Authors: Erin Bowman
“Yeah, hooray for holidays,” Sammy mumbles behind me. “This is exactly how I like to spend them.” Rusty yaps in agreement, and half the team hushes him all at once.
When we get to the marked house, my father raps on the door, a funny little pattern that I’m sure is another signal. The door is yanked open and light floods the alley. The man standing before us is plump and lively, with bushy eyebrows and an even rowdier mustache. A pipe is rooted between his teeth as though it grows there.
“Merry Christmas, friends!” he says. “Come in. Come in! It’s nearly curfew.”
And then we are ushered into the warmth of his cramped home for a series of introductions, the cry of the ocean shut out by the door.
The captain, Isaac Christopher Murphy, is the most superstitious person I have ever met. He nearly faints when he learns that there will be women on board his ship.
“This weren’t part of the agreement,” he spouts. “Ryder didn’t mention no women. I won’t have it! Wouldn’t’ve taken the job if I’d known.”
Isaac paces around the small sitting room, puffing on his pipe and claiming the females will sink his boat. It’s not until a small girl walks into the room and points at Isaac’s tabby cat, which has curled up in Bree’s lap, that Isaac finally calms.
“Look, Pa,” she says. “Dixie likes the lady.”
“Well, it changes things a bit,” Isaac says after some consideration, “but I still ain’t fond of the idea. Lunacy this is, bringing women on board. Especially with the state of things! Order members increasing their presence in town. Tensions rising along the borderlines. When I was fishing with my regular crew on the western shores of the Gulf a month back, we heard wind that AmWest is trying to convince AmEast citizens to come to their side. ‘The real patriots are Expats,’ they’ve been saying. Have you heard this chatter?” I’m about to mention May’s letter when Isaac gasps, the pipe tumbling from his lips.
“There will be thirteen of us! Thirteen, including Dixie. More bad luck. Not to mention it ain’t comfortable with over ten, but thirteen! No, I won’t have it.”
“It’s fourteen, actually,” Bree says. “If you count Rusty.”
“You don’t count dogs,” Isaac says, as if this should be obvious.
“But you counted the cat.”
“Course I did. Cats are good luck on a ship.”
“Hold on a minute,” my father says. “Not everyone continues from here, so the number won’t be a problem. September will be setting up a post in Bone Harbor.”
“I will?” September says, as surprised as I am by this news.
“We agreed to take Aiden as far as the next town, and the upcoming leg of our journey is no place for a young boy. But since we can’t just dump him on the streets, I’m hoping that you, September, can find him and Rusty a good home. Then we’ll need you to sit tight until we are able to send word for you to join us. So that drops our number down to ten, Isaac. Eleven, if you insist on counting the cat.”
“We’ve established the cat’s counted,” he grumbles. “I still don’t feel good ’bout the women, but I suppose I ain’t got a choice in the matter. Can’t very well strand friends of a friend.” He puffs on his pipe a moment longer and adds, “I don’t suppose you ladies would be willing to remain naked on board? A bare woman is good luck, you know.”
“You’re dreaming,” Bree says. “We’re coming and we’re keeping our clothes on and everything is going to be fine.”
“What about you, then?” Isaac raises his bushy eyebrows at Emma.
She just blushes and stares at her hands. Bree nudges her shoulder and whispers, “Go on, Emma. Don’t let him make you uncomfortable. Tell him to shove it.”
But before she can, Isaac’s daughter and Aiden erupt with squeals. The girl has been teaching him a new hand game—one where they join fists and battle to pin each other’s thumb down.
“Catherine, child. Bed!” Isaac motions toward the hallway. “If you’re expecting Saint Nicholas to come with even the smallest of holiday tidings you’ll be asleep before I count to three. One . . . two . . .”
But Catherine is already gone. Emma leads Aiden after her.
“My sister’ll be here early to take care of Catherine. I’d prefer to be gone before she arrives—that woman’ll talk our ears off—so rest while you can.” Isaac stares at me, as though he is seeing me for the first time despite the fact that I shook his hand when we arrived. “You . . . You’re the boy on the posters.”
I nod, and he pulls a set of curtains closed hurriedly.
