The Ship Beyond Time

by Heidi Heilig

  The torches at the dock had been extinguished, the fishermen all gone to bed, and moonlight splashed across the wharf. But he was unmistakable, even in the dim light: a plain man, with a high forehead under a mop of curly hair and a long, sloping nose. There was wonder on his face—or was it fear? “You’re here,” he breathed.

  “Yes. Yes!” I was giddy with relief. I held out my hand. “I came as soon as I could. It’s so good to finally meet you!”

  “It is.” Crowhurst stared at me for a long time, but he did not seem to share my joy. Still, he took my hand and shook it at last. “The pleasure is all mine, miss—but you have the advantage. Tell me, what’s your name?”

  My hand stilled. He released it, and my arm fell back to my side. “You . . . Don’t you know me?”

  He peered at me, his eyes guarded. “I’ve seen you before.”

  “Of course you have. You invited me here. By name.” Did he have a memory condition as well? My heart sank.

  Desperately, I dug my hand into my pocket and drew out his letter. Frowning, he scanned the page. “Nix . . . Nixie? You’re Nixie?”

  I furrowed my brow. The nickname sounded strange in his voice—too intimate. “Only my father calls me that.”

  “I was just speaking to him.” Crowhurst looked up from the letter, concern on his face. “He’s not a well man.”

  I followed his eyes to the wall, and there he was—the captain. I knew him not only by his silhouette, but by the fact that no one else would be up there, exposed to the cold sea air in the middle of the night—and standing perilously close to the edge. I swore. “Did you give him back his map?”

  “His what?”

  “The map of Honolulu.” I glanced back at my father and swore again. “Tell me you haven’t lost it!”

  “I don’t understand. What map?”

  “The map you stole from his desk when you were in . . .” My voice trailed off as my mind raced toward realization. “When you go. To New York City.”

  “To New York?” he repeated. “How?”

  Time coiled around me like a snake; on the water, the Temptation nodded knowingly. My fingers shook as I pulled the map out of my pocket—the map Blake had only just given me. I held it with an odd reluctance. But it had to happen, didn’t it? It had already happened.

  I’d seen this once before, with Joss in ancient China, and it had seemed something like fate then, too. What made it possible—these little loops in chronology, where time twisted like a Möbius strip? As I stared into Crowhurst’s eyes, the answer came to me. “Two Navigators,” I said softly. “Of course. Is that why you needed my help? Does changing the past require working together?”

  “Changing the past.” He breathed. “Yes. That’s why you’re here. That’s why we’re both here.”

  “Take this, then,” I said, my hand just barely shaking as I held out the map of New York. “Take that letter too. And a map of Ker-Ys to give to me—a map drawn this morning. You must have one.”

  “I do,” he said. Understanding crept across his face. “But of course I do.”

  “Dahut will find me in Brooklyn, near the docks.” I bit my lip—I wanted to say more, but I had to go to my father. I started toward the edge of the wharf, where a set of stone stairs led to the top of the wall. “Hurry back!”

  “I will!” he called after me. “I’ve been waiting for this for months!”

  Months? I nearly turned back to ask what he meant, but now was not the time. Crossing the pier, I reached the wide stone stair that ran up to the rampart. It switched back once, and there was no balustrade; as I climbed higher, I glanced down toward the harbor and immediately regretted it. The only thing between me and the black water was twenty-five feet of chill air. Gulping, I pressed myself against the stone wall, continuing up on unsteady legs.

  At the top, the cold made me gasp. The guard tower did nothing to slow the rushing wind, but I huddled in the curve of the turret to gather my courage. The top of the wall was slick with seawater, and there was no parapet here—nothing to prevent a person from losing her footing and tumbling headlong into the swirling blackness of the Mer d’Iroise.

  Of course Slate was standing at the edge, his shoulders rounded, his face like a knot pulled tight. At least he was wearing a coat; the wind off the sea whipped it around his legs and scoured the stones underfoot.

