Race to the Bottom of the Sea

by Lindsay Eagar

  Her mother had set a plate of toast and tomato jam on the table and kissed Fidelia’s forehead. “So you’re at that stage, are you?”

  Fidelia folded her arms. “What does that mean?”

  Her father grinned. “You’ve had this moment with all your inventions. You make that exact face. That frowning, pouting, ‘the world’s a black hole and everything’s ending’ face.”

  Ida demonstrated the pout for her daughter, who immediately wiped her own face clean of expression.

  “You always reach this point,” Arthur said, kneeling down to Fidelia’s level.

  “And you always break through,” Ida said. “Don’t stop now.”

  “Elle, where’s Captain?” Cheapshot Charlie pulled Fidelia out of her recollection before the tears fell.

  Bloody Elle was inspecting an old line of oakum between boards. “Fixing up his bullet hole. Why?”

  Cheapshot Charlie nodded at the starboard railing. “We’re nearly there.”

  For a terrifying moment, Fidelia thought he meant the cave. How could they have reached it in less than a day — unless Merrick wasn’t just monstrous but miraculous as well?

  But no — they hadn’t even hit tropical water yet. The air still had the crispness of a continental zone. Of course they weren’t there yet.

  So what had Cheapshot Charlie spotted? Fidelia set aside her tarry Water-Eater and leaned over the railing.

  Something poked up through the water. Something that looked like bright-red hands reaching skyward with spiky, curving witch’s fingers.

  Fidelia recognized it on sight. “Fire coral.”

  The Coral of the Damned, a rare and dangerous variety of fire coral that sliced and cut and burned through flesh. Its fringes split into sections of six, instead of five — she could’ve found the exact pages in her own observation book, four-year-old Fidelia’s sketch in red pencil, giant flames along the margins to indicate “Ouch! Do not touch!”

  “Charlie,” Bloody Elle said quietly, “do you think we should call him —?”

  “No need.” Merrick strode across the deck, a crimson blossom staining the shoulder of his left sleeve like a silk flower. He came next to his crew, resting his limp left arm on the railing.

  To Fidelia’s shock, Cheapshot Charlie wrapped his arm around Bloody Elle, holding her tight against him.

  “Here we are, mates,” Merrick said. “Who could have guessed we would sail through here so soon?”

  Bloody Elle nodded. “It feels like it was yesterday.”

  The three pirates stood there like this in silence, Bloody Elle and Cheapshot Charlie entwined, Merrick beside them with his dead arm and stony face. The Jewel seesawed up and down on the water; the wind was soft as it trilled through the lines.

  Fidelia’s stomach gurgled. She nudged a nearby knapsack with her boot, and candy spilled out onto the deck. She wrinkled her nose, about to ask them if they really expected her to survive on BonBon Voyage sweets, when Bloody Elle reached up and removed her headscarf, letting her dirty, white-blond tresses hang loose as she traced her wrist tattoos with wandering fingers.

  Merrick had closed his eyes, and he murmured something, words that fell and were lost in the din of the waters.

  And then, most surprising of all —

  Cheapshot Charlie took a breath and started to sing. Not loudly, not in a language Fidelia recognized, and, if she was being honest, not well — it sounded like a sort of tuneless drone that could cut through fog, meandering through the same three notes.

  But even though Fidelia had never heard this song, she knew those notes. She knew that sound.

  A mourning song.

  “I’m sorry,” Fidelia said softly.

  Merrick’s blue eye was cold and sad as he watched the water break against the fringes of the Coral of the Damned. “You’re not the only one who’s ever lost someone,” he said, and the cruelty in his voice cut right through her.

  But it felt that way sometimes. It felt like no one else in the world could possibly be as alone as she was — not even her aunt Julia.

  She let Cheapshot Charlie’s song wash over her, everything else fading — the Jewel, the sea, the pirates. She was back at her parents’ funeral, the congregation humming the grief hymn in unison… .

  She heard all the things everyone had said when they passed by the caskets for the last time. Things that meant nothing, and were meant only to crack open the awful, awkward quiet. Things the world had dictated were the correct, polite scripts for such tragedies. “You’ll be missed.” “Rest in peace.” “Never forgotten.”

