Cryptic Spaces

by Deen Ferrell

  “H-how did I get here?” Willoughby croaked. “How long have I been here?”

  T.K. stood. “Well, let’s see... You danced here.”

  “Danced?” Willoughby’s voice was thick. He sat up, wishing that the world would stop spinning.

  “Danced,” T.K. repeated. “You followed Sydney around like she was the pied piper, yelling something at the top of your lungs that was completely unintelligible.” Willoughby tried to stand, but T.K. pushed him back down. “Give it a moment. You’ve been out for hours.”

  Willoughby looked up at the stars, bewildered. Had he really made such a spectacle of himself? He noted that the moon was gone. He checked his watch. It was well after midnight. “Almost 1:00 a.m.? What happened to me?”

  “What indeed,” T.K. sighed. “When the performance was over, you stumbled into the shadows. Everyone was concerned. I found you here, mumbling something about the heart of time and Sydney offering—”

  “Please,” Willoughby cut in, “don’t take that any farther.”

  T.K. smiled. “When you passed out, I called for the ship’s physician. He said it was just the kava and that you’d sleep it off. The Captain sent everyone to their cabins, but asked me to bring a few blankets up and keep an eye on you through my watch. He was afraid moving you might make you vomit. How’s your head?”

  Willoughby leaned forward, placing his forehead between his knees. “I think it’s closed for the season,” he said quietly. He sat for a moment and then looked up. “I saw a fire grow into a high, golden spiral,” he said. “I thought it was going to set the ship on fire. I tried to stop Sydney, and then there were numbers everywhere—running equations—and then faces and ships and I heard voices and saw things from long ago. It was incredible, like I could touch other minds and feel the beat of their hearts. I felt like I could really comprehend the mathematics of time.”

  T.K. flung back her long, blonde hair. “Wow. Sounds like quite a ride. Kava has an almost narcotic effect. It puts people into trances and causes hallucinations. I was sitting with the crew watching the show. I was worried when you drank it.”

  “But there was something about the music,” Willoughby mumbled. “The notes, the rhythm, the movements—the piece was brilliant, like a musical expression of the golden ratio. It was nearly perfect, mathematically. You didn’t feel anything from the performance?”

  T.K. stared at him blankly. “I felt that Sydney did a good job of making a fool of you.”

  Willoughby nodded. “Yeah, she’s good at that.” He stood slowly, grabbing hold of the ship’s rail. The blood rushed to his head. For a moment he thought he would be sick. He sucked in gulps of fresh air.

  T.K. moved up beside him. “I have no interest in Sydney’s music, Willoughby. I wanted to speak to you. You remind me of someone.”

  Willoughby breathed deeply, trying to lose the nausea. “Who? From your description of my performance tonight, I would peg myself as a cross between Pinocchio and Clarence the Clown.”

  T.K. smiled. “This someone is a, a person I lost a long time ago.”

  “A long time ago?” Willoughby grinned. “What, you’re maybe nineteen? You make it sound like it was back in the time of Egypt.”

  “I don’t know. When was Egypt first settled?”

  Willoughby stared at her blankly. Finally, she broke into a mischievous smile. “Okay, I’m just kidding. I’m pretty sure Egypt was there, but I am older than you imagine.”

  “How old?”

  The girl shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, we can still be friends. Anyway, you remind me of a person who was very dear to me. He was young and innocent. He never saw danger around us, only adventure.” She was quiet for a moment and then sighed. “That’s why I’m concerned about you. Something isn’t right about this cruise. It feels all wrong.”

  Willoughby looked away. “Who have you been talking to? Antonio?”

  “No.” T.K. peered at him with narrowed eyes. “Why? Does he sense it, too?” She turned away. “It’s odd. People are on this ship who shouldn’t be here, I’m sure of it. The Captain and I have worked with H.S. dozens of times before, but it never felt like this.”

  “Are you related to the Captain?”

  “He’s my adopted father.”

  “Who do you think is on the ship that shouldn’t be?”