“I don’t like it,” he says yet again, which leaves me thinking Isaac doesn’t like much of anything. “It’s a bad time to be smuggling fugitives ’cross the Gulf. It’s a bad time to be on the Gulf in general.” He blows out the candles in the front of the house and yanks those curtains closed as well.
“Ryder said you were a man we could trust,” my father says. “If this is true, I’m sure you don’t believe everything you read on Franconian signage.”
“Course not,” Isaac mutters. “How could I when the Order keeps patrolling our streets like we’re criminals and taxing our drinking water like it’s gold? They’re gonna make me broke. I’ve had to start buying off this guy that goes by
Badger
. Man’s shifty as they come but his water’s clean and cheap, and I ain’t turning down that sort of deal. Even if he
does
live in AmWest.”
“AmWest?” Bo echoes. “I thought water was even harder to come by out that way.”
“Supposedly is, but they’ll trade for the right price: information. Anything Franconian they can get their hands on, so long as it’s trustworthy, and I know a boatload about the Order’s shipping habits from all my time on the Gulf. They’re planning something. Don’t know what, but if it knocks the Order ’round a bit, gets them outta my hair as much as theirs, I ain’t complaining. You know, sometimes I catch myself wondering if those AmWest guys are just like us, only caught on the opposite side of a line drawn in the sand.”
Isaac pulls the last set of curtains closed. “We’ll leave well before dawn,” he announces to the room. “Pack your black clothes away—they won’t be worn on my ship—do not utter the word
drown
on deck, and when you step on board, lead with your right foot, else you’ll brew up a storm and bury us in the Gulf. Is that clear?”
Everyone nods, but when Isaac retires to bed Bree mumbles, “What a load of crap.”
We spread out in the tiny house, sleeping bags practically overlapping. Those in the group who have not yet bathed take turns using the washroom. I’m squished between Bo, who is humming his song about red berries, eyes closed; and my father, who is cleaning his rifle. I show him May’s letter and the
Harbinger
story. He reads silently, forehead wrinkled.
“What’s it mean?” I ask when he hands them back.
“I don’t know. Could mean a lot of things. The
Harbinger
is clearly an underground paper published by people here in town, so its facts are only as good as rumors, which is to say, not good at all. And the letter? It’s just one girl’s words to a fisherman she likely met on the sea and fell for.”
“But the rumors in the
Harbinger
match most of May’s letter, plus some of what Isaac said earlier. And besides, wouldn’t rumors have some basis in truth?”
My father nods and frowns in one motion. “A very good point.”
I watch him run a cleaning rod through the rifle. “I just . . . I think we’d be stupid to
not
look into it.”
He puts the weapon down. “Let me see those again.” I hand him the papers and he reads through them. Twice. “We’ll talk to Isaac again tomorrow. Try and get more out of him. I think I might have September poke around town after she gets Aiden settled, too. See if she can confirm any of these rumors.”
I nod, settle deeper into my sleeping bag. I’m not sure what will come of it, but it seems the right thing to do: follow these odd stories until the truth unearths itself. I’d still be sitting in Claysoot if I hadn’t done the same after my doubts about the Heist surfaced.
Behind me, I can hear Dixie hissing as Jackson tries to coax her into his lap. It took him forever to win over Rusty. I don’t know why he’d expect to have success with the cat. Forged Blaine flashes through my mind, how I couldn’t sense his true nature, and I feel a little pathetic for having worse instincts than a house pet.
“You sure we should take the Forgery on the boat?” I ask my father.
“It would be too easy for him to tip off the Order in Bone Harbor. And I don’t want to regret leaving him behind if Clipper ends up having complications with the Outer Ring.”
Dixie hisses at Jackson again and I worry that he will be a greater risk to us than ever once we are on a boat and Aiden is left behind. The child miraculously brings out a semblance of humanity in him.
“You should sleep, Gray,” my father says. “It might not come as easily once we’re on the water.”
I roll over and try to block out Bo’s humming. Outside, wind surges against the house. The ocean is a distant noise now, practically drowned out by the creaking of floorboards and drafty walls. It seems like my eyes have closed for only the briefest of moments when someone is shaking me awake.
It is time to greet the sea.
