North of Nowhere

by Liz Kessler

  Gran stood up. “Right. I’ve got a pub to run. Lynne, let me show you the ropes while we’re relatively quiet. Then if we get busy later, you can look after the bar while I sort out everything else. Amelia, why don’t you take the dog out? He’s in the back. I’ve not had a chance to give him a proper walk yet today, what with . . . well, you know. It’s not easy running the whole place on your own.”

  Mom followed Gran to the bar. I was only too happy to walk the dog, so I went through to the living room, where Flake, their five-year-old border collie, was lying on a rug in front of a gas fire. As soon as he saw me, he started wagging his shaggy tail, flapping it happily on the rug.

  I knelt down and stroked his tummy. “Hey there, Flake,” I said into his ears as I gave him a big cuddle. “You’re the first happy face I’ve seen since I got here.”

  He jumped up and followed me out of the room. I poked my head around the door to the pub. “I’ll take him down to the beach,” I called.

  Mom looked across and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t let him eat any dead crabs,” Gran added. “They make him sick.”

  “I won’t.”

  I ran upstairs to get my coat. When I came back down, Flake was waiting for me by the back door, wagging his tail furiously.

  “Come on, boy, let’s get out of here,” I said, grabbing his leash from the back door and clipping it on to his collar. I buttoned up my coat and we scuttled down the road toward the beach and the harbor.

  As I walked down the street, Flake trotting happily beside me, I couldn’t help thinking again about the day I was supposed to have had today. I’d have been at the movie theater by now, eating popcorn and sharing gummy bears with Jade and Ellen. Instead, I was walking along an empty, narrow cobblestone road down to a harbor with five fishing boats and a bunch of seaweed for company.

  I checked my phone as I reached the harbor. Still no signal. I shoved it back in my pocket and walked around the edge of the beach to the slipway.

  Flake ran happily down onto the sand, yapping delightedly. I couldn’t help thinking how nice it must feel to be a dog. They’re always so happy, so easy to please. I’d always wanted one, but Mom and Dad had said no. They said it wasn’t fair to have a dog when we’re all out at work or school all day, so I’ve had to make do with two gerbils and a guinea pig. All of which I adore — but it’s not the same. You can’t take them for walks, and they don’t wag their tails with delight every time you come into the room.

  I used to have pictures of kittens and puppies and rabbits all over my bedroom walls. I took them down last year when I had a sleepover at my house with my new friends. I decided it was time to leave fluffy bunnies behind. Since then, it had been mostly boy bands and actors on my walls, but in my secret heart of hearts, I still missed the bunnies.

  I picked up a stick, and in a flash, Flake was sitting in front of me, his tail thumping on the sand, his eyes focused on the stick. I threw it, and he raced off down the beach. A second later, Flake and stick were back at my feet. We played as we wandered along the beach, throwing and fetching sticks and bits of driftwood. For a moment, I almost forgot how miserable I was supposed to be. I couldn’t help being influenced by Flake’s perpetual happiness.

  We reached the end of the beach. Now what? I didn’t want to turn back. I couldn’t face sitting in the pub for the rest of the day, listening to the old fishermen talking about their catches, or seeing Gran’s pained face, or watching Mom’s attempts at being a barmaid, while we all tried not to show how worried we were.

  So, instead, I threw a few more sticks for Flake. At the end of the beach, there were three arches that led to a tiny spit of sand and an old concrete wall that was once a jetty. It hadn’t been used for years. At high tide, it was cut off completely as the arches filled up with water.

  I did a bad throw and the stick got carried along by the wind and went flying into the last archway. The tide was out, so Flake darted into the arch after the stick, and I waited for him to return, stick in mouth, tail wagging furiously. But he didn’t.

  A whole minute passed.

  “Flake?” I walked down to the arch and poked my head around the edge of it. He wasn’t in there. “Flake?” I called again, louder. No reply. No Flake.

