by Clea Simon
‘Not you too.’ Care shakes her off. ‘You’re as bad as Tick.’
She looks around. We all do. That’s when we realize: the boy is gone.
‘Tick!’ The girl calls out as she pulls herself away. She would race off in pursuit of him, without another thought, but the woman once again reaches out – for support or to restrain her.
‘You can’t go out there,’ she says, catching hold of Care’s wrist. Standing alert by the girl’s side, I am grateful for these words of sense. Grateful as well that Rosa has disappeared, though whether caught up in the excitement or for her own reasons, I do not know. ‘They’ll catch you.’
‘But it’s not safe—’
A short and bitter laugh. ‘He works with them, does he not? He’s expected.’
‘I don’t care.’ The girl snaps out her retort. Only I can hear the fear that makes her protest tremble. ‘He’s just a kid.’
‘If he wants to go, you can’t stop him.’ Suddenly the woman sounds unutterably sad. ‘A lot of boys want to go to sea. They won’t force him – not this way.’
Care pauses in her fretting. Looks up at the woman. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you learn nothing inside that pen? They’re taking on sailors.’ Her voice is low. Resigned. ‘The men have been queuing up for days. They’re being promised a voyage to a warmer clime. The chance of fortune.’
‘Fortune.’ Care turns away, disheartened. I would go to her, to lend the comfort of my fur, only I wish to observe. To study this woman, worn to the breaking point for a quest I do not understand. A holder of secrets, ready to burst.
‘I can’t just let him go,’ the girl says, more softly now. I recognize that set of her mouth. That tone. The old woman, though, remains cryptic. I would understand the tension coiled inside her.
‘You can do better than to rescue him,’ she says, her lined visage grim.
‘What do you mean?’ Care whips around to face her, the fury now foremost. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand well enough,’ the woman says. Even more than her body, that ruined face, her voice reveals her age. She sounds tired. The day has been too much. ‘Children put at risk. Families broken. No, you can do better than to simply rescue the boy. You can help me stop that ship.’
A stunned silence holds for a moment, and then is broken by the most unlikely sound. A bark of laughter. A snort that dies away into a sigh.
‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘Stop the ship. When we can’t even save our friends.’
With that, she pulls her arm free. Donning Tick’s old watch cap once again, she starts down the street. Toward the waterfront, following the crowd of men who have moved on from the enclosure to gather and gape at the new arrival to the wharf.
It is huge, this ship. Black with tar or wear, its masts spiking to the sky. Perhaps with sails unfurled it is a thing of beauty. A vague memory of such conveyance tickles the back of my memory, much like the ash that still clings to my nose. But now, as the ship draws up to the pier, it has no such softening feature. Nor any saving grace that I can see. The deck looms awkward and enlarged: high railings and an enclosed roost break any elegance in its lines. Huge nets stretch along its sides. A cage it seems, or trap – between the bars and those long nets, this ship is fitted to keep all in. The smoke in the air takes on the bitterness of brimstone or of blood.
There is something terrible about this ship, looming large and dark. The girl slows as she approaches. Hangs back from the crowd, and for that I am grateful. But even as I look on I see her gather herself up. She alters her gait. Arms swinging, she emulates the stride of a tall boy and makes her way toward a figure at the edge of the crowd. The slatternly woman stands there, head hanging, almost as if she would sleep.
‘Rosa.’ She speaks softly, but my ears pick her voice from the general turmoil. ‘Rosa,’ she repeats the woman’s name a little louder. I brace, fearing that other, more perceptive listeners will turn back toward her. ‘Rosa, it’s me.’
Finally, the yellow-haired woman turns. Under half-closed lids, she sizes up the newcomer. Lifts her jaw and pouts her lips before suddenly – with a widening of those heavy-lidded eyes – she stumbles back. ‘You? You’re still here?’
‘Yeah.’ The girl moves closer. ‘Rosa, I’m looking for Tick. Have you seen him?’
‘Tick?’ The woman blinks, confused. I am too far – the air still too thick with smoke – but I suspect she is under the influence of alcohol or drugs. ‘Oh, you mean that kid.’
