The Pilgrims of Rayne

by D. J. MacHale

  “Dimond. Mark Dimond.”

  Courtney knew it was a total stab in the dark, but figured it might lead to some information.

  “Mark Dimond?” the woman exclaimed. “Sure enough, you just missed him, dear. He picked up his books not five minutes ago.”

  Courtney felt as if she’d been hit with a hammer.

  “He—He did?” she stuttered. “You’re sure his name was Mark Dimond?”

  “Sure as can be,” she said sweetly, looking through a stack of cards. “I spelled his name incorrectly, and he was quick to point out there was no ‘a’ in Dimond. Sweet young lad.”

  Courtney was still reeling. “Dark hair? Bad skin? Glasses?”

  “Yes, dear, that’s him. Is there a problem?”

  “No,” Courtney blurted out. “No problem. What’s his cabin number?”

  The woman held the cards close to her chest. Courtney sensed a sudden air of suspicion. “Forgive me,” she said curtly. “I’m not at liberty to give out that information. What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t,” Courtney said as she backed toward the door. “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Indeed he did. He planned on watching the sunset on the stern with his friend. It’s a wonderful sight.”

  “Thank you,” Courtney said. “Thank you very much.” She turned for the door, stopped short, and looked back to the librarian. “His friend?”

  “Yes. Quite the pretty girl, I must say. That Mr. Dimond must be a catch if he’s got two such lovely ladies chasing after him.”

  Courtney blasted out of the library and hurried for the Promenade Deck. She nearly knocked over a steward as she launched out of Regent Street and sprinted along the wooden deck toward the stern of the ship. She didn’t care who gave her a second look. Mark was on the ship. She’d just missed him. Her heart raced, and it wasn’t because she was running.

  The deck wasn’t crowded anymore. Courtney figured everyone was getting settled in and ready for their fancy dinners. That was good. Less people to dodge. She made it to the end of the enclosed portion of the Promenade Deck and ran outside to face a big, orange November sun that was setting over the coast of the United States. The passengers outside were silhouetted against the orange ball, so it was difficult to make out details. She ran to the aft railing of the Promenade Deck and looked to the decks below.

  Many people were outside to enjoy the sunset. All eyes were to the west. Nobody was looking back at her. Her frustration grew. It was impossible to make anybody out. She was about to start sprinting along each deck to get a closer look at the people when her eye caught something two decks below. There was a couple standing close to each other. They wore long, dark gray woolen coats to keep the sea chill away. The man wore one of those fedora hats. The woman was a few inches taller than he was. Her hair was dark brown, cut just above her shoulders. It was parted on the side and perfectly combed under a small, gray hat. Though there was a sea breeze, not one hair looked out of place. Her back was to the sun as she spoke to the man, which meant she faced Courtney. Even from where she was, Courtney could tell the woman was pretty. But none of those details mattered as much as the fact that the man clutched two leather books under his arm. The guy might have just come from the library.

  He turned to face the woman, and Courtney saw his profile. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. A slight curl of black hair could be seen creeping from under his hat.

  Courtney stopped breathing.

  “Ma—,” she began to yell, but was rudely yanked away from the railing and shoved against an outside wall. She hit the steel hard.

  “Ahoy, Chetwynde,” came a familiar voice.

  Courtney focused on the man who had attacked her. He wore a long dark coat and peered at her from underneath the brim of a gray hat.

  “Nothing like a little sea air to get the blood moving, is there?” the guy said, after which he snorted and spit out a loogie onto the deck.

  “Mitchell,” Courtney gasped.

  “Welcome aboard,” Andy Mitchell said with a sneer.

  Saint Dane was back in play.

  FIRST EARTH

  “How come you didn't die in that cab?” Mitchell asked obnoxiously.

  “Don’t give me that,” Courtney spat back. “If you wanted to kill me, I’d be dead. You knew we’d get out of there.”

  Mitchell snickered. “Still sure of yourself, Chetwynde. Right to the end.”

  He wore the same kind of suit and long coat as many of the passengers, making him look a lot older than seventeen years. His normally long, greasy blond hair was cut short, adding even more years to his look. Of course, Courtney knew he wasn’t really seventeen anyway.

