by Clea Simon
He raises his hand to interrupt. ‘I knew the risk when my old friend …’ He pauses, his breathing labored. In the distance, the shouts of men. ‘There is a letter, hidden still. I don’t know how they knew.’ Care tilts her head, confused.
‘It tells of a – a promise, made long ago.’
‘To Augusta?’ Care’s brow knits in thought.
‘In part,’ the keeper smiles. ‘But also to a purpose. He was another like your father, Care. He sought justice.’
‘To right the wrongs …’ She recites the words.
‘Exactly.’ Quirty, quieter now, as if at peace.
They are still in the alley, resting, when Augusta finds them. Although I, of course, had noticed her approach, she takes the two humans by surprise. Quirty starts like a small animal. He would flee if he could. The girl stands, ready for a confrontation. Her face reveals both anger and disappointment.
‘What happened? Where did you go?’ Her voice quavers with the hurt.
The woman shakes her heavy head. She looks exhausted. Near to death. ‘I told you. I had a mission.’
‘But …’ Care stops, her question dies on her lips. ‘You would have let us die,’ she says instead.
‘There will be deaths. Many of them, before this is over.’ The woman’s eyes are dry and hard.
There is nothing left to say, and the woman slumps against the wall, joining Care and the keeper, whose regular breathing reveals that he has slipped once more into slumber. I would be heading that way myself, having found a niche in the wall, an indentation where once a window stood. Now it is bricked up, but the sill remains, a sturdy perch above the damp of the alley floor, with the security of the bricks at my back.
From this post, I muse over the woman’s words. The ship, I know, bodes ill. How I know this, I cannot quite remember. That it ties in with this woman – with our long-ago exchange – I suspect but cannot affirm. I was different then. A man. I viewed the world differently. Through other senses, primarily, and with other prejudices. I recall reading, vaguely. The belief that I could understand much through those scratched out symbols. That they explained matters of life and death for which I now rely on scent and sound. Were the limits of my perception, then, the reason for my lack of certain aversions? Did I not fear fire for that reason?
I am remembering the girl, warming herself in an alley not far from here, while I hung back unnerved. And the fire that she did well to fear and flee – and the youth she left behind.
I am deliberating on this – on the mystery of those flames. On that youth and what appeared to be a selfless act – when I hear the cries. ‘Fire!’ someone is shouting. ‘Fire! Hurry! Help!’
‘They must have just …’ the girl mutters, her voice drained. ‘Finally.’
They are responding to the stone building at last, it seems. They will try to salvage the stores, holding the goods at greater value than their lives. Only something more is happening. I sense it. A memory or a dream, perhaps. I slip into the dream state easily these days, a condition of both my feline form and my age. The emotions of earlier rising into articulate form. The calls grow louder. Closer, almost, they sound.
‘What—?’ The girl stirs herself, and I open my eyes to see her standing. She peers out at the street – but not back toward the building we have fled. No, she is looking toward the water. Toward the pier, and with some haste, runs to the alley’s end. After only a moment, she turns back toward those of us who wait. But I do not need her panicked visage to inform me of what my nose now senses. This is no dream, nor is it the fire we have fled. Another conflagration has started. A different one. I smell wood and ash and the sharp stink of pitch as well.
‘It’s the ship.’ She’s yelling. The noise out on the street has risen. Still, I blink at the girl in dismay. Another fire? Could a stray spark have flown that far? I hear a sigh and turn and look. The old woman is staring past her. Down the alley, toward the ship.
‘They called me Blaze,’ she said, the fire reflecting as if it were a spark in her eye. That’s when I see it, a vision – or could it be? – a memory. The old woman disappears and in her place I see a fiery young girl as wild and passionate as her brother was cool and cerebral.
‘It had to go.’ The woman pulls herself to her feet, heavy with age once more and weary. She shakes her head and makes to walk away. ‘You know that.’
‘Not this way.’ Care is yelling. ‘Not like this. There are people on that ship.’ She freezes, her eyes wide as if she has just heard herself. ‘Tick,’ she says, and breaks into a run.
