by Deen Ferrell
She turned to look at Willoughby, daring him to speak. They had stopped near the front mast. Willoughby looked away from her gaze, unwilling to make any comment that might upset her. The ship looked even more majestic from the deck than it had from the pier. After a moment of gazing around, he realized that Sydney expected a response.
“I was just curious,” he said. “I thought maybe you would want to see them here. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t help but think of Gustav. He did have some sense of how she felt.
Sydney narrowed her eyes, then turned and started walking again.
Had he said something wrong? He fought to change the subject; “Uh, what’s your expertise for the team? Music?”
Sydney looked over with a sad grin. “I’m Sydney Senoya, Willoughby. I’m the resident expert on empty spaces.”
For a moment, there was no sound but the wind, and the water lapping at the side of the boat. Sydney seemed to be searching for something. Willoughby had no idea what to do. Just as he was ready to launch into an apology, the girl spun, pirouetting on her toes. There was a renewed energy in her voice.
“Music and languages are my specialties, if you must know. Sometimes the two are one thing,” her eyes became misty for a moment. “Music is a language, you know. To my people, it was a sacred language—the language of the Gods…” She looked off toward the sea, then gave her head a slight shake and turned back to Willoughby. “My, but you are curious! You should be ashamed of yourself, prying into a girl’s private life. I can only overlook your deplorable lack of sensibility if you lean over, right now, and kiss me.”
She raised an eyebrow. Fear and panic gripped Willoughby. Was she serious?
Sydney burst into laughter. “I’ll give you time to warm up to the idea, Mr. Von Brahmer—one day, maybe two—but your carefree days are numbered.” Without warning, she twirled again, watching the layers of her dress flair and swirl. “Tell me,” she called back, “where did you get the recruiting speech?”
“The what?”
“The recruiting speech! It’s where H.S. babbles on about infinities, and potentials, and the shape of windmills. He made me think of Don Quixote. I can see him now, on his white steed, barreling forward, bent lance in hand, anxious to engage the monstrous forces that make time’s windmill move. Of course, you probably lapped it up. It’s the sort of thing you mathematicians dream about, isn’t it?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Or do you have other, more interesting dreams?”
She waited, eyes wide, as the wind tussled her hair.
“Uh…Jurassic period,” Willoughby stammered. “I watched a plesiosaurus attack a fanged eel. It was raw and…fascinating.”
“Raw?” Sydney raised an eyebrow, then spun and continued forward. “It was probably a prehistoric shark, actually. They look a lot like eels. One was found, alive, near Japan a few years ago. I saw the video on YouTube. Anyway, my speech came in ancient China. It was somewhere around the 6th century B.C. Our observation window overlooks the Yangtze. I glimpsed Loa Tsu, and lotus blooms, and all around us, the hint of young love...”
She stopped, spinning in a full circle before becoming perfectly still. “Okay, forgive me. I am supposed to be the welcoming committee, not the afternoon entertainment.” She offered an elegant bow, her bracelets jangling. “Consider this your official welcome, Sir Willoughby. Would you like to meet the other members of the team?”
“Yes,” Willoughby replied, trying to keep his balance as deck hands began pulling up the ramp. He felt about as graceful as a stuffed avocado on this ship. Sydney turned abruptly and motioned him forward again. With a slight spring in her step, she wound her way through the rigging toward the cabin of the ship.
Willoughby had never seen such grace and poise in a girl. When she wasn’t talking, it was easy to think of her as some sort of Asian princess, captured, perhaps, by Moroccan pirates in the China Sea. When she was talking, it was hard to think of anything. You were too busy trying to keep up.
10
Shipmates
Sydney stopped beside the center mast, giving him a chance to catch up. “Antonio was the first to arrive. He’s below deck somewhere, studying the design of the ship. Dr. O’Grady is holed up in his cabin, as usual, and James Arthur...”
She scanned a narrow corridor on the seaward side of the ship and pointed, flashing a smile. “There! On the starboard rigging, ladies and gentlemen, meet the reincarnated Errol Flynn!”
Willoughby followed Sydney’s finger and caught sight of a lean, muscled black man who seemed to be swinging from the ropes.