  “I don’t know. Some of the crew don’t feel right. A month or so before this voyage, a handful of our regulars became suddenly sick or incapacitated. Observations, Inc. cleared their replacements, but the guys that showed up feel wrong. They looked good on paper, but when they arrived…I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. It just feels wrong.” She fell silent, looking out over the rolling waves and the starlit sky. Several minutes passed before she spoke again, almost in a whisper. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  Willoughby strained to see what she was looking at. All he could see was ocean, stretching out as far as you could see until dark waters melted into dark, starlit sky.

  “Sometimes I forget how beautiful the sea is at night,” she continued. “There was a time I knew it well. I’d walk the rock cliffs in the moonlight and watch the breakers roll their strange thunder below a grand chorus of stars.”

  Willoughby was dizzy and confused. Why would T.K. be so concerned? Was she telling him everything?

  “What else feels wrong?” he asked, probing.

  “I told you, I don’t know,” she replied. “The Captain is paid handsomely, and in advance, to pilot this cruise. Dr. Simon acted different this time, though. He’s usually pleasant, if a bit business-minded, but this time, he’s been AWOL. The few hours he was here, he seemed upset and distracted. He yelled at Sydney, then promptly stomped off to his cabin and disappeared. I went to look for him in his cabin ten minutes later at the Captain’s request, but he was gone. He’d just disappeared. If he hadn’t sent a message to us over the telex an hour later saying he would still lead your orientation, the Captain would probably have postponed our departure and called the police.” She paused. “Maybe it’s nothing, but I can’t help how I feel.” She looked back out to sea.

  Willoughby considered what she had told him. “You mean Sydney got here the same time as H.S.?”

  “No,” T.K. answered. “Sydney was here two days before him. She’s been here for almost a week now.”

  The moon had sunk low in the sky, reflecting off the cresting waves. She slid slender, delicate fingers absently along the smooth wood of the ship’s rail. “Ever been off the coast of the Bahamas? There’s a phosphorescent algae there that sparks off the waves. They actually twinkle at night.”

  Willoughby shook his head.

  T.K. turned suddenly. “Okay, you don’t seem to be buying this. Maybe I know a little more than I’m saying. I’ve tried to research Observations, Inc. There’s no mention of the company on the internet. In fact, there’s no mention of it anywhere. I’ve checked all the major world stock exchanges—nothing. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? I mean, they seem to have unlimited supplies of money. What do you know about them?”

  “Uh, they do research,” Willoughby said nervously.

  “What kind?” T.K. asked. “They shipped in Sydney’s musicians, and took them back as soon as the concert was over. What kind of research organization does that?”

  “Well, they’re into antiquities and cultural things,” Willoughby said truthfully. “I don’t know a whole lot about the organization. I’ve only met the team here.”

  T.K. was silent for a moment. She reached forward and touched his shoulder. “Thanks for being honest with me. I know, as Sydney would say, I’m just a cabin girl.”

  “Hey, don’t sell yourself short,” Willoughby said, his eyes earnest. Perhaps it was the lingering effect of the kava, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Nobody is a just. Maybe you don’t have as much money as someone else. Maybe you don’t wear
three outfits in a day, and you don’t have a daddy who is a President or King. The way I see it, people who perform, get elected to office, or who throw money around, expecting the world to lap at their feet, usually aren’t the greatest people to emulate. People are more than what they do for a living. They’re what’s inside them. I get treated like a ‘just’ all the time at my school—just a smart kid; just a kid from the suburbs; just a kid whose folks must know someone to get into such an ‘upscale’ academy. Those people don’t know me. By the way, the only ‘just’ I can think of in connection with you is ‘just beautiful.”

  Did he just say what he thought he said? From the smile on T.K.’s face, he decided he must have. She let out a laugh. “Whoa! Definitely the kava talking.”

  “No, I mean it,” Willoughby said, embarrassed now.

  T.K. was silent for a moment. “Well, we best get you back to your quarters.” She grabbed his arm and they started walking. After a few steps, she turned suddenly and kissed him on the cheek. A part of him wanted to take her and kiss her full on the mouth. Then, he realized he didn’t know how. He had never kissed a girl full on the lips. Wouldn’t the noses get in the way? Boy, am I ever under the effects of this kava! He grabbed T.K.’s arm tighter to steady himself.

