But he gave her a crooked half-smile. “You like me.”
Julia pursed her lips, but inside, the flame blazed. “Like you!” she repeated, incredulous. “You’re a pirate. A scallywag.”
“So what?” Merrick said. “You’re a librarian. A common book pusher.” He handed her the bar of black chocolate. “You don’t hear me complaining.”
Outside, the squabble got louder. Constables had swarmed the warehouse and were taking canal boats to the bay, where Merrick’s ship prepared for departure. Someone fired a cannon.
“I’m afraid that’s my cue.” Merrick swept the pile of sweets into the pocket of his overcoat and nodded at her. “We’ll see each other again.”
Julia folded her arms, gripping the chocolate bar tightly. “What makes you think I have any interest in —?”
“Because,” Merrick said, leaning so close that she thought for an insane second that he might actually kiss her — and that she might actually let him. “Because I saw you. I saw you reading, and I saw you ignore everything else around you. A sailor stumbled out of the pub and tossed his cookies three feet away from you, did you know? A rogue dog sniffed at your skirts. A fishmonger and a housewife nearly got into a fistfight over the price of shrimp, right within your earshot. And you ignored everything.” Julia was certain he could see her pulse in her neck, hammering away. “You ignored everything in the whole damned world … until you saw me.”
She swallowed.
Merrick opened the door but turned back. “We’ll be coming through here again in two weeks,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be out of chocolate by then. Perhaps I could bring you some? I’ll be stopping in Canquillas for a night: they have this fig-infused black drinking chocolate —”
Another cannon fired, followed by the crunch of wood.
Merrick saluted her with a devastating smirk. “Good-bye, Miss Julia.” And with a jingle of the bells on the door, he dashed away.
Julia stood there, chocolate brick in hand, listening to the gunshots and the cannons, listening to the constables’ frustrated shouts when Merrick’s ship got away, listening to the silence — the silence that made her smile, because it meant he’d gotten away.
“Good-bye, scallywag,” she said quietly, and nibbled the corner of the chocolate, swooning.
The Jolly Dodger had arrived in the harbor; its captain was pacing the docks, searching for the librarian. Julia apologized for her tardiness and escorted him to the canal, where he loaded the shipment of almanacs into a boat.
“I’ll be sending for another order tonight,” she informed him as she stepped down into the canal boat. “An urgent order.”
“Oh?” the captain said. Usually library shipments were months apart.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll need it here in exactly two weeks’ time.”
March 20
First day of spring. First day of shark season.
The tropics are somehow even brighter today, and life beneath the sea is teeming. From the trawler I can see a school of bluefin, weaving in and out of the reef. A few eels have poked their snouts out, catching some of the rays. It’s as if they all know it’s a beautiful day and that we’re all lucky to be alive, and they’re all out celebrating. Let’s hope even the biggest fish feels like frolicking, too. I’m jotting all of this down as Aunt Julia steers the boat, so forgive my sloppy handwriting; I want to be sure to get every detail down exactly as it happened today… .
“Here,” Aunt Julia said. “This is the spot.”
I slowed the new trawler, and she stopped immediately. At ten feet, she’s not as big as the Platypus, but we got her at a great price, and I rebuilt her engine myself. We’ve dubbed her the Choco-Glomp — the perfect name, since she’s painted deep brown and has rounded sides.
Beneath the sheen of turquoise, Aunt Julia and I both saw it — a black hole far beneath the waves, blurred, but still terrifying, like a mouth gaping from the sea bottom.
But we weren’t there for the cave, or for Merrick. Today, we were there for me.
I pulled the new and improved Water-Eater from my rucksack. I still use parrot feather leaves for filtration, but now they have their own removable compartment. I’ve also shortened the chambers and made the mouthpiece more comfortable. I’d given the latest version a short test run in the shallows of Arborley Bay, but it was time for an extended experimental dive.
Aunt Julia pulled out the sack of plastic tags, and I placed one in my Track-Gaff (and a couple extra tags on the belt of my dress, just in case).
I secured the Water-Eater and diving mask over my head, then I tipped myself backward into the water.
It’s only a hair cooler than the scorching air, but it felt delicious after sailing through the sticky, muggy islands of the tropics.
