Stowaway

by Pam Withers

  “No way!” says a giant one, hands on his hips. “We’re hungry, and he has already seen us. Who are you?” he addresses me directly. There’s a Hispanic accent, but all three boys have much lighter skin and accents than Arturo. And they’re dressed in identical trousers and white dress shirts. The skinny one even wears a blazer and tie. How dorky is that?

  “Who are you?” I manage, despite my squeezed throat. “Arturo, let up.”

  He relaxes his hold a little, but not enough to release me. And he keeps turning his head toward the door. No captain appears. There are no shouts from above. Finally he rolls off my stunned body, motions one of the boys to shut the door, and faces me.

  “These are clients,” Arturo says. “They play hide and seek. Now you spoil the game.”

  So two whistle blasts is a signal, obviously, but it still doesn’t add up. Illegal immigrants? Hopefully not, or else I’ve landed myself in a wasp’s nest. I remain speechless as I rub my neck.

  The boys’ eyes bore into me. All three are my age, or maybe a little younger.

  “He is a stowaway,” Arturo says, finally breaking the silence. “We exit him off soon.” His face is rigid with fear and anger.

  “Not ‘exit.’ You mean drop him off, Arturo,” says the skinny one. “Cool. Are you Canadian? I’m Gabriel.”

  “Hi Gabriel. Where are you from?” I ask. “I’m Owen.”

  The first mate gives me dagger eyes between glances toward the door, as though a murderous pirate is about to burst in. He speaks sharply to the boys in Spanish, gesturing again to their hiding places and jerking his head once toward me. They laugh and wave him off.

  “Breakfast, Arturo! We want our breakfast!”

  “Your funeral,” he mumbles, and, with his head low, he walks out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

  “We’re from Guatemala City,” says Gabriel.

  “We all go to a private boys’ school there,” says the first large boy.

  “Where we’re not allowed to speak anything but English,” says the other large one I’m guessing is the other’s twin.

  “Yeah, so we speak English all the time,” says the first twin, “especially ’cause Arturo can’t understand us much. He’s the captain’s slave. Captain is mean, but we’re almost at where we’re going, so we don’t have to put up with him and the Artful Dodger much longer. That’s what we call Arturo. He dodges Captain’s fists sometimes.”

  There’s some half-hearted laughter at that. My brain wallows like a stalled boat in heavy fog as it attempts to process thoughts.

  “Been holed up on this stupid boat for more than two weeks,” adds Gabriel.

  “And we miss our families,” says a twin.

  “Tell us about Canada! Where do you live? What’s your school like?” they ask.

  “Is everyone rich?”

  “What do Canadians eat?”

  “Are there really wild bears around here?”

  “You’re not a spy or a cop, are you?”

  This question prompts shivers down my back. Please don’t be illegal immigrants.

  “’Cause we don’t like spies or cops.”

  Okay, ostrich-brain, pull your melon out of the sand. It’s all starting to make sense. No wonder Arturo wanted me to stay away from the “clients.” Of course the captain would have wanted to get rid of me quickly. And now it’s obvious why there is so much fuel and food, and why the Artful Dodger was dodging questions.

  “Where is Captain dropping you off, anyway?” Gabriel asks.

  “Captain is dropping him off in Nanaimo in a couple of hours,” comes a gruff voice as a boot flings the door open. “And you lot had better be at the table in three seconds or I’ll feed your breakfast and you to the sea lions.”

  I’m still recovering from the shock of sharing the boat with a couple of uniformed schoolboys as the captain grins and pats me on the back. “Well, Owen, you surprised us, and now we’ve surprised you. Welcome to our school cruise. I hope you enjoy their company till we reach Nanaimo. They’re a fun group, really. But too old for hide and seek, seems to me.”

  Got that right. He’s not fooling me, but I’ll play along for now.

  He chuckles and guides me back up to the salon. “Arturo says you two finished up the cleaning already. Well done. Back to the bridge with me, then?”

  “Um, sure,” I say, since the large hand pressed against my back is steering me there firmly.