THIRTY-ONE
‘No!’ The woman grabs, reaches for her too late. The girl is yards ahead. And while the man, who’s newly roused, struggles to his feet, I find myself frozen in mid-calculus. We are safe here. Far removed from either fire or running men. The girl may not know this yet, but I now hear as well as scent the scope of this new conflagration. A veritable inferno, it feasts on treated wood and canvas and roars for more. Already, it sends billows of thick black smoke skyward. Nor will its floating berth save it. The ship will burn to the waterline, and fast.
If I had still the power of speech, I would follow. I would reason with the girl. The boy may not have taken ship yet. He may have exited, or jumped ashore. The darker truth compels me: if he is doomed, she cannot save him. Her actions only endanger herself. First, there is fire and then, the men who gather. For they will know that the blaze was set, and they will seek a scapegoat. It is in their nature.
As it is in mine to hold back, here, in safety. To avoid the flames, and all the concomitant furor. And yet …
‘I warned her.’ Beside me, Augusta speaks. Her voice is low, but I do not think she merely voices aloud her thoughts. I glance over and her eyes meet mine. Hers are immeasurably sad. ‘I tried.’
I turn from her to face the man, the keeper. His mouth hangs open, his breathing rasps. I cannot voice my thoughts. Not in a way these two can hear. And yet – the man nods once, his own voice stolen, so it seems, by his emotions as well as by the day. It is enough. I leap from my perch on the makeshift sill. I sniff the wind to gauge its flow – the smoke, the men, the trucks they’ve summoned – and I take off, running low and quickly, following the girl.
I find her wharfside and would go to her but for the crush of people who make such an approach dangerous. Instead, I leap atop a coil of rope and tangled canvas. It reeks of smoke and has just been salvaged, I deduce, from the burning vessel.
‘Quick, man,’ someone yells. Already work have jumped aboard. Volunteers? I cannot tell. Their features dark with soot and smoke, their eyes wide with panic, they grab at fittings on the ship and toss them to others, on the pier.
‘Here!’ one watcher calls. His arms are wide, inviting those on board to fling their bundles toward him. ‘Throw high!’
The job is complicated by the nets, which line the sides. If once they kept the crew – or others on the journey – safe aboard, they are a hindrance now. A laborer shoulders a box – heavy from his posture – and braces to hurl it toward the pier. It catches in the net instead and weighs it down, the deck dipping in response. ‘Come on!’ They shout from shore, but he turns back to seize another, unwilling or unable to venture onto the ropes. These, too, have begun to burn. Smoke rises as embers start to curl.
I shift on my own perch, aware of how the conjoined filaments each feed such a predator. How the glow will climb and spread.
‘Oh, no.’ The girl’s voice is not audible to most. She speaks in a mere sigh amid the shouts. But I, whose hearing makes all others dull, pick out her cry, and following her gaze I understand. The big man – the one who tossed the box – is shouting orders. Sending someone hidden in the smoke below. A bundle of some sort, it seems, has been deemed too important to be left. Through the smoke, I see it – wrapped in canvas, tied in rope. It rises from a hatch upon the deck. And yes, beneath it, almost obscured by its size, is the boy. It’s Tick, working to empty the ship.
‘Go on.’ The man’s v
oice is hoarse and loud. His command nearly incomprehensible. He has taken the bundle and heads toward the ship’s side. The boy stands staring.
‘The others,’ the man yells out – or something like. Arms full, he gestures with his chin back toward the hatch, from which now smoke is rising. The boy turns back, but the man will not wait. He steps atop the gunwale, the bundle in his arms. Reaches for the rope as if to climb over the netting. To evacuate with this last treasure in his arms. With one arm, he clutches the upper line of the restraining net. Steps forward onto its webbing – but he is too late. Too late or too heavily laden. Like me, he must hear the tearing sound – a rough snap that causes him to start. He drops the bundle, which falls with a splash to the water below, and then he too is gone. The ship sways with the weight, leaning in to hit the pier. I cannot hear him surface.
‘Tick.’ The name is a lament. She cannot see the boy, I think. For although I can make him out, standing transfixed by the hatch, the smoke is thick now. The timbers groan and creak. The ship is breaking up.
