already had four or five healthy
steaks in a bowl, all fried up and, Grant had to admit, looking very appetizing.
Some potato cubes were sizzling in the yacht’s fryer

“Did you get some of that?” he asked.

“I have. You were too excited for me to miss it, but I did
not get it all. I guess our storm is coming?”

“And how!” said Grant. “We are heading straight for the big one.
You talk about me getting all excited. You should have heard both Hank and Charlie,
the guys I normally talk to on the weather nets.  Both of them were practically
screaming in my ear.”

“What were they saying?”

“Well, as you’ve probably heard, the tropical storm has been
upgraded to a full-blown hurricane.”

“How far are we from it?”

“About a thousand kilometres.”

“So what is so dramatic about it? It might not even affect
us. We’ve had this smokiness up in the sky all day long but nothing came of it
so far.”

“Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. It’s better not to take
chances. If it expands sufficiently they say we might get the right quadrant.”

“Which is the stormy one.”

“Oh, you know about this?”

“Of course I do. A hurricane spins in an anti-clockwise
direction. The wind in the right-hand quadrant is made up of its internal wind
speed plus the forward speed of the whole system over the water. Everybody on
the islands knows these things because we talk a lot of weather. Especially in
the hurricane season. I just cannot believe it is a real hurricane. Are you
sure you’ve heard correctly?”

“I’m positive. They also said it is unseasonal.”

“July – stand by

August – go you must

September – remember

October – all over”
sang Madeleine.

“Now what is that?”

“It’s an old rhyming chant from the days when my forefathers
sailed their big ships on these seas. Did you get it? October – all over. This
is November.”

“I do. How old is this rhyme?”

“I guess about three or four hundred years. It tells you
when you have to take your ship away from the islands and when you can come
back. September is the danger time when you should rather be far away doing
stuff with your ship in England or some other place. Towards the end of
September you can come back because from October onwards we do not get
hurricanes here, except on the absolute rarest of occasions. Over in the west
yes, in the Gulf of Mexico yes, but not here. It’s been like that for
centuries. Why is this now suddenly changing? Or have you perhaps brought the
bad weather with you?”

“Me! How can I cause bad weather?” Grant was suddenly angry
for no reason.

“I’m only joking. What do you get so upset about?”

“I’m not upset. It’s just that these weather guys said that
it’s time to get out of the way.”

“All right, are we going to do something immediately then?”

“I’m not panicking, even though, as I’ve just heard, we are
sailing with our bow pointing at a real, live hurricane. I kind of agree with
you about these cirrus clouds just sitting there but not bringing anything. Why
don’t we see more action in the sky? My feeling is that we are far away and
safe. We still have time. What I think we do have is a justification to use the
engine. We will turn north and motor, even if it is just to get those guys off
my back. But first,” said Grant, eyeing the Mahi-Mahi steaks, “let’s eat.”
Grant was definitely feeling a little jittery but he was determined not to show
any worry, not when Madeleine seemed to take all the hurricane talk so lightly.

“How fast can we go with the engine,” asked Madeleine as
they tucked in.

“Maximum ten knots, but it uses a lot of fuel that way.
We’ll never make it to Bermuda with what we have on board. To conserve fuel and
give us range, I think we will stick to six knots. It should be enough to outrun
the Mahi-Mahi. You’ll be glad for that, I suppose.”

“This one tastes all right,” said Madeleine. They were both
eating with their fingers and were squeezing juice from lemons as they went
along. They did not bother getting into the cockpit. Grant kept a watch on the
radar screen at the navigation station because the temperature outside had suddenly
dropped to the lowest so far on their trip. Madeleine gestured with a
half-pressed lemon toward Grant.

“You know why they call the Brits limeys, don’t you?”

“I have a feeling you are going to tell me.”

“It’s because British ships always had a large quantity of
lemons on board, once they figured out that it prevents scurvy.”

“A lemon a day kept the doctor away. Interesting.”

“And what do they call the Germans?”

“Now you got me.”

“Krauts, and for the same reason. They kept sauerkraut on
their ships, also for the scurvy.”

“They should give you a job at the United Nations.”

“Haha, thanks. I just thought you might find it interesting.
You don’t look like the type who reads anything other than trading updates and
quarterly reviews. I figured that trivia like that would be totally new to
you.”

“Oh it is,” said Grant, “and I do find it interesting.”

Even with Grant’s voracious appetite they were left with a
piece each that went into the fridge for breakfast the next morning. He stacked
all their dirty dishes into the dishwasher, with Madeleine ferrying plates and
standing by while he continued to clean the fryer by hand. It was greasy work
and he used up a lot of dishwashing liquid.

“All right,” he said, when all was done. “Let’s get to the
real work.”

