The Dreamer (7 page)

“Captain,” I cried, entering the adjoining library quickly. “There you are. We’ve been looking all over for you. Finley, see I …? Finley! Where are you? Oh well, he must have gone. Why is it so dark in here?”

The captain stood abruptly, knocking his cup and tipping it over. He cursed and righted it. Before him was the large, center table, abundant with food, an empty plate set before him, another one across the table. Very few candles were burning.

“I
knew
you’d be somewhere on the upper deck. But John insisted we patrol the lower decks first. Even though you’re never down there at this time of night. My, that smells delicious. May I join you? Or … it looks like you’re expecting someone.”

“No,” he replied quickly. “Please … have a seat. Help yourself.”

He hurried to the other side of the table to pull out my chair, according to the custom of the day, but I had already picked up my plate and set it closer to his, so he had to push the chair over to my new place setting.

“There’s so much here, Captain,” I cried. “This will not inordinately deplete our rations?”

“We are mere days from shore. We can safely use all we have now.” He suddenly cursed, and bent down to inspect my dish. There was a small chip in the corner. “I told Frank to use the good dishes,” he exclaimed angrily and picked up the plate. He took it to a cabinet against the wall and opened it, revealing the remainder of the set.

I sat down and eagerly reached for a roll and tore it with my fingers. “I’ve had such a delightful day. Mmm. Delicious. There’s nothing in the world like George’s rolls are there? I would love to learn to bake like this. Perhaps I’ll consult the cook. Oh, I almost forgot,” I said between bites. “What does that stocky man do on the side of the ship, with the stick and long, knotted rope?”

I pushed my plate closer to him and accidentally knocked his drink, sloshing the crimson liquid inside. He quickly caught the glass and steadied it. “It’s to gauge speed,” he explained. “It tells us at how many knots we’re traveling.”

I gasped. “Knots? I know this word. It’s used —” I stopped, and then continued a bit more subdued, “at my home, too.”

He looked at me furtively, cutting his food. “Rachel, that’s part of the reason why I wanted to dine with you tonight. We are close to port, and it’s time we decide what to do with you once we get there.”

I looked down at my plate, my appetite suddenly gone. I did not want to think of the shore.

“Will you tell me about your home? Where you come from?”

I looked at him and opened my hands, a plea in my voice. “It would be futile. I cannot return.”

He eyed me for a moment, his mind at work, and then leaned forward and said with some gentleness, “If there was an indiscretion, some sort of … crime, I’m sure ….”

I laughed. “The very idea. I am no criminal!”

He leaned back and sighed. “Well then what
is
the problem?”

I looked down, saying nothing, the curtain of my hair falling forward and partially hiding my face. I absently pushed the dried fruit on my dish with my fork.

“Then surely you can tell me where you came from at least?” He waited. “No? The ship you fell from? Where you were destined? Nothing? What on earth are you hiding from me?”

I dropped my fork. “Captain, try to understand. I do not wish to be difficult, but the truth will not help us. It is impossible for me to return.”

“Were you mistreated?”

“No! It isn’t that. I would return if I could. There’s nothing I’d love more. But I’m
stuck
here. At least for now until I discover a way out.” I rubbed the tips of my fingers on my brow in weariness.

“How did you get that scar?”

I blinked in confusion. “Scar?”

“Yes.” He gestured vaguely to my head. “The thin scar that runs along your forehead, dividing the hair of your brow. You have your fingers on it now.”

My hand went to my brow, my fingers searching. “My scar?” I picked up my butter knife and peered into it to find my reflection.

“You didn’t know?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes … but it’s hardly visible. How on earth did you notice it?”

“I’ve often wondered how you got it.”

Still peering into the knife, I answered distractedly, “I tripped and fell and cut my head on a rock.”

“But the scar is so thin,” he replied, leaning forward to look at it.

“My parents used a butterfly bandage.”

“A what?”

I cleared my throat and looked at him. “A home remedy. It’s very effective.”

“And why, may I ask, were you climbing around on rocks?”

I laughed. I put down the knife, my other hand still fingering the scar. “I wasn’t climbing around on rocks. I was running.”

“Playing a game?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then what?”

“It was so long ago, I don’t … oh yes,” I breathed. “I was running away.”

“I thought you said you weren’t playing a game.”

“It was not a game,” I answered thoughtfully. “I was doing it in all seriousness. I was running away from home, resolving never to return.”

“The past repeats itself,” he murmured.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked sharply.

“Well, since you won’t tell me why you are running away
now
, will you tell me why you were running away
then
?”

“I’m not running away now.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No,” I told him defiantly. “I am on a mission to gather information, to discover truth at all costs. Despite any consequences.”

“And there were no truths to discover at home, I’m sure. To ‘discover truth’ as you call it, one must travel oceans, irreversibly it seems. Sounds like running away to me.” He shrugged. A little smugly, I thought. “Continue then. What were you running from as a child?”

“I heard my parents arguing.”

“About what?”

“About me,” I said slowly.

“What about you?” He seemed very interested.

I watched a spider climb up the far wall. It had spindly legs, and looked very clumsy, like it would trip and fall and tumble to the floor at any second. “They were arguing about whose turn it was to have me.”

He looked confused. “To have you?”

“Yes. They were divorced.”