She turns away. But a voice amid the clamor pulls her back. She starts as if she would jump forward. Perches on her toes. Out on the pier, a pale figure – thin but tall – is pushing through. He leaps onto the net and, light enough, scrambles over the fraying lines to tumble to the deck. And there is lost in smoke and chaos. I stand as well, rearing back on my haunches and, for the moment, unconcerned with exposure or the bounty on my head. I do not breathe, nor, I think, does she.
And then she gives a cry. A man on the pier is brandishing a pole – a boat hook – his grappling iron fitted to a wooden shaft. A hook boy, then, readying for violence. With a sweep of a muscled arm, he throws the deadly projectile, and it disappears, into the smoke.
And then comes out again. The youth – Rafe – holds it aloft in one hand, the boy bent double under his other arm. They reach the gunwale, and with the hook, he pulls apart the torn and smoldering net, and then he pushes through. He jumps and lands upon the pier and together they fall and roll, the men there stepping back. The boy stands, coughing, and looks around. Rafe takes a moment longer. But by then the girl is running, pushing by the men assembled. She pulls the boy into her arms and half drags, half carries him to shore.
‘What were you thinking?’ Fear turns to anger in the girl. I’ve seen this shift before. The daring rescue over, the men have turned back to the sinking ship. None now dare board, but some use hooks to try and snatch the goods that remain on the deck.
‘How could you?’ Her voice near to breaking.
‘I had to, Care!’ The words eke out between the coughs. ‘And now they know I’m good at it. That I work as hard as any.’
‘Oh, Tick.’ She peels off her jacket. Wraps it around his skinny frame. And in the process, something falls – small and round. I jump down from my perch to nose it on the ground. It is the carving.
I am sniffing it. Trying to remember, as the youth walks up.
‘Rafe.’ Care looks up at the young man, her arms still around the boy he has saved. ‘Thank you. I didn’t know— When you wouldn’t leave …’
The tall youth shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t, even if I wanted,’ he says. ‘They have my friend, you see. My buddy Peter – more than a buddy, really. He raised me.’
Rafe’s words trail off. Something in Care’s face alerts him and stops him speaking.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Peter’s dead.’
He shakes his head, confused. ‘No, he’s working – that’s what happened.’
She bites her lip and stands, letting the boy go. ‘He was killed, Rafe. He died defending me.’ In a few words, she tells him of the fight, not far from where they stand. The words nearly break him. His pale face goes even whiter beneath the grime and soot, and he hangs his head in sorrow. Together, they stand in shared silence.
‘Hey, boy.’ The crowd on the pier has begun to disperse. I duck behind the coiled rope as a thick-set man strides forward. He’s holding a boat hook, the same one he had tossed to Rafe.
‘Yes, sir.’ Tick stands. Chokes back a cough, even as the girl reaches for him.
‘No,’ she says. ‘You can’t.’
‘Can’t hide behind your apron strings for ever.’ The hook boy – now a sailor – affects a hearty laugh. ‘We saw you out there. You too, kid.’ He turns toward Rafe, a grin transforming his visage into something open, almost. ‘You want a berth, you’ve got it.’
Still chortling, he puts an arm around the boy. Leads him away – toward where the men have gathered.
‘You can’t stop him, Care.’ Rafe’s eyes are inexpressibly sad.
‘He’s right.’ I turn with a start. Augusta has appeared, her silence surprising in one her age and size. ‘There will always be another ship,’ she says.
‘What can we do?’ Care looks from one solemn face to the other.
‘Don’t worry.’ Rafe nods as if to himself. His mouth now set and grim. ‘I’ll look after him. I’ll bring him back. You fulfilled your promise – the one you made to Peter,’ he says, his face twisting into a sad smile. ‘And I will, too.’
For a moment, I think they will touch. That he will embrace her. But down on the wharf, a sailor laughs, and with that the youth turns to follow Tick.
‘Where do I sign up?’ we hear him call.
And for a moment, I fear that she will join him. She takes a step, and then Augusta raises her hand to stop her. She’ll speak, I think. She’ll talk of the youth and his return, of Care’s duties to herself and others. Only the movement has turned her toward me. She sees the small pebble, which lies between my paws.
‘What is that?’ Her voice is hushed. She turns and crouches before me.
