Yes, the scent and feel of the air was different, there was no doubt. And the sky was clouded over with no stars visible. Even the moon was obscured. The crew was asleep in the rigging except for two monkeys who were on night watch, sitting awake at the top of the mast, where, on a human crewed ship, a crow’s nest would have been.
She approached the dragon head and looked out ahead, west, but there was nothing but endless water and clouds all the way to the horizon.
“Skidbladnir?” she said.
“Captain,” said the dragon.
“There is a storm coming.”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell how bad it will be?” She hated to ask the dragon this, as it revealed her ignorance. She was a competent captain, but not a seasoned one, and Skidbladnir was hundreds of years old. Even Mr. Escobar was not so knowledgeable.
“The sea folk I have spoken with today say the storm is moving in from the southeast. It is strong.”
“Sea folk?”
“That is what I said.”
“What are the sea folk?” asked Hazel.
“The people who live in the sea.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean? Mermaids?”
“The sea people. The ones who live in the sea. How else should I put it, ignorant skraeling?”
“Now, that’s enough of that. It was an honest question. I’ve never been to this world before. Talking ships and monkeys don’t exist where I come from. And if there are real mermaids or talking fish, I want to know about it.”
“The storm will hit us by morning, unless we sail west.”
“Can we outrun it?”
“We can, if I have sails and oars working together all night. But I cannot do it alone.”
“I’ll rouse the crew.”
First she found Mr. Escobar sleeping low in the rigging and woke him. She ordered him to wake the crew and sail due west. Then she lit a lantern and padded down the steps to get Neil, the Professor and Miss Sanchez. The monkeys, though small, were as strong as large men, perhaps due to whatever enchantment made them able to speak. Hazel had asked once, but Mr. Escobar simply said they had always been like that, as had all their people. But even with all of them either managing the sail or rowing, four humans at the oars could only help.
There was no door on Neil’s compartment, and she held the lantern aloft as she stepped silently inside. He was asleep, which was rare for him, and his head was tipped far back, his mouth open wide. He looked so vulnerable, almost sweet and childlike, though a few days’ worth of beard stubbled his face. Then the light caught something, a dark thing at the top of his mouth. No, it must have been a trick of the lamplight and shadow. But still, she looked closer. It was not an illusion. There was something black on the roof of his mouth. She moved the lantern to get a better look. She had seen animals, cats and dogs, with dappled upper palates, pink and black. But no human was like that, were they?
The mark was symmetrical, three times as wide as it was high, and consisted of three roughly equal symbols. They were shaped almost like musical notes with stems joined at the top, but they definitely were not notes, not in any musical notations she had ever seen. The first two marks were not identical, but both were shaped like arches, although with pointed upper corners, like calligraphy or script. The last was like a stylized X.
Before she could pull back, faster than any person should have been able to move, Neil’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, squeezing painfully. His eyes opened, and a moment after she squeaked in pain and shock, he let her go.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A storm is coming. We need all hands on deck. We’ll be sailing all night.”
He nodded and swung his legs over the edge of the hammock. He would need to change into his clothing, and she gave him one more glance over her shoulder before going to the Professor’s compartment to awaken him.
All night, the humans and monkeys rowed and worked the sail. They exhausted themselves, all but Neil, with his strange ability to work for long periods of time without fatigue. Hazel thought about telling him about the mark in his mouth. Perhaps he already knew about it. After all, who had not used a mirror to look inside their mouth? He was a taciturn man, and he might feel she had invaded his privacy by studying him in his sleep.
But if he didn’t know, then she ought to tell him. It might hold a clue as to why he had uncertain memories of his past and why he was so physically strong. Another thought came to mind. If he didn’t know and she told him, he might run off through time to find out why he had the mark, leaving her on her own. The thought of it was too painful to contemplate.
By dawn, rain was falling, but it was light and the winds were not the wild, buffeting wind of a storm, but rather a strong sea wind. At noon, they were clear of the storm and everyone ate a well-deserved meal. Hazel considered playing violin for the crew, but her arms ached from rowing and she was too tired after a night without sleep. Perhaps there was an uninhabited island close by where the crew could have a few hours of shore leave. She would have to consult her maps.
Everyone else was as exhausted as she, except for Neil who was, even now, adjusting the sail. He must have felt her watching him, for he turned toward her and met her gaze. His expression softened a little around the mouth and eyes, which for him, she knew, passed for a smile.
Chapter 35
September 15, 1864
California coast
Hub world
Seamus swore and then slammed the steel box that housed the time sensor down on his makeshift worktable. He immediately regretted it. The blasted thing was delicate, albeit entirely confounding at the moment. It wasn’t able to detect the fine changes that made one time differ from the rest and it was maddening. He opened it up and checked it for damage, finding none. But he would only know for certain when he tried to use it again.
He had worked for weeks now, as the ship sailed through the eastern half of the Gulf of Mexico, stopping at an island, but only for half a day, for everyone to enjoy shore leave. Everyone except him, that was. He was too consumed with mapping the timelines in this world.
