by Heidi Heilig
My finger hovered over the blue hotlink on the word; at a touch, a new screen loaded. Causes: loss, death . . . genetics. I scrolled past them hurriedly; I’d read—and worried—about them before, when I’d first realized my father’s peculiarities might have been heritable. My eyes fell on the risks: substance abuse. Family conflicts. Suicide.
I clicked the phone dark and dropped it into my bag. Then I scrubbed my palm on my shorts. “Slate will need his map back someday.”
“Well.” Kash folded his arms across his chest. “You and I are the only ones who know where it is.”
“Kashmir.” I gaped at him, and he threw his hands in the air.
“What? Amira! It’s the same dans tous les cas! If the past cannot be changed, the captain will find a way back to Honolulu, no matter where that particular map is. And if it can be changed, then Joss’s prediction for you and me is nothing to fear! Isn’t that what this is really about?”
“What if Crowhurst is telling the truth?” I shot back. “What if he knows how to save us?”
“And what if this is how it happens? You said the sea was rough in Ker-Ys.”
“You’d be roped in—” I started, but he shook his head.
“If it’s fate, does it matter? There’s a story about this—a man who fled his destiny only to meet it on the road. He blinded himself when he saw the truth of it.”
“Oedipus?”
“That’s the one. You taught me that.”
The reproach in his face cut to the quick. “So I should do nothing? You want to be lost?”
“Of course I don’t! But I don’t want to lose you either.”
“You won’t.”
“I already am.” His voice was bitter; he kicked at a bottle cap. “There’s a wall around you now, amira. You built it with your father. I don’t know who holds the key.”
I clenched my fists, crushing the letter. “There’s got to be a way, Kashmir. There has to be a way for me to take my fate in my own hands.”
“Khodaye man.” Kash shook his head. “You sound just like him.”
His words knocked the wind out of me. “Never say that again.”
We waited in a prickly silence for the rain to ease before returning to the ship along sidewalks washed clean and fresh. Rotgut, Blake, and Bee were already sitting at the folding table on the deck, feasting under a makeshift sailcloth awning. Overhead, the sky was clearing, and at their feet, Billie made Romeo eyes at the roast.
“Surprise,” Bee said with a wry grin when she spotted us coming up the gangplank. I winced. I had completely forgotten the party. But she waved my shame away. “Come, sit! There is a brisket. What are children for if not to scold and feed?”
My appetite had deserted me, but I sat at the table, slipping bits of brisket to Billie as Bee regaled us with the story—her favorite—of how she and Ayen had married. I had heard it many times, but Blake had not, and he sat, rapt and a little bemused, at Bee’s energetic retelling.
“We met at a dance, and she . . . hmm.” Bee half closed her eyes at the memory. “Words fall so short. Her energy, her movement, her legs! I knew the moment I saw her that she was for me. She was being wooed already.” She grinned toothily. “But I was a better man than him.”
Blake cocked his head. “How so, exactly?”
“I had bigger cattle! More of them too.” Bee’s eyes went soft at the sight of her own memories. “It seems like yesterday we were betrothed. My family was proud, of course. My two brothers had died young, and my sister was married with many children. I alone kept our name, and our herd. We were very happy, Ayen and me. Not so much, her old suitor. But the joke is on him.” Bee looked around the table and spread her arms. “For now we have three children, and his name is forgotten. I got revenge, you see.” She drew one finger across the scar at her throat. “And he had no wife.”
She hesitated then, glancing back toward the captain’s cabin. Usually this was the part of the story where she mentioned how she and Slate had become friends—Bee seeking justice, her slit throat still healing, and Slate, heartbroken for her and happy to give over the gun he’d brought all the way from 1980s New York. But now she only smiled, her eyes touched with rare sorrow. “I am a lucky one, to know love.”
“And to have lived to tell the tale,” Blake said.
At that, Kashmir lifted his head and put down his fork; his eyes cut to me and then away. “The loving’s more important than the living, Mr. Hart.”
Blake only shrugged. “Love isn’t much of a legacy, Mr. Firas.”