  “Hola, Owen!” the boys greet me from where they’re grouped around the eating nook, being handed plates by a stressed-looking Arturo. I regard him a little warily.

  The number of schoolboys has grown from three to four. As in, another one must have been hiding upstairs.

  “This is Lucas. And I’m Sergio. My twin brother is Sebastian.”

  “Hi,” I say, wondering how many more haven’t come out yet. Sleeps seven, parties thirty-five, as the ads say. They introduce themselves to me as the smell of eggs and bacon wafts from the stove.

  “No need to remember names,” the captain says with a wink as he continues to guide me up to the bridge. There, a tall, muscled boy is on lookout. He turns from the wheel and gives me a full once-over, like a customs guard inspecting me before ruling whether or not I can enter the country.

  “Danillo,” he says abruptly, shaking my hand firmly. Then he turns back to the controls. “Alter heading fifteen degrees port for deadhead.”

  I look where he indicates and see the log travelling vertically in the current. Deadheads can do serious damage if not identified and avoided. Well spotted, I think.

  I glance at the radio and have to use all my self-control to stop from reaching for it. I need to call Officer Olsen and tell him I’ve discovered a boatful of illegals. Oh, and by the way, please rescue me since I’ve managed to be dumb-assed enough to land myself in the middle of them.

  “Got it. Go get your breakfast,” the captain says to Danillo.

  “Okay.” Danillo’s long legs take two steps at a time down the companionway.

  The other boys stop talking as he enters the galley.

  “Eggs over easy,” he commands Arturo.

  • • •

  ARTURO

  “You let him blow your whistle?” Captain booms at me while the boys are in the stateroom talking with the stowaway. His right palm flies out from nowhere and slaps my cheek hard. I put my hand up to where it stings and back away a step, squelching the electrical current that says to fight back. Danillo turns his face toward the water and does his best to pretend we’re not there as he pilots the boat.

  The same large hand balls itself into a fist and punches me full force in the gut.

  “Uhh,” my chest responds as the wind goes out of it and I slump into the seat behind Danillo.

  “Now I have to get down there and separate them from the boy, you useless piece of trash!”

  As he exits the pilothouse two steps ahead of me, I’m hoping his moment of violence is done. Maybe I deserve it. I shouldn’t have taken Owen down when he blew my whistle, but I can’t change that now. The boys should have known better than to come out, whistle or no, with a stranger’s voice aboard. They’re too naive like that.

  As I serve breakfast, Captain steers the stowaway up to the pilothouse and the boys chatter in the eating area.

  “Arturo, bring me a muffin,” Sebastian calls out as he seats himself at the table.

  “Arturo, where’d you put the Monopoly game? Stop moving things around and help me find it!” Gabriel whines.

  It’s how they always treat me, but I feel my face burn knowing the Canadian boy can hear it all. And from the pilothouse, I hear Captain’s voice. “Owen, it’s a privilege to have such a skilled lad at the helm.” Like he’s some kind of visiting prince.

  I pause to watch Sergio reading a fat English book I couldn’t tackle even if it was in Spanish while slurping down the orange juice I just made him on command, spilling some on the white dress shirt I’ll now need to wash and iron.

&nb
sp; Arturo, these muffins you made are amazing.

  Arturo, come eat with us at the table for once.

  Arturo, put down your mop and join us for Monopoly. We need another player.

  Arturo, thanks for getting that stain out of my jeans yesterday, and I can’t believe you ironed them too.

  If only. In the real world, they talk to me only when they need something, and Captain allows me to eat only their leftovers, and never at the table; he keeps a log of all food and locks the fridge at night. They speak English to keep me out of their conversations, and they look at my tattered jeans like …

  I pull my thoughts away to the new worry. Things could go bad fast if any of the boys lets anything slip before Archimedes drops off our stowaway. I check my watch and relax a little. Less than an hour. Does Owen suspect what Archimedes is really all about? There’s no sign he does.

  “More coffee!” Sergio demands. I imagine spilling a little on his wrist as I pour, but it’s only a stray thought. Besides, I have had enough grief for one morning.

  “Chess, anyone?” Danillo calls out as he pushes his breakfast plate away and stretches his hands over his head, feet up on the cushions. He looks at everyone but me.