‘Blackie.’ I look past her, grateful to hear a faint note of joy in the girl’s voice. To see that she, too, has turned back. She kneels before me. Picks up the piece. ‘I almost forgot – I must have dropped it.’
‘How did you come by that?’ the woman asks, of her this time.
‘This?’ Care rolls the carving between her fingers. ‘It fell from Peter’s pockets, when he – when they dumped him in the water.’
‘Fell?’ the woman says the word as if she doubts it. Reaches out her hand and takes it. ‘Well, maybe.’ She looks across at me, then stands, the carving in her palm.
‘This is what I’ve sought,’ she says to Care. ‘My brother’s amulet.’
Care shakes her head. ‘That makes no sense. Why would Peter have it?’
‘He was following you?’ She waits for Care’s nod of confirmation. ‘For the boss?’ Another nod. ‘Then I suspect he was given this as a token of some sort. A means of identifying – who he sought.’
‘The marker.’ Care stresses the word. ‘Peter said he was given a marker, to help him find someone – some partner I was supposed to have.’
‘He would think that.’ Augusta’s voice drops to a near whisper. ‘The man in charge. He would have taken it. I see that now.’
Again, she looks at me, and I blink up. The only confirmation I can provide.
‘The boss.’ Care spits out the word. She turns toward where the low building still smolders. ‘One day …’
‘You’ve done as you’ve promised. You’ve done the job,’ says the woman, as if to cut her off. ‘Not by the means you intended perhaps, but you did.’
The girl brushes the compliment off as if it were a fly. ‘My job,’ she says, the word is bitter. ‘Yes, I’ve learned to do that. But is this what it was all about – AD and Peter? Why they died?’
‘It’s more than what it seems.’ The woman shakes her head. ‘It’s an ancient piece. I gave it to your mentor, my brother, if not in blood. In recognition of a promise, of sorts. That he would keep on fighting. That he would right the wrongs.’
Care starts back in recognition of the words. So much more than cant.
Before she can speak, we are interrupted by a splash. Farther down the wharf men are staring at the water.
‘Demented whore.’ The voices
reach us. ‘Waste of scat.’
‘Drug crazed?’ Someone asks.
‘Love crazed,’ comes the answer. ‘She went for Sarnsby ’cause he did her pimp. That scrawny creep. And it was boss’s orders.’
Care steps forward, as if she would join the group. Stops at a safe distance and peers over the low wall. I do not know if she can see the pale hair spreading on the tide, or merely waits in reverence, wondering at another colleague gone.
I would join her, but just then feel a worn hand, cool as leather, on my back.
‘You’ve fulfilled your promise.’
Augusta crouches once more beside me, her hand gentle on my fur. In the other, she holds the carving – the amulet – which once she gave to me.
‘You’ve brought it back. I can use it, you know. Use its strength, but if I leave, and she continues on this path. If she takes on the boss …’
I close my eyes, remembering. A promise and a transformation. The power to keep fighting, beyond the grave. Beyond this form. I raise my snout and take in the air. It is good to be a cat. To sense the world in such detail. To experience the night. I am old, but I have gained much in my many lives. I will stay as I am, with her, and be ready.
‘We’re good then?’ I open my green eyes to see Augusta nodding. Some part of this she has understood. I meet her gaze. ‘We’re good.’
She turns and disappears into the night as Care returns. She’s tired, is the girl. Exhausted beyond reckoning. Her shoulders sag and without her coat, she shivers as she cranes around, searching for Augusta. But the woman has disappeared, and I reach up in her place, putting my forepaws on the girl’s knee. She lifts me then and holds me close, burying her face in my rich fur.
‘Excuse me?’ Another voice, and Care looks up. A young woman, pale as water. Thin. ‘Miss? Someone told me you could help me, maybe? My girl went missing, some days ago, and I confess, I’m scared.’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is lonely work, but it takes support and assistance to make a book. For that – as well as multiple readings, advice, encouragement, and patience – I am eternally indebted to Jon S. Garelick. I am grateful as well to Brett Milano, Karen Schlosberg, Sophie Garelick, Frank Garelick, Lisa Jones, John McDonough, my agent Colleen Mohyde, and my editor Kate Lyall Grant for all their assistance as well. All the rough spots are despite your best efforts, and I thank you. Purrs.