Aching for Always

by Gwyn Cready

  He wanted to do this for Mrs. Brand, who gazed worriedly at him from her husband’s side; for his shipmates, so that they might find him a worthy addition to their ranks; for Brand and his sneering compatriots, who wouldn’t know true courage if it stared them in the face; but mostly for the shadowy figure standing alone on the quarter deck, hands clasped behind his back, watching him intently.

  Monk edged forward. The wood was wet and his toes curled into the grain. He could feel his shipmates’ worry like the thick, charged air before a storm. He needed a roll that would fling him hard and fast. The first one came. He took a step and slipped, catching himself as the entire deck gasped. He believed he could do this, though he had lied when he said he’d done it before. Never had he done it from such a height, or in the dark, or with such a pitching, angry sea beneath him.

  The next roll was too small. Collingswood called, “Make your move, boy.”

  “Silence,” Granite ordered.

  Monk took a deep breath. The ship rode high, high, high, tipping past its peak. And he leapt, swinging into the roll, letting the ship’s movement to right itself bring him in a delayed arc toward the dark, shiny rock. Higher and higher he rose, until he was nearly over the surface, but not quite. Could he fly far enough to land? He kicked and let go, all in one movement, closing his eyes and saying a desperate prayer.

  He landed with a crash that smashed his knee and emptied his lungs, and instantly scrabbled for purchase. He hadn’t made the top. He’d made the edge and was slipping down the slimy moss. He found an outcropping and seized it, slicing his hand on the sharp rock.

  But he held.

  A wave plunged over him, pulling him and the rope nearly into the sea. He pumped his legs and found a toehold, gasping for breath. He had a sense of shouting from the ship, but his only thought was to make it to the top before the next wave hit.

  He brought his foot up, but could find no place for it. Terrified, he pulled with all his might, banging his barked knee against the rock, hoping the outcropping would hold. The next wave hit only his legs. He ventured a hand free, reaching above the edge for something to hold. He found a seam and wedged two fingers. Slowly, with all his strength, he pulled himself onto the flat of the rock. He rolled on his back and waved a length of the rope in the air. A cheer rose over the seething sea.

  Granite had traveled the pulley chair first, though even at this distance Monk had heard Brand argue he wanted no one but his own men going over, and now Brand, Spears and Collingswood conferred, each holding a lantern to view the map they’d unrolled in the center of their tight circle. Granite, Mrs. Brand and her daughter, the last two of whom had been transported to the islet over Granite’s fervent objection, stood apart—apart from the men and apart from each another. Granite stared out to sea, impatience on his face. Mrs. Brand looked sad. The little girl, tired of being held, played with a doll at her mother’s feet.

  Everyone, it seemed, had forgotten Monk, who had scaled the small peak that rose above the rock’s flat surface, like a fat finger above a fist. The entire area upon which one could stand was no more than twenty by twenty, and where Monk lay in the dark, listening, he could see almost all of it. For the first time, he had a clear view of the map, though in the darkness and flickering lights, all he could see was a blue region, a tan region and a solid black line dividing the two. The land portrayed was unrecognizable to Monk, who could add geography to navigation, mathematics, knot making and carpentry to the vast inventory of skills he was certain he would never be master of.

  “The entrance is supposed to be in the cave,” Collingswood said, speaking in a low voice.

  “What cave?” Brand hissed.

  “The seam. There. Don’t you see it?”

  Monk had seen it before they arrived. A narrow, vertical opening in the peak beneath him. The space it opened into could hold Monk, but he doubted it would hold very many adults.

  “That’s not a cave, man,” Collingswood said into the roar of the sea. “That’s a slit. That could barely hold a—”

  “Lower your voice! The old woman said we had to be in the cave.”

  “I am not going in that thing.”

  “Have you any interest in seeing your home again? Or would you care to stay in this godforsaken time forever?”

  Collingswood huffed.

  “See if you can fit,” Brand said.

