by Kerr, Toni
Overwhelmed with panic, itching what had to be a massive invasion of fleas, Tristan pushed the blanket to his feet and changed positions. I can't stay like this for a week! One day will be tough enough, three…impossible. How am I supposed to pee? The thought had never crossed his mind. What was I thinking? He hoped the extra days would come after the stop in Newport.
The ups and downs and side-to-side motion worsened. Heated diesel fumes made his stomach roll. He hadn't considered whether he'd get seasick; this was nothing like being on a lake.
Tristan let his breath out slowly, imagining that if he inhaled through his shirt, he could filter the fumes.
9:15am.
Tristan clicked off the flashlight, wondering how long he could realistically survive. Sweat dripped into his eyes and in the few seconds of light, the wall beside him appeared to be crawling with oil-slicked beetles. Inching closer to the motor, he made every effort to convince himself a bug infestation just wasn't logical, though they could've come from the blanket.
Tristan remembered the coral in the pouch around his neck. Within seconds of contact, he could relax. It didn't change the smell, but his head cleared and the air seemed breathable. Even the temperature was suddenly bearable.
Once again he shined the flashlight at the wall to make sure it wasn't crawling.
The day ticked by at a snail's pace. The engine shifted gears and idled on several occasions, each time raising hopes of being in Newport sooner than planned.
Watch the ropes, boys!
The engine worked harder. The rocking motion became worse. Thoughts of storms and sinking without a lifejacket fluttered through his mind. The greasy walls bulged and dripped, caving in around him as the engine pounded against his skull.
Tristan shoved the blanket away and scrambled to escape the hole. At the base of the ladder, he could almost stand straight and stretched his aching muscles. He sat on a toolbox and tried to listen for warnings, prepared to make a mad dash if someone came without notice. After half an hour of intense concentration, he realized if the engine ran, no one would check it.
He pictured trawling nets coming in and out from the boat, though he had no idea what they were actually doing above him. Every time the engine slowed to an idle, he readied himself to rush for cover. The only thing he could gather from the thoughts of the crew was disappointment. He prayed they would catch the most fish in their entire lives and hurry back to the closest shore. Any shore would do. He'd never find the emerald while stuck out at sea like this.
What's holding up the night crew? someone thought.
Devastated, Tristan shined the light on his watch. What does a night crew do? Aren't there laws about fishing after dark? Where am I supposed to sleep? He shined the light on the spot behind the engine, his coffin, and inched into place.
* * *
The fear of carbon monoxide kept Tristan awake. He struggled to remember if the little dot on his watch meant AM or PM and listened to thoughts above. The engine's roar made it too hard to concentrate. Subjects were harder to decipher.
Since when does everyone think they can question me?
Tristan cracked a smile for whoever was complaining. Overlapping grumbles followed. Good time to Kodiak. He's crazy. Really should stick to home waters. Fuel in Sitka.
Tristan bolted upright, bumping his head against something he couldn't see. He'd never heard of Kodiak, but knew exactly where Sitka was. "South! We were supposed to go south—not up to Alaska!" He tried to calm himself, completely aware he was losing his mind. Sitka had to be closer than Seattle.
The fumes, noise, and motion soon drowned out the useless complaints. Tristan moved to the front of the engine for more room. He was not hungry or thirsty, and thought about using the map to take him away like it had on the train. Forever. But it was in his backpack on the other side of the engine.
Time ticked.
He propped open the trapdoor with a metal rod from a toolbox for a bit of light and air. The temperature rose steadily, aiding his fantasy of being on a tropical island, much more preferable than an iceberg or tundra in Alaska, though ice would be a godsend if it were in a glass. Or a pool.
The faint line of light from the trapdoor grew into a horizon. Spacious white sand spread out before him, getting between his toes. A cool breeze blew the hair off his face and he could finally breathe freely. The sea rippled with the palest shades of blue imaginable. If only he was there for real, instead of here.
