Polaris

by Michael Northrop

  The others either nodded or mumbled their agreement. Owen took a deep breath and another look up into the tightly stretched sails. It was up to him now. A stray thought flitted across his mind like a sparrow flashing across a cloudy sky. The old crew had never liked him much—the captain’s nephew. Wouldn’t it be nice if this new one did? He tried to bat the thought away and concentrate on the ship.

  The Polaris rocked beneath them, the wind whistled through the sails, and the wooden masts groaned out their opinion on the matter. Owen heard them, but they were good thick masts, as wide as trees at their bases, and they’d been well greased and maintained.

  He looked up at the sky. Not a dark cloud in sight. With the words of the others still fresh in his mind—a few afternoon gusts, a good wind at our backs—he spoke.

  “Full sail,” he said. Henry, Maria, and Aaron cheered. He went on: “The wind is fickle in these waters. We’ll keep a close eye on it, but I fear that before long we’ll be complaining of too little wind rather than too much.”

  The crew finished their last bites of food and rose to their feet as one, finding the deck a bit more wobbly beneath them than it had been when they sat down. It was a fine speech, but as they headed back to work, Emma took a few steps closer to Owen. “Are you sure?” she said.

  Owen angled his steps away from her, still slightly unsettled by the idea of girls on board. He frowned. “Fairly sure,” he said, though even that was overstating it.

  “With all the sails set, one big gust and—”

  “And we’ll take some in,” he said.

  “If you say so,” she said, and then she brightened. “We are making good time, no doubt.”

  Owen smiled too, remembering the old sailor she’d picked up that “no doubt” from. Her English had been almost nonexistent when she first joined the crew, but it had been acquired in such close quarters with so many for so long, and it was still dotted with the sayings of many of those men. But it was an innocent phrase all her own that knocked the smile from his face.

  “If you are sure of our course,” she continued, “we could reach port ahead of schedule. Imagine it, ahead of schedule, despite all this foul luck.”

  “If you are sure of our course …” He looked back at Thacher at the wheel and then dipped his hand into his vest pocket. So far from shore, he’d replaced the borrowed spyglass with the captain’s compass. He turned it over in his hand now and felt its weight.

  Owen leaned over a well-worn map spread out across the desk in the corner of the captain’s cabin. Sunlight poured in from the windows, heating the side of his face and illuminating his predicament. He squinted down at the map, taking in all the markings. The black lines across the blue ocean denoted depth and currents and dangerous reefs. He eyed the less exact marks that had been left by the captain himself—the dotted lines and circled Xs—favored routes for a trip made many times.

  He traced one route in particular with his hand, his fingertips skimming hundreds of miles of imaginary sea in seconds. He followed the Central American coast northward and then veered off slightly to shoot the gap between the Yucatán Peninsula and Cuba. His eyes darted from side to side as he went, taking in the little arrows that indicated the direction of the currents flowing through the Caribbean Sea. His finger cut east and then northward, along the U.S. coast. He tapped it twice: home.

  This is the route we’re on. He glanced up at the compass, suspended in a gyroscopic gimbal at the top of the desk. Isn’t it? He looked back down at the map. These are the currents we need to follow … Aren’t they?

  The truth was, he had been no more than an occasional fly on the wall as the captain and first mate fussed over the maps and charts, debating winds, currents, and compass readings. He had certainly never taken part—well, unless you counted holding the captain’s tea as he worked the divider, or bringing a lamp a bit closer to some chart or other. Still, he felt confident he was doing it right—he had Eagling blood in him after all.

  He went over it all one more time. Once again, he became engrossed in the scaled-down world of the map. He didn’t notice that the sunlight was failing, the view through the window behind him turning from gold to gray. Nor did he hear the soft sound of something sneaking up on him.

  The door still hung lightly off its busted hinges, that morning’s hasty repair having failed just as quickly. As Owen hunched over the little desk, a dark shadow slipped silently in through the gap.

