From the Walfang Gazette
Theft at Miller Gallery
An eighteenth-century painting disappeared from the Miller Gallery last Tuesday. “I just walked in and noticed a blank spot on the wall,” said gallery director Don Beltran yesterday. The painting had been on loan as part of the “Gifts of the Sea” exhibit, on display until September 15…
Gretchen watched the creamer tumble to the bottom of the iced coffee, leaving a trail of ghostly white in its wake. She stirred the liquid with a straw and took a sip, hoping it would wake her up, if not lift her mood.
“Hon, you’re concentrating a little bit too hard on that coffee and not enough on table fourteen,” Lisette said as she swept past, a heavy tray in her hand.
Gretchen looked up, registering the father and two young sons who had descended into her section. She took a swig of her drink, then tucked it behind the counter and went out to greet her customers. They wanted Belgian waffles with strawberries on top, and she took the orders automatically and stuck them onto the board for Angel.
“Wake up, Gretchen,” he snapped at her. “You look like a zombie.”
“Thanks,” Gretchen replied. Her body felt too heavy, her mind too numb, to think of a witty reply.
“Oh, lay off, Angel,” Lisette called from across the diner.
Gretchen grabbed her coffee and took another swig. Asia was sorting silverware nearby, smiling as Angel muttered to himself. “How does she get away with it?” Gretchen asked, half to herself.
“Lisette?” Asia looked up. “You mean, why doesn’t Angel get angry with her teasing?”
“Yeah. If anyone else talked that way to him, he’d be pissed.”
Asia shrugged. “He’s in love with her.”
“What? Oh my God, I thought they hated each other!”
Asia laughed softly. “No. They’re getting married next summer.”
“Whoa-I had no idea.” Gretchen sneaked a glance at sour-looking Angel, a prisoner behind his window. He was scowling at the waffle iron. “How did you find that out?”
“Sometimes people just tell me things.”
“I’m going on break, ladies.” Lisette pulled off her apron and stuffed it into a cubby behind the counter. “Anyone want anything from Conrad’s?”
“Get me a pack of that gum you’re always smacking.” This was from Angel.
“Was I asking you? See you all in fifteen.” Lisette gave them a toodle-loo wave and headed toward the rear.
Gretchen noticed the smile Lisette and Angel exchanged just before she pushed open the back door. She wondered how many of those glances she had missed.
Taking another pull of coffee, Gretchen reached for her notebook. A paper fell out, fluttering to the floor. Asia reached down to get it. “Good news?” she asked as she handed it back to Gretchen, face down.
Gretchen let one shoulder rise, then dip. “It’s just-a letter from my mother.”
The clean spoons clinked as Asia dropped them into their compartment. She didn’t speak or even look at Gretchen.
“She wants me to come live with her… in Paris.”
Asia nodded as she reached for the knives. “Will you go?”
“I don’t… I don’t know.” Gretchen tucked the paper into the notebook.
Asia nodded. “It’s not really about choosing one place or another, is it?” Her eyes held Gretchen’s.
“I’ve never been close to my mother,” Gretchen admitted. “She’s…” Gretchen shook her head, unsure how to describe Yvonne. “She isn’t my birth mother.”
“Does that matter?” Asia asked.
“Not really. My dad isn’t my birth dad, either, and I’m close to him. But I just think that she never really saw me as her daughter. She just saw me as this… person.”
Asia considered this. “But living with her might give you an opportunity to get to know her.”
“Or it might make me insane,” Gretchen countered. “And it would probably break my dad’s heart.”
“It sounds like you don’t want to go,” Asia said.
“Not particularly.”
“And yet you’re carrying around this letter.”
Gretchen sighed. “I guess I’m not sure I want to stay here, either.” She felt the pressure building in her throat.
Asia placed a hand on Gretchen’s arm. “The memories will follow you,” she said. Her voice was soft and somehow comforting, although the words were disturbing. The memories will follow me, Gretchen thought, and in an instant she was back on the beach. Her vision was filled with fire.
It was night, and the sail of Tim’s boat was in flames. Will was lying on the sand beside her, unconscious, and Gretchen was shivering in wet clothes. She didn’t know how she’d gotten there. She didn’t know how the fire had started. All she knew was that she was terrified. Gretchen checked to make sure that Will was alive. But when she heard the police sirens, she left Will on the shore and ran through the darkness to her own home. She heard Guernsey barking in the background as she sneaked quietly into her room. She peeled off her wet clothes and tossed them into the washing machine before her father realized anything was wrong.
Gretchen had desperately wanted to tell Will everything, but she didn’t know how. Part of her was terrified that Will would blame her for Tim’s death. And maybe I am guilty, Gretchen thought. That was the most frightening part-she didn’t know for sure.
