Hunt for the Pyxis

by Zoë Ferraris

  After a moment, Brightstoke climbed onto her knees and coughed up the last of the seawater. Only then did the crew break for the stairs, shouting for the captain.

  “It’s not true, is it?” Sparks demanded. “She’s not alive?”

  “She is, Captain, by my life, she is. We spoke and she said: ‘Good pirates never—’ ”

  “Nonsense!” Sparks interrupted. He ran a hand down his chest. “This is ridiculous. Mighty ridiculous. Two men—you there! Get your weapons and come with me.”

  Minutes later, they unlocked the door and crept down the stairs, their knives drawn and tuskets ready. They were surprised to find that the kitchen was empty and the woman was gone. They extended the search from every hidey-hole to the top of the masts, but no matter where they looked, they couldn’t find the notorious Halifax Brightstoke, second-greatest pirate of the seas.

  With an air of frustration, Captain Sparks called off the search and ordered his men to a long-awaited mess. As the captain finally lifted a fork to his own fine plate of ragoo’d rabbit, somebody topside began shouting again. Reluctantly, he tossed down his fork and went up to find the cook pointing to the spot where the lynx had been. The animal was gone, and two pairs of wet paw prints led right up to the starboard rail.

  Sparks wasted no time drawing anchor and setting the ship hastily on a full-speed course for “anywhere but Eridanus.”

  Shoes squeaking on the wooden planks, grocery bags landing with a thud on the deck floor, Emma and Herbie climbed on board the Markab, a single-masted thirty-foot yacht, just like they did every Saturday morning. Dad had been taking Emma out on the yacht and teaching her to sail since she was five. Herbie had only been coming for the past six months—it had taken years to convince his parents that he would be safe spending the night on the Markab —but he had taken to sailing like a natural.

  “Don’t forget your life jackets,” Dad said from the pier.

  Emma tossed one to Herbie and slid quickly into hers. Then she unlocked the cabin door and hustled Herbie down the stairs before he could put on his life jacket. She wanted to make sure that their charts were still there.

  “You always act like someone’s going to steal them,” Herbie said.

  They’d spent the past few weekends creating two very elaborate charts of the night sky, and if Dad hadn’t insisted that they leave the charts on the boat where they belonged, she would have carried them in her backpack permanently and treated them with the same reverence that she used for her compass and sextant.

  “I just want to make sure nothing happened to them,” she said, unlocking the drawer in the captain’s desk. The charts were there, scrolled up as they’d left them. “Whew. Okay, let’s get them laid out straight. I hate it when they curl.”

  She noticed that Herbie was wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans. It was equally strange that he kept looking out the window. He was watching Dad pour gas into the fuel tank.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  She had a bad feeling that this was about her dad again. Herbie was forever suspecting Dad of something. He was a spy. He was a thief. He was a Colombian drug lord. It made her further uncomfortable that Dad did nothing to improve his image: he changed jobs once a year, often leaving one and switching to another profession entirely. He traveled frequently, no matter what kind of job he had. He always seemed to have a lot of money, and he could afford to keep a nice yacht at one of the most expensive marinas—even when he wasn’t working for months at a time. Whenever anyone asked about his job, he said it was boring and not worth talking about.

  Emma had tried explaining that Dad changed jobs because his boss had been a jerk, or because he worked too many hours for too little pay. She explained how her grandparents had died before she was born and left her parents with an inheritance, which they used in those lean months when her dad didn’t have a job. But Herbie never fully accepted these explanations. He was always hatching a new theory about her dad’s “real” activities. As far as Emma was concerned, there was one thing that Dad was reliable, almost obsessive, about—he took her sailing whenever he could—and that was what mattered.

  Normally when they were on the boat together, Herbie was so excited about sailing, and just as eager as she was to get out on the ocean, that he didn’t mention his wild theories—and he certainly never talked about them while Dad was there. But right now his face was screwed up with a look of suspicion.

  “Didn’t he fill up the tank last weekend?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “Why do you care?”