  It made me dizzy just to look at him. I steadied myself, one hand on the wall in the turret. The stone tower sheltered the bronze mechanisms that controlled the sea gates; from inside, it felt like standing in a gilded cage. My fingers trailed over an oval panel embedded in the stone. It was decorated in relief with two mermaids; between them, verdigris wept from an old keyhole.

  With a start, I remembered the madman near the castle—and the key around his neck. Was that the key to the sea gates? Had he told the truth? Had he been a king? If so, what had happened? How had he fallen from power?

  But I could not worry about another man’s fall, not now. Pushing off the wall, I propelled myself toward my father.

  He didn’t turn when I approached. We stood side by side for a while in silence, watching the moonlight turn the spray to a scattering of diamonds. Minutes passed. Did he even know I was there? “So,” I said, the wind tearing the word from my lips. I cleared my throat. “You met Donald Crowhurst.”

  Slate didn’t respond for a long time, but when he did, I wished he hadn’t. “There was a woman in the water.”

  I blinked at him. “Drowning?”

  “Singing.”

  “Okay.” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but my heart clenched. A woman in the water? Automatically, I searched for the sheen of sweat on my father’s cheeks, the black hole eyes, but there was nothing in his face but sorrow. Could he be hallucinating even without the opium? I’d read about that somewhere—that one might see things, in the grip of mania or depression. And it couldn’t have been real . . . could it? At our feet, an icy wave shattered against the stones. The wind rose and fell; it sounded like a song. “Since she’s gone, can we go back to the ship?”

  “I keep thinking about the bells,” he said. “The ones that toll the tides. The myth of Ker-Ys says that on a quiet day, you can still hear them ringing under the water.”

  “I know, Slate.” My hair lashed my cheeks; I hooked it with my finger and pulled it back. “I’ve read the same books you have.”

  He leaned out, looking down. “I wonder if anyone has ever fallen off the edge.”

  I made a face and took a fistful of the back of his coat. “Not tonight.”

  “Do the bells ring for them?”

  “Slate . . .”

  “I lied to her, Nixie.”

  “To who?”

  “I told Gwen time had done this. It was love. I tried to warn you. Remember?” He glanced at me, his eyes full of regret, and then away, shaking his head, as though he couldn’t bear to look. Instead, he stared down into the swirling blackness of the water. “I tried to help. I didn’t want this to happen. I would have done anything to keep you from getting hurt—you know that, right? I still would. Anything.”

  “Dad.” The word hung lonely in the air; I didn’t know what else to say. But the wind gusted, and I slipped my arm into the crook of his elbow. He followed when I started walking, so I led him gently back to the ship.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I spent the rest of the night in front of the door in the captain’s cabin, sleeping only fitfully, worried he’d disappear again, this time for good. By the time dawn arrived, my entire body ached. The captain was still sleeping peacefully, damn him, so I beat Rotgut to the galley to start the coffee. He found me hunched over my second cup and recoiled in mock horror. “You look awful!”

  I rolled my eyes. “You always know just what to say.”

  He fussed about, snatching ingredients and utensils off the shelves and dropping them on the scarred wooden counter. “What’s the trouble?” In a puff of white, Rotgut popped open the tin of flour and dumped some into a bowl.
“I’m going to guess it’s a boy.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, it traditionally is a boy. And there’s that extra one now.”

  I made a face. “I’m not a girl who follows tradition.”

  “Me neither.” He put a cast-iron pan on the stove and winked. “Fine. Tell me what the trouble really is.”

  “A man.”

  “Oh, dear.” He cracked two eggs into the bowl, stirring vigorously.

  I made a face. “I’m worried about Slate.”

  His hand stilled. “We’re all worried about Slate.”

  “Right.” Lowering my gaze, I traced my fingertip through a puddle of coffee. I’d been focusing so much on my own problem, I hadn’t spent much time thinking about Bee and Rotgut. But they’d sailed with Slate for decades—they knew his history, they’d seen his ups and downs. If they were worried too, it wasn’t a good sign. “He’s been through worse, though, right?”

  “At least once.”

