The Girl from Everywhere

by Heidi Heilig

  I looked from Mr. D to Slate. I didn’t know the meaning of hapai either. Slate pressed his fist to his mouth, as if kissing the tattoos on his knuckles. “It is . . . suspiciously specific,” he said after a long pause. “Where did you acquire it?”

  “It belongs to one of my colleagues,” Mr. D said. “His brother was the artist.”

  “I’d like to speak with the brother.”

  “Tragically, he passed away years ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Drowned in the bay. Drunk, I believe. The black sheep of his family. You may imagine, a man who would map the dens of vice would frequent them as well. I was the executor of his will, and it was in the performance of that duty that I noticed the map, and of course our mutual friend told me you would want the original.”

  “How fortuitous,” Slate said.

  Mr. D spread his hands and then clasped them. “Who can say what force throws us all together? But we are now bound by a mutual interest, which is what brings me here today.”

  “Yes.” Slate narrowed his eyes. “Your price.” He gazed at the map; the longing was plain on his face. “Name it.”

  Mr. D nodded, as though he had never expected any other answer. “It’s quite reasonable, I assure you. My colleagues and I, in exchange for this map, all we want is . . . well . . . money.”

  The word turned Slate’s head. “Money?”

  I frowned. I’d been worried after Mr. D’s mention of unusual skills and extraordinary tales, but money? Money was . . . well, not easy. But maybe Slate already had enough at Bishop Bank. Perhaps my father’s fears—and his threats—had been for nothing. The captain leaned back in his chair. “How much?”

  “I must remind you, this must be kept in complete confidence, or—”

  “Yeah. Yes.” Slate took a deep breath. “We are already in agreement.”

  Mr. D laced his fingers. “For this map, my colleagues and I require nine hundred thousand dollars.”

  My jaw dropped, and Slate raised one eyebrow. “Nine hundred thousand?” he said, his voice so steady even I could barely hear the shock. “That’s a—a princely sum.”

  “Almost kingly,” Mr. D said with a smug look.

  “Obviously there won’t be any deal without me seeing the real map first,” Slate said.

  “Certainly, sir,” Mr. D replied. “I wouldn’t expect any different from you.”

  “Nine hundred thousand.” Slate glanced at me, his expectation clear: it would be my job to gather Mr. D’s ransom. I gritted my teeth, my mind racing. It was an outrageous amount.

  We’d have to stay on the island; we couldn’t leave and come back, not without another map. Although if we had another map—could we find another map we knew would work? One that would bring us to a time after we’d made the deal? It would have to be inked tomorrow or later, that was the real trick of it; but not too much later, or Mr. D might grow impatient.

  “And how long before you expect payment?” Slate said, but I was only half listening. Why did they want nine hundred thousand dollars in the first place? As Slate had said, it was a princely sum, especially for the era. That kind of money could change history.

  “We aren’t unreasonable. Say, before the year is out?”

  “Well,” Slate said. “I despise haggling. Bring me the map—the original. If it’s good, you’ll have your money.”

  Mr. D lifted his hand, palm out. “Ah, one moment, Captain. Unfortunately, sir, it’s not that simple.”

  “And why not? Has the price gone higher in the last few moments? If the map is authentic, you can have a million.”

  I swallowed. Damn his pride.

  “The price is unchanged, and the map is authentic. I am a very honest man.” Mr. D smiled. “The only quibble is, we want that money to come from a very specific place.”

  “And where is that?” the captain asked, biting into each word.

  “From the vault at Ali’iolani Hale. The Royal Hawaiian Treasury.”

  I gasped audibly, but Mr. D didn’t seem to notice; his eyes were locked on the captain’s. I swallowed again as the words sunk in. Nearly a million dollars from the treasury.

  “Treason,” Slate said at last.

  “You are not a subject, sir. It is merely piracy.”

  “Merely,” Slate repeated, and laughed. “I wasn’t talking about myself.”