  Collingswood gave Brand a scornful look and inserted himself, shoulder first, into the opening. “Aye. Now what?”

  Brand crouched and held up the lantern. “How much space is there?”

  “Almost none. I can barely move.”

  “Shove over.”

  Brand edged himself in. “Spears, now you,” came his muffled voice a moment later.

  Monk couldn’t imagine what the men thought they would do once they made their way inside. He could see the mixture of disgust and wonderment on Granite’s face as he watched this Merry-Andrew show from the far end of the ledge.

  After a good deal of grunting and groaning, Spears worked his way in as well. Almost as soon as he disappeared from Monk’s view, the rock started to hum and tiny green sparks like lightning bugs began to appear in a tight, neat dome that circled the peak. Monk gasped. He’d never seen such a thing before.

  “Out!” Brand shouted in a panic.

  Spears burst from the seam, tearing his britches, and Brand and Collingswood stumbled over him in their hurry to exit. Instantly, the violent humming stopped. With a pounding heart, Monk looked at Granite. His face hadn’t changed, nor had Mrs. Brand’s. It was as if they hadn’t seen the sparks or heard the rumbling.

  Collingswood struggled to his feet. “This is the place,” he whispered.

  “Is it?” Brand said with a sneer. “I couldn’t have guessed.”

  “Mr. Brand,” Granite called. “How much longer? The weather is turning.”

  “Ten minutes, no more,” Brand answered, then in a lower voice said, “We shall travel in turns. My wife, child and I, and then you two.”

  “No,” Collingswood said fiercely. “No. I was the one who found the old woman. If anything, I should go first.”

  “You fools,” Spears spat. “We have no guarantee this will work more than once. Hell, we have no guarantee it will work at all.”

  “The old woman—”

  “Bugger the old woman! I for one won’t believe any of it until we’re home. Let me step into the twentieth century and find my Ford changed into a chauffeured limousine. That’s when I’ll believe it.”

  “Nothing will change until this map is transported away from 1684. Then it will be as if it never existed.”

  “You’re right,” Brand said. “Let’s get the hell out. Darling,” he called, “come.”

  Mrs. Brand lifted the girl to her arms and crossed the uneven space uncertainly. Brand directed her into the seam and followed her inside. The peak began its terrible rumbling again, and Monk clutched the ground. Spears stepped forward next, but no matter how he tried—shoulder first, arm or leg—he could not seem to get the smallest portion of himself into the entrance.

  “There’s room,” Brand said angrily.

  “I cannot enter.”

  Brand stepped out. The rumbling stopped.

  “It’s no good. ’Twill only hold three,” Spears said.

  Mrs. Brand emerged, white-faced. “Alfred, what was—”

  “Quiet.” Brand glared at Granite. “Say nothing, my dear. Return to the edge until I call you.”

  Mrs. Brand carried the girl to the peak’s base and set her down again. Monk saw Granite’s pained look in Mrs. Brand’s direction.

  “What are we going to do?” Collingswood demanded.

  “I know what we’re going to do,” Spears said, addressing Brand. “We’re going to leave your wife.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Collingswood asked. “The captain will surely see to her. If it works, you can come back for her another time.”

  “I said no.”

&
nbsp; “She was not part of the agreement,” Spears said. “Just because you chose to take a wife here—”

  “Quiet,” Brand said, cheeks flushed. “We’re not leaving anybody here who knows about this place or the map.”

  “There’s no room,” Collingswood said. “And I’m not staying. You’re a fool. She’s bad luck.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  Spears smacked his thigh and barked a quick, foul laugh. “Now I understand. Don’t you see, Colly? He won’t leave her because he’s afraid of what she might do. With him.” He jerked his thumb toward Granite.

  “Shut up.”

  “If you can’t control your wife, that’s your problem, but she’s not taking my place.”

  Monk saw the glint of steel in the lantern light as Brand removed something from his cloak. The air exploded with a white-hot bang that lit the night for one terrifying instant—long enough to see the shock on Spears’s face before he crumpled to the ground, map still in hand.