  Courtney kept her back to the wall, like a trapped animal. She couldn’t yell for help. Saint Dane hadn’t done anything wrong. The only thing yelling would do was bring the crew down on her.

  “I don’t know what you did to get Mark to come to First Earth,” Courtney said. “But I’m going to stop him from springing Forge on this territory. I got here in time for that.”

  Mitchell laughed a laugh that turned into a smoker’s hack. Courtney cringed.

  “In time?” he croaked. “You think you’re racing some deadline to stop this territory from learning about Forge? Time is the last thing on your side! Where do you think I got that plastic stuff from? Third Earth. That’s over three thousand years from now.”

  “I knew you didn’t invent that,” Courtney snarled. “The heart of Forge is Mark’s computer skeleton, not the plastic skin. All you did was mix technology from different territories. Again.”

  “Exactly!” Mitchell said. “Tripping through time is a wonderful thing. By Earth years, Lifelight won’t be invented for another five centuries after Third Earth. The dados on Quillan were built a century after that and brought to the ruins of Rubic City two hundred years later. Do you really think time is a problem for me? I have all the time in Halla!”

  Courtney’s mind reeled at the possibilities. The impossibilities.

  “C’mon, Chetwynde!” Mitchell scoffed. “Do you really think you’ve made it here in the nick of time? Why’s that so important? You trying to stop the Flighters from destroying Ibara? Is that it? You trying to help Pendragon? That’s a joke. That battle ain’t gonna happen for thousands of years!”

  “No,” Courtney said, stalking forward. She was angry enough to think she could bully him the way she used to. Before she knew he was Saint Dane. “It’s about Mark, and his invention. It’s not about time. It’s about tricking the people of the territories into hurting themselves. That’s what’s important to you. You somehow got Mark to do the wrong thing. I’m going to change that.” She got right into Mitchell’s face and added with venom, “And you can’t stop me.”

  Andy Mitchell’s eyes flashed blue, jolting Courtney back to reality. This wasn’t Andy Mitchell, world-class loser. This was Saint Dane, Halla-class demon. She took a few involuntary steps backward and hit the wall.

  “Don’t forget who you’re dealing with,” Mitchell snarled. “Andy Mitchell ain’t real.”

  “No, but Mark is,” Courtney said, fighting to regain her composure. “And I’m going to save him.”

  She ran to the railing.

  “Mark!” she called out.

  But Mark was gone. She looked around quickly, hoping to see the couple strolling away. She was too late. The sun dipped below the horizon. The ship’s lights were taking over the job of lighting the decks.

  “I’m going to find him,” she said as she spun back. “And I’m going to—”

  Mitchell was no longer alone. Standing next to him were two ship’s officers, both looking very military with their dark blue uniforms.

  “I ain’t no snitch,” Mitchell said to the officers politely. “But she’s been running around here bothering a lot of people. I think she might be a stowaway.”

  There was a frozen moment. The two officers looked at Courtney with grim expressions. Andy Mitchell stood between the two wearing a s
mug grin. He lifted up his hand and gave her a small, obnoxious wave that only she could see.

  “Come with us, miss,” said one of the officers as they both took a step toward her. “No trouble now, if you please.”

  Courtney made a snap decision. She ran. She didn’t know where she was going, but she ran. She had to find Mark. She had to find Dodger. Most of all she had to keep from getting taken into custody by the ship’s crew, because if that happened, she’d be done. Mark would be done. Halla would be done. She ran down a flight of stairs to the deck below and sprinted back into the structure of the ship. If there was one thing Courtney could do, it was run. She knew that in a flat-out race, she’d beat anybody. It was time for her to kick on the afterburners. She sprinted along the deck, weaving past passengers who strolled casually along. She knew she had an advantage. She might not know the ship, but her pursuers didn’t know which way she would go. It was like soccer, she thought. Defense was much tougher than offense because the person with the ball was in charge. Courtney was in charge.

  She ran until she hit an inside stairway and took it back up to the Promenade Deck. Her plan was to take as winding a route as possible to try and lose them. She climbed the stairs and took off back toward the stern. Bad move. One of the officers had stayed on that deck and was coming toward her. Oops. He hadn’t spotted her yet, so Courtney ducked into the first door she saw.