  No one can beat Danillo at chess, so no one volunteers immediately. But we all jump when Owen comes charging down the companionway, ignoring the Captain’s calls to come back.

  “Chess?” he echoes in an enthusiastic voice. “I’m game.”

  Hands on his hips at the top of the companionway, Captain glares at me like it is my fault the stowaway is mixing with the clients. But as he watches the two set up the board, he shrugs and turns back to the bridge.

  I clear dishes and wipe the table, invisible as a ghost to the boys pressed around the chess players.

  Wait, only five schoolboys? One is missing. The one nicknamed Pequeño, my favourite. Barely eleven, he spends most of his time sleeping or reading comic books by flashlight in his special hiding place, as if he’s half afraid of the older boys. Well, that’s for the best till after we reach Nanaimo.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  OWEN

  Danillo is an ace chess player, but so am I. At first he holds himself stiffly, but eventually he relaxes and a smile appears. Pretty soon we’re chatting between moves. Chess is a good way to distract myself from thoughts of the situation I seem to have gotten myself into.

  The game encourages the boys pressed around us to talk, too, and in no time we’re one big party discussing everything from what a drag homework is to what kinds of storms Archimedes has been through on the way up here. But there’s some info they seem to be avoiding. No way am I going to ask them any more questions about why they’re visiting Canada on a “school cruise.”

  “Your dad owns a yacht?” I ask Danillo after overhearing one of the other boys’ comments.

  “He did. That’s why I get asked to help out a little on Archimedes. But Arturo knows way more,” he adds, frowning.

  Jealous, I muse. Not that you’d ever know from the way he bosses Arturo around.

  “Danillo, can I play next?” asks one of the boys hanging over us.

  “No, get lost,” Danillo replies.

  “Danillo, is it okay to turn on some music?”

  “Danillo, Sergio is hogging the sofa. Tell him to move.”

  “You seem to be the leader of this bunch,” I observe.

  “Bunch of hooligans,” he replies. “Guys, give us a break. Owen’s the guest of honour. Madre de Dios! You nabbed my queen!” He scratches his head. “Who’d you learn chess from, Kasparov?”

  “Sure, on a chess scholarship to Russia,” I deadpan.

  “Really?” asks Sebastian, one of the bouncer-sized twins.

  “I live on a boring island with no friends. Not much to do but play chess online,” I explain.

  “Arturo!” the captain shouts. I’d almost forgotten Arturo existed. He scurries up the companionway to his uncle.

  Danillo stares after them, frowning.

  “Checkmate,” I declare.

  He turns back to me. “I surrender,” he mumbles with a half grin, then he leaves the table to hover below and just out of sight of the captain and his first mate, who are talking urgently in hushed Spanish.

  “What’re they saying?” I whisper, joining Danillo.

  “Boat following us. Coming too close,” he translates for me.

  I start to move up the companionway when the captain’s shrill whistle sounds. Danillo grabs my arms and pulls me down the lower companionway. “Follow me,” he orders huskily.

  By the time we reach the lower deck, the boys are disappearing. They leap into every nook and cranny on the boat like they’ve got assigned places and have done this a hundred times before.

  Illegal immigrants whisked into and out of hiding. Brilliant.

  Danillo and I run down to the second stateroom, where we crouch just below a porthole. My heart starts doing gymnastics. Peering out, fingers clutching the bottom rim of the porthole, we watch an eighteen-foot, Defender-class, rigid-hulled inflatable approach. At the helm is a grey-bearded man in a bulky coat and large felt hat. A green weathered tarp fills the other half of the boat.

  “Can you help me?” he’s calling to the captain.

  Grey-bearded man. Officer Olsen’s WANTED poster.

  “Stay back. Don’t come alongside!” booms the captain in response.

  “But I need help and you’re the only one around,” the man insists, gliding the rigid hull raft toward us at a speed that makes me brace for collision.

  “Back away!” the captain orders.