  Granite jumped to action, but Brand swung round, pointing a second pistol at him. “Stay where you are. This is none of your business. Keep to yourself, and you and your crew may leave safely.”

  “Alfred, for God’s sake!” cried Mrs. Brand in horror. “What have you done?”

  “Hold your tongue, woman.”

  The little girl began to cry. Granite’s eyes met Monk’s. The look on his face urged caution and preparedness.

  Brand swung the pistol back to Collingswood. “Anything you’d like to say?”

  The man held up his hands. “No.”

  “Then get the map.” Brand turned the barrel again toward Granite.

  Collingswood reached for the paper in Spears’s hand and rolled it quickly. When he handed it to Brand he whispered, “What about him?” He inclined his head toward Granite.

  Monk felt the hairs on his neck stiffen.

  “What do you mean?” Brand asked, so low nobody but Monk could hear.

  “I mean, if we mean to keep the map safe, no one must ever be able to find this cave. You said so yourself.”

  “The crew—”

  “The crew will never make it out of here without him. He’s the only capable seaman on board. If we kill him, our secret is safe.”

  Monk’s stomach tightened into a sickening knot. He had to get to Granite and let him know he was in danger. He began to belly-crawl down the far side of the peak, hoping to alert Granite with a signal when he got to the bottom without the men noticing. He reached backward with his foot and lost his hold, sliding six feet and hitting his backside on an outstretched rock with a comical plop. He stifled a groan, though the landing had rattled his teeth. He made an urgent gesture in Granite’s direction.

  “Mama, Mama.”

  The little girl was smiling now, pointing at Monk. Mrs. Brand stepped forward, blocking the men’s view of both her daughter and Granite, who turned seaward and edged casually toward Monk.

  “What?” Granite mouthed.

  “They lied. They’re planning going to kill you.”

  Granite turned away. Monk wasn’t even sure he’d heard. He didn’t know what else to do. He peered around the side to where Brand was placing the spent pistol in his cloak.

  “Now,” Brand said to his wife. “’Tis time.”

  “It won’t work,” Collingswood said, this time loud enough for all to hear. He pulled his own pistol out. “The cave won’t fit four. One of us has to stay.”

  The little girl, busily playing, said “Night, night” and patted the doll.

  Brand looked at his daughter and then his wife. The second pistol wavered in his hand. “Come here,” he repeated to his wife.

  She bent to gather her daughter.

  “Not her,” Brand said. “You.”

  Mrs. Brand made a terrified, choking noise. “Alfred, what are you saying?”

  Granite met Monk’s eye and cut his gaze first to the sea and then to the ship. He made the subtle motion of a fish with his hand, and Monk understood. He peered into the darkness, nodding. It was a terrible risk, but they had no other choice.

  “Come,” Brand said.

  “Gather your child as tight as you can,” Granite said under his breath to Mrs. Brand as he passed.

  Shaking, Mrs. Brand lifted her daughter into her arms.

  Brand ran toward his wife and tore the child away. Then he grabbed his wife and yanked.

  Granite charged and swung. He connected with Brand’s jaw and pulled Mrs. Brand back to him. The pistol spun toward the seam. Collingswood dived for it.

  “Now!” Granite yelled, and Monk grabbed the girl. Granite shoved Mrs. Brand hard and jumped, and Monk flew out after them, headfirst, clutching the child, whose cry exploded in his ear.

  He hit the water, as hard as rock, and the cold battered his lungs.

  Hold the girl. Hold the girl.

  He crushed her to his side, kicking hard to bring himself upward. Nothing in his life had ever seemed so important or so hard. It was like he was swimming in molasses, and there was nothing but heavy, smothering cold.

  A lighter dark hovered above him. He pumped harder and harder. At last he popped above the surface, gulping air like it was grog. The girl cried. She lived!