“Gretchen!” Angel yelled. Gretchen jumped, startled. She turned and saw him glowering. “Order up.”
With a shaking hand, Gretchen grabbed the three Belgian waffles and delivered them to table fourteen.
When she got back to the counter, she saw that Asia had refilled her iced coffee. “Thanks,” Gretchen said.
“I’m back!” Lisette called as she bustled through the rear door. “Got your gum, you jerk.” She tucked it into the rear pocket of Angel’s hideous black-and-white-checked pants. She stuffed her purse into the cubby and pulled out her apron. “What did I miss?” she asked as she tied the apron strings.
Me spilling my guts out to Asia, Gretchen thought.
“We were just talking,” Asia said at last.
“Well, chat time’s over, toots,” Lisette told her. “Those ladies just sat in your section.”
“Back to work,” Asia said as she got to her feet. She gave Gretchen a warm glance and a gentle pat on the shoulder.
Gretchen watched as Asia glided over to the older women. They smiled up at her as if she were a friend. Sometimes people just tell me things, Asia had said.
People, Gretchen thought. Like me.
“Gran!” Angus called as they slammed in through the back door and straight into the kitchen. “Gran!”
A white cockatiel in a cage squawked at them from its perch near the refrigerator. The house smelled stale, but the kitchen was tidy. Angus’s grandmother didn’t cook much.
“For God’s sake, quit yelling.” Angus’s grandmother shuffled in from the living room, a cigarette in one hand and an ashtray in the other. “And stop calling me Gran. My name’s Roberta.” She perched primly onto a cushioned metal folding chair and gave Will the eye. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Will, Gran. You’ve met him a hundred times.” Angus had his arm buried up to the elbow in a cookie jar shaped like a giant strawberry.
“Hello, Mrs. McFarlan.”
Angus’s grandmother took a long drag on her cigarette. Then she touched her bleached hair gingerly with a long, manicured nail. “You’re the Archer boy,” she said, eyeing his scar.
“Gran, you call these cookies?” Angus complained through a mouthful of Oreo crumbs. “They’re stale!”
“Don’t eat those; they’re ancient. They’ll probably kill you.”
Angus swallowed. He’d already polished off three. “Eh, they’re not awful. You want one?” This was directed at Will.
“I’m good.”
“So, what brings you by?” Mrs. McFarlan peered at her grandson with a keen eye as the cockatiel pecked at itself in a mirror. “Don’t tell me you came for the Oreos.”
“I was wondering if you remembered any of those old stories that Gramps used to tell-the ones about the seekriegers.”
“Oh, those old stories.” Mrs. McFarlan ground her cigarette into the ashtray, where the embers spread and scattered like dying stars. “I swear, Walfang fishermen are the most superstitious men in the entire world.”
Angus lifted his eyebrows at Will. You see?
“So what were they?” Will asked. “Angus said mermaids?”
Mrs. McFarlan studied him for a moment, tapping her nails against the wooden tabletop. “Something like that. But not like mermaids in pictures. No fins or any of that crap. More like wild women of the sea.”
“So you remember the stories,” Angus prompted.
“I remember. Arthur always half believed in them, I think.” The cockatiel had started making a racket, and Mrs. McFarlan crossed to the cage. “Come, sweetie, come out.” She pursed her lips into a wet kiss and offered her finger to the cockatiel.
“So can you tell us about the seekriegers?” Angus pressed.
Mrs. McFarlan cried out, tearing her hand from the cage. A delicate drop of blood traced down her finger where the cockatiel had bitten her. Angus grabbed a flowered kitchen towel and held it out to his grandmother, but she just scowled at him and reached for a paper towel. “Lunatic bird,” she grumbled as she pressed the towel against her finger.
“Sorry, Gran,” Angus said.
“It’s my right hand, too.” Mrs. McFarlan shook her head as the cockatiel squawked and bobbed its head. “Everybody in this family’s crazy.” She narrowed her eyes up at Angus. “What do you want to know about the seekriegers for?”
“Just… I was trying to remember the stories.” Angus’s voice sounded feeble.
“It’s because of me,” Will interjected. “This guy I know thinks he saw one.”
“This guy you know?”
“He may just be on drugs,” Will admitted. “Or nuts.”
“He saw one?” Mrs. McFarlan looked doubtful.
“He heard one,” Will corrected.
The plastic cushion sighed as Mrs. McFarlan sat down heavily. “He heard one,” she repeated. She thought a moment. Then she got up and left the room.
Will heard her footsteps retreat through the living room. Then boards creaked as she ascended the stairs.
Will and Angus looked at each other. The bird let out a squawk, then fell silent.
“Does your grandmother often just walk out of the room like that?” Will asked.
“Not usually.”
“Should we leave?”