  “It’s just…I know he filled it up last week.”

  “Maybe he didn’t fill it all the way,” she said. “Come on, it’s not like he’s rigging up a bomb.” She unrolled the charts and laid them on the table. “Hand me the meteorites,” she said, motioning to Dad’s special black rocks that were lined up along a shelf.

  “They’re not meteorites,” Herbie said for the hundredth time, but he collected the four stones from the shelf and put them at the edges of the charts.

  She checked her backpack to make sure her equipment was intact, then stowed it beneath the desk. She gave Herbie another look. He was wearing his favorite green windbreaker. He had short black hair, pink cheeks, and kind brown eyes behind his metal-rimmed glasses. He was a bit taller than Emma, and over the past few months he’d gotten kind of chubby. Mom said he would grow out of it.

  “Aren’t you going to put on your life jacket?” she asked.

  He broke away from staring at Dad. “Oh. Yeah.”

  She and Herbie had met in fourth-grade Chess Club. They became friends because Emma was the only person Herbie had ever met who would agree to call him Ragnar, Master of the Dragon Lords. He’d grown out of that phase a long time ago, but if she wanted to tease him, she could still call him Ragnar to terrific effect.

  Herbie’s parents were very strict about homework, even though he got perfect grades. He had eight older brothers and sisters, and if he stayed home, his parents would force him to spend the whole day studying so he could become like his brothers, three of whom were doctors. (The fourth one was an architect, the fifth one a dentist.) Herbie was already busy enough with Chess Club, Mandarin lessons, Bible study, and tuba practice, but these days the only thing he really wanted to do was go sailing with Emma.

  Maybe he’d had a change of heart?

  “Dad said we can do nighttime navigation today,” she said. She was excited about this and she had thought Herbie would be as well. “You’re not worried about it, are you?”

  “No,” Herbie said defensively. “I like navigation.” He set his backpack on the sofa, put on the life jacket, and went topside before she could ask any more questions.

  Five minutes later, the engine was roaring and Emma and Herbie were standing by the captain’s wheel. Behind them, a clink sounded: the mainsail’s cords, which had little silver rings on them, were dangling from the mast. Herbie was staring at them in puzzlement.

  “Herbie,” Dad said, releasing the boat from the pier, “why don’t you take her out of the harbor today?”

  Herbie shot Emma a look that said I can’t! She was surprised. Normally, they took turns guiding the boat—if Herbie sailed them out, then Emma would trim sails. Steering the ship was actually the easier job, but it meant standing closer to Dad.

  Emma leaned in closer to Herbie and whispered, “What is going on?”

  “Later,” he whispered back.

  “Fine.” She turned to Dad. “I want to be at the wheel today,” she said. Herbie looked embarrassed as he moved toward the sails. Emma had the distinct impression that he didn’t want to stand close to Dad because he wouldn’t be able to be his typical polite self.

  Trying to ignore the whole thing, Emma focused on the boat. She put the engine into gear, gripped the wheel, and steered them deftly past the yachts and into the bay.

  Every time they sailed out, she watched Dad closely. She had always wanted t
o be more like him. She stole jackets from his closet and wore them even though they were too large. She would have liked to have his jet-black hair and green eyes, or his tall, solid build. Maybe if she had, the kids at school wouldn’t pick on her so much. As it was, she’d gotten nearly everything from her mom—dirty-blond hair, a smirking mouth, and the distinct blue eyes that were narrow and catlike, sometimes cunning. She also got her mom’s small, delicate frame and all the fierce pride that seemed to go along with it.

  Emma reminded herself constantly that she and her mom were different in one big respect: Mom never went sailing, while Emma loved the ocean and lived only for the weekend, when she could be on the water again.

  Dad snatched the binoculars that were hanging from a hook near the wheel and went to the starboard rail. Emma found this strange. He didn’t use the binoculars unless something particular caught his interest.

  “Dad,” she called over the groan of the engine, “what is it?”

  He quickly lowered the binoculars. “Ah…I’m checking the current.”