  A shot lit the night, sizzling past his ear before the water swallowed it in a gurgle. He jerked to the side, and Brand called, “You will pay for this, Captain! I will hunt you till my dying day, and you will pay!”

  The night was pitch. Monk had a vague sense of the ship in the distance but nothing more. He saw nothing and could hear only the roar of the sea and the girl’s terrified cries. He tucked her tightly under his arm and began to swim.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Once upon a time there was a beautiful mapmaker. She made maps for kings and travelers and landowners. She loved her work because making maps made her dream of the world outside her shop. Many men courted her, but none won her hand, for they loved her for her beauty, not her maps.

  —The Tale of the Beautiful Mapmaker

  BRAND O’MALLEY MAP COMPANY BOARDROOM,

  PITTSBURGH, PRESENT DAY

  “What is it men see in maps?” Joss O’Malley asked fondly as she watched her friend’s four-year-old son, Peter, staring intently at a framed antique map from his not-quite-steady perch on the top of the credenza.

  Diane Daltrey, the former chief financial officer of Brand O’Malley Map Company and Peter’s mom, lifted her eyes for a moment from the quarterly cash flow statement over which she was poring. “Key to the past?”

  Joss thought of her own fascination. “Hints of the unknown?”

  “Does this have a Skull Island?” Peter said enthusiastically, scanning the hand-colored paper. “I want to fight Hook to the death!” He growled and thrust his light saber in the direction of the conference table. Marty, the map tech, who had just unfolded himself from plugging in two laptop projectors, ducked to avoid being skewered.

  “Or perhaps something slightly less poetic. Speaking of which”—Di let her fingers come to rest on the calculator—“things aren’t looking so good here.”

  “I know we’re a little strapped for cash,” Joss said, biting a nail, “but that’s not so bad, right?”

  “Right. How important is money?”

  “I’m heading up to see Rogan. I need a number.”

  “Another loan?”

  “It’s not a loan exactly.”

  “Honey,” Di said, “when a man’s already agreed to the price for the company and you’re going back to ask for more, that’s either a loan or insanity. Peter, please take the highlighter out of your mouth. Your little brother was playing with it.”

  Peter, who had jumped off the credenza, sighed and, with a Day-Glo green pout, handed the marker to his toddler brother, coincidentally named Todd.

  Joss frowned. “Should we—”

  “Not poisonous,” Diane said without looking up. “Well, not too poisonous.”

  Marty extracted the projector’s power cord from the grip of the third Dal
trey brother, a baby in a portable car seat at Diane’s feet.

  “Do you know if this next one’s a boy, too?” Joss gestured to the Epcot Center–sized ball under Diane’s sweater.

  “I told my obstetrician I’d kill him if it was.”

  “I wasn’t great at college biology, but I’m pretty sure he’s not the one who decides.”

  Peter tugged Marty’s pant leg. “Did you know if you suck enough highlighter your pee turns green?”

  Marty pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Actually, I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s true. Green works best.”

  Di flipped the page of the report and, without looking up from the paper, deftly dropped a Tory Burch–clad foot on the leash attached to the two-year-old’s ankle, bringing him to a dead halt just out of reach of the stapler on the table.

  Joss, who had long ago decided running a barely surviving company was nothing compared to raising three boys under the age of five, said, “I really appreciate you coming in.”

  “Oh, please. If I didn’t get out of the house sometimes, I’d go nuts.”

  “I can see where trips like this would be pretty relaxing.”

  “I’m almost ready,” Marty said to Joss.

  “Go ahead. Di can work the numbers while I take a look.”

  He flipped a switch and one of the projectors filled the far wall with a huge gray map of straight and curving streets, some blue, some yellow, some white, each with its own name printed in tiny Helvetica caps.

  “Cool.” Peter let the saber fall to his side.

  “City?” Joss asked Marty. If she’d had more time, she’d be able to figure it out on her own. One of the benefits of owning one of the world’s largest printed map companies was that every city felt like home.

  “Philly.”