  She found herself in an immense, elegant dining room. The ceiling soared impossibly high overhead, where several rectangular lights cast a warm glow over the room. Polished wooden pillars stood along either side of the space, making the room look as much like an ancient temple as a modern ballroom. On one end of the room was a stage, where a swing orchestra played soft (boring) music. Hundreds of tables were set with fine, white linen and elegant china. People were beginning to arrive for dinner. The men wore tuxedos, the women lavish gowns. Courtney was stunned to think that such an elaborate room could be aboard a floating ship. But there wasn’t time to hang out and admire the place. She ran down the center of the room, headed toward the orchestra. To the left of the stage was a swinging door, where she saw waiters entering and exiting. Her plan was to head that way and escape through the kitchen.

  The plan changed when one of the ship’s officers entered through that door. Courtney made a flash decision. Without breaking stride, she hurdled up onto the stage, past the orchestra leader, and dodged her way through the surprised musicians. None of them missed a note. Courtney found her way backstage and through a narrow corridor. Where to now? At this point she was operating more out of instinct than with any plan. She wanted to lose her pursuers long enough to stop and think about her next move.

  The corridor led her through the back side of the busy kitchen, where dozens of chefs prepared the elaborate feast. They paid Courtney no attention as she slid past them and out the far side. She found herself in a service stairwell. It was fifty-fifty. Up or down? She chose down. Lower and lower into the bowels of the ship she went, figuring she’d lose them in the labyrinth of corridors and cabins. She stopped on D Deck, choosing that one to continue her flight.

  She knew where she had to go. Dodger would be waiting for her at the bow of the ship. She needed to get there and tell him what had happened. She was a fugitive. It was only a matter of time before her luck ran out. The responsibility of getting to Mark was now on his shoulders. Hopefully, she thought, the crew didn’t know there were two stowaways. It was a slight hope, but it was hope.

  She continued running forward. She passed through a foyer, hoping to find a corridor where she could open up and sprint. Opening the door on the far side, she got hit with a blast of hot, steamy air. She thought for sure she had found an engine room. Instead she was on a long balcony that looked down on a swimming pool. The sight threw her, since she knew she was so deep in the bowels of the ship. It looked to Courtney like something out of a European estate with its wall carvings and fine tile work. Nobody was swimming, which made it all feel kind of eerie. She wondered why people would take an ocean cruise, only to go swimming in the deep recesses of a ship. There was nothing about 1937 that Courtney understood, or liked very much.

  She sprinted along the balcony and left the pool on the far side to find herself in another restaurant. It was nothing like the elegant ballroom off the Promenade Deck. This one had a low ceiling and was crowded with tables and people. It was already filled up for the evening meal. Nobody wore tuxedos or gowns. She figured it was probably for the third-class passengers. She wondered if these people ever got the chance to look at what they were missing up above. Probably not. There’d be a mutiny. She moved quickly through, trying not to attract attention. She left the restaurant on the far end and discovered another stairwell. She figured she had to be nearing the bow so she climbed. And climbed. And climbed up from the depths of the grand ship.

  When she finally felt the chill of evening air, she found herself in what looked like a fancy nightclub. There was a curved bar, where people sat drinking and chatting. It was a festive atmosphere. Many people were listening to a woman singer who stood near a white, grand piano, singing a song Courtney vaguely remembered hearing in an old movie. She realized she had left the lower-class sections of the ship, because everyone was back in tuxedos or gowns. She was scanning the room, looking for her next move, when she realized that one whole wall of the bar was a curved window that looked out over the enormous bow of the ship. She had made it! Almost. She ducked out the door into the chilly night air and followed around a walkway that crossed in front of the curved window.