  The genteel charm dropped from Mr. D’s face. “I have offended you,” he said, his voice clipped. “I will remove myself from your presence.” And he plucked the map from the desk and crumpled it in his fist.

  “No! No . . . sit, please,” the captain said, trying to soothe Mr. D, or perhaps to soothe himself. “I’m not offended, just . . . surprised. I’m not usually involved in politics.”

  “Ah.” Mr. D settled back into the chair so readily I suspected he hadn’t intended to leave in the first place. “Would that I could say the same! Unfortunately, circumstances have forced my hand. Politics are always complicated, sir, but even you can understand that Hawaii needs a strong leader.”

  “I would think the king would be weakened with an empty treasury,” Slate said, his tone cautious.

  “I said a strong leader, sir,” Mr. D said, passing the ball of paper back and forth in his hands. “Not a strong king.”

  I went cold, but Slate only stared for a moment, then nodded once. “One thing I would like to know,” he said. “What part does our mutual friend have in all this?”

  Mr. D laughed. “Ah, well, she is a businesswoman! All she wants is to be paid.”

  I raised a finger. “One more question, sir.” Slate shook his head, but I pretended not to see it. “Why us?”

  “Why? Well!” Mr. D said with a small laugh. “I was under the impression you’d want the map.”

  I dropped my hand to my lap. So it was not our strengths that brought him here, but our weaknesses. Who else would consider doing something like this for a scrap of paper?

  Slate rubbed his hands over his head. “Before I give you an answer, I’ll need to see it. The map. The real one.”

  “Very well.”

  “Meet me tomorrow?”

  “Ah, tomorrow is Sunday, I will be at church.”

  Slate stared at him. “Of course you will.”

  “An idea occurs to me,” Mr. D said smoothly. “In a week’s time, on the night of the full moon, the owner of the map—the artist’s brother—is hosting a soiree at his home. Perhaps you’d like to attend? You can meet my colleagues face-to-face. You can assure yourself of the map’s authenticity. And you can give us your answer.”

  Slate chewed his cheek. “Yeah, fine. That’s fine.”

  “I’ll ensure an invitation is delivered tomorrow. And I’ll send a carriage for you.” Mr. D stood. “I look forward to your attendance—and your answer—at the ball.”

  Slate, lost in thought, did not respond. “As do we,” I lied for him, for I had a sinking feeling I already knew what the answer would be.

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  With Slate trailing behind us, I escorted Mr. D out of the room. Though the distance from cabin to gangplank wasn’t more than twenty feet, I was protective of the ship. Slate had told me from a very young age not to talk to strangers about Navigation. Obviously he hadn’t always followed his own advice.

  Once safely ashore, Mr. D paused for a moment at the edge of the dock, still holding the wadded copy of the map. The man made sure to meet Slate’s eye before he smiled brightly and tossed the ball of paper into the sea. Then he gave us a nod and stepped into his coach. Slate watched the street long after the carriage was out of sight.

  “Captain?” I said, and he startled. I took a breath, trying to sound firm. “The answer will be no, right?”

  Slate blinked, slowly, as if he’d been dreaming. “I can’t answer that until I see the map.”

  I stared at him. “We’re not going
to steal that money. We can’t participate in this.”

  “We’ll do what we have to.” Slate pushed off from the rail and walked toward his cabin.

  “You may,” I said, calling after him. “Leave me out of this one.”

  He stopped in his tracks and then swiveled slowly on his heel. “Did you forget our conversation last night? I told you, Nixie, I need your help.”

  I met his eyes dead on. “Not as much as you need Kashmir’s.”

  Slate stared at me, his face turning red, before going to his cabin and slamming the door.

  I slid down against the bulwark and stared up at the clouds, pulling the pearl of my necklace back and forth along the chain.

  “What does he need my help for, amira?” Kash was peering at me over the lip of my hammock. “What did the fine gentleman want?”

  I sighed. “The contents of the treasury.”