Care nods. ‘He was just here. Only I – lost him.’ I do not think, in her condition, that the frowzy blonde notices the pause in Care’s explanation.
‘He wasn’t with that keeper guy. Was he?’ She is attempting to focus, I believe. Struggling, perhaps, with either her words or a concept she cannot quite elucidate. ‘’Cause that was business. I mean, you understand.’
‘The keeper? Quirty?’ Care’s voice grows tight. She would shake the woman if she could. Much as I would a rat. ‘What happened with Quirty, Rosa?’
‘If AD hadn’t screwed up. All that talk about the scat and all.’ She looks away, as if uncomfortable. Back toward the enclosure. The crowd by the gate is dispersing, and with it, her chance of custom. ‘A girl’s got to look after herself,’ she says. She would move on.
‘Where is he?’ Care snatches her arm up. ‘Where did they take him?’
Rosa steps back. Stumbles and would fall but for the hold Care has on her. ‘Like you care. It’s you they’re asking about, isn’t it? You and whoever you’re working with. Why don’t you go talk to him yourself then?’
‘Talk to Quirty?’
‘Talk to the boss.’ The blonde is angry now – the drug or drink is wearing off. ‘They say those stones only make the screams louder.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
There is no time to formulate a response, for with that Rosa lurches, pulling her arm from Care’s grasp. Almost, I think the girl would reach for her again. Detain her and question her some more. But the blonde woman has had enough.
‘Hey, there.’ She hails a straggler. A man who has hung back from the crowd. ‘What you doing?’ He is poorly dressed. Nearly as poorly as she is, but she stumbles up to him and throws an arm over him. His arm goes around her waist, and she laughs. Care, meanwhile, has caught herself. She turns, and making as if to adjust her cap, would hide her face. Shoulders hunched, she makes her way to the side of the road. Hunched in the shadow, almost she would make herself invisible, I see. Almost it works. Her age and modest clothing do nothing to attract the eye of those who pass us by.
We are in luck. The street is nearly empty now, the arrival of the ship having drawn the attention of those who fought the fire – and those who gathered merely to enjoy its havoc. That crisis must be past, it seems. No more cries for water or assistance echo out of the enclosure, and when we pass that big front gate, it has closed again, although no guards stand by.
‘They won’t be manning it until it’s clean and loaded.’ Augusta has come up behind me once again. Perhaps she has been here all along. She speaks as if to herself, and yet – I cock my ear to listen. ‘Supplies and then the goods for trade. We have three days, I’d guess. Or maybe four, but then at turn of tide, she’ll sail. That is, if we don’t stop her.’
I turn toward her. Almost, I feel, she would understand me, and there is much that I would know. Why must we stop this ship? And who is she – to me and to the girl? But perhaps my memory has played another trick. For without further comment or reference to my state, she has stood up straighter than I have seen. As if age has fallen from her she walks past me – up to the crowd and the girl that I hold dear.
I cannot risk it. This strange old woman has goals of her own, and I fear what she would sacrifice for them. Keeping my body low, I trot behind to listen and perhaps to intervene.
‘Tick’s not here.’ Care turns on her with the ferocity of any dam. ‘What do you know?’
‘They won’t take on crew, not yet
.’ Augusta talks as from experience. ‘Not till the wares are stored. Maybe he’s gone back to volunteer. They’d need a boy like him, to help them clean.’
‘Back to that pen?’ Furrows crease her forehead. ‘But the fire …’
‘It wasn’t much.’ The woman shakes her head. ‘A diversion, nothing more.’
Care stands speechless. As, I confess, do I.
‘I knew you’d get away,’ the woman says. ‘You’re strong and smart, and you have help.’
Care glowers. ‘I should be grateful,’ she says, after a moment’s thought. ‘I guess. But still …’
‘Look, if you don’t want your friend to take ship, then help me stop it.’ The old woman speaks with force, for all that she keeps her voice low. Speaks with an energy that belies her years. ‘Stop it once and for all.’
‘But how?’ Care seems resigned.
‘They can’t set sail without goods to trade,’ says Augusta, a small sly smile beginning to bend into her cheeks.