“I’m not sure,” Angus admitted. But instead of heading for the door, he crossed to the refrigerator. “Oh, great, lemonade.” He pulled out the carton and checked it. “It hasn’t even expired yet.” He poured some into a glass, chugged it, and poured himself another glass. Then he got down another for Will and filled it half full. “It’s finished, dude-sorry.”
Will pulled out a chair and sat down on the maroon cushion. It was surprisingly comfortable for a folding chair. The table had a cushioned vinyl-covered top, too. Angus sat down in his grandmother’s chair and set the mismatched glasses on the table. Will took a sip of the lemonade. It was cloyingly sweet, coating his tongue with sugar. But the cold felt good.
The boards creaked again, and then Mrs. McFarlan appeared in the doorway. She was tall and thin, like a blade of grass. She wore shorts that revealed skin sagging at the knee and an old pink T-shirt. With her short blond hair that was dark at the roots, she gave the impression of a flower that had stayed too long in a vase and started to fade in the sun. In her hand was a book.
“What’s that, Gran?” Angus asked.
“This was written by your grandfather’s grandfather.” Mrs. McFarlan placed it gently on the table. “It probably belongs in some historical society, but Arthur never wanted to give it away.”
Will reached out and touched the cover with a fingertip. It was hand-pressed leather, worn to a fossil by time. He looked at Mrs. McFarlan, and she nodded her approval. Slowly, slowly, he opened the cover. Turned to a page in the middle. The next had a heading: July 15, 1884. The page was crammed with tight, even writing.
“It’s a captain’s log,” Mrs. McFarlan explained. “Arthur’s grandfather was lost at sea at a young age. They found his boat broken apart on a sandbar not six miles from home.”
“He was the captain?” Angus asked.
His grandmother nodded. “Rowan McFarlan, yes.”
“Have you read it?” Angus asked her.
“I read it,” she told him. “All it proves is that everyone in this family is nuts.” But her voice was hollow.
Will could hardly bear to take his hand from the book. “May I take it?” he asked.
“I think you’d better.” Mrs. McFarlan looked out the window. The light had dimmed in the room, and Will saw that dark clouds were gathering at the edge of the horizon. “At least we’ll get a break from this heat,” she said.
“We’d better get going before we get drenched,” Angus said. He leaned over and gave his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Gran.”
She turned her sharp crow’s gaze on Will. “I want that book back.”
Will nodded. “Absolutely.”
Angus held open the screen door. Will took a step toward it, but Mrs. McFarlan called him back.
“Keep an eye on that friend of yours,” she told him. “The one who heard the seekriegers.”
“I thought you said they didn’t exist,” Angus said.
She kept her eyes locked on Will. “Keep an eye on him,” she repeated.
“I will.” It felt like a promise between them.
Will and Angus stepped outside into the heavy air. Just as they settled into Angus’s battered Ford, the rain started to pour from the sky. It skimmed over the windshield in a heavy sheet. Angus looked down at the book tucked safely on Will’s lap. “This must be our lucky day,” he said.
“Yeah,” Will agreed, although he wasn’t really sure he believed it.
Will didn’t read the book for the next three days. It simply sat, indifferent, on the top of his bureau. Will was burning to read it. But he didn’t want to read snatches here and there. He wanted to be alone with it, to study it.
But he didn’t have the time. There were sunflowers to collect. The flowers were as tall as he was, and their cordlike stems were coated in prickly fuzz that left his hands raw. He collected tomatoes in the early morning, before the sun became desperate and fierce. He picked the crisp green lettuce and the arugula that could command top dollar with the foodies, then rinsed it in the enormous stainless-steel sink. Will pulled weeds, mulched with hay, made sure the chickens were fed. One morning Will noticed that the smallest one-the one with a twisted leg-had been pecked twice. Will dressed the two small raw wounds and separated her from the rest of the flock. He built a small cage for her with wood and chicken wire, and placed a roost in the corner. He felt sorry for her, alone in her cage, watching the other chickens with the longing of a lonely child kept inside while the others played. But what could he do? If he let her out among the flock, they would peck her to death.
And he worked at the stand. It was high season, and everything was selling. His mother’s freshly baked scones and muffins were usually gone by nine-thirty in the morning. The stack of New York Times newspapers disappeared even earlier. The tomatoes, dahlias, blackberries, zucchini, peppers, yellow squash, corn… Will often stood for five hours straight behind the counter. He didn’t have time to pee, so he tried not to drink anything early in the morning. Tim had once joked that he had to wear Depends on the days he was working the stand. Will was beginning to think that was a good idea.
The fourth morning, Will came downstairs early. His father was already at the breakfast table. His uncle Carl was there, too. The coffeepot gurgled and sputtered on the counter beside a mug his mother had set out for Will. A flowered china plate sat patiently on the table, a scone set neatly at the center. His mother had placed jars of homemade pear and strawberry jam on the table, along with real butter.