“Errol Flynn?” He watched the man’s exaggerated antics. “Movies in black and white leave little confusion about skin color.”
Sydney laughed. “I’m impressed! You actually know Errol Flynn?”
Willoughby offered a grin. “Well, I don’t know him. I have watched a few of his swashbuckler films. My mom secretly adored Captain Blood. Before she remarried, she used to bribe me every time the colorized version came on. Then, of course, there was The Sea Hawk, The Adventures of Robin Hood, and the infamous Don Juan. I think she was in love with him.”
“I want to know more about the infamous part.”
Willoughby stared blankly at her, perplexed.
She sighed. “Ah, well. Maybe someday Don Juan will ride again.” She watched the lean, black man scale the main mast.
Willoughby followed her gaze.
“Hey, Errol!” The girl suddenly called out; “Come meet Willoughby!”
The man gave a hurried wave and then leaped from the rigging. He swung gracefully, holding tight to a thick bit of rigging. The arc of his swing brought him down only a few feet from them, hitting the deck lightly. He straightened, breathing easily, and held out a hand.
“Willoughby, is it? The name is James Arthur—Dr. James Arthur Washington to be more precise. My friends call me Dr. J”
Willoughby smiled. “Julius Erving—an early NBA king of finger rolls and slam dunks. If you handle a ball as deftly as that rope, I understand the reference.”
“I like to think I do. We’ll have to spend some time on the court and you can let me know if you agree.”
“This ship has a basketball court?”
James Arthur smiled conspiratorially. “Yes—of a sort.”
Though soccer was more his sport, Willoughby had forced himself to memorize key basketball and football trivia so that he could be more conversant with the sporting crowd.
“A sports trivia buff!” James Arthur grinned widely. “I think you and I shall get along simply swimmingly!”
Willoughby raised an eyebrow. “Swimmingly?”
Dr. J barked a short laugh just as a squat, rotund seaman rounded the corner. “Hey! Hey! No pull loose the sail, Mr. Doctor! That rope pull loose the sail!” His waxed moustache quivered comically.
James Arthur’s face twisted in a mischievous smile. He jumped onto the rail, still holding the thick rope in his hand. “Stop there, ye foul sea dog! Be gone, else I spit upon your grave!” He gave Willoughby a quick wink. “You and your villainous scum shall never take me alive!” He began to run along the top of the rail, using the rope to steady himself, and once clear of the seaman, swooped across to the center mast. He then used the rope to pull himself up the mast. The squat seaman was now joined by two others, and within moments, half a dozen bony, thin fellows with jagged beards had joined the chase.
“I’ll say this for the man,” Willoughby nodded. “He’s got strong arms.”
“And a strong neck—to carry that fat head!” Sydney added.
Willoughby laughed, turning to follow her into a dim doorway. They entered a low structure that housed a small sleeping berth, a few counters with dials and instruments, and a huge, wooden wheel. He gaped at the wheel. It was easily as tall as he was. A loud, whooping commotion outside the wheel room caused him to step back to the doorway and look ou
t. Dr. J had scurried down the narrow breadth of a yardarm and threw himself into a swan dive, plummeting past the railing of the ship. There was a sound of him smacking into the water with a thunderous splash. The crewmen panicked, scrambling to throw out lifelines. After a tense moment of silence, an unmistakable sound gurgled up from the waters below—uproarious laughter.
Sydney pulled Willoughby’s arm, jerking him toward a flight of wooden stairs.
“He jumped!” Willoughby exclaimed, as they clamored down the stairs, finding themselves in a brightly-lit, narrow hallway. “He ran right off the edge of the yardarm and jumped!”
Sydney was not amused. “Good. He probably needs a bath after playing pirate for two hours. Hopefully, he’ll find the sharks equally amusing.”
“Sharks?” Willoughby looked down, seeing that Sydney had just linked her arm around his elbow. “In Boston harbor?”
“Quite so,” Sydney smiled, mimicking a British accent. “What lies beneath, what hides before you in plain sight—here is where the treasure lay. Observation is the key. Truly look and you shall discover.”