‘No.’ The girl’s response is clear and firm, and I am glad. I do not understand who this woman is or what she knows, but there is that about her which makes me uneasy in her presence. ‘No way,’ the girl repeats.
The woman leans back, eyeing her. ‘You know the best way to save your friend is to stop that ship,’ she says. ‘You know this in your heart.’
‘I have another obligation.’ Care speaks slowly and with weight. ‘To the keeper – Quirty. If through his association with me, he was taken, then I owe him. What Rosa said …’
‘The stone house.’ The woman finishes her thought. ‘Our goals may be aligned, you know.’
The girl is silent. Her eyes sink to the ground, to where – if she would focus – she would see me staring up. I seek to meet her gaze, to match my green eyes to hers and thus, perhaps, embolden her. She knows this quest is futile. The boy grows more independent every day. The man was taken, and may already be dead. And in her heart, she must recognize another truth as well – an animal truth, which I would remind her of. Her own survival is at stake. She has been caught up in some larger web, and for the moment has fought free. Instinct should guide her now to save herself and flee.
It is no use. I lash my tail in frustration, but even as it whips about, stirring up the ash again, it does not catch her eye. Despite her downcast gaze, she does not see me. And I, a beast, cannot speak my mind. I cannot inform her with my knowledge or my fears. All I am able to do is share her trials. And so, when she nods once, a quick, curt gesture of capitulation, I stand and take my place beside her. Ready to accompany her wherever this rough quest may lead.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I should not be surprised, I know. With instincts deeper than I understand, I have suspected we would come back here. The low stone building on the wharf sits, as noxious as a wart, and draws all evil to it.
At least the woman comes to it with care. Although the building is not far from the pier, where the hulking ship is tied, we take an indirect route. The woman leads, hugging the warehouse opposite, and as the day grows old, making use of the lengthening shadows to mask her steps. The smoke is clearing, the ash has largely settled, as she makes her way, but the growing shadow gives cover and she moves soundlessly, despite her age and girth.
The girl follows in her own grim silence. Now that she has a purpose, she will act bravely and without hesitation. I recognize the determined set of her face, her mouth closed tight. If she would talk, however, I believe she would voice questions. How Augusta comes by her knowledge, for example, and what her role may truly be. Perhaps she wonders, too, about the youth she left behind. About whether he survived and what strange machinations brought him into her life. For now, though, she is set on the task she has undertaken, driven in part by trepidation that her actions have put the gentle man in harm’s way.
‘Quirty shouldn’t be here,’ says the girl. We wait across the open dockside as the sun begins to set. The woman turns toward her, the lines in her broad face deepening with concern. Care’s voice is soft. ‘If I hadn’t said anything to Rosa.’ She bites her lip, remembering.
‘Hush.’ The old woman quiets her as one would a child. They squat. Two men, their clothing grey with ash, lumber by.
‘You lucky dog,’ says one. He coughs and wipes his sleeve across his mouth.
‘If you’d kept working, they’d have picked you too.’ His companion stops his swagger. Waits for the other, now bent double, as he hacks again. ‘I told you the whip was coming by.’
‘It’s the smoke.’ His friend stands up and shakes his head. ‘I was working as hard as you. We got that lean-to down, didn’t we?’
‘Yeah, we did.’ Expansive, he claps the other man’s back. ‘So let’s get drunk while we still can. I don’t ship out till Wednesday.’
The two pass on. The woman turns and stares at Care, her dark eyes eloquent in their silence. She doesn’t have to speak. We’ve all heard. Two days, and then she sails.
By the time the darkness is complete, the dock is silent. Even the usual nighttime revelers have gone to drink or to their beds. The fire and the ship’s arrival have made their mark. The city waits with bated breath. With surprising alacrity, the woman darts across the open cobblestone, and the girl and I follow, finally stopping on the water side of the squat building.
‘This was where I found him.’ Care speaks softly, her voice little more than a whisper, reaching out to touch the cobblestones as if she could still feel the warmth of blood. The woman looks up, some distant fire reflected in her eyes. ‘Peter,’ Care explains, in a voice grown sad.