After sailing south past the western tip of Cuba and straight south through the Caribbean, they reached the Estado Libre del Istmo, or the Free State of the Isthmus. Mr. Grey and Miss Sanchez called it Panama and said that one day men would dig a canal through the narrowest part, connecting the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. They hired four horses and began to cross the narrow strip of land. The monkeys traveled over land by their own way.
Riding across land was the worst part of the journey, as Seamus couldn’t work or study, but had to guide his horse over trails and hills through the towns, some rough and some pleasant. At night, when they stayed at various small inns, he could work. But it was not enough. It was never enough. He hoped his work would not be necessary, not to Miss Sanchez at least, as his mapping of time would be for his own use, unless she chose to join him. If they reached California in time, his work would be nothing to Miss Sanchez. But the days slipped by and their progress toward Los Angeles was so frustratingly slow. Miss Sanchez was growing more grim and quiet by the day, speaking only when necessary or when they needed her to speak Spanish to secure a room at an inn or hire fresh horses.
Mr. Escobar spoke Spanish also, and he tried whispering in Hazel’s ear, but the translation took time and her pronunciation was awkward. Seamus saw as the monkey and Hazel became close to inseparable, and Mr. Escobar was especially fascinated by her feet, which he thought resembled his own, at least compared to the feet of every other human in this world, save Seamus himself. Mr. Grey explained to them that a man named Darwin in his world had laid out an idea that monkeys and humans had a common ancestor. Seamus’s mother would have said it was all stuff and nonsense, but Seamus didn’t know what to think of the notion.
They finally reached the coast and set sail, the monkeys happy from their time leaping through trees or feasting on fruit or whatever they did while the humans plodded along on land. The humans were more subdued. The night of September twenty-fourth, the day of the synchronicity and the earthquake in Los Angeles, they were just passing Cabo San Lucas at the tip of Baja, California. Miss Sanchez did not eat any of her supper, but went down to her quarters without speaking. Seamus watched Hazel and Mr. Grey exchange a look, but neither of them went to follow her. He didn’t wish to go either. What would he say? That he was struggling to map this time? That Oren McCullen had now left this time with the machine and that they were stranded here, with no home and limited money?
Hazel put her hand on his arm. “I know you’ll find a way,” she said. “And you’re both welcome with me as long as you like. We can hire ourselves out and run cargo up and down the coast, from San Diego and Los Angeles to San Francisco, all the way up to Seattle and Vancouver. We could earn a living that way.”
“I’m not much use to you on the ship,” he said.
“It’s no bother. You can stay as long as you like.”
He had said as much to her not too long ago, but the feeling of taking Hazel’s charity galled him. Seamus had trouble sleeping that night and the following nights. They finally arrived in Los Angeles, and a few miles south of town, they disembarked. Hazel was the last to leave, and Seamus watched from shore as she stepped into the surf and pressed her hands against the ship’s planks, about three feet apart. She pressed inward, and the ship folded. She continued this folding motion until Skidbladnir was a small square piece of brown cloth. They headed into the town of Los Angeles.
“Do you know any of the streets or landmarks?” Mr. Grey asked Miss Sanchez as they moved into the city proper. They were both originally from this city, albeit in the future.
“Not a thing. It’s completely different,” she said.
“Dirt streets, no cars, just farms and outlaws.” Mr. Grey didn’t sound particularly unhappy about this, and he seemed to be almost enjoying himself. He walked along, hands in his pockets, taking in the rough buildings and rougher people. Farms stood farther out and buildings, including houses and shops, clustered around a few central streets. Carriages and men on horseback passed, but the streets were dusty and unpaved, and even the wooden sidewalks, what there were of them, were missing boards here and there.
The earthquake had severely damaged many buildings. Some of them were surrounded by work crews and others stood forlorn and empty, some with collapsed ceilings and others tipping dangerously, ready to collapse at any moment. After speaking with a few people, they learned that it wasn’t only buildings that were damaged, but storehouses and wells, leaving farms and sections of town without water. The damage would take years to repair, and yet the city would remain, and Seamus knew it would grow.
“I suppose we ought to find out where we can ask around for any shipping jobs,” said Hazel.
Miss Sanchez paused to look in a store window, but as it was full of farm equipment, Seamus understood that she wished to avoid the conversation about life after missing the synchronicity. He didn’t speak to her, leaving her to her own thoughts.
“We just need to find the port,” said Mr. Grey. “There are usually jobs wherever ships dock.”
“Agreed,” said Mr. Escobar from his perch on Hazel’s shoulder.
Hazel and Mr. Grey discussed their options for shipping cargo. Before, they had only taken on family heirlooms with limited amounts of larger cargo. Now, they might be shipping dry goods, bolts of cloth, building supplies, anything at all. How would they load the goods without the monkey crew being seen? And how would they pay human dockworkers to do that portion of the work? It would be difficult, and word of a dragon-headed ship would spread, even to Georgia. The law might catch up with them.