“I think there’s none better.”
“It doesn’t last.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“Maybe love is like life that way,” Rotgut volunteered through a mouthful of pastry. “Doesn’t have to be forever to be worth it.”
I gave him a weak smile. “Did you learn that back at the monastery?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s from a pop song? Either way, it’s top-notch wisdom, and don’t forget it.” He popped another bite of cheesecake into his mouth.
“I could have considered it a life well lived if I’d died in Ayen’s arms.” Bee gave us a wicked grin. “In fact, I did a little, and more than once, if you get my meaning. Ach! Ayen!” She ducked, her hand going to her ear as though it had been pinched—perhaps it had been.
“I was in love once,” Rotgut said.
“With what?” Bee teased. “The pastry?”
“Oh!” He swatted at the air, dismissive. “That was just a fling!”
“A moment on the lips, eternally on the hips,” Bee responded, elbowing him in the bony ribs. But I leaned forward across the table, curious. I’d never heard this story before.
“What was their name?”
“It’s not respectful to say it.” Rotgut shook his head, smiling a little. “He gave it up, you know. In the end. Like everything else. He was much more cut out for monking than I was. But I still try to live in the moment. To honor him.”
Bee lifted her water glass; he clinked it with his bottle of lager. And across the table, Kashmir watched me, his eyes as green and turbulent as an ocean gyre. “That’s all we can do,” he said softly. “Live in the moment. Love in the moment.”
In my chest, a pressure lifted, as though I had surfaced from deep water; looking at Kashmir, I wondered suddenly which one of us I had been trying to save. To the west, the sun reclined on a glorious pyre. A breeze from the ocean strummed the rigging, and the air was blissfully cool after the storm. Maybe they were right. Maybe love did not have to be forever. Maybe it could just be for now—after all, now was all we had.
Had Joss sent her warning not to protect me from loss, but to remind me not to follow my father’s path in dealing with it? But in spite of all his foibles, Slate had chosen to stop. Maybe I could too.
Forget Ker-Ys. Forget the past and the future. I stood then, feeling the weight of my messenger bag in the strap across my shoulder, even though it only held the map. Bee cocked her head. “Where are you going, girl?”
“To check on the captain,” I said—which was partially true. I didn’t want to say it in front of everyone else, but later tonight, when the moon was rising and the ship was quiet, I would find Kash in his cabin and tell him how I’d put the map of Ker-Ys in the cupboard with all the other improbable myths too dangerous to visit. For now, I only gave him a smile. “Be right back.”
I strode across the deck, feeling energized—expansive. There was a silly grin forming on my face as I pushed open the door, peering into the dim. After a moment, it melted away.
The captain was sitting on the edge of the bed in his little alcove, shoving something under his pillow.
I saw two routes before me, then, like deep indigo rivers twisting between the azure threat of shallow reefs, both ways fraught with peril: say something, say nothing. The latter route was tempting, but I had floundered on those rocks before. I started toward him, propelled by a burst of sudden anger. “You swore you gave that up.”
&nb
sp; “Nixie, it’s not what you think!” Slate held up his hands in a placating gesture, but I was already pulling back the pillow. Then I took another breath.
Instead of a syringe, it was a pistol.
“Well, you’re right,” I said at last. “It’s not at all what I thought.” I tossed the pillow aside and picked up the gun. It was a double-barreled derringer—small and complex and deadly as a cone snail. I shuddered; the last time I’d seen this weapon, it had been pointed at me. “This is Blake’s.”
“It was in his pocket when he came aboard. I found it in his jacket.” Slate ran a hand through his blond hair; it was lank with sweat. “I haven’t given it back yet. I will, but—”
“I don’t know that he’d want it back.” I shook my head. “Not just yet.”
“No harm in me keeping it, then.”
“I suppose. But not under your pillow. You could hurt yourself.” I opened one of the cupboards—full of the maps we called dead enders—and put the gun on the shelf. Then I hesitated, considering. Light glinted off the stamped scrolling in the steel barrel. I turned back to my father, but he did not return my gaze. Substance abuse. Family conflicts. Suicide. “Slate.”