“Divorced!”

I looked at him. “Yes.”

“Very well. Continue. They were fighting over you and …?”

“No,” I spoke slowly, turning my attention to that poor spider again, laboring up the wall very slowly. His legs were too long and clumsy, and I knew he wouldn’t make it. “Not
over
me. My mother took me to my father’s house, but he hadn’t been expecting us. They told me to go outside to play, but I didn’t. I stepped into the next room and listened. My father said that he didn’t expect us until tomorrow. My mother told him there was a lecture she couldn’t miss. They argued. She said she needed a break, that it was his turn now. And he said he had me as much as she did, and he wasn’t going to let her push me off on him again.”

The spider fell, as I knew it would. It fell to the floor. I couldn’t see if it got up again. I doubted it would. Its legs were too long and thin and awkward. And I didn’t feel sorry for it at all, either. It had no business climbing that enormous, splintered wall.

Suddenly a seagull called from outside, a piercing, sorrowful sound, and I snapped out of my past. I found the captain watching me with a look of horror on his face. I laughed lightly and said, “So I ran off, promptly tripped and fell, and neither of them got their way.”

The captain didn’t reply.

“They were both brilliant and accomplished professors at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. They led full, demanding lives. ”

Still he said nothing.

“And I am grateful for the experience, Mallory. Let us examine it objectively. It was a turning point in my life. It gave me the drive and ambition necessary to achieve all I’ve ever achieved. Knowledge, education, academic success, have been the boon of my existence. And that day, that
moment
, was when I chose my life’s journey. And what a journey it has been. Despite the setbacks. All I’ve accomplished, all I
am
, is due to this scar. And, now I think of it, one might say I would never have met you without this scar. So thank you … thank you for reminding me.”

He stared at me. “You poor little thing,” he said. I should have known he would take it too seriously.

I shook my head but said nothing.

“Are you married?”

I blinked. And he did, too, as though he were surprised at his own question.

“Marriage? How ridiculous!”

He frowned and shifted in his seat, looking nettled. “It’s been known to happen, a woman running from an unhappy marriage.”

“Yes, but not to me. I’m nobody’s dupe!”

“A dupe? In marriage?” His voice was a challenge.

“Oh, I’m sure it works for some people. But it isn’t for me. I’m too independent, too focused on my work. Any time spent on the marriage would be time taken away from my study. Knowledge passed on is everything. You don’t know what I’d be giving up if I became a wife and mother.”

“Ambition is all well and good, but I think you might have underestimated the influence of those who live quiet, humble lives. My mother for instance.” My ears perked up. I always paid close attention to the rare times he spoke personally. “She was never famous and her time was cut very short. I only knew her a few years. But I can say she was the greatest influence of my life. The best parts of me I can trace back to her grace and kindness and faith.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m sure she was a beautiful person. But Captain, I am not like that. I’m just not. Marriage and family would be shackles to my purpose. I am meant to do great things. I’ve always known it. I’m meant to change the world.”

“The world,” he repeated dryly. “Goodness. I didn’t realize.”

I challenged, “You’ve had your fun, poking into my life. Now it’s my turn.”

“Very well.”

I paused in surprise. The challenge had been impulsive, and I had not expected him to agree. “You’ll answer any question I ask you?”

“I will.”

“And promise to tell me the absolute truth?”

“If you wish.”

“If I wish? I’ve wished it for weeks. You are the single most impossible man to interview. Where are my notes?”

“Behave,” he warned.

“You promised.”

“Within reason,” he qualified.

I tapped my chin thoughtfully with a finger. “Better make it a good one.”

But as a question occurred to me, my look changed from thoughtful satisfaction to one of uncertainty. “There
is
something I’ve wondered.”

“Yes?”

I spoke slowly. “When you were ill, you thought I was your mother. You were so afraid, and you grabbed me and plead with me to not let him kill you.” I looked at him. “It sounded like you thought your father was coming.”

The captain’s gaze did not waver, though he didn’t answer immediately.

“Should I not have pried, Captain?” I asked contritely, leaning forward.

He bent down, wiping a smudge off his gleaming boot, his voice cross. “I’m not a delicate rose petal. You don’t have to keep asking me that. If you’re asking me if my father killed my mother, then the short answer is yes.”

I leaned back in my seat, literally bowled backwards. “But Finley said he was a good man.”

“He was the best of men.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed. “Alright. The pirates were coming, and father knew they would be … unkind to her.”

I stared at him in horror. “Is this common with pirates?”

He pursed his lips, looking distant and indifferent, like he was discussing weather with a stranger. “No. My parents were a special case.”

“How?”

“The pirates were looking for something in particular.”

“What was it?”

“It was treasure.”

“Treasure!” My pulse quickened and I could feel myself go crimson. “Why? How? Was your father a rich man?”

“No. Quite the contrary.”

“Then why him?”

“The story is involved and complicated.”

“We have time,” I told him. “I mean, as long as you want to tell me.”

He took a drink of his wine. He stared at the glass and not at me. “It all has to do with the unfortunate fact that my father did not begin his career as an honest wage earner.”

I gasped. “He …
he
was a pirate?”

“A rather successful one. He had his own ship, his own crew before he was thirty.”

“Oh, how wonderful. What was his name?”