“Hey, Will!” Carl called, grinning hugely. “Good to see you, bedhead!”
His father sat at the other side of the square white table, eyeing him silently. He looked down at his plate, took another forkful of scrambled egg, and dipped it in a mound of ketchup. “You’re lookin’ tired,” Will’s father said.
“Slept badly,” Will said as he poured the dark, fragrant coffee into the mug.
“Didn’t sleep at all, more like,” his father said.
“Teenagers are always up late,” Carl said with a grin.
“Yeah.” Will sank into the chair across from his father’s and tore open his scone.
“Somethin’ botherin’ you?” Will’s father asked. He looked up at Will with a strange mixture of curiosity and trepidation-as if he wanted to hear what was on Will’s mind but was afraid of what it might be.
Will had a sudden desire to tell his father everything. He couldn’t explain it, but he really felt like his father was listening. “Dad, have you ever heard of… sea witches?”
“Witches?”
“Or… seekriegers?”
“What?” Will’s father exchanged a wary glance with Carl. Will’s uncle got busy eating a piece of sausage.
“Never mind.” Will spread strawberry jam on the scone very precisely. He couldn’t meet his father’s gaze. He sounded crazy. He knew it.
“What are you asking?” Will’s father was holding a fork in one hand, a knife in the other, and watching Will intensely.
“It’s just-I’ve heard some stories lately.” Will shrugged and gave a half laugh, trying to make it seem as if the whole thing were a joke. “Crazy stories, I guess.”
His father set his fork and knife down carefully. He took a long pull of his coffee and sat silent as a stone.
Will picked at his scone. It was still warm from the oven-moist and sweet, dotted with black currants. His mother made them every morning, along with muffins and cookies to sell at the stand. She got up at three to bake, then went back to bed at eight for a few hours.
Will usually liked the quiet mornings with his father, and he was always happy to see his uncle. Will’s dad didn’t believe in breakfast cereal-he said it was a conspiracy concocted by large corporations to make people eat garbage in the morning. He always made himself eggs and toast, and occasionally he would fry up some bacon. They would eat in companionable silence, then clean up and get to work.
But this morning the silence made Will squirm. His eye fell on the local newspaper, and he was reaching for it when his father said, “There’s a lot of strange stories in this town.”
“What?” Will was shocked.
“I’ve heard of the seekriegers,” his father said quietly. He looked Will dead in the eye.
“And?” Will turned to his uncle. Carl looked as if he had something to say, but a glance from Will’s father silenced him.
Will’s father took his plate to the sink. His back was turned to Will when he said, “There’s nothing to those tales, Will. Just a bunch of junk for simple minds.” He dried his hands carefully and hung the flowered towel on a hook on the wall. “Come on, Carl,” he said. Then he walked out the back door without another word.
Carl downed another plug of coffee. He gave Will an apologetic smile, then shoved in his chair and hurried after his brother.
That night Will took a shower and crawled into bed. He turned out the light and tucked his feet under Guernsey’s warm body. But he couldn’t fall asleep. The moon shone like a searchlight into his room. It illuminated the bureau, and on top of that, the book, which crouched like an animal on the corner.
Guernsey didn’t move as Will pushed back the covers and crossed the room. The book was heavy in his hands. He climbed back into bed, clicked on the small lamp on the table at his bedside, and turned to the first brittle page.
July 12, 1884
39° 21′ N, 52° 53′ W
I expect we are three weeks from port, fair skies, but the winds do not blow. The ELIZA THOMAS is a fair craft, albeit small, and has the reputation of being a lucky ship, and I’ve enjoyed captaining her.
I haven’t thought to put down anything since our departure from the Azores, as it has been a very ordinary trip. But there was a worrisome occurrence today. I was looking over some charts in my quarters when I heard a clamor abovedecks and rushed to see what was the matter. Two men, Akers and Michaelson, were having a right row. Akers had a knife in his hand, and took a swipe atMichaelson right before my eyes as the other men cheered him on. I demanded to know the meaning of all this, and Akers turned to me with wild eyes. Truly, I felt as though I were looking on the devil himself. With the knife in his hand, it was difficult to stand my ground. Still, I knew my duty as captain, and I did not move.
Michaelson accused Akers of stealing his knife.
Akers is a small man with dark hair and flashing eyes, and he hissed like a viper when he admitted that he did steal the knife. His long nose and furtive manner reminds one of vermin, and he crouched in a ratlike way as he reported, “Ee’s been helpin’ ’isself to extra rations in secret, ee ’as. So’s I just made it a wee more difficult for ’im, didn’ I?”