The sparkle in her eyes was alluring. Willoughby found himself needing to blink. “Huh… Is the team always this academic?”
Sydney whipped her hair around. “Brilliant minds have a stimulating capacity for play,” she winked, and then widened one eye. “Just wait until it’s our turn.” Her smile spelled triumph as she pointed out a large, dim room to the left. “Chartroom,” she sang out. “Wardroom…” They passed a completely darkened room to the right. Reaching the individual cabins, she waved her arm in an all-encompassing sweep. “Here we have the officers and us!”
Each door had a small engraved name-plate which identified the occupants. Willoughby read them aloud as they passed; “Captain’s Quarters, Officers’ Cabin, Dr. Hathaway Simon …” He stopped at the next name plate.
It read Sydney Senoya, then immediately below, T.K. (Cabin Girl).
“Cabin girl?”
“That’s what it says,” Sydney said with a hint of disdain. She pouted. “I get to room with the hired help. It’s my reward for being the only girl on the team.”
Willoughby was intrigued. “Old ships used to have cabin boys.”
Sydney’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, but this is not an old ship, my boy! I’ve met her, by the way—a little self-absorbed, but adorable in her own way. She’s sort of Barbie meets Attila the Hun.”
Willoughby raised his eyebrows, trying to picture the girl. Sydney ignored him, pointing to the cabin across from hers. The top of the gold name plate read Willoughby Von Brahmer. Below his name, Dr. James Arthur Washington filled up the bottom half of the plate. He stared at Dr. J’s name with a look of disappointment.
“What’s wrong?” Sydney asked.
“Uh, I thought I’d be rooming with Antonio,” he mumbled. “We know each other pretty well.”
Sydney winked. “Not anxious to spend the night with Tarzan of the yardarms? Your secret is safe with me.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, widening her eyes conspiratorially. “If you’re really nice, I might be able to squeeze you onto my bunk. I’ll put a sock on your head and pretend you’re a teddy bear.”
Willoughby felt his face get hot. “You don’t let up, do you?”
Sydney pursed her lips, tapping one foot softly in a slow spin. “No, Mr. Von Brahmer, as a matter of fact, I do not.” She stopped, daring him to respond.
Willoughby looked away, searching for something, anything, to help him change the subject. He cracked the door to his berth. There were two beds in the cabin, one on each side of the room. His trunk had been placed beside a small desk, at the foot of the left-side bed. A pair of low mahogany dressers adorned the far wall and the room was decorated with nautical knick-knacks and paintings. All in all, it seemed cozy and bright, despite the fact that there were no portholes. He thought of the stairway and realized the cabins were below deck. He did not remember seeing any portholes in the polished wood hull of the ship. That seemed a bit odd.
Sydney had wandered over to the final cabin and knocked lightly on the door. She turned. “You’ll probably like James Arthur once you get to know him,” she said. “He’s a bit showy and over-confident, but he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t brilliant. His theory of BioMagnetics is already revolutionizing the world of self-healing.”
Self-healing? Willoughby tried to think of how self-healing would be important to time-travel. Was it simply that Dr. J was smart, or did his athleticism bring an important element to the team as well? He walked up behind Sydney and read the nameplate on the final door: Dr. Hal O’Grady, Antonio Santanos Eldoro Chavez. She knocked again, and the door swooped open. A wiry, balding fellow, with thick glasses and large, bushy sideburns peered out. He held a saucer in one hand and a teacup in the other. His hands were shaking. “Ah, Miss Sydney,” the man sputtered with a heavy Irish accent. He seemed embarrassed.
Sydney smiled. “Dr. O’Grady, this is Willoughby. He’s just arrived.”
Dr. O’Grady looked over, his eyes shifting nervously. He bent clumsily to hold out a hand, realizing too late that it still held his teacup. He pulled the hand back, sheepishly, and motioned the two in, moving back toward his untidy desk. “Afraid I’m apt to get a bit nauseous on voyages—motion sickness, you see.”
He seated himself on the wooden desk chair. “I, I must say, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, lad. I was greatly impressed with your treatise and solution for the Riemann. I have some things I’d like to discuss with you when you’re settled in. I’ve a theory you might be able to help me with. Have you read my work on string theory and its applications to present day star-mapping procedures?”