  I ducked down and walked through the arch to the other side. It was more exposed on this side, and I turned my collar up against the cold. The wind was blowing sand across the surface of the beach, and carving tiny ripples across the tops of the waves farther out. I finally saw Flake, right at the end of the old jetty. He must have been chasing after the stick and lost track of where it had gone.

  “Flake!” I shouted. He looked up briefly, but didn’t come back. Instead, he just stood there, yapping away. Maybe there was a seal in the water or something. I looked around for a stick to distract him, but there was nothing on this side of the arches. Just the sand, smoothed flat by the retreating tide.

  I ducked down, ran back through the arch, and found a stick. When I got back, Flake was still at the end of the jetty, jumping around excitedly, barking and wagging. I called him again. He ignored me again.

  “Flake, what is it?” As I got closer, I could see what he was barking at: an old-fashioned fishing boat, like the ones in the harbor. It was tied up to the one hitching ring that remained on the very end of the old jetty, drifting around on its rope and bouncing on the water. I hadn’t noticed it before. It must have been on the other side of the jetty, and the wind had blown it around while I was fetching the stick.

  Flake wagged and yapped even harder as I approached. It was only once I got alongside the boat that I could see why he was so excited: there were three crab pots on board. He must have smelled them as soon as he came through the archway.

  “Flake, you’re not allowed to eat crabs — they make you sick.”

  As if he understood, Flake gave me a sorrowful glance and a miniscule whimper — and then, before I even realized what he was doing, he leaped across to the boat!

  “Flake! What are you doing? It’s not our boat!” I waved the stick in the air. “Look. Stick. Fetch!”

  But Flake was too distracted by the crab pots to care about a boring old stick. He scratched at the sides of the pots, trying to lick them. Luckily, they were all empty. I wouldn’t have wanted to have to tell Gran that Flake had eaten someone’s entire day’s crab catch. And I wouldn’t have wanted to deal with the aftereffects either. I’d seen Flake when he’d been sick from eating something he shouldn’t have, and without going into details, it wasn’t pretty! Plus, I couldn’t bear the sad, sorrowful look on his face when he didn’t feel well.

  “Flake, come on. Off the boat!” I called. He ignored me.

  I stepped closer to the boat. It was right alongside the jetty now. Ropes lay on the deck in neat circles. A pile of fishing nets lay folded at the back. It had a tiny cabin in the middle with a big wooden wheel inside. The door was closed, with the crab pots leaning against it. Flake stood whining and scratching all around them.

  “Flake, don’t make me come on there and get you, or I’ll be angry,” I said as sternly as I could.

  Flake still ignored me.

  That was it. I was going to have to climb on board and fetch him.

  I stepped across from the jetty and onto the side of the boat. Then I hopped down on the deck beside Flake. He jumped and looked at me with a startled expression.

  “What? You can leap onto some random boat tied up out here in the middle of nowhere, but I can’t?”

  Flake wagged his tail.

  “Is that your answer to everything?” I asked with a laugh. “Come on. We should get back.”

  I clipped his leash back on to his collar and turned to go. But as I swung around, the wind caught the side of the boat and we bobbed to the side so suddenly that I slipped against the rail. As I reached out to steady myself, I noticed a locker at the back of the boat. The catch was loose and the boat’s motion had made the door swing right open.

  I reach
ed across to push it shut — but something inside the locker caught my eye. The late sun had slipped low enough to hit something shiny inside the locker. What was it?

  I should probably have left it, but the reflection of the light was flashing right into my eyes. It felt almost as though it were spelling out a code, just for me, drawing me in — and I couldn’t resist. Whatever was inside the locker flashed again. What was in there? I had to know!

  I checked behind me to make sure no one was watching. I didn’t really want to be seen reaching into someone’s locker on a boat I shouldn’t have even been on in the first place.

  There was no one around.

  Without pausing for another second, I knelt down, opened the locker, and reached inside.

  He’d walked past the shop every day for two weeks. Each time, he felt his heart rate speed up. She was still there, standing in the courtyard. She was a beauty.