This aroused grumblings from the men. I felt their tension behind my back. It was true, I had decreased the rations for the past few days, as the winds have been light and we may be out to sea longer than expected. But this disobedience was a foulsign. I asked for a defense from Michaelson, who looked like an animal in a trap and acknowledged taking more than his share. He then sprang at Akers, who lashed out with the knife.
A bright red stripe appeared along the length of Michaelson’s forearm, but he was the larger of the two, and he pressed forward with all of his weight until he was nearly crushing Akers against a barrel. He slammed Akers’s hand against the barrel once, twice, all the while ignoring my command to stop. He kept smashing it until the knife finally fell from the crushed knuckles.
Akers reached for Michaelson’s throat, but Michaelson had the superior strength. I thought for sure that Akers would be killed, but at that moment my first mate, Owen Moore, stepped forward and yanked Michaelson away. Akers stood up and made to lunge at Michaelson again, but two large deck hands stepped forward and caught his arms. Still, he struggled against them like a cat in a bag.
Moore looked at me. He’s a tall man, with the blond hair of the Swedish, and eyes like the calm sea. He moves slowly, but with extreme firmness. He and the men hauled Akers and Michaelson belowdecks.
Around me, the hands were silent. I ordered them back to work and they went, albeit grumbling. I do not like this dawning mood among the men. Resistance and insubordination will not be tolerated on this ship. But I will have a talk with Moore to make sure that the punishment for Akers and Michaelson is swift and harsh.
If we are to be on the sea much longer, there will be greater sacrifices to be made. And resistance could spell mutiny.
July 14
39° 20′ N, 53° 03′ W
The waters have gone strangely calm. Nor does the air move. It is almost as if we are sailing on a sea of glass. I imagine we are like the waterbugs I’ve seen skimming over the surface of a still lake. Their long legs make only the slightest impression on the water. Here weare, like them, simply waiting for the wind to change.
Michaelson received seven lashes for his infraction, Akers five. Moore was efficient and professional, and I am grateful to have such a man as first mate. This was done in full view of the men. Michaelson cried out during his caning, but Akers made not a sound. He merely looked at me with those vermin eyes. His silence was as odd as the breathless wind, and truly sent a cold feeling into the pit of my stomach. Still, I dared not look away, as that would be seen as a sign of weakness among the men.
When it was over, Braithwaite jostled me slightly with his elbow as he passed and did not offer an apology. I gave him a dressing-down, but did not like the look in his eyes.
I sometimes feel the dark glances of the men as I pass by, and I fear they have still not forgotten what happened with Hawken. Their mistrust and anger linger.
But they would do well to remember that lesson. No one is important enough to imperil the entire ship.
No one.
July 16
39° 20′ N, 55° 45′ W
Still no wind. If we do not move soon, I will have to cut rations further. Perhaps we shall find a small island somewhere in which to refill our barrels of fresh water. But I do not wish to refresh the men’s anger.
July 21
39° 20′ N, 59° 39′ W
We’ve gone to half rations. The men are both idle and tired, for there is little to do aboard a ship with no wind, and yet the idleness makes their bones weak.
July 23
40° 01′ N, 63° 52′ W
The sea is moving at last, and we’ve caught a fine breeze. I feel the spirits of the men lifting, like a dark curtain.
July 27
40° 40′ N, 65° 43′ W
There was a desperate knock at the door of my quarters this evening, and when I answered, there stood Moore, and Akers was with him. Akers was wild, shouting that we had to “save the girl.” I looked to Moore for an explanation, but he said that he couldn’t get Akers to make sense. Akers screeched that there was a girl in the water-that we had to save her. We rushed abovedecks and raced to the starboard side, where Akers had seen the girl in the light of the moon. But when we looked out, there was nothing but empty sea below a moonlit sky.
Akers scanned the waters, as if he expected the girl to reappear. Moore looked at me, and I knew that he and I had the same thought. We were miles from any known shore. What girl could be this far out to sea, all alone, no sign of another ship anywhere on the horizon? Akers was clearly mad. But we’re a man short already, and I am loath to lock him up.
Perhaps I am making a grave error. Either way, I fear for the men.
July 29
41° 20′ N, 66° 52′ W
A banging at my chamber door startled me out of sleep. I was jolted from a vivid dream, and for a moment, I even forgot where I was. I’d dreamt that I was alone on the ship in the middle of the sea. The waves lapped like a cat’s tongue at the side of the boat. Above me was blue sky, around me the wide waters. A feeling of dread stole over me like the coming of the night. I scanned the horizon, but perceived no threat. It was then that I noticed a tarpaulin at the foredeck. It appeared to be covering something, perhaps a barrel. I leaned forward to inspect it more closely, and the tarp lifted slightly, as if with a breath. Fear clutched at me, squeezing my lungs. It was with that feeling still upon me that I awoke.