  And to Fidelia: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I’m sorry … that’s what everyone said. The constables were sorry, the sailors at the Book and Bottle were sorry, the professors from the university were sorry, Aunt Julia was sorry… . But sorry was a blanket that left your feet cold, a thin soup that couldn’t fill the aching hunger in your bones. Sorry was the only thing people could offer, and it was a cruel, false replacement for what she had lost.

  Everything Fidelia had been waiting to hear — everything she had been waiting to feel — was here, in this boatswain’s simple mourning song.

  Her chest took in the notes, filling itself with recollection; her tears spilled over. Those three notes, over and over …

  The breeze picked itself up, drying the tears on her cheeks. The Jewel bucked, and Fidelia nearly lost her balance at the railing. Was that the wind howling, or Cheapshot Charlie’s song?

  Again, the breeze blasted, blowing Fidelia’s hair into her mouth faster than she could spit it out, and her insides clenched in fear.

  She backed away from the railing, her hands finding the mizzenmast. She clung to it, clawing into the wood. Behind her, Merrick shouted something to Bloody Elle, but Fidelia could hear only the wind, that horrible, deafening howl.

  It was back, and with a vengeance.

  The Undertow.

  The noises alone were worse than her darkest memories of the storm — violent slaps of the canvas sails; the entire ship shaking its boards; wind moaning like a banshee; and above all, the hiss of water, spraying up in fountains above the deck line. It was incredible how quickly the Undertow could accelerate — but to pause and marvel at it was a deadly move.

  Merrick was just as swift to respond. “Charlie!” he ordered. “Tie the base down. Elle, take the helm, now!”

  The crew members swiftly ran to their positions as the sky dimmed. Everything was cast in shadow now, the sun an empty promise behind the gray clouds.

  “Quail!” Merrick barked something to Fidelia, but Fidelia couldn’t move. She was petrified, stuck against the mizzenmast, her feet trembling, her lungs unable to inhale or exhale. Louder than anything, louder even than the storm, she heard Cheapshot Charlie’s mourning song, playing in her head again and again, a music box …

  Across the deck, she saw the three observation books blow open on the bench, pages thrashing. She saw it — her eyes took it in, but it meant nothing; her brain was frozen.

  “Quail!” Her ears could hear Merrick calling her name, but this didn’t register. Nothing did.

  Her heart fluttered — such a delicate feeling inside her chest, when all the world around her screamed and swirled.

  How close is the storm? Ida Quail’s voice, made tinny through the Egg’s radio …

  Fidelia’s answer that day: We have … a while.

  The Undertow had found them that day. It didn’t give a flying fish that Dr. and Dr. Quail were esteemed marine biologists or that they were beloved parents — it didn’t care. And it had found her again.

  And now it was her turn.

  Fidelia held on to the mast and waited. Waited for the ship to capsize, waited for the inevitable wave to crash over her head and pull her under the steely blue.

  You’ll be missed. Rest in peace. Never forgotten.

  I’m sorry.

  “Quail!” A pair of rough, bony hands seized her face, knocking her glasses sideways. Merrick
was shouting inches from her face, his good eye wild and electric. “Snap out of it!”

  Fidelia blinked. “My p-p-parents —” she stuttered. “My p-p-parents —”

  “Listen to me!” Merrick kept his hands on her cheeks, speaking slowly and loudly. “You are not going to die today. Do you hear? Get your things from the bench and go into my quarters.”

  He pried her off the mizzenmast. She scrambled to the bench, her legs miraculously working despite their shaking. She shoved the observation books into her bag — her mother’s, her father’s, and hers, all three safe — then grabbed the box with the Water-Eater parts and headed for Merrick’s quarters.

  Crossing the deck, the wind slanted her sideways — so she dropped to all fours and crawled, reaching the doors of Merrick’s rooms. The wind shoved against her, a corporeal ghost barring her entrance.

  Even down on the floorboards, it was chilly and cruel as a winter day in the arctic. The wind stung as it bit at their cheeks, their noses, their hands. A ghostly whistle sounded in the distance — or was it right beside them? Fidelia wanted to huddle up in a ball, just lie there and let the Undertow do its worst.

  “Quail, get inside!” Merrick cried. “I won’t tell you again!”