The metal rod he'd used to prop open the trapdoor must have vibrated loose; it fell with a thud, landing on his chest. The vast sky and endless beaches were gone in the same instant.
Tristan blinked in the darkness, desperate to recreate the location, but the roaring motor pounded in his head. Just as he complained, the engine sputtered and shut down altogether.
He dove into the hiding space, burning his hand against the engine as he went, and covered up with the blanket. His held his breath and plugged his ears against the shrieking silence.
The trapdoor opened and a floodlight appeared. Someone descended the ladder. Through the coarse weave, Tristan watched the dark figure fiddle with things here and there, pouring liquid into something. He shut his eyes and waited.
When he looked again, the floodlight had gone. The compartment was empty and the trapdoor stood open. He pulled the blanket down to breathe the rush of cool air, not realizing how hot the space had become.
For more than an hour, Tristan stared at the hazy light from above, his mind unusually still, numb at the lack of sound. A shadow brought him back to the moment and he almost forgot to cover his head with the blanket.
A person dropped through the trapdoor and tinkered with the engine again. "Start 'er up!" he yelled. Another voice echoed the call and the engine jerked to life, forcing Tristan's ears to adjust again.
The light from the trapdoor had just winked out when a firecracker pop shot something from the engine, hitting Tristan's arm. He recoiled with nowhere to go, in fear of being set on fire, surrounded by oil. The engine sat silent and a long list of mental curses mirrored his own. The trapdoor flew open.
This is it. Tristan held his breath and watched the floodlight's beam shine through the engine at different angles.
"No prob," the man said. He rummaged through boxes of equipment. Like a damn sardine in here.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut when the light swept over the crawlspace.
Shist. They expect a person to squeeze through that?
12
- CAPTAIN'S ORDERS -
TRISTAN CLUNG TO THE BLANKET while the man muttered something about fire hazards, trying to tug it free. Tristan let it go.
"What on Earth?" The man directed the beam of light from Tristan to his belongings. Of all the things he'd thought about to pass the time, what to say if he got caught wasn't one of them. He kept his mouth shut.
"It's a bloody 120 plus degrees down here. How did…when? Come on out." The man backed up as far as he could, keeping his light pointed at the crawlspace for Tristan. "I'll have to take you to Alex. He's our captain."
Tristan pushed his bags out first, unable to think of any plan.
"I'd leave 'em here if I were you." The man handed Tristan his own bottle of water. "I'm sure you could use a drink."
"Thanks." Tristan drank it all, startled by his sudden raving thirst. He imagined the man letting him stay, completely willing to sneak food and water down to the compartment until they reached shore. It took a few moments to register the order to climb out.
Tristan climbed the ladder first. The man was younger than he'd thought, with bright red hair. Oil smudged over masses of freckles. They traveled up the staircase and down a few narrow hallways, then stopped at a door. The redhead bit his lip, holding his speckled knuckles an inch from the wood. He finally gave it two quick raps.
"Better be good news," came an aggravated voice from inside.
"It's Charley, sir." The redhead took a quick look at Tristan before speaking again. "I n
eed to see you."
"Make it fast. I'm not in a good mood."
Charley opened the door and motioned for Tristan to enter first. Tristan surveyed the room, nervous jitters finally making him light-headed. The captain, dressed in layers of bulky clothing, sat behind a large desk. A frayed stocking cap covered his wiry gray hair. Tristan listened for the man's thoughts, settling his gaze on the stack of nautical maps at the captain's fingertips.
"Who the hell are you?" Alex asked, using the eraser of his pencil to scratch his scruffy jaw line.
"Tristan—" Tristan stopped short, not daring to give his last name, in case the police were searching for him.
"Why are you on my ship? Did you swim here?"
Sweat soaked Tristan's sweatshirt and the hair hanging over his face was drenched. He tucked locks behind his ears, still trying to hear anything useful.
I don't feel sorry for runaways, druggies, or dropouts.
"I can explain."