“What, Nixie?” He did look then, his blue eyes wide, bloodshot. “What?”
My heart clenched in my chest; the pressure was back and I couldn’t breathe. Still I hesitated: say something, say nothing. “Nothing,” I said. But I snatched the gun from the shelf and shoved it into my back pocket. My palms were sweaty, my blood racing. But Slate only dropped his head to his hands. Why did he look so small? “Don’t worry, Dad. I know where your map is. We’re sailing tomorrow to get it back.”
“No.”
“No?” I stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Why not?”
“Maybe it’s better this way.” He sighed, sinking lower still. “Easier, not to have to choose.”
“Choose what? Between me and my mother? Or . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t answer the question—he was bent, defeated, a broken thing. Was this my future? Was I staring my own fortune in the face? “Forget your map. We’re still sailing.”
“I’m not fit to take the helm.”
“I’ll do it, then.”
“So eager now, to take my place?”
I swallowed, bracing myself, but he said nothing more. The only sound in the room was the rustling of the maps in the breeze through the deadlights, and the ragged sound of his breath, as though he was the one struggling to keep his head above the rising tide.
That night I lay in my hammock, studying the map of Ker-Ys as the moon climbed to the top of the sky and leaped. The red lines had begun to blur and fade in my head when a sound made me blink awake.
“Mr. Firas said we’ll be leaving soon. Is it true?”
So Kashmir had guessed—but of course he had. Perhaps there hadn’t ever been any doubt. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sat up, the hammock swaying beneath me. Blake was standing on deck facing the skyline, silhouetted against the glow of the city. “It is.”
“We’ve barely scratched the surface here.”
“We’ll be back soon enough.”
I heard the smile in his voice. “I thought we were supposed to live in the now.”
“It’s hard when what you need is in the past.”
“I do know that.” He turned from the rail to face me, although his eyes were shadowed and I could not read his expression. “Is that the map we’ll be visiting?”
“Want to see?” I turned the paper toward him; he came closer and took it with gentle hands.
“Ker-Ys. From Souvestre’s peasant tales from Brittany, isn’t it?” I raised an eyebrow, impressed, but he only smiled. “I had a classical education, Miss Song. But how will we visit a place that exists only in myth?”
I wet my lips . . . how to put it? “As long as the mapmaker believed what he drew, this map should work as well as any other.”
Now it was his turn to look impressed. “Do mapmakers have so much power?”
“The Navigator has to believe too, of course.”
“And do you?”
“Why shouldn’t I? I grew up visiting places just like it.”
“Fascinating.” He squinted at the map. “I wonder how a utopia will compare to paradise? Though I suppose both are eventually lost.”
“Well . . .” I turned toward the Atlantic, as though I could see all the way to the fabled vasty fields of France. “The myth may not play out as we’ve read it.”
Blake looked at me sharply. “What do you mean?”
I took the map back from him and handed him the letter. “There’s a man there who claims he knows how to . . . to alter history.”
“What?” Blake’s eyes gleamed as he scanned the page. “How?”
I traced the red lines of the map with one finger. “I hope to learn.”
He caught his breath. “And what could you do with knowledge like that?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again when I saw the hope in his face. I had been so focused on rescuing Kashmir, but what else was possible? Could I save my mother, like Slate had dreamed he could? Could I save the island that Blake loved? Could I look through history with perfect hindsight and undo the injustices of the past? I took a deep breath, feeling giddy. “I . . . I suppose . . . if it works . . . I could do almost anything.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Late the next day, the Temptation pointed back toward the Atlantic. Her sails were full of the hot summer breeze, and I was at the helm, the wheel warm and firm in my hand.
The morning had seen a flurry of activity as the crew—my crew—made ready for the journey. Bee and Ayen had inspected the ship, double-checking our repairs in case we encountered rough weather in the Margins. Rotgut organized the supplies he’d ordered—toothpaste, vitamins, even a mattress for Blake’s room. And Kashmir had taken Blake to get his vaccinations. When they returned, Bee clapped Blake on the shoulder.
