The Girl from Everywhere (6 page)

A
fter the party, Bee watched while I made up an extra plate of food, but she didn’t say anything. There was no answer when I knocked on the captain’s door, but it was unlocked, so I let myself in.

The light was dim—he’d thrown bits of fabric over the lamps—and the room was stuffy, the heat raising the vanillin scent of old paper from the maps spilling from the shelves and cupboards lining the walls. Slate hoarded maps like a dragon hoards treasure: maps of every shape and shore, in parchment and paper, birch bark and Nile linen, kangaroo leather and sharkskin. There were maps punched in copper, painted on urns, and one scratched into the surface of a shelf mushroom. He even had Robert Peary’s 1906 map of Crockerland, a continent that enjoyed a scant seven years of existence before being judged a fata
morgana; after 1914, it no longer existed on any map, nor anywhere else at all.

I needed air. I set the plate on the table and crossed the room, stumbling on a pile of books, to open the aft deadlights. The breeze ruffled the edges of the black curtains of the sleeping alcove. The captain dozed behind them, his newest map resting on his chest like a blanket. I clenched my fists to keep from snatching it away.

Instead, I went to the drafting table, where the map of 1981 lay, pinned down by half-empty coffee cups. I took the cloth off the lamp above the desk and leaned over the page, looking closely at the lines. The cartographer’s focus had been delineating New York neighborhoods, with each shaded in different watercolor and detailed down to major landmarks. I drummed my fingers on the table. Still, to my eye, there were no hints this map wouldn’t work.

Frustrated, I rolled up the map and shoved it into the cupboard with all the other dead enders. The rest of his Hawaii 1868 maps were there. There was no reason for me to worry that the new map would be different. I licked my lips and tasted salt.

No reason at all.

I closed the cupboard more noisily than necessary, but
the captain didn’t even move. Since I’d started cleaning, I kept going. I picked up the books—myths, legends, history—scattered around the room like confetti, and returned them to their shelves. The dirty clothes I threw in the empty hamper. The caladrius’s cage was on the trunk; I filled a cup with water for her.

The bedsheets had spilled into a tangled pile on the floor. When I picked them up, I uncovered the box, lying open, displaying Slate’s most precious things: a block of black tar, a stained pipe and fresh needles, a bottle of pills, all nestled beside the map of 1866, the map of the time before I came along and everything went wrong.

I kicked the whole mess back under the bed, hard enough it hit the wall.

My palms were damp. I wiped my hands on the bundle of bedding and let it drop back to the floor. Then I took a deep breath to clear my head. The breeze off the ocean, cooler now the sun was down, had swept away the musty smell in the room, but Slate still hadn’t stirred except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest under the 1868 map. I could no longer contain myself; I took one corner between my thumb and forefinger, lifting it gently away, and he started awake, his hands closing reflexively on the edges.

“I’m going to put it on the table,” I said. His eyes focused on mine, and he released the map, trading it for the plate I’d brought. I glanced at the page, and my heart sank.

It was nothing like the others. Inked, faded, signed, dated.
A. SUTFIN
, the drafter, had printed in neat block letters and drawn in a very precise hand. And the map was original. But even that was no guarantee it would work. Suddenly I was absurdly grateful for the inexplicable failure of the 1981 New York.

“It’s a good map, isn’t it?”

I looked up at him; Slate was balancing the plate, untouched, on his knees, waiting for me to agree. I dropped my eyes back to the page and chewed my lip. “I hope it’s worth what it cost.”

“It is
priceless
, Nix.”

“Right.” Not a crease, nor even a crinkle. Someone had preserved this map quite well.

“Thank you,” Slate said then.

That gave me pause. “For what?”

“For the map.” He picked up the fork. “And for dinner.”

I pursed my lips. Why had I been surprised? He could afford to be kind now he had what he wanted. “Of course, Captain.” My voice was vague as I studied the map. It was
only the island of Oahu, and in fine detail. Beautiful lines.

His duty done, he stabbed a dumpling with the fork. “This is good.”

“Good.” My eyes roved over the contours on the page, seeking flaws and finding none. The mapmaker had even labeled Honolulu’s main streets—Nu’uanu, Beretania, King—as well as the post office and the major churches. The city was centered around Iolani Palace, the seat of the King of Hawaii; there, just a few blocks northwest, was Chinatown. I ground my teeth.

“You know,” he said, his mouth full. “The last time I had a pastrami sandwich from Katz’s was when I was your age. This is from Katz’s, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why so quiet?”

But then his face fell and his fork paused in midair. For a long time, neither of us spoke. He put down his fork and squeezed his eyes shut. “There was a party.”

I shrugged as if I didn’t care. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry, Nixie.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Captain.”

“Kashmir told me, but I forgot.”

“I can see that.”

“I said I was sorry!” He threw his hands up, suddenly defensive. Then he clenched his fist and brought it in front of his mouth. “And I am,” he added quickly. “I was distracted, is all. The map is very distracting.” He set the plate aside and smiled hopefully. “But it’s beautiful, isn’t it? And it’s almost like a gift.”

“A gift?”

“To you.”

I couldn’t help it; my lips twisted like a juiced lime and the response was too bitter not to spit out. “To
me
?”

“Well . . . don’t you want to meet your mother?”

His question seemed designed to induce guilt, and it cut deep enough to reveal a splinter of cruelty, hard as bone. “My mother’s gone, Slate.” I put the map down on the drafting table, smoothing it with my palm. “On the map I came from, she’s dead.”

Slate blanched, but he answered evenly. “That’s why we’ve got a new map.”

“A new map . . . a new version.” I traced the line of the Tropic of Cancer. “A new wife?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. The map where you met is the map where she died. A different map means a different
version of her.” And of me, but I did not bother saying it. I doubted it would matter to him.