  With the last of her strength, she yanked on the rusted door handles. The wind kept the doors clenched tighter than a clam’s mouth, but at last she flung a door open and tossed her bag into the captain’s quarters, before crawling inside and letting the door slam shut behind her.

  There she sat, hugging her knees under Merrick’s desk, her pulse spiking as she tracked the ship’s every rise, every fall. You are not going to die today, Merrick had told her, and she tried to let his words ring out above the hair-raising sounds of the Undertow.

  The sounds of her nightmares.

  “Ship adrift!” Merrick called. “Elle, eyes alert! Steer clear!”

  Fidelia lifted her head and found that Merrick’s quarters had brightened. Out the windows, the sky was the dull blue color of a swordfish — the darkest of the Undertow’s angry black clouds had fizzled away.

  How long had she been sitting here, white-knuckled and frozen? She staggered back on deck and took a slug from the blackjack of water.

  “We made it through,” she panted, relief flooding her limbs.

  “Aye,” Merrick said, “but someone wasn’t so lucky.” He pointed beyond the Jewel’s bow, thirty feet away in the water, where the remains of a ship tossed in the waves. It was a cocoa ship — Fidelia would recognize one anywhere. Her stomach hollowed out. The sailors of Arborley dashed through her mind, one by one, as she searched for any significant details in the wreckage — a recognizable ship name painted along the pieces of the stern, a flag floating, anything.

  “Ease up,” Merrick ordered. “Watch the debris.”

  Bloody Elle kept a sharp eye as they passed, careful not to let any of the splintered beams barge into the Jewel’s delicate, brittle wood.

  “Survivors?” Cheapshot Charlie called.

  “Do you see any?” Merrick searched the churning waters with his good eye; up at the bow of the ship, Cheapshot Charlie did the same.

  Fidelia, too, looked over the railing, preparing herself for whatever tragic sight she might see, whatever familiar face might be bobbing in the water.

  But there was nobody, not a soul. Just the broken pieces of a beanie ship. The Undertow had reduced it to its basic parts, lumber and rope and canvas.

  “I don’t see any lifeboats,” Bloody Elle called. “Maybe they got away in time.”

  Merrick snorted. “Maybe.” A rogue burst of wind threw him backward, nearly knocking him over, and a wave reared high on the ocean, touching cloud.

  “Brace yourselves!” the captain yelled, and Fidelia clung to the railing, a starfish on a rock. She held her breath, and closed her eyes, and hoped on a whale shark that whatever happened, it would happen quickly.

  A merciful death for Merrick the Monstrous, at least. This was her last thought before the wave fell.

  But the rush was over in seconds — the Undertow merely sending an aftershock of wind and water. When Fidelia finally opened her eyes, salty speckles dripped down her glasses and the sea was calm again, sunlight sparkling on the ocean swells as they shrank and disappeared.

  Fidelia let go of the railing at last, her hands still quivering.

  She’d survived the Undertow — not once but twice. How was it possible, when others hadn’t fared as well? That broken cocoa ship in the water?

  Her parents?

  Anything can happen, some unattached voice seemed to whisper to her.

  Merrick stood on the lower deck, both feet rooted firmly. His brilliant blue eye shone dangerously. “Hell’s bells,” he said.

  “Cobbers!” Cheapshot Charlie hit the mizzenmast in anger.

  The Jewel’s mainmast had snapped in two.

  “¡Merrda!” Bloody Elle ran over to inspect the damage. The top half of the splintered mast rested on a crossbeam at a ninety-degree angle, like a downed tree.

  Cheapshot Charlie rubbed his hands along his bald head. “The wind snapped it like a twig —”

  “The wood was already weak as cork,” Merrick said. “Water-warped and termite-ridden.”

  “I should have shortened the mainsail.” Bloody Elle spat over the railing, cursing again.

  “Your captain should have instructed you,” Merrick said.

  “How could you have known —?”

  “I’m the captain,” Merrick cut in. “It’s my job to know.” He bent over and coughed. When he straightened, he said, “I feel … heavy. In my mind. Like I’m underwater. And look.” He held out two shaking, splotchy hands: a network of purple and black spindly veins chartered lines across the skin like a spider’s web.

  “It’s happening,” Cheapshot Charlie whispered.