"I can use the entertainment." This oughta be good. "We're not exactly going anywhere, are we?" Alex glared at Charley, then smiled cynically at Tristan. More than five-hundred miles out. Nobody would find you if they tried.
"I'm on my way to my aunt's house. In California." Tristan waited, hoping he sounded law-abiding and responsible. "She's expecting me," he added, as an afterthought.
The captain leaned back in his chair, mentally debating how much was true. "How much money you got?"
"Eighteen dollars. It wouldn't have been enough, the rest was stolen. So I...I heard one of your crew saying you'd be stopping in Newport, and I made plans to come aboard and get off there." Tristan waited again, unable to tell if his situation was getting better or worse. What if the captain didn't say 'Newport' out loud to anyone?
"Let's see it," Alex said, holding out his hand for the money.
Tristan pulled a roll of damp bills and some change from his front pocket, stepped forward, and handed it over.
"You have luggage?" Alex straightened the bills along the edge of his desk, thumbing through for a quick count.
"In the engine compartment."
"You've been hiding in the engine room?" Alex threw his head back in laughter, then switched to being dead-serious. "The carbon monoxide would've knocked you off in the first hour."
Tristan opened his mouth to protest, but nothing logical came to mind. It was a fact and he knew it.
"Any fool who manages to survive with the engine deserves a drink!" And a ride to shore. "What'll it be?" The captain pulled out bottles of scotch and vodka from a lower desk drawer.
"Water?" Tristan asked.
"Water it is. Charley, get the kid a gallon!" Alex said cheerfully, waving Charley out the door.
"Thanks." Tristan's relief faded when the man frowned.
"Don't thank me yet, kid. You don't know where you're being dumped." The captain put the vodka away and kept the scotch, rising from his chair to get himself a glass. "There's a place we should be passing any hour now—that is, once the engine's online. You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?"
"No, sir."
Alex nodded. "Well, you can't expect to hitch a ride and have all the say about where you end up, and it's better than being fish bait." He poured his drink. "It's a speck of land. Took a shipment there once."
Alex stared out the small window, his mind blank. Tristan tried to get a good look at the map, unable to decipher color-coded lines, and pocketed a book of matches without thinking. By the time he realized what he'd done, Alex was returning to his desk.
"If you make your way to the far side, you'll find a ferry dock. Some other ship can take you back to the mainland."
Tristan stepped away from the desk as Alex dropped into his chair. The captain shuffled the top map to the bottom of the stack. "Well? You can't expect me to stop everything and take you back to Seattle, or anywhere in Oregon for that matter, can you? I won't be responsible for you on this ship. You're added weight. Food and water are slim enough with the altered course. We'll probably be drifting in on fumes as it is." Alex emptied his glass in one gulp. "And be grateful for God's sake." You're lucky I'm willing to get near the damned place. Lord help me if I ever end up there again. Better yet, kill me first. "Charley will take you in the lifeboat."
"Lifeboat?" Tristan pictured an iceberg with such jagged edges, the ship they were on would have no chance of docking. Why else would he be sent in a lifeboat?
Charley reentered the cabin with a plastic jug of water.
"Charley, my boy." Alex refilled his empty glass with another shot of scotch. "I've got a mission for you."
"Yes, sir!" Charley stood straighter, an eager smile plastered to his face.
"I want you to take our young hitchhiker to land when I say so. Take Ol' Yeller. It's gassed up and shouldn't give you any trouble."
"Land, sir?"
"An island. Just off course." Alex downed another shot. "Coming up."
"You mean…." Charley's eagerness diminished. "You can't mean you're going to leave him stranded on a deserted island, can you, sir?"
"It's not deserted and the ferry can take him to the mainland." I think I remember something about a ferry. "I think the lad's proven himself clever enough to trade his way for a ticket." Alex began mumbling to himself, pulling a map from the center of the stack to lay over the others. The eighteen dollars did not reappear.
"Maybe I could work?" Tristan asked. "Just until you get somewhere?"
"No can do, buck-a-roo," Alex said, pulling another map to the top. "Out."