They furled until the yacht stood on the choppy sea with
bare poles. Grant pushed the start button of the engine and brought the bow
around until the compass read due north if you allowed for the small deviation.
They waited until the boat reached a speed of just over six knots. Then he set
the throttle and the automatic pilot and nodded formally to Madeleine who stood
by expectantly, in full anticipation to do her duty.

“The bridge is yours,” said Grant formally, and left.

Madeleine stuck her headphones on and even though she was
not required watch the sails, out of habit placed herself on the windward side.

It was a dark night. The moon peeked only occasionally from
between heavy, drifting clouds and when it did so it had a distinct halo, a bit
like the sun had during the day, only stronger. To the south-east, where the
danger was, there was an even thicker haziness, the same that they had seen
during the day. It obscured all but the brightest stars. She scrutinised the
horizon on that side a lot but there seemed to be no change and she reckoned
that it was now confirmed that they had given this one a miss. To the north she
could not make out the familiar Pole Star either. A bank of cloud, about a hand
above the horizon, obscured it. A cold wind blew from that direction, or to be
exact, from north-northeast, a bearing that she confirmed from the compass. She
shivered and went below to get a windbreaker, the first time she had to wear
one on the trip.  As she passed Grant’s cabin she could hear him snore.

***

Since the sorcerers had left, things changed around the
mountain. Each century brought on new encroachments on its flanks, a sign of
the industry of new farmers that succeeded earlier generations. The mountain’s
resident spirit was also restive, moving on the night airs toward the people in
the valleys, seeking, always seeking, testing the spirits. Where was it going
to find a mind susceptible to its proddings?

Over the years it succeeded in having exciting liaisons with
inhabitants of the valleys. They came and they went, often leaving decaying
ruins behind where once houses had stood. Such a collection of ruins was a
place where an entire complement of slaves had lived. The spirit enjoyed himself
there and it was a pity when the time had come for these people to go the way
of all temporary things.

It was with interest then that it observed the old quarters
being rebuilt, no longer for slaves, since slavery had long been abolished, but
as accommodation for souls who felt the need for solace in the farm-scapes,
away from the bustle of the university town of Stellenbosch and even further
away from the commercial hub of Cape Town.

Usually these were people of some artistic bent, a potter here
and a painter there. There were little communities of them, dotted all around
the farms. Curiously, the valley seemed to have a peculiar attraction for
people with French surnames. They wore their berets jauntily while they
recreated La Provence amongst the vine leaves, catching the mountains and the
vineyards in delicate pencil strokes in remembrance of their forefathers who
broke the virgin soil of the area with heavier implements in calloused hands. Others
were simply teachers, a lawyer or two, students and university lecturers.

In these quarters, so gladly visited by the spirit of the
mountain centuries ago, lived a university lecturer of around thirty. He combined
painting and teaching. He was well aware that the little grouping of restored
cottages of which he occupied one, was an old slave compound and he was proud
of it. He even had his picture taken at the arch that housed the ancient slave
bell. The second of the three cottages housed a student in the divinities with
his wife and child and the last one two middle-aged spinsters who practiced
pottery, which they burnt in their specially built kiln.

It was a happy little community where free spirits and
conservatism co-existed in good-natured dialogue, often having meals together,
mostly sponsored by the spinsters. Nothing could have prepared them for the
shock that was to come and nobody could explain it, although the would-be
minister later referred darkly to tormenting spirits sent to afflict certain
people.

It was the lecturer who seemingly lost it all. It was
October and hot, with new life pushing so hard in the vines that you could
almost hear it. He was plagued with passions, sexual fantasies of the most
fantastic sort. It drove him to distraction, to the point where he had trouble
doing his work at the university. He was so intensely aware of the sexuality of
his young female students that seemed to burst forth at him from under light
fabrics that he could hardly concentrate. He needed a woman but he had none.

At night he walked half-crazed through his darkened cottage,
all in the nude. Then one night, sometime after twelve, it happened. The two
spinsters woke up. Rocks were landing on their tin roof. Being very practical
in these matters, they decided against opening the door but moved a curtain
just a bit. Something was moving amongst the shrubs, barely fifteen metres
away. They pointed an extra powerful flashlight at it, something that they kept
for emergencies such as these. The beam caught him clearly, the lecturer.
Stringy and white, not only was he wanting of a single shred of textile, but
his body indisputably appeared to be caught in the most intense grip of lust.

They were delighted and only later on, after reflection, shocked
by the sight. The lecturer disappeared in a flash of course, dropping the rock,
leaving the spinsters with empty space to look at. Frantically they sent their
beam all around for another sighting but it was not to be.

The lecturer apologised profusely the next day. He simply
did not know what came over him, he said. After the incident he kept to himself.
At the end of the term the neighbours saw workers in overalls load his things
into a closed truck. He moved far, far away, to a small university in a
forgotten corner of the Eastern Cape.

The spirit kept on searching, asking, whispering in
inaudible ways. Then it found another one who seemed responsive. This time it
was a female, the young wife of a farmer.