“Once we save up enough, we could do a cross-Atlantic trip, perhaps,” said Hazel.
Seamus listened in, but making a living running cargo was not something he wished to do. He followed Hazel and Mr. Grey toward the dock, checking behind him to make sure Miss Sanchez was coming along. She was. He saw her wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. He wanted to comfort her, but seeing as he was the cause of her trouble, he thought it best to leave her alone.
Sunset was coming, and after asking around, a man told Mr. Grey that the shipping office was already closed. It would open in the morning. Nearby stood an inn where sailors often stayed. The walls were grayish and the place had no sign out front at all.
“We might as well eat here as anywhere else. I’m famished,” said Hazel.
Seamus had misgivings, as he was uncomfortable exposing his female companions to itinerant sailors. But dressed as they were, their motley group could not expect to be welcomed into any finer establishments.
The inside of the inn was tight, cramped and almost empty. No one played at the weathered piano to one side, and only one woman was on duty, serving whatever passed for a meal here. In one corner sat a group of three men, all of them muscled and deeply tanned, either farm workers or sailors, Seamus guessed. Mr. Escobar hopped onto a chair beside Hazel as they took their seats.
In the corner sat a lone man who leaned back, his legs crossed at the ankles. He was tall with tawny hair and the kind of face and physical build that women always liked. There was a feeling Seamus had about him, the sense of a man completely at ease with himself. But it went beyond that. He was a man completely comfortable about his place in the world. Seamus had never seen that before, not if he thought about it. Men were always striving and filled with discontent and even in their quiet, happy moments, there was still an undercurrent of unease. But not with this man.
“Ladies,” the man said to Hazel and Miss Sanchez and, since his hat was on the table, he dipped his head for a moment in greeting.
“Something is off about that man,” said Mr. Grey, very softly to Seamus. “Mr. March could send someone else after me, and that’s just the sort of guy he would send.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I used to do the same work. Look at him. Boots are dirty but not worn down. The shirt is bright white, even the hat is in perfect condition, though covered in dust. If he’s wealthy, what’s he doing here? And if he’s not, why the nice clothing?”
Mr. Grey was right, but the man was only quietly drinking a beer. The waitress came over to tell them that the inn was serving only cold sandwiches. They asked for five, and though the server glanced at Mr. Escobar, she didn’t refuse.
The tall man at the table set down his glass, folded his hands over his middle and closed his eyes, as if taking a catnap. When they were halfway through their meal, a rotund man with a white beard entered, looked around and took a seat across from the younger man. He ordered a sarsaparilla.
“How was the visit with your brothers and sisters?” asked the younger man.
“As well as can be expected. It’s family.” He shrugged. “Our brother is being difficult.”
“What are you going to do? Kill him?”
The older man didn’t look shocked at this line of conversation, but just shook his head and glanced out the window. “No. Family, you know. But your help is appreciated, I can tell you that.”
The younger man ordered another beer. Seamus caught him studying Hazel and Miss Sanchez, and Hazel took one too many sidelong looks at him.
“That’s not the sort of man you’d want to associate with,” whispered Seamus.
“Oh, do you think he’s dangerous for me?” Hazel whispered back with a wicked twinkle in her eye.
“Do you know where your brother is?” the younger man asked the older one.
“Not yet. March is a slippery devil.”
Hazel gasped and looked at Mr. Grey who was as still as a statue. Seamus thought Mr. Grey looked like a coil, too tigh
tly wound and ready to snap. Mr. Grey turned in his chair to face the two men.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you speaking about Mr. March,” he said.
“Do you know him?”
“I might.”
Foolish man! Seamus wanted to haul Mr. Grey out of the room by his ear. If he was being hunted by this Mr. March, then alerting his associates of his identity was madness. Although, if Seamus thought about it, there might be some sense in it. If these men knew anything about Mr. March, then Mr. Grey might need to know it too, if only to avoid the man.
The older man studied Mr. Grey and then asked. “Are you Neil Grey?”
“I am.”
The good-looking man at the table chuckled, then smiled at Miss Sanchez and Hazel. “It looks like we have a common acquaintance, then.”
No one at their table answered, but when the man smiled at Miss Sanchez, her cheeks pinkened slightly.
“I am Santiago,” said the younger man, “and this is my friend Julius.”
“You said you were Mr. March’s brother, right?” Mr. Grey asked Julius.
“Sadly, yes.”
“And are you like him? Can you, you know, do anything?”
Well, Mr. Grey hadn’t wasted any time with small talk. But the older man didn’t seem to mind.
“I can do plenty of things. But more to the point, I want to find him, and you wish to avoid him. Even though we have disparate goals, I think both of us would like to know his current whereabouts.”
“And do you have any idea where he might be?”
“I do not. But I think I’ll stay close to you. If he’s looking for you, he’s sure to find you, one way or another.”
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 51