  “Why?” she asked, puzzled.

  He didn’t reply. Emma steered dead ahead, awaiting his orders. She was determined to prove what an excellent sailor she was. Right now she and Herbie were just ordinary seamen, but Dad had promised her that once she became an able seaman, he would take her sailing around the world. It was all she ever thought about, and her bedroom was littered with books about sailing the Caribbean and the Pacific Islands, and navigation guides from ports as far-flung as Muscat. Emma desperately wanted Herbie to come too, and Dad had already said he would consider it, but Herbie was cynical. “Are you kidding? My parents barely let me come sailing on the weekends.”

  “Set the sails!” Dad cried.

  Emma switched off the engine and Herbie let out the sails. The wind gave them a hard, immediate punch.

  “You all right there, Herbie?” Dad shouted over the wind.

  “Yes, skipper,” came a feeble reply. Herbie looked anxious but managed to keep the sails double-reefed.

  Dad lowered the binoculars, but instead of draping them back over the hook by the wheel, he hung them around his neck. Emma found this odd as well.

  “Windward, then!” Dad cried. His standing policy was to leave the marina no matter what the wind and currents were like. So Herbie set the sails in tight and Emma turned the Markab, driving her hard to weather.

  As they headed into the bay, fighting a twenty-knot wind and an aggressive current, it took no time at all to drench the jib to the masthead and send foamy green waves splashing onto everyone, soaking them to the bone. Herbie was right to be nervous! Emma thought wildly. This is crazy! She gripped the wheel with determination—no matter how many times she’d done it, it still made her heart pound to tackle a strong wind. Now it seemed to be coming after them personally, knocking them with repeated blows. Her arms were straining from holding the wheel. She imagined the boat capsizing. It frightened her so much that she felt the impulse to shout for Dad’s help. She was too small for this! She resisted the urge to look at Herbie, who was no doubt gripping the boom with his own white-knuckled fear.

  “You okay?” Dad called. It wasn’t a question; it was a challenge. If she said no, he would take the wheel, but she knew what he would think: she was cowardly, just like her mom.

  “I’m fine!” she said defiantly. She kept her eyes on the water.

  The wind drove them quickly toward the entrance to the bay. The Golden Gate Bridge loomed above them, glowing a majestic orange against the morning’s deep-blue sky. Beneath the bridge ran a busy shipping lane, but right now there were no large container ships in sight.

  Emma guided them into the open expanse of the sea. As soon as they’d cleared the bridge’s shadow, she dared a glance at Herbie and saw that he was looking a bit more confident.

  “All right, kids,” Dad said, clapping his hands. “We want to go north. Where’s the wind?”

  Emma rolled her eyes. It was annoying that after they had traversed some of the trickiest straits in the world, Dad still didn’t seem to think they could handle the open ocean. Any ordinary seaman could do that!

  “Northerly,” she said.

  “Excellent. Which course?”

  “Three-ten,” Emma said, giving him a zombie stare.

  “And how are you going to do that with a northerly wind?”

  “Tacking to port and beating to windward,” she recited monotonously.

  “Good. Herbie, can you handle the sails?”

  “Dad,” Emma said sharply, “I think we can handle the sails.”

  “Very well,” he said with a touch of mock asperity. “Then she’s all yours, skipper.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said sarcastically.

  She turned to the wheel, feeling more confident and finally allowing herself to enjoy the wind rushing through her hair and the salty spray dappling her face. There were a few salmon fishing boats near the coast, but the Markab was quickly putting them behind it and heading into the ocean. She couldn’t suppress a happy grin.

  Then suddenly the Markab slammed to a halt.

  The force of their sudden stop reverberated through every bone in Emma’s body. It thundered to the top of the rigging and nearly sent Herbie and Dad flying into the sea. If it hadn’t been for some quick ducking and grabbing, they would have toppled overboard.

  “What was that?” Emma cried, feeling irrationally that this was her fault. Had she held the wheel too hard? Broken the rudder?

  “We must have hit something,” Herbie said breathlessly, climbing to his feet.

