TIDES OF ETERNITY Chapter 5

                                    

                                              
         
                          
Chapter Five
                          
Tess glanced at her own hand that held the man's wounded one and subconsciously counted her fingers. And counted the rings.
                          
Five. Her thoughts strayed again.
                          
The emerald ring – the one that Maria wanted her to use – had fit perfectly on her finger, settling quite naturally beside the smaller band of blue tourmalines that she wore on her fifth finger. That one, the blue bejeweled one and the tiniest of all, had set everything in motion for Tess.  She rarely allowed herself to revisit that fateful day back in London. The blue tourmaline ring had been a gift from the mysterious Crone.
                          
The infamous old fortuneteller had lived and died in a wretched hovel on the edge of a London marketplace.
                          
Had lived, using her spinner ring and its supposed power of Prophesy to quell the worried inquiries from the rich and to address the demands for knowledge of the future from the politically powerful.
                          
And had died, Tess recalled with a spontaneous shudder. The Crone had died defending her ring from those same rich and powerful men whose belief in its prophetic powers had been strong enough to incite them to murderous actions. The memory for Tess of being hidden away in a back room, becoming a secret witness to the attack, never failed to bring on a cold sweat, even here in the heat of the tropics.
                          
A prophecy would certainly come true, the dying woman had insisted. Five rings would seek out one another, because in another time, centuries ago, they had been forged to pursue a common goal.
                          
This pronouncement would have sounded like absolute nonsense to Tess's father and his scientific circle of friends, and it had certainly sounded to Tess, like the confused babble of a dying old woman at the time. However, even now, the recollection of the Crone's certainty – insistence, even – of such a thing, was still enough to raise the hairs on the back of Tess's neck. 
                          
Creepy. 
                          
Creepy and compelling, because to make matters worse, with her last breaths, the old seer had insisted that Tess take the blue spinner ring and harness its gift.
                          
 'Gift' however, was not how Tess saw it. There were visions, all right – some of them confusing, life-like hallucinations – but most of them frightening, warning of impending hazards and mortal dangers. While even her grandmother saw such warnings as a gift, Tess was the one for whom the images had arrived abruptly, distorting reality by day, and disturbing her sleep by night, often throwing her into a state of near panic. Yes, in the past, the ring had certainly provided her with prophetic visions and dreams.
                          
But now, roughly two and a half years later, when Tess had tentatively spun her blue tourmaline ring, brooding about the fates of those who had chosen to leave the island, alarmingly, spinning the silver band around the ring's wide gold track had not produced any apparitions or foretelling hints for months. 
                          
 "You use your ring now?" Maria's voice cut through her thoughts. Tess met Maria's determined stare. Maria's belief in magic was unwavering. And it was infectious.
                          
Afraid to do so, but more afraid to not do so, Tess took a deep breath and spun the emerald band. Why do I even wear these rings? It was a question she'd asked herself dozens of times. She rarely removed them. There was an invisible pull that made separating them difficult and painful. 
                          
"Prolly made of lodestone," Brigs had once guessed, explaining that lodestone had the mysterious quality of attaching itself to other metals.
                          
And so she wore them, telling herself that the rings being jewel-encrusted as they were, were obviously valuable and therefore what better place was there to keep them near and safe from loss or theft than on her fingers?  And maybe, she admitted, the answer was simply because she felt a strange inexplicable compulsion to do so.
                          
Sometimes though, when she let her imagination run, the set of rings felt like they were providing some sort of invisible cloak of security for her. Like a secret weapon she had to learn to use. Or more likely, she justified to herself, it was just a feeling that was produced by a tired mind. Life in the islands was more demanding, more dangerous most times than anything she could have ever imagined for herself in her privileged life back in London.
                          
Maybe the others made the right decision, getting off this island. Especially Jacko. Maybe in leaving, he spared himself and his grandson the harm that this sugar mill inflicts on those of us who still stay.
                          
Jacko, a former slave, had left the island with his infant grandson – his only remaining lineage – in an attempt to return to his African homeland. Initially Tess had worried about him traveling with a small child, but now, just thinking about his courage and determination to do so, an idea was sprouting for her own family's future.
                          
The familiar details of her spinner rings were rolling through her mind when, as if they sensed being the topic of her thoughts, a faint but familiar itch stirred under the bands of the rings. At that same moment, Dom shrieked and tore his wounded hand out of her grip. The dish of raw rum splashed to the ground. Tess rubbed furiously at her own fingers.
                          
The itch was flaring. There could be no more waiting.
                          
It was time to make things happen.
                          
William's argument was that staying on the island, where there was at least a minimal level of food and shelter, would be a safer choice for Tess and their daughter as well as the rest of the plantation's inhabitants. Safer, anyway, than venturing out onto the ocean as passengers on board a willing merchant ship.
                          
Tess shook her head.
                          
That argument was deeply flawed.
                          
She was going to find William right after this. And this time, there would be no asking. No more debating. Not this time.
                          
The burn under these rings is very near to being unbearable.
                          
The rings had set up a forceful itch on a handful of previous occasions, but never like this. Never so intensely.
                          
What in the hell is happening?
                          
Tess groaned.
                          
This itch is way past being prickly. Damn it, it's burning now.
                          
The old seer had called her a Quintspinner. Had claimed that the birthmark on Tess's neck marked her as one.
                          
It's just a stupid legend!
                          
And the old seer had died defending a spinner ring.
                          
I can't be a part of this. Not now.
                          
A low humming thrummed in her ears.
                          
No! No! No!
                          
Tess quickly wrapped Dom's wounded hand, twisting a clean strand of cloth around its end with expert precision.
                          
One thing at a time.
                          
It was going to be bloody hard to ignore the insistent itching sensation in her own hand, but she would have to do just that for now.
                          
I'll sort out the meaning of this damned itch after I've spoken with William. Getting a plan to get off this island is more important. The so-called safety here at this place is a myth. Surely he'll have to admit now that our life here has as many dangers as a trip on the sea.
                          
Just thinking about the pending argument fuelled her irritability.
                          
Damn it! We'll survive another ocean voyage. It won't be a long one.  Just to the nearest port city. And hopefully that will be Port Royal.
                          
In spite of her resolve, with this last thought, a tiny sensation flickered to life in her chest. It was recognizable but alarming.
                          
A tiny, perilous ember – the spark of dread.