  It slid across the room, staying low, heading straight for his leg.

  Merew, it said, brushing against him.

  He felt the cat’s fur against the side of his bare ankle and reached down. But Daffodil sped away before he could pet her. “Well, then why did you rub my leg in the first place, you beast?”

  The ship’s cat jumped up onto the captain’s narrow bed, which now had a few charts spread out across the neatly tucked red blanket, along with the captain’s well-thumbed copy of Bowditch’s Practical Navigator. Daffodil nosed the pillow and looked back over at Owen. Mew?

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I miss him too.” He looked down at the big map, devilish in its complexity. “How I miss him.”

  The two considered each other. The ship’s cat was technically the property of the captain, and the cabin boy was, if not his property, at least his servant. Owen’s heart cracked ever so slightly as Daffodil lay down on the captain’s pillow. Only his scent remains …

  Suddenly, a loud thump sounded against the wall of the cabin. Owen looked over toward the wall, and back toward the window. The strong sunlight was gone now, the view much darker. When did that happen? The ship pitched forward, and he held on to the sides of the desk. As he tried to rise from his chair, a second, much stronger thump knocked him onto his backside.

  The weather had turned, and the ship was being buffeted by strong gusts of wind.

  Daffodil sprang to the floor and scampered under the bed. A moment later, a horrible groan sounded from out on deck, as loud as a dying cow. Before Owen could even push his chair back and stand, the sound transformed into a sharp and thunderous KRACKK!

  “Oh no,” he mumbled.

  He rushed across the room and toward the busted door, knowing in his pounding heart that he was already too late.

  Wedging his way through, he looked into the darkening skies above. He knew what he’d find, but not where he’d find it. Gazing into the sails, he saw it instantly.

  The mainmast … Blast it all.

  “We’ve sprung the yard,” said Emma.

  He glared at her, searching her tone for any little bit of “I told you so.” Not finding any, he relented. “I can see that,” he said. “Come on, then. Let’s get up there before the whole thing comes down.”

  The two rushed across the deck, picking up Aaron, Thacher, and Maria as they went. Aaron had been pulling apart old rope with Henry, showing him how to make the little bits of oakum they used to plug gaps in the wood. When Aaron stood up, Henry did also, but Owen could see he didn’t know what was going on. He took one look at Henry’s baffled expression and hesitant half steps and called, “You stay down here and take the wheel! It’s too dangerous aloft till we get that sheet down.”

  Too dangerous for a landlubber, anyway, he thought.

  A glint of steel at Henry’s feet caught his eye. “But hand me that knife!”

  Henry reached down and held it out, the blade straight toward Owen’s grasping hand. “Handle first, lubber!” he yelled at Henry, angry that he’d had to break his stride and wait. “Are you trying to gut me?”

  Henry flipped the blade around clumsily, nearly cutting both of them in the process. Owen grabbed it, secured it between his teeth, and hopped up onto the railing. He didn’t so much as glance down at the boundless depths below. Instead, he swung himself up into the lowest ratlines and began his swift climb upward.

  As Owen got higher, he could see the extent of the damage. The yardarm that held the big square mainsail was cracked, and the end on the port side was drooping n
oticeably. With each gust of wind, the wood splintered further. The fibrous sound of wood pulling itself apart made Owen sicker than the sea ever had.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought. He should have known this would happen. Sailing was always a dance with the devil, but these seas packed particular perils at this time of year, when hot air and cooler waters could produce devastating winds literally out of the blue.

  In their eagerness to get home sooner, they’d set too much sail. Stupid. He clamped down hard on the blade between his teeth, tasting metal and then blood. So stupid. He climbed faster, channeling his anger and pulling ahead of the others.

  When he reached the yard, he began scooting his way out on it. As he advanced, he could feel it giving up under his weight, every little crack and pop in the busted wood. Reluctantly, he put his feet back in the ratlines. He took the knife from his mouth.

  “Sprung,” he called back. “Utterly sprung—take care.”