How different everything looked. How much crisper, bluer, more beautiful now that I wasn’t viewing it through the lens of fear.
My time with the pirates still feels like a dream. But it’s long over. No more Merrick the Monstrous, yes — and no more Molvanian pirates, or stale old candy for sustenance, or navy blockades. No more treasure. No more Cheapshot Charlie or Bloody Elle, either. We haven’t heard from them since the night Merrick died. “Just as well,” Aunt Julia keeps saying, but I can see the sadness in her eyes when she thinks of them. When she thinks of her old secret life. “I expect they’ve moved on to better things,” she says, and I hope she’s right.
Here is what we know happened the night Merrick died.
Just the facts:
The Molvanian pirates took control of the Mother Dog. The element of surprise was on their side, but so was the storm. The flagship was moored in the shallows, and the Undertow’s strong, senseless, chaotic current towed the ship out to sea, tugging and straining the lines and sails. Its officers were too busy keeping the decks from flooding to be ready for the tiny Molvanian crew of five, who simply climbed aboard and took over the ship with their guns.
Another fact:
The admiral reached the Mother Dog in a dory, and shots were fired from both sides. It was too dark and rainy for any of us in the sweets shop to make out exactly what was transpiring.
But here is another fact:
The Mother Dog was suddenly cast off. Whether it was deliberate on Niccu’s part or whether the admiral himself cut the ropes — or maybe the storm itself snapped the anchor line — the ship drifted out to the bay.
A giant wave curled above the ship and froze.
The last image anyone had of the Mother Dog — or of Niccu and his pralipes, or of Admiral Bridgewater — was the galleon’s massive outline, silhouetted in a flash of white lightning. There was the ship, the wave above it, and then darkness. And then there was nothing but the anarchy of the storm.
One final fact:
Bits of driftwood were found over the following days on the pebbles of Stony Beach. A few scraps still bore faint gilded lettering, but the sea salt had scrubbed out anything decipherable. The largest pieces were of the finest quality lumber — live oak, polished to the very definition of smoothness, navy-standard trim.
The treasure is gone. And both Aunt Julia and I think that’s for the best. Now the stories of Merrick’s legendary treasure can live on forever.
But back to the dive:
The Water-Eater worked marvelously — I filled my lungs with air and blew bubbles out my nose as I dove deeper in the water. There was the mouth of the cave — I loomed closer and tried to peek inside, but it was only darkness.
It won’t be there forever, I mark. Sooner or later, the Undertow’s tides will force water into the cave and bury the red daisies forever, and the world will forget it ever existed, except in the tall tales of sailors.
Just like the treasure, I think some things are better left to stories.
Just as I reached the carpet of algae along the sea bottom, a familiar shape enclosed me in shadow. The shadow I’d been waiting for.
I looked up, and there he was.
Grizzle.
&n
bsp; He circled the reef, his caudal fins straight as canvas sails on a schooner, his mouth agape.
This was my third time seeing him in front of me, and of course I’ve dreamed of him for months — but my reaction is the same every time.
Scared and quiet and fizzing with joy, right under my ribs.
How could sharks not be my favorite?
The hollow spot beneath the coral is empty now, I could see — his little baby Grizzlings have grown and left the nursery. I hadn’t expected to see them. Mom and Dad acquired very little knowledge about sharks’ reproductive cycles, but they did discover a few things. Sharks don’t mate for life. They are ovoviviparous — meaning they grow eggs internally, which hatch inside the mothers and are born live. The shark pups stay with their parents for a short time — maybe a few weeks — and then they say good-bye forever and leave.
No joyous return, like for baby sea turtles who fight their way through the terrors of the sea back to their homes. No family reunions, like for the colonies of arctic seals up north. It was a splintering. That meant Grizzle was now alone. His children, out in the world without him — without his protection.
I think of the scars that inspired Grizzle’s nickname, and I hope that his offspring will be all right.
He approached me with caution. I wonder if he could remember me. My heart steadied, the Track-Gaff in my hands.
As he circled past, I raised my Track-Gaff and smoothly, carefully, tagged his fin. There. “Quail: No. 314,” the tag says. I stayed just long enough to watch Grizzle cruise away from the reef, until he was just a silhouette in the turquoise water — a torpedo, a submarine, a vestige. A memory.