  “Khodaye man!” His eyes were round as coins. “What did the captain say? No, that’s a silly question. Of course he said yes.”

  “Technically he’s still thinking about it,” I said. “We’re supposed to take a look at the map at some party next week.”

  “How much money is it?”

  “In the treasury? Nine hundred thousand dollars.”

  He whistled low. “In all my life I haven’t stolen a tenth so much.”

  I looked sideways at him. “There’s no reason to sound happy about it.”

  “I shouldn’t take pride in my work?”

  “Not when it’s wrong.”

  “Robbing a king?” He gave me a crooked smile. “Even I’ve read Robin Hood.”

  “The treasury doesn’t belong to the king, it belongs to the people.”

  “I’ve tried that one before. It didn’t work. If you can get arrested for taking something, it’s not yours.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. It’s wrong.”

  “It’s illegal,” he corrected. “There are a lot of things that are illegal but not wrong. And probably more that are wrong, and still legal.”

  “There has to be a line, Kashmir,” I said angrily. “A person can’t do just anything for love.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I would.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re a thief. Your relative morality is already suspect.”

  “Ah,” he said then, standing. “Well. I’ll leave the morality for those that like the taste of it. I always preferred bread.”

  “Kashmir, wait!” But he didn’t. Instead he slipped down through the hatch. I waited to hear him slam his cabin door, but he did not oblige.

  Left alone with my frustration, I went through my chores with a distracted energy, sweeping the deck, feeding the sky herring, even filling the big copper vat with water and tossing in one of the fire salamanders, followed by my dirty laundry. After the water was good and hot, I plucked the little creature out with a pair of bamboo tongs; his flat-mouthed expression was one of mild offense.

  By the time I was hanging my clothes out to dry, I was calm enough to feel ashamed. Kashmir wasn’t the one I was mad at. I hung my last shirt on the line and went downstairs to knock on his door.

  “Come.”

  I opened the door a crack and peeked in. He was lying there on his back in the pile of ratty silk pillows he used for a bed, reading. He didn’t look up from his book.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry about calling you a thief.”

  “Don’t be,” he said quietly, turning a page delicately with his finger. “It’s the truth, after all.”

  “Only part of it. And not the most important part.”

  “Well.” Then he put his book on his chest and smiled up at me, waggling his eyebrows. “What is the most important part?”

  I kicked a pillow at him; he caught it. “Save it for the next time we’re at Commissioner’s,” he said, throwing it back at my head.

  I sprawled down on one of the bigger cushions, sending up a puff of air. “Speaking of shore leave, there’s a ball coming up and I’ll need a handsome date. But you’ll have to do.”

  “Only if I can wear my steel-toed shoes.” He arched one brow. “I’ve seen how you dance. So. You’re going after all?”

  I frowned. “I need to take a look at the map. If it’s fake, the whole issue is moot.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow. The book fell away from his hands, open on the pillows. “What if it’s not?”

  I had no answer, so I picked up the book and closed it. It was well worn, with large print, the bright colors starting to fade. A version for children, like most of the books he owned. “The Jungle Book?”

  “One of my favorites. I used to feel like Mowgli.”

  “Feral?” I said pointedly.

  His face stayed serious. “The laws of the jungle remind me of the laws of the street. When I came aboard, I had to learn a different set of laws. Everywhere we go there is a different set of laws. Most of them unwritten.”

  “I really am sorry about calling you—”

  “It’s all right. Really. What I meant is, I wasn’t at home right away.” He reached out to play with the tattered edge of one of the cushions. Kashmir, like me, had come to the ship with no belongings, but now the room was full of riches and reminders. The pillows were sewn from scraps of silk, and scattered around the room were wooden statues and stone bowls and bone knives and strings of seeds, tiny treasures that could be slipped into a pocket. On the walls were pages torn from books; as I leaned closer, I saw they were poems.

  All I had collected were dust and costumes. I sighed. “Do you feel at home now?”