  For a moment, he thought he’d have to cut the whole thing down, but a few large gashes in the canvas relieved some of the pressure. He replaced the knife and began taking the big sail down. The other four worked alongside him to do the same. He looked over at Emma, remembering her words clearly: “Are you sure?”

  She had been right, and he owed her an apology—or at least an acknowledgment of the fact. Instead, he just shook his head as if to say, Can you believe this wind? He found himself grateful for the knife in his mouth, which cut him off before he could begin to speak.

  The crew worked hard and carefully to unfasten the big sail. The boat pitched and rolled in the sudden wind, and Henry’s inexpert steering didn’t help. The motion was exaggerated as they hung from the mast high above the deck. They braced themselves as another powerful gust of wind filled the flapping, snapping sail and nearly carried them all away. Owen reached down and gashed the thing a few more times. He imagined he was stabbing an enemy, a mutineer.

  With ten hands working quickly, the big mainsail—the largest on the ship—soon came down.

  “Heads up down there,” Owen called to Henry. “Don’t get tented.”

  But the wind carried the heavy canvas forward as it fell to the deck, far from Henry’s post at the wheel. Thacher and Emma raced down to secure it as it hung up on the loose edges of the deck and kicked up and rippled in the wind.

  Maria and Aaron descended with their usual speed. But Owen climbed down slowly, checking for any further damage and thinking about what would come next. If they’d had a full crew—including the carpenter and his assistant—they would have tried to replace the sprung yard with one of the spare spars below. But with a skeleton crew and both of those men at the bottom of the sea? He looked down toward the deck and saw Thacher and Emma wrestling clumsily with the torn mainsail. Were they … laughing?

  It was hopeless. They would have to limp home without the largest sail on the ship. Stunned by the sheer and sudden weight of their misfortune, he swore, nicking his tongue on the knife. He spat the thing out without so much as a “Look out below!” His mouth pooled with blood, and he spat that out too.

  Thacher poked his head out from below the undulating canvas on deck. “Should we start mending it?” he called up. He poked his hand through one of the knife wounds. “You’ve made bloody work of it!”

  Owen dropped his head, spat out another mouthful of blood, and called out, “You can throw it overboard for all I care. The mainsail will stay bare.”

  The others turned to stare up at him.

  Thacher’s hand was still poking playfully through the hole in the canvas, but his face was now utterly stricken. “What was that?” he said, though he’d clearly heard him.

  “Are you sure?” called Aaron.

  Owen had heard those words before. But this time he was sure. What did they know about replacing yards? It was a job for seasoned carpenters. It would be dangerous to try—and more dangerous to do wrong. He pictured falling lumber bashing down on deck or tearing through the rigging.

  “I’m sure,” he said. “Someone fetch me the saw, and I will cut this broken wood off myself.”

  Owen sawed furiously, channeling his anger into his strokes. Sawdust slipped free and was immediately scattered by the gusting winds. “Careful down there,” he called as the saw’s teeth worked their way through the cracked wood. But he timed the final stroke perfectly and the port-side end of the old spar broke free just as the ship listed that way. The severed shaft plunged safely into the sea, where it bobbed back to the surface and was immediately caught up in the ship’s wake. It clunked against the hull—once, twice—as if in protest. And then it was gone, lost to the vast ocean they’d already put behind them.

  The sky had darkened by the time Owen returned to deck, and so had the mood of the crew. Owen could hear their occasional mutterings all around him. He watched as Thacher leaned in to whisper something to Aaron and they both looked over at him. A few minutes later, he turned to see Maria giving him a particularly venomous glare. He didn’t even dare look in Emma’s direction.

  They blame me, he thought, and for a fleeting moment, he almost did too.

  But as he stowed the saw and his tongue refused to heal, he remembered other words. Not just “Are you sure?” but also “This wind is wonderful” and “The faster we get to port, the better” and “Even a few puffs earlier would be welcome.”