“You make me proud!” Then she turned to Kashmir. “Did he flinch? You cannot flinch when you get your gaar,” she said, pointing to the scars decorating her forehead. “Or they cut you crooked and everyone will see you’re a coward. Your gaar are different than mine, but I knew you’d be brave. You did not flinch the first time.” She whacked Blake on the stomach, then, where the bullet had hit him. Then she hit him on the shoulder again, hard. “Why would you flinch the second?”
“Thank you for your faith in me. Though I should mention,” Blake added, his smile deepening. “It was the other shoulder.”
She laughed then, and hit him on the other side, and he did not flinch.
In preparation for our journey, I had spent some time cleaning the ship. Anything that wasn’t bolted down had to be safely stowed, and physical work was always calming to me. Besides, now that I’d given over my room, most of the mess was made up of my scattered possessions.
I carted my books to the captain’s cabin and shoved my clothes into my trunk, which Rotgut and Bee had moved to Kashmir’s room with much winking and mugging. Crowhurst’s letter, however, stayed with me. I didn’t want to let it out of my hands. It felt like a talisman—a promise. Besides, what if Slate found it? I couldn’t risk getting his hopes up, especially since I wasn’t yet certain that Crowhurst was telling the truth. I didn’t think my father could survive another disappointment.
I had not seen him since I’d told him I was taking the helm, in what might have been the least dramatic mutiny in history or myth. Even the crew had seemed unsurprised; Bee had only nodded at the news, and Rotgut had muttered that he’d known this day was coming. But as the wind breathed life into our sails and the sea unfurled before me, I couldn’t help but think of Slate, lying in his cabin three yards under my feet.
I was not yet accustomed to taking the helm without my father at my side. I gripped the wheel tighter; it was fashioned of teak and bronze and inlaid with the words of the wheel of fortune in Latin: regnabo, regno, regnavi, sum sine regno. I shall
reign, I reign, I have reigned, I have no kingdom.
Absently, I ran my thumb over a blue patch of verdigris. The first time I’d read those words, the Temptation had been at half sail in a mythical version of the Pileh Lagoon, where limestone cliffs cupped the calm jade waters like the fingers of a benevolent god. Earlier that day, Rotgut had bought a box of fruit off a peddler’s colorful skiff; Slate had dumped out the produce and turned the box upside down, setting it before the wheel so I could reach the handles. Laughing, he’d stood behind me, adjusting my hands, showing me how to steer as lychee rolled this way and that across the deck. In the water, white hong swans with long flowing tails drifted around the ship, and their song was the sound of bells chiming.
But the Mer d’Iroise would be nothing like the still waters in Thailand. Would we be ready for the rough seas ahead? I swept my eyes across the deck to check the crew, but everyone was in place. Bee at the foremast, the cowbell clanging against her thigh. Rotgut up in the crow’s nest, peering out with bright eyes at the shining water. And Kashmir, near the mizzenmast, his knees bent, his body moving with the ship as she skipped over the rippling bay.
I had insisted on checking his jack lines myself before we’d left the harbor. He’d watched me fuss, his expression serious. Kash had changed clothes in preparation for visiting an older era—a white tunic over dark, slim-fitting britches—but as I’d tugged the straps of his harness, I’d noticed the lock was still at his waist, hanging from his black leather belt. Would it be a weight, or a buoy? Swallowing, I’d started checking the straps a second time, but he caught my hand. “Aroom bash, amira. The lines are strong. The only way I’ll be lost is if the ship goes down too.”
“That won’t happen,” I said quickly—to him, or to myself? But Kashmir nodded.
“Not with you at the helm.”
Now, I tightened my grip on the wheel, trying to focus again on the far horizon. But I was painfully aware of the distance between me and Kashmir. I wished he would trade places with Blake, who stood behind me on the quarterdeck. But Blake couldn’t handle a sail. He’d only wanted to observe the Navigation and had promised to stay out of the way—a promise he kept for nearly fifteen minutes.