‘There will be others.’ The woman’s response is grim, as cryptic as her face. ‘Best not to linger.’
She cocks her head, as if listening to voices beyond my ken, even as she speaks, and I sense her watching. Waiting, as if for some preternatural cue. Her eyes catch mine. She stares at me, more boldly than I would have thought.
It is too much. None of my kind suffers such a direct approach easily. Even my attempts to catch Care’s gaze are only bearable for love. From such a one as this, this is a challenge. An imposition, if not a threat. I look away, even as she mutters something about an idea. Even as she asks her younger companion to wait. That she will return.
I am grateful she is leaving, even if only for a brief respite, and I keep my head down as she slinks away. I am thinking about her, rather than the dirty pavement before me. I do not need to scrutinize the ash and dirt to find the residue of bodies, of blood and waste from those whose remains rested here before the end. I do not need to examine the slime on the remaining stones to find traces of both pain and death. Still, I feel my whiskers tickled by something loose upon the ground. More ash, I think at first, raising one paw to brush it from my fur. But even as I do, the fragment curls back up and bounces, recoiling on itself. It is leaf-like but not a leaf.
A sudden exhalation, quicker than a sigh, and I look up again. The girl has laughed, just slightly, a soft sad smile now playing about her lips.
‘Look at him,’ she says. Her voice is gentle. ‘Playing like a kitten. What do you have there, Blackie? Is it a bug?’
I am affronted. No, ashamed. For she is partially right. I was distracted, my attention diverted instead of centered on our current plight. I bow my head and nose the curling fragment forward. An offering of sorts.
‘A moth?’ The girl kneels to look.
‘No,’ she answers her own query. The eyes that rise to meet mine are large and round. Did I not know better, I would call them full of wonder. ‘It’s a pencil shaving. Blackie, does this mean Quirty’s here?’
Of course! I look up, my own eyes wide and as dumb as any beast. But now I understand. The dread I felt – the unease. These were not simply memories, or the residue of two bodies, both long since taken by the tide. Humans, like any other animal, emit pheromones. But I, caught up in useless regrets about the life I lost, had ignored my most basic of feline senses: my awareness of the smell of fear. Of a small man taken against his
will.
That does not mean I can condone the girl putting herself at risk. And so I leap, desperate to take back the telltale shaving. To destroy it, before she can show her colleague. She has not yet made her decision. There is time—
‘Look at that! Just like a kitten.’ She laughs and strokes my head, still cradling the curled peeling in her other hand. I am too late. My foolishness – my pride – has put the girl at risk.
A rustle of movement. The woman has reappeared, in her arms a bundle of debris: half-burned faggots dragged free of the enclosure as it burned. Half burned and still smoldering. I recoil at the bitter ashen scent.
Care sees this, her head swiveling from me to the woman. ‘What are those?’ She holds her suspicions in check, her question level and calm. ‘What are you planning to do?’
‘Torch the place.’ Augusta looks around. Kneels by the bulkhead, where she dumps the armful of wood. She pauses as she crouches lower, as she blows on a charred stick, urging a faint glow from its end – an ember that fades away. ‘The cargo is probably stored in the basement,’ she says, without looking up. She blows again, the red creeps along the blackened wood.
‘You can’t.’ Care grabs her shoulder and pulls her back. The move is sudden and strong, and the woman nearly falls, catching herself on her hand.
‘I have to.’ The woman rises with a swirl of her skirts. Faces the girl with the same intense stare she had given me. As I look up to see what the girl will do, my acute sense of smell tells me that that question has already been decided. The smoldering embers on that stick, fanned by the sudden movement of the woman, have flared. Not to flame, not here, but enough to eat away at the charred wood. And whether because of that movement or the underlying destruction of the previous burn, a piece has broken off. A chip, perhaps, no more. But it is enough. The character of the smoke has changed already. It is not wood that burns, nor the charcoal that the branch had near become. No, there is something fresh and chemical in this smoke. An ember or a spark has fallen through the cracks and warping by the bulkhead door and found there drier fare. A fire has been lit in the basement of the low stone house. And these two females stand here arguing.