"But—"
Charley pulled Tristan out of the cabin.
Tristan's bags sat on a wooden crate on deck. Charley told him to stay put and trotted off somewhere. The engine finally roared to life and the crew filed out of the galley, in too much of a hurry to take any real notice of him.
"How much more daylight?" Tristan asked when Charley returned.
"Hour and a half, maybe." Charley spoke in a hushed voice, avoiding eye contact.
"Do you know anything about this island?"
"No. But I'm guessing that's it over there." Charley pointed into the wind at the horizon.
Tristan squinted, unable to see any signs of land. "Where's the mainland?" Tristan assumed a much shorter distance between the island and mainland. "Maybe the island has a large population. They'd need to be in touch with the mainland somehow. A ferry makes sense." As long as he could get back to the mainland, finding the emerald wouldn't be a lost cause.
"I don't know anything about the island itself."
Tristan waited in silence until a hazy gray strip defined itself; wider than he expected, covered with trees. He laughed at himself for assuming Alaska would be covered in ice, then searched again for the mainland in other directions. There had to be a mistake somewhere—something he'd missed. "Would it be on the other side of the island?"
"Only one mainland and it's behind us."
Tristan searched the horizon as far as he could see. "How far?"
"Couple hundred miles." Charley shrugged. "Grab your bags. I'll show you the boat we're taking."
Tristan cringed, remembering Alex's fleeting estimate of five hundred. "Why can't we pull in at the ferry dock with this ship?"
"Alex probably wants to stay on course." Charley led the way to three rubber raft lifeboats and pointed to the least faded, Ol' Yeller. "Put your bags under the bench." Charley stepped in and untied lifejackets, tossing them to the deck. "Here's a Ziploc if you want to keep anything dry."
Tristan wasn't sure he needed to, but transferred the matches, the deck of cards from his back pocket, and the flashlight, hoping Charley wouldn't recognize any of it. The ship's engine slowed to an idle and Tristan glanced at the island, surprised to see it so close. "That was fast."
"Fastest one of her kind!" Alex said, from a higher platform.
Tristan shielded his eyes to look up at the captain. He seemed relatively good-natured, but was also willing to leave a kid stranded on an island he woul
d never personally step foot on.
"Take care of yourself!" Alex shouted cheerfully. "And get the hell off my ship!" He kept smiling and walked away.
Charley gave Tristan a nod of encouragement and pointed into the raft. They stepped in and fastened their life vests while being lowered into the water. The raft's motor jerked to life and they took off at full speed, slamming against every swell of waves.
"Do we really need to go this fast?" Tristan yelled over the motor, deathly afraid of bouncing out.
"I need to get back before dark," Charley yelled. "I have a family, you know."
"Why wouldn't he just give me a job?"
"Not my call."
Tristan faced into the wind to keep his hair from whipping his eyes, using both hands to hang on. The shoreline approached fast—an entire mountain range. "He said the island was small!"
"I'll take you in as close as I can," Charley shouted, aiming for an inlet with calmer waves. He raised the angle of the propellers to keep from hitting the jagged rocks that only showed between waves. "This is as far as I can go. Sorry, mate."
"Can't we try a different beach?"
"No time. This'll work. Give me your jacket."
"What?" Tristan clung to his vest. The bottom of the raft snagged on rocks, yanking it sideways. "You can't be serious."
"Jackets are for the crew. It's not deep or far, just cold. Keep your balance."
"But I'm not a good swimmer!" Tristan studied the crashing surf. "I can't swim at all!"
"You won't need to. I have to get back before Alex leaves. Come on, go!"
Tristan took off his vest and quickly knotted a strap from his backpack to the jug of water before slipping it on. He held the duffle bag with both arms and sat on the edge of the raft. The tips of his shoes barely reached to test the freezing water.
"Hop in when the water's low. You'll get a feel for footing."
Tristan missed the opportunity and waited, doubting he could get himself to jump.
"Now!" Charley shoved him off the edge when the next wave passed.