  It was early and I was tired—I almost asked when. Then I sighed. Slate had survived my mother’s loss once—he could do it again. Couldn’t he? Frowning, I wiped the coffee off on my trousers. Speaking of the captain’s past . . .

  “Who was Gwen, anyway?”

  “Ah. Gwen.” As the pan started to smoke, Rotgut poured in a dollop of batter; it sizzled at the edges. “We met her in Ribat, must have been . . . nearly twenty years ago now. That was back when the Fool was the Santé—and the captain was named Skamber Jack. He was a Barbary slaver.”

  “And she was a pirate?”

  “A captive.”

  “Oh.” I bit my lip; overhead, smoke made the lantern light bleary. “Were she and Slate ever . . . ?”

  “Ever what? Fishing buddies? Bingo partners?” Rotgut laughed a little as he shook the pan. “No. They were never. You should know, the captain’s not like that.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  Rotgut flipped the pancake and gave me a look right back. “Likely to take advantage of someone who owed him.”

  I shifted on my feet, a little embarrassed; then again, my father’s ethics had always been gray to me. “It seemed like she wished things were different.”

  “They do have that in common. Just not the same things. The captain said she could crew with us, but she refused. Too proud. Or maybe too painful.”

  I nodded. I could imagine both being true. “What will happen to her when she reaches the Margins?”

  “That’s probably a question for your father,” he said. “But Gwen’s a survivor.”

  “I believe that. What do you make of what she said? The dreams of her crew?”

  “Who knows?” Rotgut shrugged. “I’m more interested in what she said about strange fish.”

  I smiled a little. “Are you going to try to get your line in the water?”

  “If there’s time. You can join me if you want. Good antidote to boy trouble.”

  “Is that why you like it so much?”

  “Plenty of fish in the sea,” he said, scraping at the pancake with a spatula. “Of course, there’s always the one that got away. That’s Gwenolé’s problem.”

  I blinked. “Gwenolé?”

  “Her full name. French or something”

  “Celtic, actually. Very similar to the name of a saint from a local myth.”

  “Whatever.” Rotgut gave the splotchy pancake a professional frown and flipped it onto the floor; Billie’s head darted out from under the shelf to snatch it. Then Rotgut poured out a dollop of fresh batter. “The first one’s always ugly.”

  I drained my coffee with a grimace—my stomach was sour with it—and started washing the mug in the basin. First the king, and now the saint—but neither were quite like the myth I knew. Was it coincidence or something more? The madman had mentioned the dark horse too. Then again, he’d also mentioned a man in the pit and a monster in the castle, and neither of those were part of the legend.

  What did it all mean? Last night, I had fled before I could find out, but it was easier to be brave in the light of day. Perhaps I should go back and ask him. I put the mug upside down on the sideboard and started down the hall.

  “You don’t want a pancake?” Rotgut called after me. “This one is shaped kind of like a heart.”

  “Maybe later.” I left the galley, but the smoke clung to my hair. I wrinkled my nose; if I was going to go back to the square, I’d need to change, and not just to get rid of the smell of breakfast. In this era, a woman wearing trousers in broad daylight would call attention I didn’t need. I slowed as I approached Kashmir’s door. My clothes were in there—but so was he.

  What would I say to him? He wasn’t happy we’d come to Ker-Ys in the first place—and the events of last night had scored points in his favor. Would it be an insult to ask him to accompany me to the square? Not for protection. Not only for protection, anyway. But because I wanted him to help me talk through the mystery of the madman’s words.

  And because I missed him.

  But when I knocked, there was no answer, so I opened the door and found Kashmir’s nest of pillows empty. The slight breeze stirred the poems tacked to his wall—Rumi and Hafiz, Frost and Angelou. Love and caged birds and roads diverging. Where had he gone? Disappointment warred with fear in my stomach as I went to my trunk.