  Danillo and I duck as pistol shots fire from Archimedes’s bridge. The captain’s got a gun. The Defender only seems to speed up. As it touches our bow, the operator jumps up — his fake beard sagging as one of its straps snaps off — and four brawny men rise from under the tarp and leap aboard with him, small machine guns in their hands.

  My pulse does triple time. The captain’s gun clatters to the deck.

  “Hide!” Danillo urges, trying to push me into the head.

  But I know a better place. I sprint to the captain’s stateroom, open up the double cupboard doors above the head of the bed, and crawl up into the chain locker, which I know has space for more than chains.

  There, I lift a tarp to hide under — only to find another person there. A small one, shaking.

  “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you, kid,” I whisper. “But play dead. We’ve got robbers on board.”

  “R-r-robbers? I-I’m scared. Who are you?” he whispers.

  “Owen. Friend of Arturo’s,” I decide to say. “Shh.”

  “I’m Pequeño,” he whispers, so I can hardly hear him. And after a long pause, “Everyone hates Arturo but me.”

  There’s shouting right over our heads, the tat-a-tat of a machine gun, and the thump of bodies hitting the deck.

  “I’ll be right back,” I promise Pequeño. Pulse throbbing, I wriggle onward from the chain locker into the engine room, where I find a ceiling hatch to raise a crack.

  One of the intruders is pressing the captain’s face into the deck. Only feet away, I spot the prone body of Arturo beside him. Holy shit. What should I do?

  I watch a pirate tie the big man’s hands and feet while resting a boot on his neck and pointing an Uzi in his face. The captain barks something in Spanish. As Arturo’s hoarse voice responds, I shake with relief. At least he’s still alive.

  “Uhh!” The captain shouts in pain as a second man applies a swift boot to his rib cage.

  “The safe!” the man orders, kicking him again.

  The captain and Arturo exchange more words, the tone between them growing angrier. Finally, two men hoist Arturo up like an injured dog and drag him to a steel box that clearly needs a key to be opened.

  They’re making Arturo open the safe, I realize. Maybe it’s a simple robbery, and after they steal money they’ll take off and leave us alone. I don’t want to think about what could go down if they discover the schoolboys or me.
Maybe I should’ve stayed home on boring Horton Island after all.

  With a creak of a hinge, the safe door is opened, and Arturo gets tossed back to the deck with bruising force. As two of the men scoop the contents out and into a burlap sack, two others head for the companionway.

  Quickly, I lower the hatch and crawl back to Pequeño.

  “W-what’s going on?” he asks.

  I relate what I’ve seen and extend my hand in the dark to pat his head, but find myself brushing his wet face instead.

  “If they find us they’ll arrest Captain and Arturo and send us home,” he whimpers.

  “Bandits don’t arrest —” I wince as I hear a thump and then Arturo screaming out in pain.

  “But Coast Guard …” Pequeño stops.

  “The Coast Guard doesn’t rob —” Then I fall silent. Stop playing dumb, Owen. Too late for that.

  I lean closer to Pequeño. “Is the captain Arturo’s uncle?”

  A guffaw bursts through his nose. “No.”

  “And you’re not on a school cruise?”

  The same snort. “We’re moving to Canada. Our parents paid lots of money to get us here. If the robbers steal the money, Captain is going to get really, really mean.”

  “So he’s a coyote. A snakehead. A people smuggler.”

  This time, it’s Pequeño who shushes me, like he’s bored with my stupid questions.

  There’s a small cavalcade of footsteps, like an army is spreading out through Archimedes. My body stiffens as hard as steel. There’s pushing, a ruckus of shouts, the opening and slamming of doors, all while Arturo and the captain screech at the invaders. Finally, the clatter of boot-falls feeds back onto the deck. A volley of shots (I’m hoping into the air) is punctuated by a victorious cry from the strangers as they push off in their boat — felt by Pequeño and me as a sudden jerk to port.

  The sound of a motor, fading laughter, then silence.

  “I’ll be back,” I say again to Pequeño and hustle to my peeping hatch.

  On the deck, there’s an ugly wrestling match going on. One large captain is freeing his tied-up first mate between also punching him, and one first mate is releasing the captain’s bonds while trying to duck the blows.