The banging persisted, and someone let out an incoherent shout. In my disoriented state of mind, I leapt from the bed and rushed to the door. Outside was a horror-a haggard face stared at me with bulbous eyes, their whites exposed, like a vision from the grave. It was Akers. Moore was with him, as was Walters. They stood behind Akers, looking serious. Akers cried that “she dragged ’im down!” He then grabbed my arm and tried to force me from my chamber. Moore pinned Akers’s armsbehind his back and warned Akers of the consequences of his actions.
But Akers continued to screech, and he looked so frightened that I motioned for Moore to unhand him. Moore half dragged, half shoved Akers into my chambers and I motioned toward a seat. His face contorted as he struggled to control himself. I could see that he was in agony of an almost physical sort. Akers insisted that Michaelson had seen the girl, too.
I glanced at Moore and Walters, and Moore reported that Michaelson had disappeared. The watchman heard a splash, like someone falling overboard, and Moore found Akers abovedecks.
I stole a glance at Akers, who was squirming in his chair. I poured him a glass of stiff whiskey, and he drank it straight, gratefully. He closed his eyes and sat back, then held out the glass again. I hesitated, unwilling to part with it. It’s fine stuff, a gift from a dear friend. But it was clear that I would never hear the story if I didn’t make another offering. I poured another glass, and Akers downed it. He managed to collect himself somewhat, and finally continued his tale.
He said that the girl in the water sang to him in the voice of an angel. She spoke some strange language-perhaps it was the language of heaven, he didn’t know. He said that every now and again, she would put her face into the water and her head would bob below the surface. But then she would appear again. After a time, she called to him and Michaelson. Akers feared that she was drowning. He started over the rail to save her.
At this point, I interrupted him, to ask how he planned to get her back to the ship. It is hard to describe the expression that came over Akers then. He looked simply shocked, as if I had risen from the dead to offer this query. He put his hands to his temples. He said that his head was full of fog. As if he had been under an enchantment. He shook his head twice, as if to clear the mists.
He said that he was about to climb over the rail when he head a splash and saw that Michaelson was swimming out to save the girl. He was no more than fifteen feet from the girl when she bobbed below the surface of the water again and disappeared. But there wassomething in the tilt of her head-she placed her face in the water right before she dropped beneath the surface. As if she was WATCHING for something. But before Akers could let out a shout of warning, Michaelson was dragged below. Akers said that Michaelson didn’t even protest. “Ee sank like a stone and didn’t come up again.”
His voice had gone quiet by the end of the tale. He looked like a man overwhelmed by fear. I understood his emotions, for it had chilled my bones to hear his tale. There is no doubt about it-Akers has gone quite mad. He’s killed Michaelson.
I told Moore to secure Akers in irons belowdecks for the remainder of the voyage.
Akers pleaded and cried, but Moore and Walters were already dragging him away.
I pray to God that we have no more trouble from him.
July 30
42° 20′ N, 68° 30′ W
Still a fine breath of wind. Not a gale, but enough to fill the sheet. Thesails are puffed out now, like the chest of a proud father. And that is how I feel, indeed, as I walk the decks and I see the men hard at work securing the lines and running up the rigging.
I have taken to strolling the deck several times during the day and at night. This morning, Braithwaite was singing as he climbed the rigging to the crow’s nest. It was a low, mournful tune, but it made me smile to hear it. The men were singing again.
Moore stood near the railing, looking out at the choppy sea. Some of the waves wore white, blown by the breeze.
I stood beside him, watching the blue sky as it paled to near white where it touched the horizon. There was nothing but sea in any direction. I noted that it made one feel as if one was alone in the world.
Moore noted that we aren’t.
His words struck my ears like a blow, and I asked him for an explanation.
“Just that we’ve a whole crew, don’t we? And a universe offish below us, too, and God knows what else.”
I did not like to hear those words, and I said so. Then Moore asked if I was certain we had done right by Akers. I asked if he had cause to doubt it. Moore said that Akers has gone quiet as a clam since he was shut down belowdecks, and is gentle with everyone. He said the men are curious why he is locked up, as we are three men down.
I protested that Akers is mad, and killed Michaelson. Besides, I told him that I feel as if the men have drawn a new breath, a deep sigh of relief, now that Akers is secured belowdecks.
Moore said that perhaps they would, if it weren’t for Hawken.
I fear I lost my temper, then, and I boxed Moore’s ear rather sharply. He looked at me-a look of shame and disgust. I felt it cling to me like warm candle wax. Or perhaps that was merely what I was feeling. I’d never struck one of my men before, and I didn’t know what to say in such a situation. With much struggle, I managed to collect myself.