Then I surfaced and climbed back into the Choco-Glomp. Aunt Julia was flipping through Adventures in Science Engineering. My Hydro-Scanner is on the cover of this month’s issue — the patent office still wasn’t keen on patenting any of my “doodads,” but luckily for me a certain librarian researched the ins and outs of patent law, and now anyone who wants one can buy their own Hydro-Scanner and find their own Grizzle.
“Well?” Aunt Julia said, and I spat out the Water-Eater’s mouthpiece.
“Got him,” I said. After I dried myself off, I wrote down his number: Tag 314, Quail shark.
Aunt Julia smiled. “You’ve finally settled on an official name. I like it!”
I flipped through my pages and studied the sketch I made of Grizzle last fall, on that last day of shark season. The night I thought I’d lost everything.
“Will that be his scientific name, too?” Aunt Julia asked. “Carcharodon coturnix?”
I shook my head and ran my fingers along my drawing of his teeth, spectacular triangles of death, a ragged grin.
A beam of light hit my glasses, and I squinted. Sunshine reflected off the brooch pinned to Aunt Julia’s collar. A pewter brooch, tarnished, the color of shadow.
“Monstrum magnificus,” I proclaimed.
Magnificent monster.
We’ll see if he shows up in Arborley this summer for another taste of our local halibut, which he loved so much last year. Or maybe he’ll make a round-the-world excursion, same as us. Aunt Julia and I are heading to Crabmoore Shore as I write this, to watch the migration of the crabs. After that, to Molvania, to gather sea grass. After that, who knows? Maybe Canquillas, to see their famous lagoons? Back when my parents were alive, I thought I knew the world — I thought I had traveled its edges, seen every speck of it, knew of every creature that inhabited it. I hadn’t even come close.
There are probably monsters even bigger than him somewhere, swimming the deepest, blackest reaches of the sea. The world is bigger than I can imagine — I know that now.
And I’m ready to see it all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Composing a list of people to thank for their influence while writing this book feels very much like a trip through the life of Lindsay, so I’ll write this chronologically:
To my parents, who raised me in a household of books and stories and learning, who never once discouraged any of my kooky or nerdy pursuits, who always made sure the ink cartridge in the printer was full, and who literally and spiritually supported me while I found my footing in the publishing industry: thank you. Any success of mine is also yours.
To my siblings, who endured years of bossy big sister Lindsay ordering them around in plays, ballets, skits, home movies, and other productions so I could fulfill my need to tell stories: thank you. You are in the heart of everything I write.
To my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Howard, who assigned our class to read Ann McGovern’s Shark Lady, triggering my lifelong obsession with sharks, and who also required daily journal writing and knew me as a writer before even I did: thank you. You are responsible for the shark Halloween costume, the shark posters, the shark business cards, and much more.
To the brilliant minds and brave explorers who inspired young me — Dr. Eugenie Clark, Valerie Taylor, Rodney Fox — and whose work brought the beauty of sharks into my landlocked home through books and television: thank you.
To my agent, Sarah Davies, who proves to be a wonderful guide through this adventure in publishing: thank you.
To the hardworking people at Candlewick Press — particularly Matt Roeser, the jacket designer; Hannah Mahoney, copyeditor extraordinaire; and Jamie Tan, publicist and human sparkle — thank you for making me look good.
To my dear editor, Kaylan Adair, who took a chance on this goofy author and said, “Sure, send over that one novel you’ve rewritten a dozen times — we’ll publish that one next!”; who is patient with me, and trusting, and clever: thank you. There’s no one I would rather have by my side on this publication journey than you.
To the many people throughout the years who read the various iterations of this book when it was still a disaster and kindly helped me find ways to make it better: thank you.
And to my husband and children: thank you. Kenneth, you are my safe harbor and my support. Finley, you are the rainbow sprinkles in my life. Clementine, you weren’t even born yet, but I brainstormed plot-hole fixes while you gave me morning sickness, so thank you, I suppose. I love you all.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 by Lindsay Eagar
Cover illustrations copyright © 2017 by CSA/Getty Images
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2017
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending
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