  As they approached the cabins, Willoughby noted a dark figure, squatting by a stack of rusted barrels. The figure rose, moving into the moonlight to block their path. He was a bald man with a patch over one eye and tattoos covering his arms and chest. He smiled, the starlight gleaming dimly on his teeth.

  “You’re up late,” T.K. huffed. “I’ll have to report you—Reese, is it?”

  Willoughby froze. Reese? He stared harder, finally coming to recognize the dim outlines of a striking snake on the man’s bald head.

  “Well now,” the man grunted. “Ain’t we the Captain’s pet?”

  T.K. glared at the man, who was twirling something in his hand, letting the moonlight glint on its silvery surface. She grabbed Willoughby tightly by the arm and led him away from the man, taking him the long way back toward the cabins.

  “See what I mean,” she whispered under her breath.

  Willoughby was still trying to come to terms with the fact that Reese was on the ship. When they reached the doorway to the lower decks, he glanced back one last time. He shuddered. The man had turned to watch them and smiled. He was playing with a long, slender knife.

  18

  Hickory, Dickory, Dock

  Willoughby woke to Dr. J belting out an off-key version of the ‘80s pop group ABBA’s song Dancing Queen. While he was only vaguely aware of the song, he was pretty sure that the words were not “… dancing king, young and spry, I thought I’d bust my spleen!” Forcing open his eyes, he slowly pushed to a sitting position. His head throbbed as he leaned back against the wall. “That’s really funny. What time is it? If it’s 6 AM again, I’m telling you right now, I’ll kill you.”

  “Hey—it’s my man, Romeo!” James Arthur clucked. “Late night? I’d have let you sleep longer, but you were breathing all heavy, calling, ‘Sydney, Sydney, I open to you all that I am…’ I figured I better do something. I couldn’t let my ‘bro’ make a bigger fool of himself than he already has, now, could I? Why, he might go pirouetting off down the hall.”

  Willoughby rubbed his eyes hard, trying to chase the fog away. He felt in no mood to deal with the good doctor. “Ha, ha, ha,” he managed. “Listen, could you get me an aspirin? My head feels like, like—”

  “Like you’ve gone ten rounds with a hammer and the hammer won? I hear you, but no aspirin. I’ll get you ibuprofen. Aspirin is too hard on the empty stomach. Feel up to breakfast? How about some nice, greasy sausage and gooey, sunny-side up eggs?”

  Willoughby’s face took on a slight twinge of green. James Arthur laughed. “Seriously, here’s the ibuprofen and I’ll bring you a stiff orange juice and some wheat toast.”

  “Thanks,” Willoughby grunted. He pushed his head back and closed his eyes. The good doctor took to singing again as soon as he left the room. “You will dance, and you will take the chance, she’ll make you dance like a puppet on string; see that girl, watch her finger twirl, she’s caught you with her bling...”

  “Real catchy!” Willoughby shouted after him. “Spend all night thinking that one up?”

  “Multi-talented, my man,” James Arthur barked back. “Some of us just got it.” He collapsed into a fit of laughter.

  Willoughby gave his head a slow shake, wishing he could clear out the cobwebs and forget about dancing at the concert. He stood up, shut the door, and splashed a little water on his face. What had he said to T.K.? Ugh! He had almost grabbed her and kissed her! On the one hand, he wondered why he didn’t. He’d never kissed a girl before. What a great chance for practice! T.K. was beautiful and he could have always claimed he was still affected by the Kava. Ah, well.

  He climbed back onto his bunk, started to lie back, then shot up again, rigid. He had remembered seeing the tattooed man, Reese. The man had been playing with a knife. Everything in his memory had a foggy quality, as if from a dream. But it hadn’t been a dream. He had to try to find Antonio. He eased back onto the bed, trying to think of where his friend could be.

  A timid knock at the door made him almost jump. He straightened again and shouted that the door was open. As it swung in, he could see it was Sydney. She came over carrying a tall glass of orange juice and a small plate of toast.