  “We have to hurry.” Bloody Elle’s jaw trembled as she stared at her captain’s mottled hands.

  “We can’t make it without the mainmast,” Merrick said. “If the Undertow hits again, we’ll capsize.” He coughed again. “And I don’t expect to stay on schedule with the hull as it is. It’s already filthy with barnacles.”

  Fidelia leaned over the railing — yes, the little buggers blanketed the hull in an almost velvety mass. An inevitable occurrence when sailing across the sea.

  “We can’t careen her, Captain,” Cheapshot Charlie pointed out. “Not without a crew.”

  Merrick closed his eyes, searching for a solution.

  “Captain,” Bloody Elle said slowly. “Considering our heading — and our current location — we might consider …” She cleared her throat.

  “No.” Merrick’s mismatched eyes flew open like window shades. “Not Medusa’s.”

  “Who is Medusa?” Fidelia asked, but the pirates ignored her. Not even a gruff demand from Merrick that she keep her questions to herself.

  “Medusa’s is only two hours’ sail.” Bloody Elle’s cautious gaze was still on Merrick, as if he were a bull shark she was trying not to upset. “We’ll stay just long enough to repair the mast and clear the hull. Then we’ll be on our way and —”

  “No.”

  “What other choice do we have, Captain?” Cheapshot Charlie argued. “Row our way to the tropics? Let the navy catch up to us? Find another ship?”

  “I won’t sail anything but the Jewel.”

  “Then we either sail to Medusa’s Grotto and fix her up,” Cheapshot Charlie said, “or we wait for Bridgewater.”

  Bridgewater. Fidelia had heard that name — Bridgewater was the man who had sunk the Rasculat, Niccu said. Some sort of naval officer.

  Was Bridgewater chasing Merrick right now?

  Merrick pounded his hands on the railing, making Fidelia jump. “If anyone has any other idea of how to get the Jewel up and running, I want to hear it.” His voice was threaded with rage. “Do you know how to fix this, Quail? Is there some sort of ship-tarring science your parents figured out? If so, I want to hear about it now.”<
br />
  The sea rocked the Jewel. Fidelia and the two other pirates were silent.

  Merrick’s glare was lethal. “Make for Medusa’s, then.”

  Cheapshot Charlie and Bloody Elle headed to the lower deck, leaving Fidelia alone with the seething captain.

  “What is Medusa’s?” she dared to ask again.

  Merrick inhaled, his black-and-red eye throbbing in its socket. “A place I thought I’d never go back to.” He stalked to his quarters and hurled the doors shut behind him.

  Fidelia sank onto the bench, her muscles sore, her belly knotted and sour. Adrenaline drained from her body, the storm inside her waning just as the ocean had, calming itself into a flat blue line.

  Merrick’s coughs were the only sound on board as Cheapshot Charlie and Bloody Elle set their course east.

  Admiral Bridgewater stood at the window in his cabin as the Mother Dog cut across some undisclosed stretch of sea. His crimson velvet curtains were drawn back, the lamps in his quarters dimmed. Outside, night was chilly as a Molvanian jail cell — but still, the admiral stood. He watched. He wouldn’t miss a ripple.

  A huge round moon cast shadows on the decks of the Mother Dog, which were empty save for the few men assigned to first watch. The rest of the crew was stacked in their bunks like minnows in a tin, asleep. They didn’t have his appetite for justice, the pathetic souls. The pansies needed their beauty rest.

  Admiral Bridgewater’s own bed was not yet turned down. He wouldn’t sleep. Not tonight — not until he had caught that miserable scallywag.

  Winter patrols didn’t begin until next week. That meant Bridgewater had seven days to find him, seven days to search every wave of the nine seas.

  He checked his personal compass against the presentation of the stars from his window. Suppose they headed west. Would that be closer? Or should they continue their slow patrol of the cocoa route — Merrick’s favorite playground — and hope that their winds crossed?

  Admiral Bridgewater smoothed his mustache, which twitched and bristled in his frustration. It didn’t matter what direction they sailed; it didn’t matter how carefully they planned and schemed and plotted courses. Over the years, Merrick had proved to be as slippery as a moray, and just as skillful at hiding; whenever Admiral Bridgewater spotted him, Merrick disappeared between the cracks.