ISAAC IS FRANTIC IN THE
morning.
“Let’s get going,” he urges. “The Order’s been inspecting boats at random before they push off these last few weeks and I want to disappear before they start crawling the shore. Hurry, hurry!”
We are rushed through our good-byes. September promises to take care of Aiden and find him the very best of homes. We all peer into the bedroom before leaving, even the Forgery. Aiden’s dark hair is splayed out against his pillow, Rusty curled up at his feet.
We gather our gear and head out, Isaac mumbling about early departures and how we’re bound to get flagged down if we don’t pick up the pace. By the time we reach the docks, most of the team is stressed. Even Sammy seems flustered.
The vessel is larger than I expect, a looming giant emerging from thick morning fog. Sammy says it’s a fishing boat, a
trawler
, to be exact, but I can’t imagine sneaking up on any animal in something so massive. He laughs at this and says the boat is midsized, but when I look through the harbor, not many of the vessels surpass Isaac’s in scale.
The sky has barely started to lighten, but I can make out
Catherine
painted on the boat’s side. I wonder if the ship was named after Isaac’s daughter as a token of good luck or simply because he loves his child so much that her name helps him feel near her when he’s at sea. The captain left fruit by the fireplace when we set out this morning, along with a doll and wooden top, which makes me suspect the latter.
Isaac won’t let us board until he’s spit in the sea—yet another ritual for luck—and warned us again about leading with our right foot as we step on board.
“He’s something else, huh?” I say to Bree as we shuffle along the dock.
She stares ahead, hands grasping the straps of her pack.
“The captain,” I clarify. “All those superstitions.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, her face full of mock concern. “Were you saying something?”
“Bree, you can’t avoid talking to me forever.”
“Watch me,” she snarls, marching toward the boat.
“Ah-ah-AH!” Isaac scolds. “Your right foot first. Your
right
!”
Bree throws her hands up and even with her back to me, I’m positive she’s rolling her eyes. She switches her footing and continues forward.
Sammy nudges my shoulder. “What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing. Just Bree being Bree.”
He looks doubtful. “She scares the crap out of me, man. I don’t know how you put up with her.”
Bree’s arguing with Isaac now, something about
ridiculous rules
and
delusional superstitions
.
“She scares me, too,” I admit. “I think she scares everybody.”
Sammy gives me a look I can’t fully read. “Come on. Let’s board before Isaac finds something unlucky about us standing on the dock and delaying the departure.”
On deck, we are immediately put to work. Sammy and I end up struggling with the thickest ropes I have ever held, coiling them into organization as Isaac hurries off to start the boat. He keeps glancing at the shore, but with the exception of a few other fishermen, the town is still sleeping.
The boat rumbles to life a moment later and then we are pushing out to sea. The land fades away; Bone Harbor’s buildings shrink in height. Soon the people on the shore are nothing but minuscule silhouettes. I blink and they are swallowed by the fog. It’s just us and the boat now, battling against the choppy water as we sail northwest.
To be surrounded like this, blue in all directions, makes me feel like I’ve fallen into the sky. I get a little paranoid by the idea that the only visible “earth” is the deck I stand on. The whole thing makes me queasy and I take to wandering with Sammy as a distraction.
Everything making up the boat has a common enough name, but the words seem to take on new meanings out on the water. There is a bridge, but it doesn’t span anything, just serves as a raised section of the ship where the captain can command the vessel and oversee the main deck. The bridge is made up of what Sammy calls the wheelhouse—which is not a house at all, but a room protected from the elements and filled with navigational equipment, a captain’s chair, and a table currently covered in maps—and a small deck that encircles the wheelhouse and its many glass windows. There are multiple sets of stairs leading between the ship’s decks, but Sammy refers to them as ladders. Given how steep they are, this seems just as well. The crew quarters below are full of bunks, which turns out to be a fancy word for beds stacked one on top of another.
The boat lurches without warning and my stomach reels. “Air,” I tell Sammy. “I need air.”
Back on the deck, the wind is whipping fiercely. I pull my hat on and cling to the railing, trying to steady my breathing. My feet are planted firmly on the deck and yet I feel like they are bobbing independently of each other.