  “Hi,” she said. She was her usual, radiant self, though a little subdued this morning. Her jeans, sneakers, and t-shirt could almost have passed as normal teenage attire if it hadn’t been for the cluster of bangles on one wrist and the tangle of leather cords on the other. He studied the cords for a moment, noting small, silver ornaments woven into them. A necklace of the same type of leather hung around her neck. It held a simple silver cross. “James Arthur said you could use this.” She moved her hands gracefully, placing the orange juice and toast onto the stand by his bed. The cross dangled as she pulled containers of butter and jam out of her pocket and deposited them onto the plate. The cross was particularly interesting. Sydney hadn’t seemed that religious before.

  He caught her eye. “Uh, hi,” he said awkwardly. He quickly turned away. Why did he always feel so self-conscious around her? He remembered that he hadn’t combed his hair. Putting a hand up to smooth it down, he realized, with horror, that all he wore under the sheet was boxer shorts. He slid down slightly, doubting that the bare chest he sported was the sort of thing teenage girls fantasized about. Another stray thought attacked him—had T.K. tucked him in? The thought made him blush. Sydney was eyeing him curiously.

  “You’re mad at me, aren’t you? I heard Dr. J’s incredibly inept attempt at, at—well, at what? It certainly wasn’t music…Humor?”

  Willoughby smiled. “From all reports, I had it coming.”

  Sydney sighed. “That little amount of kava usually doesn’t have such a marked effect. I didn’t think it would hit you that hard. Honest.”

  It wasn’t just the kava, Willoughby thought, glancing over at her trim frame, but aloud he only said, “Well, sounds like the ancestors got quite a show.” He found it difficult to look her in the eye.

  Sydney gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t think they’re ready to write you into the act just yet,” she said. Willoughby cocked his head slightly. What was that supposed to mean? Sydney went quiet, eyeing him with a strange, tight smile. “Well,” she said, lowering her head. “I owe you one.” She turned without another word and hurried out of the room, not even closing the door.

  Willoughby stared after her. He wasn’t at all sure what he thought of this girl. She was brash, feisty, and controlling on the surface, but then, there were depths—unreadable depths. He saw again in his mind the image of her intense eyes as she floated above him in the air. Her voice rang out, soft and strong. “I offer it all to you, Willoughby. Come to know who I am.”
Had that only been the kava? He shuddered, wiping a hand over his face.

  Dr. J ducked his head around the corner, holding a basketball under one arm. “Owe you one? Now, that’s the understatement of the decade. Man, she had you dancing like Pinocchio on a string. I had to roll up my jaw in a carpet bag when you came pirouetting past.”

  “It’s working just fine this morning,” Willoughby said with a resigned sigh. He reached down and picked up a piece of toast and took a quick swig of orange juice.

  “Well, true enough,” James Arthur said with a grin. “So, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Eat up. Drink down your orange juice, and I’ll give you a chance to get fresh air, a bit of exercise, and to shut this fat mouth up for good! How does that sound? What’s it worth to you to know you’ll never hear another rendition of Dancing King? Believe me—I’ve got more where that came from.”

  Willoughby raised his eyebrows. “I need to find Antonio,” he said between bites.

  Dr. J held up the basketball and spun it, balancing it on a single finger. “The good barber has disappeared. I ran into the First Mate earlier and he said A.S.E.C. is nowhere to be seen. I’ll tell you what, though—if you take a few moments to shoot hoops with me, I’ll help you find him. Take your worries, your frustrations to the court, my man,” he grinned. “You win, my lips are sealed and I am your personal blood-hound for sniffing out incompetent barbers. I win, and you get the extended version of ‘I Could Have Danced All Night!’”

  Willoughby rolled his eyes. He finished his toast and drank down the last of the orange juice. “Not a fair bet,” he finally said. “Basketball isn’t my game, but alright, a few hoops. Then we find Antonio.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Dr. J beamed. He bounced the ball twice against the doorframe. “Okay, let’s make it interesting. Game is to five. I’ll spot you four to begin with, but I get to take the ball out first. Pretty good odds, huh?” James Arthur broke into singing again: ‘If your brood’s in the laughing mood, here comes the dancing dude!’”