  He remembered, in fact, every single word the others had said to him. He remembered “a few puffs, nothing more” and Maria’s sly insinuation of the doldrums. He turned to glare back at her now, but she was bent over her work. It was getting a bit dark for meaningful glares anyhow.

  With his pride hurt and the coppery taste of his own blood still in his mouth, he convinced himself it was the others’ fault. Once again, I did exactly what they wanted, he thought, even when I should have known better. I have to stop listening to these people!

  He spat a red gob onto the deck and glared around at them, daring them to say anything. They didn’t, though. They were too tired from reefing the remaining sails. And Thacher, who might normally have been counted on for a barbed comment or two, had relieved Henry at the wheel before he bashed the ship to pieces on the growing waves.

  Owen looked up. He saw the shortened sails bellied out in the dying light. But more than that, he saw the dark gap where the mainsail should’ve been. From now on they’d be limping home with a hole in their very middle, the old ship slower and harder to maneuver than ever.

  As the first fat drops of rain began to fall, Owen thought that this was as bad as it could get.

  He had no way of knowing that the real danger wasn’t looming in the growing darkness above his head but lurking in the shadowy hollows below his feet.

  And that like the darkness, it was growing.

  And like the sky, it was changing.

  The squall passed quickly, scooting off to the west and taking its treacherous winds with it. It had wasted no time doing its damage, with a leading edge packing gusts that would have been right at home in a hurricane. As the new crew dried out, the watch was set for the first time.

  “The ship can’t sail itself,” said Owen after a silent supper of salt pork and sea bread.

  “And we cannot sail it either,” he heard someone whisper. Thacher, he figured, but it was too dim to know for sure. There were a few chuckles in response, and those were harder to ignore.

  “Half of us need to be on deck at all times overnight,” he said, raising his voice. “There aren’t enough of us for dogwatches.”

  Owen took charge of the first watch without asking, and Emma was voted head of the second watch. The two best sailors, Owen thought with some satisfaction, but he wondered if that was still the consensus of the others. They picked their sides as if choosing teams for a game of rounders.

  Owen picked Aaron first, not because he was the most skilled seaman but because he was the most cautious. Perhaps he will keep us from sinking the boat altogether, he thought sullenly as he made the pick. Emma
chose Maria, to no one’s great surprise. Owen could see no sensible alternative and was forced to choose Thacher. That left Emma stuck with Henry.

  “We will make a sailor out of you yet, just watch,” she said, trying to make the best of it.

  The captain’s cabin was less crowded that night, with half of them out on deck. Owen piled the spare maps and a few particularly sharp pieces of navigation equipment on the captain’s bed, afraid that someone would take a cat nap there while he was on deck. Someone other than the actual cat, anyway. Since joining them, Daffodil hadn’t returned to her old haunts below deck. Instead, she mostly paced the deck and napped in the cabin.

  “She don’t like it down there either,” said Aaron.

  “We are spoiling her rotten with scratches behind the ear and bits of pork,” said Owen, ignoring the fact that he was, at that moment, scratching her behind the ear.

  “I have heard it said that cats are unusually sensitive to ghostly phenomena and hauntings,” said Thacher. “Dogs as well.”

  “Cats are definitely very sensitive to dogs,” said Owen, intentionally misunderstanding.

  Thacher blew out a puff of air, though it was unclear if it was from laughter or disdain. “You heard what Manny—I mean, the girl—had to say. Doors slamming in the dark, the lantern shattered upon the floor …”

  “Ships roll, doors slam,” said Owen.

  There was silence as the three swung lightly in their hammocks, and then Thacher said in a strange, sing-songy voice, “Ships roll, doors slam, and Owen stays above deck with the rest of us.”

  Owen could have responded angrily—he thought he probably should have—but instead he laughed. It was true. He kept denying it, and yet he was avoiding going between decks as much as any of them. And anyway, it felt good to laugh.

  Aaron joined in, and then, with a soft, dry chuckle, so did Thacher.