  Digging through the clothes was like archaeology. The top layer was modern—the tank tops, the denim shorts with the gun still in the back pocket. Beneath those, the clothes I’d worn in Honolulu: tropical Victoriana, pinafores and bustled dresses in light colors. What to wear in winter in seventeenth-century France? My hand hovered a moment before I found a bell-shaped wool skirt folded in the bottom of the trunk. And here, a white linen shirt with long puffed sleeves and tiny buttons. Over that, I laced up a bodice cut from black velvet.

  It was a suitable outfit for the era, and not too showy—the last thing I wanted was to be singled out, a strange girl with foreign features in a small town. Hopefully no one else would call me a witch. But just in case . . . I dug back through the pile of discarded clothing and pulled out the gun. Tucking it into the lining of my cloak, I felt foolish, but less afraid.

  Leaving Kashmir’s room, I saw Blake coming from the galley, brushing crumbs from his lapel. He was wearing another of Kashmir’s old jackets, this one a rich green wool trimmed in gold braid, and he raised an eyebrow when he saw me. “Good morning, Miss Song. When I woke, I worried you’d gone back to your hammock.”

  Rotgut tsked from the open doorway. “Boy trouble.”

  “I slept in the captain’s cabin,” I said loudly as I headed toward the hatch.

  Blake climbed up after me. “Before that, you left the Temptation.”

  I made a face, though he couldn’t see it. But he had always been observant. And nosy. “I’m surprised you didn’t follow me.”

  “I considered it,” he said, his voice mild, his eyes sharp. “But I noticed the captain had abandoned ship as well, and I didn’t want to risk another lost map.”

  Sighing, I gripped the rail at the stern; the brass was cold as ice. So he had seen Slate leave; had he seen me lead him back from the edge of the wall? I did not know how to discuss it—the captain’s condition. More than that, I didn’t want to discuss it. “I went exploring.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “I love a good adventure.”

  “So do I. Did you find one?”

  “Blake . . .” I bit my lip—but maybe he could help sort this out. I tapped my fingers on the rail, considering my words. Overhead, the sky had lightened to a lovely shade of sapphire, and the thin light of dawn washed the deserted wharf. “I found a madman in the square last night,” I said at last. “At least, I thought he was mad.”

  “That does sound like an adventure.”

  “More of a mystery. He claimed to be the king, and he wore a brass key on his neck. He mentioned the devil and the dark horse, and a daughter lost to the sea—”

  “Like t
he myth?”

  “Yes. He spoke like a prophet. Like he knew the ending of the story. But he also claimed there was a monster in the castle and a man in a pit, and that’s not part of any legend I’ve read. Plus, he called me a witch.”

  “It’s not exactly an unfair criticism, Miss Song.” I whacked his shoulder with the back of my hand, but he laughed. “Well! Didn’t you agree that Navigation is something like magic? The whole reason you’re here is to learn to work wonders.”

  My smile fell away. “That’s the other thing about last night. I—I met Crowhurst. Back on the dock.”

  Blake’s eyes went wide. “And what did he say?”

  “I . . . Nothing.” It felt like an admission of guilt—as though Crowhurst and I were conspirators. “He—he didn’t know anything yet. He hadn’t even been to New York.”

  “But how—?”

  “It seems as though we arrived here before he invited us.”

  Blake’s brow furrowed, and then he guessed. “The map I drew—the map of New York City. You gave it to him? My god.” Blake shook his head. “What would have happened if I hadn’t given it to you?”

  “I don’t know.” I laughed a little, but without humor. “I studied this for years, back when I first realized what might happen if Slate actually succeeded in saving my mother. Some people say that what’s meant to happen will find a way, come hell or high water. And some people think that preventing history from happening would unmake the universe.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Are those the only two possibilities?”

  “Oh, no, there are infinite possibilities. But very little hard science.”

  “Then how did Crowhurst learn?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has a way to change the past—or so his letter said. If he was telling the truth, he found a way, and all without ending the world.”

  “Blake . . .” I chewed my lip, staring at the harbor, the water, the boats gently bobbing. “That’s the thing. I gave him the letter too.”

  “The letter he sent to you? Then . . . he doesn’t have a way to change anything? It was all a lie?”