by Deen Ferrell
Willoughby knitted his eyebrows. The beginning of a smile spread across his face. “Did you just compare yourself to the butt of a burro?”
“I did not compare myself to anything,” Antonio declared stoically. “I was merely being, uh…” His voice softened, “philosophical. Now, shall we go straight to the soccer game, or would you like to explore the wonders of the back-roads with my many horses?” His voice was rising again. “We will get to the game eventually, but for now, we thrust ourselves into the great unknown! There are castles to conquer in this city, my friend; windmills to defeat!” He punctuated this last comment with a wild, hydraulic hiccup that caused the rear of the car to spring up, then fall sharply, leaving the whole frame of the vehicle bouncing off the asphalt as it sped along.
“Does H.S. know about Lola?” Willoughby shouted over the revving engine He couldn’t help himself—he was smiling. He felt his stomach lurch and let go a spontaneous laugh. It was like riding a kiddies’ roller coaster. With his hand gripping tight to the armrest and his teeth gritted, he peered hard past the carpeted dash and the furry dice dangling from the rear-view mirror.
“H.S. believes my Lola is a warm and sensitive creature. He has no knowledge of her, shall we say, other talents, though I did tell him that she could be dangerous.”
“What did he say?”
Antonio let the back tires hiccup slightly. “He said, ‘Yes, aren’t they all.’”
Willoughby’s smile broadened. “Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more,” he shouted, quoting one of his favorite passages from Shakespeare’s Henry V. The front of the car shot up and almost immediately dropped. Antonio wheeled right, the left side of the car flying into the air. Willoughby found himself pinned against the door rest. He managed to point a finger off into the distance, at somewhere beyond the horizon. “Once more into the breach!”
Antonio said nothing. He just punched the gas.
9
Sydney
Ten days later, on a sunny Thursday afternoon, Willoughby and his family pulled to a stop near a rickety pier in Boston Harbor. They were awed by the sight of the Aperio Absconditus. Tall masts of polished wood and shiny brass trim made the majestic ship glimmer in the sun.
“A true Windjammer!” Klaas cried as he climbed out of the car. “Look at her—such a beauty! Did I tell you that the name was created by steamship crews?” Even though Klaas had lived in America for years, he still had trouble pronouncing words that started with “w.” Usually, they came out sounding more like a “v.” Willoughby had grown used to the slight accent.
“Steamship crews?”
“Yes. It was a taunt. They thought the square-rigged vessels were too big and clumsy and had to be jammed into the wind.” Klaas had been reading up on windjammers.
Willoughby opened the back of the Nissan and let an enthusiastic pair of white-jacketed porters push past him. They struggled to yank his luggage trunk out of the Nissan, and then lugged it over to a waiting dolly. He had to grin. He and Klaas had almost gotten hernias from hefting the thing into the vehicle back home. Mom walked up behind them.
“This is an awfully rickety pier. You sure that boat is safe? I shouldn’t have let you two talk me into this.”
Willoughby looked her in the eyes. “Mom, it’s a sea cruise. Not a trek into uninhabited jungle. What could happen?”
He regretted the questions just as soon as he spoke it. His mother raised a serious eyebrow. “You don’t know what you’re sailing into. The sea is nothing to be trifled with. I bet more sailors have been lost over time than were lost in the First World War!”
“Mom, this isn’t the Navy—”
“I’d feel safer if it was!” Mom’s tone was sharp. She eyed him warily for a moment and then the tone softened. “I’ve packed two of everything you might need. You’ve got your traveler’s checks too—in case I forgot something, right?” Willoughby nodded. He felt a tug on his shirt. “Willby,” his sister Cali said, “here.” She handed him a small box. “So you won’t forget us on your way to Europa.”
“Europe,” Mom corrected. “Europa is one of the moons of Jupiter.”
“I like the Europa idea,” Willoughby, added as he struggled to open the well-wrapped box. “It would be fun to sail through space.” At length, he pulled out a gold pocket watch with a picture of his family inside. He loved precision instruments, especially old Swiss watches and pocket watches. He could tell this was no department store knock-off. On the back was an inscription, engraved in a tight, spiraling circle: “Chasing the moment, someday you’ll find, you yearn for a place where the memories bind.”