“Uh,” Willoughby swallowed, “not yet. It sounds fascinating though.”
He watched curiously as Dr. O’Grady fingered his teacup. The man placed the cup on the desk, turning it slightly on its saucer. He looked up, jolting his hand out again to try for a handshake, and knocked the teacup over. Tea, or whatever the brown liquid was, sloshed across the desk and began to drip onto the floor. Willoughby and Sydney both sprung to try to help minimize the damage.
“Ah,” Dr. O’Grady fussed, looking for something to mop up the mess. “Clumsy, clumsy—quite clumsy, really.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed nervously at the pooling liquid.
As soon as the mess was cleaned up, Sydney pulled lightly on Willoughby’s arm, pointing him toward the door. “Well, we don’t want to take up your time Dr. O’Grady. I just wanted to introduce the two of you. We’ll be off.”
Dr. O’Grady grunted nervously, still dabbing at the carpet.
“Uh, see you around,” Willoughby said as Sydney pulled him out and closed the cabin door. When they had stepped away, back toward his cabin, he whispered. “A bit skittish, isn’t he?”
Sydney sighed. “Yes. He’s a resident professor at the University of Dublin. He took a sabbatical to be with us, but he is a bit of a challenge for the team. He was all gung-ho for joining us, but it took months to get him away from his job at the university. Now that he’s here, I think he feels a bit like a fish out of water. He’s brilliant, but also the nervous sort. You’re never sure if he’s going to break out into a dissertation or start crying.”
“You know a lot about everyone.”
“I told you, I do my homework,” Sydney replied, stepping in closer. She started walking her fingers up his chest. “I complete all my assignments.”
Willoughby stepped back.
Sydney burst into another round of laughter. “Well, well…you’ll have to do better than that, Willoughby!” She tapped his nose and twirled away. “The Absconditus sails at 4:15. That gives you roughly an hour to get settled. You’ll want to be topside when we pull out of the harbor. They say it’s quite a show. Dinner is at 5:30, and after dinner, there’s a brief orientation by H.S.”
“He’s on the ship?” Willou
ghby asked.
“Don’t know. No one sees him unless he wants to be seen.” Sydney rocked back on her heels. “I’m just going by the instructions I received from the ship’s Captain. He met me when I first came aboard. He’s sort of a tall, silent type. I think he’s related to the cabin girl.”
Jingling her bracelets, she added, “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I need to—freshen up.” She winked again. For some stupid reason, Willoughby blushed. This girl was a lot to handle. Standing next to her was like standing in the middle of a fireworks display. He watched her gracefully pirouette through her cabin door. Before the door shut, she called over her shoulder. “Oh, and the Captain was hoping you’d take some level of responsibility for your roommate. They’d like to keep all those bristling muscles of his still bristling—at least until the end of the voyage.” The door whooshed shut.
Willoughby stood staring after the girl. He would have normally been intrigued by the ship, his teammates, and a million other things, but this girl had a way of keeping him strangely off balance. He started to turn and walk back to his cabin, but something out of the corner of his eye made him turn toward H.S.’s cabin door. For a moment, he thought he had seen that same string of ghostly numbers floating out from a section of door a few feet higher than the doorknob. He watched. Nothing—he was just staring at an ordinary door. What was he expecting to see, a man rip open space and peer through? He shook his head. It was probably just this whole weird day. He struggled to pull things into perspective. A shout echoed from the end of the hall. It was Dr. J stepping into the hallway.
“Surf’s up!” he yelled with a wide grin. He walked, dripping, down the hall. Barefoot and bare-chested, he had his pant legs rolled up and a lifesaver slung over one shoulder. His soaked shirt was draped over the other shoulder, oozing thin streams down the man’s brown skin. The white of his teeth seemed to glow in the dim hall light. As he passed Willoughby, ducking into the cabin, he sang out in a fine baritone voice; “Fine, my boy; oh, oh, oh, that water is fine!” Willoughby watched as a slippery trail of lifesaver rope snaked into the cabin behind him.