Moore was staring off at the horizon. He did not look at me, but said that he had overheard the men talking. They fear that Hawken cursedus. That when we left him behind, he placed a hex on the ship. The words spilled out and seemed to slip below the water like a leviathan.
Braithwaite’s tune floated down to me. It sounded like a dirge.
Moore added that the sailors feel that this is a ship of death.
The cool wind blew across my face. Sailors are a superstitious lot. I knew this, even when I decided to pull up anchor while Hawken was still on the island. I should have known that the men’s simple minds would turn this way.
Hawken had been out with a small party collecting firewood when he disappeared. Roberts said that he was there one moment, and the next-gone. Vanished.
We searched for three days while we laid up stores for the trip. There was fresh water on the island, and a strange large fruit with orange flesh. We’d collected many of them in barrels. Walters had even managed to catch some sort of pig with a spear. The flesh was gamey, but savory, all right, and the men had feasted well. But there was no merrimentamong them. I could tell that they were worried about their comrade.
But by the fourth day, when we had not found Hawken, I decided that we could not wait forever. Hawken was dead, I was sure of it, fallen off a cliff or attacked by a wild animal. The island had claimed him, and we had to move on. Our shipment of port and silk was expected, and I had been warned by my superiors that they would brook no delay.
And so, on the morning of the fifth day, we loaded the lifeboats and rowed back to the ship. The men were angry, I could see, but it was only Akers who protested. He insisted that Hawken would come back. But he didn’t, and we had to leave.
We pulled up the sail and it filled taut, and I watched the shore recede as the ship started out onto the open sea. Just before it disappeared from view, I could have sworn that I saw a movement near the shore-a flash of red among the thick trees that grew at the edge of the island. But it disappeared.
I told no one.
I couldn’t take the risk. I thought the crewcould mutiny if they thought Hawken might be alive. And I couldn’t afford to be wrong, could I? Just as I couldn’t afford to be wrong now.
I told Moore that I would not release Akers.
Moore nodded and gave me a salute, then turned to go.
A leader must be firm. That is the one lesson I have learned as captain of this ship. Doubt is the enemy. There is no room for it on this ship.
July 30
42° 22′ N, 69° 15′ W
Another hand-Iverson-has gone missing. And with Akers chained safely below.
No time to write my suspicions, as there is a noise outside my chamber.
Later
It was Moore. My God, but he looked like a madman when I came to the door. He was babbling something about the children, how we had to save the children. He dragged me abovedecks, but when he pointed over the port side, there was nothing but smooth sea, like a bolt of black silk beneath a silver moon.
He cried out that he saw them. I asked how many there were. He looked at me as if he didn’t quite know who or what I was. His face appeared unshaven and the white flesh on his face seemed to sag, like a slack sail. His collar was undone and he looked altogether ragged, not like the creased and tidy first mate I’d known for years. It occurred to me that I hadn’t noticed him becoming so unkempt, and I wondered how many other signs I’d missed from the rest of the crew. Had my own head been in a fog? What was the matter with me?
Finally, Moore said that there were seven of them. They were in two lines. Just their heads above the water, their long hair fanning around them like strips of seaweed. And they were singing. Sobbing, he said that he could still hear them. He tore at his hair, gnashing his teeth like a rabid animal.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a shake.
He cowered a little and looked up at me. His voice was a whimper as he repeated that he could still hear them.
The moon is on the wane, and the light wasweak. But still, I could see how pale Moore was. He looked like a feeble version of his former self, as if the Moore I had known had been locked away in a prison for years.
And now it has become clear that Moore has gone as mad as Akers. I am at a complete loss. How can I sleep? Moore might strangle me in my bed. I must protect the crew. But this madness seems to be spreading. Who knows who might be the next to fall victim?
We must make the rest of this journey quickly. I pray to God for fair breezes.
August 1
42° 25′ N, 69° 41′ W
The wind and sea have conspired against us. The sail is as limp and calm as a sheet on a featherbed. Only the men are restless. I feel their eyes on me as I walk the deck. They look haggard and tired. We have gone to four-hour shifts. That means they only rest four hours at a time, then they work four, and on half rations.
I do my best to keep up a good front. If theysense weakness in me, I know that they could turn, like snarling animals.
August 2
42° 29′ N, 70° 02′ W
May God in heaven protect me, there is no one on this ship but myself and two madmen. I had convinced Moore to sleep in my quarters under the pretext that I wanted the protection. But while we slept-or, rather-while he slept, and I kept watch, four more hands were lost.
At dawn, I went abovedecks to see to the changing of the shift, but the deck was completely deserted. There was nothing but the creak of the sail and the sound of water lapping at the sides of the ship.
It was eerie, like a ship of ghosts.
I called for the men, but none answered me. I went belowdecks, and there was Akers, alone in a corner with his chains. He was humming the same mournful tune that I’d heard from Braithwaite days earlier. I asked Akers where the men were.