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Mom mumbled. “You never even went to summer camp, and now you’re off to play Captain Ahab.”
“Mom—it’s an educational voyage, not a death sentence. I absolutely promise I won’t harpoon a single whale.” He was hoping to lighten the mood, but Mom didn’t seem to appreciate the use of the word “death.” Densi jumped to his rescue. “Hey,” she said, “maybe they’ll let you try to drive the boat. That would scare away every whale within a hundred miles.”
Willoughby grinned at her as he began to put the pocket watch back into its box. “Thanks for this,” he said, looking up at his mom. He glanced back to Densi and Cali. “I’ll bring you back something.” He bent closer to their level. “But you’ve got to promise that you’ll stay out of my stuff, deal?”
Cali spoke up with brazen honesty. “We’ll try.”
“I set booby traps,” Willoughby added.
“Fun!” Cali clapped. “That makes it sort of a game! So, what are you going to bring us? Mine should be sunny yellow.”
“Lavender and crimson,” Densi added, as if ordering fries at McDonalds.
Willoughby straightened, ruffling Cali’s hair. “We’ll see,” he said looking down sternly. “I better not find anything missing.” Before he had a chance to turn and walk away, his mom grabbed him by the shoulder. “Uh-uh. You’re not leaving without physical contact with your mother.”
Willoughby sighed. “Sure, but …can we leave it at just a hug?”
“As opposed to a blubbering sob fest?” Mom held him in a quick embrace and then pushed him away. “Was that really that bad?”
“I’ll be back in a couple of weeks,” Willoughby offered weakly.
“Get going!” Mom said, trying to fake a smile. “You have a ship to catch. They’re waiting.”
“Yeah,” Willoughby said, sucking in a deep breath. His thoughts turned to the trip ahead, and the things that could be waiting. He tried to push his steps into long, confident strides as he moved away from his family toward the gang-plank, but his legs felt like jelly. He bit his lip as questions surfaced in his mind: How many years could pass in the time grid while I age only three weeks? What if he never came back? Mom was right; a lot could happen. He gave her one last look over his shoulder and smiled. She smiled back, offering a hesitant wave.
Klaas was waiting for him at the bottom of the boarding ramp. “Looks solid and fit to sail,” he pronounced, testing the ramp.
“Uh, thanks, Klaas. Thanks for everything.”
Klaas was quiet for a moment, beaming at him. “A sailor off to the sea …”
There was another beat of silence.
“My father was in the Navy, you know,” he said. “He told me once, ‘I felt so big to go off to sea. But then there were nights so dark, and waters so deep, and this big sailor felt sometimes very small.’ Remember, big or small does not always matter. It is what is in here that counts.” He patted Willoughby’s chest. “Be careful, Willoughby.”
“I’ll be fine, really,” Willoughby said, rather unconvincingly.
“I know,” Klaas said. “I know you will.”
Willoughby gave him a nod, and then stepped past, starting up the ramp. He slowed only once, when Klaas called after him, “Godsp
eed, Willoughby! Godspeed!” He felt an odd tightening in the pit of his stomach. Was he doing the right thing? Would he really be fine? He was heading into the unknown, into possible dangers. What if he never came back? What if he came back somehow changed or wounded? There had to be a million ways something could go wrong. He turned and gave Klaas another wave. He stood there, staring back for a long moment, until a tinkling from above caught his attention. He looked up. A girl was peering down from the ship.
“It’s Willoughby, right?” She lowered her voice to a strong whisper. “Don’t look like such a lost puppy! Be excited! Smile wider! Wave again…good! Now, turn. Breathe in, step; breathe out, step. Breathe in, step; breathe out, step. That’s the way! Let the oxygen flow through your body.”