  A twenty-foot skiff. Yellow hull, inboard diesel engine, mizzen sail at the back, wheelhouse just big enough for two in the center. She was exactly what he needed. Now that his wife had a child on the way, it was time to trade in his glorified rowboat. He could never catch enough fish to provide for a family in that.

  He’d been to the bank this morning, and he finally got the loan he needed. He pulled out the letter from his pocket and read it for the twentieth time, just to be sure.

  Yes, it was real. He had the money.

  He pushed open the door. He’d never been inside before, and he hesitated in the doorway, looking around the busy shop. Shelves were crammed into every corner, each one stacked high with all manner of objects. There were ropes in a hundred lengths and colors, anchors in fifty sizes, cans of marine paint, oilskin coats, tubs and buckets — and, in between them, the most bizarre objects. A kitchen sink lay on its side in one corner, a large umbrella was propped over a garden gnome in another. A shelf full of animal ornaments; another of old books — it was as though the owner had emptied out a street of houses and crammed the contents into his shop.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Hello?” he called.

  He heard a rustling sound coming from a room at the back of the shop. A moment later, a young man appeared. He couldn’t have been much more than a teenager — he was certainly younger than Frank. But in contrast to Frank in his Sunday best from visiting the bank, this young fellow looked as if he had just gotten out of bed.

  His hair was wild and wavy — brown with light-blond streaks running through it. His face was pocked with what looked like acne scars, and his clothes were as odd and mismatched as his shop. Pale, baggy trousers and a maroon shirt, half untucked and buttoned up wrongly. His eyes, piercing and green, found Frank’s.

  “I — I’m sorry to disturb you,” Frank stammered.

  The young man shrugged as he reached under his counter and brought up a pouch of tobacco and some papers. Rolling himself a cigarette, he offered the pouch to Frank.

  “No, thanks,” Frank said.

  The man pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit his cigarette. Then he turned back to Frank. Pinching his cigarette between his teeth, he ran a nicotine-stained hand through his messy hair. “Eric Travers at your service,” he said, as if pretending to be a grown-up. “How can I help you?”

  Frank pointed outside. “The skiff,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, I’ve seen you looking at her. Have you made your mind up yet?” Eric asked.

  “I made my mind up the first day I saw her,” Frank replied. “I just had to persuade the bank manager to agree with me.”

  Eric laughed. “And has he?”

  Frank took the letter from his pocket and handed it over.

  Eric sat down on an old stool and scanned the letter. “Well, I’ll just need a check and it looks like she’ll be yours, then,” he said.

  Frank thrust his hands in his pockets to stop himself from jumping up and punching the air. “Really? Just like that?” He took his checkbook out, swiftly wrote a check, and handed it to Eric.

  “Just like that,” Eric said, scanning the check as he drew on his cigarette. Then he coughed, got up from his stool, and returned to the room at the back of the shop.

  He was gone for almost five whole minutes. Was Frank supposed to wait here? Follow Eric into the back of the shop? Leave? What? He fidgeted from foot to foot, biting his nails and wondering what to do.

  He was on the verge of turning to leave when Eric reappeared with a large bag in his hand. “Let’s go and check her over,” he said, and Frank followed him outside.

  They looked over the boat together, Eric pointing out the controls, the hidden storage spaces, and so on, Frank taking it all in with wide eyes and a bursting heart. “You seem to know her inside out,” he said.

  “She was my pa’s,” Eric replied. “He packed her up years ago after a stormy trip and never went out on her again. Said he’d gone off the sea, and he gave up the fishing life and opened Shipshape.” Eric spread his arms wide to show what he had inherited. “Passed away five years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said.

  Eric nodded. “Been doing some cleaning of the place and I came across her again in the boat shed out back. Almost forgotten her, so I decided to dust her down and see if I could find her a good home.”

  “She’ll have a good home with me,” Frank said. “I promise.”

  “Aye, I reckon she will.”

  As they shook hands on the deal, Eric passed Frank the bag he’d been holding. “This goes with her.” He pointed to the wheelhouse. “There’s a holder in there. Fits like a glove.”