  The forward decks of the ship spread out before her in layers, coming to a point at the bow. The sea was black, but the decks were brightly lit by flood lamps. High above, built into a heavy mast, was the crow’s nest, where she knew sailors would be looking out over the ocean for trouble. She hoped they wouldn’t also look down for trouble, because she had plenty already. Unlike the stern decks, the forward decks weren’t protected from the elements by the ship’s superstructure. It was chilly. The wind came off the ocean with no obstruction and whistled through the rails. That was good. It meant there wouldn’t be many people out, and she’d have a better chance of finding Dodger quickly. She held her hand up to block the floodlight from blinding her. The bow itself looked to be another hundred yards forward from where she stood. She squinted, and saw a figure standing alone, very close to the bow itself. She knew it had to be Dodger.

  Courtney wanted to shout for him, but he was too far away and the sea wind was too loud. She would have to go to him. The design of the ship didn’t make that easy. She had to climb down stairs to go from the Promenade Deck to the Main Deck, climb down another flight to A Deck, sprint across thirty yards of that deck, and then climb up another set of stairs to get back to the Main Deck level. From there it was another twenty yards to the bow, and Dodger.

  She ran, hoping that none of the crew members chasing her would wander into the nightclub and look out the big window to see a tired stowaway scrambling across the decks. It wasn’t until she climbed up the final stairs to get back to the Main Deck that Dodger spotted her.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “I’m freezing my butt off out here! Where you been?”

  “Don’t talk. Listen.” She grabbed Dodger’s arm and pulled him back the way she had come.

  “He’s here, Courtney,” Dodger said. “I found out he’s on board.”

  “I said don’t talk. I saw Mark. Saint Dane, too.”

  “What?” shouted Dodger, stunned.

  They kept moving down the stairs to A Deck.

  “I tracked Mark through the library. He’s on board with a woman.”

  “Yeah,” Dodger agreed. “KEM Limited bought tickets for three people. I got that much, but I couldn’t get their cabins.”

  “Listen to me!” Courtney barked. “They know I’m a stowaway. I’ve been running from the crew for half an hour.”

  “Oh,” Dodger said flatly. “Not good.”

  “I don’t know
if they know about you. Saint Dane might not even know you’re here. But they’re going to get me sooner or later, so it’s up to you. You’ve got to find Mark. Do you still have his picture?”

  Dodger jammed his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the old photo of Mark and his parents.

  “He doesn’t look much like that anymore,” Courtney said. “His hair is cut short. He’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a suit that makes him look like he’s grown up. But he isn’t. He’s just…Mark.”

  They made it across A Deck and climbed back up to the Main Deck.

  “Saint Dane is in the form of Andy Mitchell,” Courtney continued, breathless. “Remember the cab driver who nearly drowned us?”

  “Like I could forget?”

  “That’s him. I don’t know who the woman is. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “I’m thinking she’s some kind of actress,” Dodger declared. “You know, a Hollywood-type dame.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause she’s using a made-up name.”

  “You found her name?”

  “I told you, I got three names from the passenger list. Mark Dimond, Andy Mitchell, and a lady. At least, I think it was a lady. I never heard of a name like that.”

  “What is it?”

  Dodger reached for the door that would lead them back into the enclosed section of the Main Deck. “It’s Nevva Winter,” he said. “Who ever heard of a crazy name like that?”

  Courtney froze.

  The door opened before Dodger could grab it. He was pushed behind the open door as two ship’s officers stepped out. If Courtney’s brain hadn’t locked at the sound of that name, she probably would have turned and run. She didn’t get the chance. The two officers jumped her and firmly grabbed her arms.

  “That’s enough gallivanting around for one night, missy,” one officer said.

  They led her back inside. The door closed behind them. They never saw Dodger.

  A few hours later, after being interrogated by the ship’s security officer (to whom she said nothing), and officially identified as a stowaway, Courtney found herself alone in a hospital-like room toward the stern of the ship. It was called the “isolation ward.” It was where they put people with contagious diseases, to keep them away from the rest of the passengers. There was nothing Courtney liked about that. The room had four white bunk beds with clean sheets, and a sink. It was comfortable enough, and thankfully, there were no other occupants. The metal door closed with a loud clang and was locked securely from the outside. A single round window in the door allowed outsiders to check on the occupants of the ward without having to actually breathe the same air. It may have looked like a hospital, but Courtney knew what it really was. A jail cell. She was sentenced to spend the rest of her voyage locked up.