He replied that “the child had taken them.” His face was completely affectless-it was as blank as the page on which I write. There was no fear in his eyes-there was no expression at all. It was as if the fear had devoured him, and left nothing. He predicted that the child would take us all.
When I returned to my quarters, Moore was gone. Where, I know not. There was no one to see me as I ran up the steps. I felt sick, like I needed to cast something from my guts.
I cannot sail this ship alone!
As I looked over the bow, I saw a small splash. Could it have been a head? Or was it just a jumping fish?
My God, this madness is affecting me now. I fear it won’t be long…
August 3
42° 29′ N, 70° 01′ W
Heaven help me-I’ve seen it. I know not whether I am mad-I think it is likely that I am. But I will describe here what I have seen. That thing on the water is no child. Perhaps it is a ghost, I know not. It is luminous-the reasonthe men could see her face in the light of the half moon is because she shines with a light of her own. As I stepped to the bow of the ship, she called to me. She sang, and it was with the voice of an angel-all the while dipping below the surface, as Akers had described. The music called to me, and I felt paralyzed. And yet I wasn’t, for my feet were moving forward of their own accord. I was overwhelmed with a need to go to the child. My mind was infected with the desire to save her, although I knew the danger. She was calling me, and I WOULD go to her-it was as if I had become a river rushing forward with its own unknown force. I was at the edge of the ship, imagining the satiny feel of the cool water, and it seemed to me that it was like the lining of a coffin, and yet what struck me was not the fear of death, but the infinite rest, the comfort. But before I could take the final step, there was a horrible crash below. A moment later, Akers appeared abovedecks. His wrists were bloodied, and he trailed a thick chain that ended in screws and splinters. He had pulled the chains from the wall. When he saw the child, he let out a cry and leaped fromthe side of the ship. And then, something-I know not what it was-pulled him down. The ghost child tilted her head and smiled at me, and I would have followed Akers, but in that moment, she disappeared.
Slipped below the surface like an eel.
I know now what I must do. I must lash the helm in place, so that we keep a straight course. Then I will lock myself belowdecks, so that I cannot jump overboard. I will pray that we run aground while I am still living. If not, please give my love to my wife and son.
I hope that I may yet make it home, and back to sanity.
Will flipped through the pages that followed, but they were all blank. At the back of the journal was tucked a brittle old newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. A corner broke off as Will unfolded it, gently flattening it against the page. He let his palms rest against the book for an extra moment, hoping they would stop shaking.
He looked down at the newspaper clipping.
Ship Runs Aground Near Walfang
The Eliza Thomas was found yesterday near the port of Walfang, run aground on a sandbar. It was half sunk, and authorities fear that it will take a great effort to remove it from its mooring place at the edge of the bay. The ship left port four months ago from Portugal with eight hands, plus captain and first mate, and was presumably on its return voyage. The hull was loaded with port, silk, and fine silver, all unmolested. And yet there was not a soul aboard. There were signs of a peculiar struggle in the men’s main quarters, as if something had been ripped from a wall, but aside from that, the ship was pristine. A captain’s log has been found, and authorities hope that it will help reveal the cause of the missing crew…
Will stopped reading. He didn’t need to know more-he knew already that the log raised more questions than it answered.
Is that what Asia is? One of those-things?Those things in the water…
He looked out the window, toward the horizon, at the unseen ocean beyond. Will imagined that he could hear their subtle whisper. The endless pounding and sucking of the waves. Suddenly the ocean itself seemed like a devouring creature. He’d grown up near the water-he’d spent endless hours in the waves, splashing and playing. He’d never been a sand castle maker-maybe that was why he’d never paid attention to the sea’s destructive power. But over the past year, he’d begun to have trouble seeing it in any other light.
Will crossed the room quickly. He opened his bottom drawer and pulled out the flute. The instrument was roughly the length of his forearm, and he shivered as a thought occurred to him. Was this-could it be-a human bone? Was this the remnant of some frightened sailor, dragged to the bottom of the sea?
That’s stupid, Will told himself. But-what about Asia’s voice, the one that had stopped Jason in his tracks? What about that strange, melancholy song that Gretchen had been humming recently? Did that mean anything?
Will shuddered. He wished more than ever that he could talk to Tim. Will’s brother had always known what to do. He was smart and practical. Somehow, if Tim had just been there to tell Will that he was acting crazy, Will knew that he would have believed it. Then he could just stop looking for answers. And if Tim had thought that Will wasn’t crazy, well, that would have helped, too. But there was no one else he could really trust with this information. He couldn’t tell Angus. And he didn’t want to tell Gretchen-she had enough problems.
There was a hole in the world where his brother used to be.