Willoughby felt stupid being instructed on how to—to what? Play his part better? He studied the girl. She was beautiful. She had the darkest, most captivating eyes he had ever seen. They crackled with inner intensity, drawing one in. These were the kind of eyes a guy could get lost in. He stumbled upward, all possible dangers of the cruise forgotten.
A gust of wind made the boat and the ramp sway. Willoughby caught himself, throwing his arms out for balance. “Whoa!”
“Scintillating, isn’t it?” The girl exhaled. She had a casual self-assured stance, one that he recognized from the newspaper clipping he had pinned to his wall. He had studied the clipping over and over in the past few months, tracing the lines of the girl’s face—a face that exhibited both the poise of a monarch and the smile of a fairy queen. The girl leaned over the rail, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“I could breathe in the romance of the sea forever. Smell it? Here, a hint of India; there, a whiff of the Congo. Breathe in deep enough and you feel the chill of Tibet, winds blowing from the high, forgotten peaks...”
She seemed to lean out over the water as she said this—or was it just the gentle rocking of the ship? He tried not to think about it, feeling as though a thousand eyes were watching him as the girl raised an eyebrow and stared. She rolled a hand delicately along the rail, moving slowly toward the top of the ramp. He wasn’t sure if the hand was mimicking the wind, or a wave, or just dancing to a melody she alone could hear. He watched the hand come closer. Stepping awkwardly off the ramp, he grabbed the rail, almost tripping.
“It keeps moving,” he complained.
The girl laughed. “It’s a ship! Haven’t you ever been on a ship before?” Now, her eyes danced about him. He flinched from their full gaze. She was waiting for him to say something. He felt sweat trickle down his neck. What was he supposed to say?
“I, uh, I—I’m Willoughby,” he started, pleased that he remembered his name, then recalled that the girl already knew his full name. “I guess you know that,” he said, taking a wobbly step toward her. She had not moved, staring at him. He made a short bow. She responded with a flowing curtsey that caused her many bracelets to jingle. She looked slightly older than she had in the news article Antonio gave him. She was dressed in silky, oddly-matched layers of clothing that were definitely not Worthington Hills fare.
“So,” she said, “we meet at last, Willoughby Von Brahmer.” She held out her hand, filling the air with pings and tinkles—soft, like the random melodies of a wind chime. “I’m Sydney Senoya.” Her voice was both musical and amused. “I’ve been waiting for you to make your grand appearance. By the way, you don’t look anything like your picture.”
“My picture?” Willoughby wondered if she was making fun of how he stumbled up the ramp and nearly tripped stepping onto the ship.
“Yes,” Sydney went on. “I looked up your school photo. I have done my homework. I understand you have a picture of me on your wall?”
“I—uh, no, not exactly—I, I was interested in the—it’s a…news clipping.”
The girl smiled, her eyes still dancing. “Not one of my best pictures. I’ll see that you get a better one.”
Willoughby had barely opened his mouth when Sydney turned, yammering on. “I had you pegged as taller.” She grabbed his arm, lightly, her touch like the flutter of a butterfly. “Did they make you sit on thick, old books—encyclopedias or something?”
She stopped, looking at him. The delicate fingers of her free hand toyed with silky strands of hair. She pulled a few across her face and laughed. Willoughby wasn’t sure if he should try to answer her earlier question, or just close his mouth before the flies flew in.
“It’s their trick, you know,” she continued, prodding him on again but keeping to the rail. She seemed to revel in keeping him off-balance. The wind tugged at her jacket. “They use it at those expensive private schools. You sit on a stack of books and it’s supposed to make you look stately or something. I’ve heard it’s quite common at those ritzy all-boy schools. Tall and stately—it’s so important for you boys to hold up appearances, isn’t it?”
Willoughby stared, oblivious to what she was saying. Ripples of ebony hair flowed across her shoulders like a mysterious, shining river. She eyed him squarely.
“Surely, you don’t believe that appearances are everything, do you? I mean, really, if people feel that it’s so imperative that they look tall in some ridiculous photo—imperative enough that they’ll sit on a stack of books—well, I say to them, ‘Congratulations!’ You’ve just proved yourself to have the brains of a peacock.”