He stood, arms crossed, drumming the fingers of his right hand on his left arm. “It’s the exact same place.”

“So?” I opened one of the cupboards—the fairy-tale maps—and unrolled one at random. “Greece with gods on Mount Olympus, Slate. And here.” I pulled out the map right beneath it. “Two hundred years later, the next cartographer replaced Zeus with Jupiter. And then we have—” I opened another cupboard, the less-fanciful histories, and pawed through them. “Mount Olympus during the Ottoman Empire, where you’ll find brigands and highway robbers and no gods at all.” I let the map roll itself up. “Going back to the same place doesn’t mean you’ll find the same thing.”

“It does if it’s the same time!”

I smiled grimly as he started to pace. A perverse part of me was enjoying myself. “Remember where we found Kashmir? That French map of Persia in 1740, in the Vaadi Al-Maas, but here, a historical map of Nader Shah’s empire, 1740, look,” I said, pointing. “Same place, same time, but there’s no such city. The shoreline’s different. Do you think Kashmir exists there, somewhere in the middle of the Persian Gulf?”

“Those are two completely different mapmakers. You can’t compare some Frenchman’s fantasy of Arabia to—”

“Mitchell and Sutfin are two different mapmakers.”

“But they were mapping the same version of Hawaii.”

“Which version? My history? Or your fairy tale?”

“It is
not
a fairy tale!”

The volume of his voice brought me up short. His eyes were wild; I could see the whites all the way around, and suddenly none of it was amusing. “And if you succeed?” I said softly. “Then what?”

“What do you mean, then what?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. In Sanskrit mythos, they say breath is life, and I didn’t want to give life to my fears; I didn’t want to say it aloud.
Then what will happen to me?

After our shouting, the silence rang in my ears. He took a deep breath, then another. “Then we all live happily ever after,” he said finally, calm once more. “You’ve done a lot of studying, Nix, and you know the maps, but I know what I believe, and that’s all that really matters.”

My breath hitched in my throat to hear it stated so plainly. “Good to know how insignificant my thoughts are to you,” I said bitterly.

“That’s not what I meant.” He reached out an uncertain hand, as though I was a bird in the bush. But he let the hand fall back to his lap, and cupped it in the other, squeezing until his knuckles cracked. “If I tell you a secret, will you feel better?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not twelve, Captain—”

“It’s about Navigation.”

That brought me up short, and my anger dissipated like mist under the sun. I had asked so many times; why now? Was it gratitude? Or guilt? Certainly it was the only gift I wanted from him. But it didn’t matter—I wasn’t about to question it. I found my voice. “What? What is it?”

He turned back to his bed and stared for a moment at the plate he’d left there. Then he broke a piece of bread off the sandwich and put it into the caladrius’s cage. She cocked her head shyly on her slender neck before dipping it down, delicate and precise, to eat from his hand. A winch in my gut wound tighter, but I was afraid if I asked again, he’d change his mind. “Navigation is not just about the maps,” he said finally, as though to the bird. “Part of it is belief.”

“Belief?” My mind was racing. “What do you mean?”

He brushed the crumbs from his palms and sat back down on his bed. “I’ve never been able to get to a place I didn’t believe existed. Doubt can stop a map from working.”

The edge of the Sutfin had started to curl; I ran my finger down the side. “So . . . you believe this map will work. That’s no secret.”

“If belief affects whether a map works, I’d think belief also affects what you find there.”

“You
think
, or you
know
?”

“Fine, I
know
.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I know she’ll be there, and I know everything will work out.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It’s fate.” He looked at me—no, through me, as though just behind me was his future. “It’s inevitable.”

I ground my teeth, feeling tricked. “This isn’t about Navigation, it’s about delusion.” Disappointment was bitter on my tongue, but he didn’t flinch in the face of my scorn. Another breeze purled through the room, and I shivered. “I suppose if you’re going to see Lin again, we might as well throw all that overboard.” I flicked my hand toward the box under the bed. “You know she would hate to see it.”

His eyes refocused, and he met my stare with a steady gaze, but the silence stretched between us like a rope about to snap. Was that doubt? I turned my face so he wouldn’t see my expression, but when my eyes fell on the Sutfin map, my smug smile wilted. I wanted the map to fail, but why take joy in tormenting
him? At heart, all he wanted was an escape, and that I understood—only too well. “Tell me more about Navigating,” I said then, too eagerly, breathless at the thought of freedom.

Slate laughed a little. “Why should I?”

“Because . . . because I asked.” He laughed again, louder, and I stiffened. “Please?”

He did not answer me. He was so quiet I couldn’t even hear him breathing. Finally I faced him; he was watching me and his expression was serious. “Why, Nixie?” he asked again, but it was clear he already knew.

Still, I did not answer. If I told him the truth—that I would leave him behind and never look back, that I longed to go anywhere and everywhere he was not—he would argue; worse, if I confirmed it, he would never teach me. “Because I helped you,” I said at last.

He made a face. “We don’t strike bargains, Nixie, not between you and me. We don’t haggle over things.”

I clenched my jaw. “I’ll try to remember that the next time you ask for money to buy a map.”

“This is a good map, Nixie,” he said, stabbing another dumpling. “There won’t be a next time.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
went back outside, leaving Slate to his dinner. There was no sign now of the party; the deck was clear for tomorrow. I leaned on the rail, staring without seeing at the cars moving along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The warmth of the day had long faded, and the night air was quite cool; the condensation gave the headlights halos.

I pressed my thumb between my brows. I already regretted arguing with the captain. What had been the point? He was certain—or at least, he said he was—and nothing I could say would turn him from his tack.