  Everyone looked to the sails, which were still pillowed taut with the wind, yet the boat did not seem to be moving an inch in the water. Emma turned the wheel, but nothing happened.

  “What was that?” she asked. Both she and Herbie turned to Dad. Strangely, he had run to the stern and was now staring at the bay behind them.

  “Dad,” Emma said.

  He spun around, looking startled.

  “What are we supposed to do?” she asked.

  “You’re in charge,” he said. “You can handle this.”

  “But we’re not moving!” she cried.

  “Figure it out.” He went back to scanning the coastline.

  Emma was sweating, and a terrifying flutter was beating up from her chest. She left the wheel and circled the boat desperately, trying to imagine what could have stopped them so suddenly.

  “I can’t see anything!” she said. The water beneath them was choppy with foam. “Maybe we hit a bank?” she asked.

  “There are no banks here,” Herbie said. “Uh, Emma…” He pointed over her shoulder. “We’ve got a ship coming.”

  She turned to see a large container ship. It was about twenty miles out, driving a course into the bay. The Markab was right in its path.

  “Dad! It’s a ship!”

  But Dad already had it in his sights. “I think you’d better hurry,” he said. He was trying to play it cool, but his voice had a shaky quality.

  “What do we do?” she squealed. “That ship’s going to hit us!”

  Herbie was paler than she’d ever seen him. “Maybe we should inflate the life raft?” he squeaked.

  “Yep,” Dad said, and with surprising alacrity hauled the life raft canister from beneath the bench. “Emma,” he said, his voice strangely aggressive. “What are you going to do?”

  Emma was having trouble breathing. The container ship seemed to be getting closer much too quickly. Don’t panic, she thought. Don’t be a chicken. She walked frantically around the deck, shoving a boat hook into the water and trying to understand what was holding them in place. Whatever it was, they had only a few minutes to break free of it. She spun on Herbie.

  “Start the engine!” she shouted, kicking herself for not having thought of it until now. Herbie scrambled for the controls and fired them up. Emma raced back to the wheel. The engine roared to life and she revved it to its full horsepower, while Herbie ran to the stern to check the ripple.<
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  “We’re still not moving!” he cried.

  True panic set in. Emma felt her legs weaken. She revved the engine even harder and looked again at the container ship, which was terrifyingly close now. Dad was fumbling with the lines to the raft, and she could see that he was alarmed. Think, think, she told herself ruthlessly. We just have to break free.

  PFFFFFFF! The raft inflated. Dad hauled it over the side.

  There’s got to be a way! she thought wildly.

  “Come on, kids!” Dad said. “Into the life raft!”

  “No!” Emma cried. “The Markab can’t sink!” It couldn’t be that they’d lost the bottom of the boat—they’d be upside down by now. They must be stuck on something. And the only way to get free would be to try to jolt themselves loose.

  “What’s the plan?” Dad asked.

  “We’ve got to break ourselves free. Herbie, sheet the mainsail in tight. I’m going to try to pivot!”

  Herbie rushed to obey her.

  As soon as the mainsail was sheeted tightly enough, she gunned the engine in reverse and turned ninety degrees to port. The Markab tipped with a sudden, rapid force. Terrified that they’d capsize, she turned quickly to starboard, tipping the boat to the other side.

  “Keep going!” Dad shouted, staring at the container ship. “I think they’ve noticed us. They’re changing course, but not fast enough.”

  “Emma, hurry!” Herbie cried.

  “I am hurrying!” she cried back, steering wildly to port now and tipping them again. “Just one…more…”

  SNAP! Abruptly the Markab broke free and found itself in full wind, tipping halfway to the water and sliding into an uncontrollably reckless course. Emma seized the wheel and steered them desperately to starboard, shouting at Herbie to reef them so she could regain some control. All the while the steel hull of the container ship grew larger, but every ounce of Emma’s attention was focused on getting them clear of its path. With Herbie rushing about behind her, she finally got the Markab steadied, and she blasted it on a straight course away from the Goliath.