  He met my eyes. “You help me to.”

  “Oh. Good,” I said, nonplussed. I leaned back, gazing down at the book in my hands, trying desperately to think of something to say. “You know, Kipling was a horrible racist.” Oh, for God’s sake. I threw the book aside.

  But it made him laugh; I was relieved. “Well, I stole the book, so he wasn’t paid. Besides, that version was published in the 1960s. He was long dead by then.”

  “He’s out there now, though. He and Mr. D would get along.”

  “This is the age of empire. There are a lot of people who share their views.”

  “And a lot of people being ground down under their feet.”

  “Maybe at the bottom of it, it’s all just the law of the jungle.” He sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. “While you were doing your laundry, Slate called me in to talk.”

  My breath hitched in my throat. “And?”

  “I’m sure you can imagine the general idea. Why are you making that face? The captain has been good to me. He didn’t have to take me in. And he doesn’t have to let me stay.”

  My cheeks went hot, and my skin felt too tight. “You heard him last night.”

  “And I’m glad for the chance to earn my keep. I never learned to beg.” He shrugged. “Besides, like you said, it’s for love.”

  “Love?” The word was bitter as hemlock. “It’s just another addiction.”

  He sighed, but he didn’t protest. We both sat under the heavy blanket of silence until a breeze stole in and rustled the pages on the walls. I stared at his stolen trinkets. “Kashmir. You’re a good thief.”

  “Good at thieving? Or good and a thief?”

  “Don’t fish. We both know you’re good enough to think you can steal a million dollars in gold and silver.”

  “Or foolish enough.” He grinned.

  “So . . . you shouldn’t have any trouble with a single roll of paper?”

  “Ah,” he said, but his smile faded. “Clever.”

  “Of course . . . the captain wouldn’t like it.”

  “That depends,” he said cautiously.

  “On?”

  “On whether or not we succeed.”

  “Do you doubt whether we can?”

  “No,” he said, tilting his head. “But I do wonder why we should. I thought you were done helping him.”

  “Well, it’s less dangerous than trying to steal the gold.”
/>   Kashmir let the silence stretch, studying me. “And?” he said at last.

  I sighed. “And . . . if he’s willing to do anything for the map, I’d rather he negotiate with us than them.”

  He gave me an appraising look. “You do understand the law of the jungle.”

  Hope rose in my throat. “You’ll do it?”

  “For you?” I blinked, unsure how to respond, aware of how unfair it was to ask, but Kashmir did not wait for an answer. “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you!” I threw my arms around him and he laughed—or maybe it was a grunt.

  “Can’t breathe!”

  “Sorry!” I rocked back on my heels, buzzing with energy. “So. How are we going to do it?”

  “So eager now, Miss Relative Morality!”

  “Stealing a map versus robbing a kingdom? I’ll throw myself on the mercy of the law.”

  “Mercy? You’ve never really dealt with the law, have you? Ow,” he added, even though I hadn’t hit him that hard. “Well,” he went on. “I don’t know just yet, but I’ll figure it out. And I think the best time to do that is at the ball. I heard you needed a date?”

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  I woke the next morning with Kashmir’s breath tickling my ear.

  We’d talked late into the night, and I had only meant to rest my eyes for a minute, but it had been so warm in the nest of silk beside him. He’d tossed his arm over me as we’d slept; in those first moments of wakefulness, I didn’t have the willpower to throw it off. My eyes drifted open and focused on his hand, inches from my nose. His fingers were curved into a soft, relaxed shape as he slept. I stared at them, memorizing the lines in the skin, the rounding of the knuckles, the little white scars.

  A small part of me was ashamed at enjoying the closeness I never would have accepted had we both been fully awake, but I tried to ignore it, tried to let sleep steal back. Time passed as it does in a dream, until the sound of heavy footsteps on the deck above roused me. It must have been the captain, pacing by overhead, toward the cabin—or the hatch.