  Frank opened the bag. Inside was a brass compass, with a bouncing dial inside a glass dome. Frank looked up at Eric. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

  “It’s yours if you want it.”

  “How could I not want it?”

  “Pa said it wasn’t always . . . how shall I put it?” Eric looked to the sky. “Reliable,” he said eventually. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and squished it with his foot.

  “In what way?”

  “Seems it behaves a bit odd at times,” Eric said. “Pa wouldn’t talk about it much — but between you and me, I always wondered if it had anything to do with him giving up the fishing. He said one thing that stuck in my head, though.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said most of the time it’d work like a dream. It could guide you to the other end of the world. But just now and then, if the compass was pointing north and a gust of wind hit from the opposite side, it would send the arrow spinning.”

  “A mechanical fault?” Frank asked.

  “Call it what you like. Pa never had an explanation. Just said you could be sailing along quite happy till it happened. Then when it finished spinning, the arrow would still be pointing north, but you’d be somewhere else.”

  “Somewhere else? Like where?”

  Eric shrugged. “‘North of nowhere’ was all he’d say.”

  Frank swallowed as a shiver went through him.

  “Still want it?” Eric asked.

  The man was just telling stories. He’d met the type before. Most of the fishing folk around here had a strange tale to tell about their travels on the sea. It wasn’t going to put him off. “Yes, I still want it,” Frank said. He took the compass from the shopkeeper.

  Frank looked lovingly at his new boat, then turned to say thank you once more. Eric was at the door of his shop. “Thank you!” Frank called.

  In reply, Eric waved a hand without turning around. “Look after her, and she’ll look after you,” he replied.

  And then he was gone, and Frank was standing in the courtyard, holding the keys and the compass. He climbed aboard and looked proudly around at his new purchase. He took out the compass and opened the door to the wheelhouse.

  As he slotted it carefully into place, he shook himself and banished the shopkeeper’s silly stories from his mind.

  Nothing was going to ruin this day. The day he had finally become a proper fisherman — and soon to be a fathe
r, too. He kissed the anchor pendant he always wore around his neck and thanked his lucky stars.

  North of nowhere, indeed. This boat was going to take him everywhere!

  Flake was suddenly more interested in what I was doing than in the crab pots. Maybe he’d finally realized there were no crabs inside, so there was no point in trying to get into them.

  Or maybe he was as intrigued as I was.

  I felt around inside the locker and pulled out the only thing in there. It was a book, only it wasn’t like any book I’d ever seen. Its cover was dark-brown leather, with paler leather strips woven into patterns, around and around in a spiral.

  In the center of the spiral was the thing that had caught the sunlight: a shiny golden stone. It was beautiful. The whole book was. It felt like something from an ancient magician’s study.

  I lifted the book and sniffed it. Strong, old leather. I glanced around again, feeling like a thief, and then I opened the book. Even the pages were unusual: thin, wispy paper with tiny watermarks on every page.

  I’d never really written a diary, but if I’d had a book like this I bet I would have. With a book like this, you could write anything. The pages were filled with tiny, neat handwriting.

  I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself. I flicked to a random page.

  I’m so bored. The weather was bad today, so no school again. It’s not that I love school. It’s just something to do. And it means seeing my friends. I wish the other girls didn’t all live on the mainland. I hate being different from everyone else — and having to depend on the weather and the tides in order to get to school on time.

  I wouldn’t mind missing school so much if I were allowed to sleep in and do nothing, or perhaps spend all day in front of the fire reading a book. That would be SO nice!

  But, no. As soon as Father told me I wasn’t going to school, that was it. Mother had me up cooking, fixing, painting, generally helping with all the most boring chores in the world. Honestly, sometimes I feel like a servant!

  I’m sorry. I know that’s unfair. And I wouldn’t say it out loud to anyone. This is the only place in the world that I can confess how I really feel. Dear diary, where would I be without you? You’re like my best friend. The best friend that I haven’t got, because who wants a best friend that you have to travel out on a choppy ocean to visit — assuming you have access to a boat in the first place?