Sydney grinned wickedly, glancing away. “Von Brahmer, Von Brahmer…” She looked back at him. “We’ll have to do something about the name. Von Brahmer simply won’t do.”
Willoughby struggled to decide if the girl really thought he had the brains of a peacock, or if she had just been making a general statement. The ship rolled slightly, as if coming alive. He steadied himself again, placing both hands on the rail this time.
“It takes some getting used to,” the girl offered, still smiling.
“Going back to your original question,” he said shyly, “school photos aren’t usually very accurate. I mean, granted, some books might be put to better use by sitting on them, but I have no desire to appear as something I’m not.”
“Bravo!” Sydney clapped, “Humor in a mathematician!”
Willoughby wasn’t sure how to react to the outburst. He decided to ignore it and just plow on. “If I looked taller, it was probably the starch in my shirt. Mom picked the shirt out just for my pictures and that was the only time I ever wore it.”
Sydney paused. Her mood darkened a little, like a wind, changing direction.
“You’re close to your mother, aren’t you?” she asked, her eyes drifting to somewhere far away. Willoughby wasn’t sure how to respond. He said nothing, letting the silence drag. She quickly noted the silence and pulled her thoughts back to the present. “So, what should we do with your name?”
Willoughby shrugged. “I think Senoya is a beautiful name. You’re a violinist, right? Antonio said you are very talented.”
Sydney reacted with cautious delight. She nodded and leaned onto the rail, her delicate features lit by the fireworks in her eyes. “Yes. They call me a consummate virtuosa. That’s a female type who comes out of the womb humming Brahms’ lullabies. It says right on my birth certificate that I arrived carrying a tiny violin in one hand, my thin legs curled around a bow.” She peeked over, flashing a smile as hair whipped in her face. “But enough about me. What’s it like, leading the life of a dashing young mathematician? Will I have to dress in boring academic fashions or is there space in your world for elegance and style? I’ll give you a year to grow taller, but don’t ask for two, that’s pushing it.”
Willoughby had never met anyone like Sydney, nor had he heard the words “dashing” and “mathematician” in the same sentence before. He felt oddly outnumbered standing beside her. He glanced away, surveying the rest of the ship. Why hadn’t he looked up information on the other team members as she had obviously done? Outside of a few conversations with Antonio, he only knew wha
t H.S. and Dean Hollifield had told him, which wasn’t much.
Sydney pulled his attention back to the rail. Her smile had melted into melancholy again. “Those people down there—that’s your family, right?” She pointed dramatically across the pier.
Willoughby looked and waved. Mom and Klaas had corralled the two girls near the car. They chatted and watched. When they saw him look their way and wave, they waved back. Klaas gave him a thumbs-up sign, making him blush and hope that Sydney hadn’t seen. “Yeah,” he said, trying to mask a slight tremor in his voice. “That’s the gang.” He looked back at Sydney. “So, what do I do now? Is someone supposed to show me the ship?”
Sydney stared at the family a moment longer and then motioned Willoughby forward. “Yes. Me.” Her silk hair swished and her bracelets tinkled.
As they walked toward the bow, Willoughby looked out again over the pier. “Hey, where’s your family?”
Darkness returned to the girl’s face. “Where, indeed,” she said, not looking back. “There’s a topic for the morning inspirational.” She avoided his gaze, catching an unruly strand of hair and slipping it back behind her ear. “My dad,” she finally explained, “is a senior executive in one of the largest firms on the Tokyo exchange.” There was an edge of bitterness to her tone. “While technically I live with my mother in Honolulu—she’s Polynesian—I don’t see her much. She works as a professional dancer and is rarely at home. Actually, I like it that way. We don’t exactly get along.”
She raised her hand and shook it, checking the lay of her bracelets. Her fingers were thin and carefully manicured. “Dad is seldom around, but he pays the bills, and takes pride in my achievements, which is more than my mother can manage. I’m usually off somewhere in the world touring, or auditioning, or something like that. This cruise is really no different so why should they be here to send me off?”
