~ ~ ~
The sun is still low on the horizon, but the sky has turned from a dusky blue to a bright morning orange. I float alone, my life vest holding me above the water. I imagine my mom and sister. They’ll be burying my grandfather today, and then tomorrow I guess they’ll be holding my wake, another Delmar lost to sea. They’ll all say I died in the storm. It won’t matter that I’d survived the storm just fine; I’m still dead here.
Just then I notice a motion beneath me. My heart races. Is the sea serpent back, or is it something worse? I try to make it out. It’s something huge and dark beneath me, and then just like that it’s gone. I look all around. Then all of a sudden, near the horizon, a huge spout of water jets into the air, and a giant flat fin lifts up before dipping into the water. “A whale!” I think to myself – just a whale.
Then I see it, just beyond where the whale surfaced. It’s small, almost like a speck on the horizon, but growing larger: white sails, tall masts. It’s a boat!
I swim hard towards the boat, and it seems to be headed towards me, closing the distance quickly. Compared to my tiny body in the water, it’s huge. “Here, I’m here!” I call out, frantically waving my arms. It’s bearing down on me now, and I’m worried I’m going to get run into. I try to swim out of its way, and I have to push myself off the bow as it goes past. I look up. There’s no one at the railing. “Here, I’m here!” I shout, but no one is there to hear me. I watch as the boat is passing me, my only chance of getting rescued.
All of a sudden I feel myself lifted out of the water.
“Got you, little one,” I hear a deep voice say.
I look around, but the voice is behind me and I can’t turn. I can just make out the shape of a big man. He’s lifting me by my life vest in one hand while he climbs a ladder up the side of the boat.
I’m heaved over the railing and dropped on the deck. I’m finally able to turn and see the big dark-skinned man who carried me up the ladder. He’s huge, built like a football player, his head smoothly shaved, but his deep-set eyes are a brilliant blue that seems in a way disarming.
All around me, people gather. Their faces come in every shade and shape: dark, light, smooth, and weathered. I hear their whispers: “What is he wearing?” “Where did he come from?” “What do you think he’s worth?”
“ENOUGH!” a loud voice barks out the order, and the people move aside. A tall fair-skinned man in a large flowing coat stands before me. He sports a short black beard that’s been carefully shaped to come to a narrow point. His hair is closely cropped and neatly combed back. On his belt he wears a pair of swords with intricately detailed handles that his right hand rests casually on.
The others on deck turn to him, keeping quiet. He looks down at me for a moment, then says, “Bring our catch to my cabin.”
With that, the tall man turns and walks off as the crowd on the deck cheers and then hoists me up and carries me behind him.
The cabin is at the stern of the ship, large and lavishly appointed. There’s a bed, a small sitting area, and a wall of books and charts. I’m deposited in one of the seats at the table. I feel coarse hands searching through my pockets. “No!” I cry as the kelpwood compass is pulled from my pocket and put on the table. I’d forgotten about it entirely after The Sea Witch sank, but now, seeing it in front of me, I remember why I came here in the first place.
My pockets emptied, the crew leaves, and the tall man takes the seat opposite me.
“Forgive my crew,” he says as I hear the door to the cabin shut. “The sea seldom gives us a castaway so far from any shore, and they forget their manners. As do I. I am Corvino – Captain Corvino, or simply Captain, if you prefer. You were eyeing my books. Do you read?”
“Yes,” I say softly.
“Splendid.” Corvino stands and crosses to the bookcase, grabbing a thin leatherbound book. He places it on the table and slides it to me, taking his seat.
I open the book. Inside is a handwritten title page.
The Adventures of Redbeard the Renegade
and beneath it, an inscription:
This book is property of the Driftwood Library
“A library book?” I ask.
“Of sorts,” Corvino says. “Consider it yours for as long as you sail with us.”
“Thank you,” I say, although I begin to wonder just how long it is that I’ll be on board.
“Now,” Corvino says. “Every good tale begins with a name and a home port. What are yours?”
“Mateo,” I start, but catch myself before saying any more. Inés had told me that my grandfather was a famous pirate here. Would my name carry weight, or bring some rivalry? “Just Mateo,” I say quickly, trying to cover for my earlier hesitation.
“No family name?” Corvino asks.
I shake my head no. “I’m an orphan,” I say, hoping that explains things.
“Ah,” Corvino says, seeming to understand. “And what port do you hail from, Mateo the Orphan?”
I think for a minute. Dad’s book on the 8th Sea didn’t have many names of places, and the ones it did seemed like they might be make-believe. I remember Inés mentioning one place. “Port Aurelia,” I blurt out.
“A Wharf Rat. How very interesting… Tell me, then: what is a Wharf Rat doing in the middle of nowhere, dressed in odd clothes and with nothing in their pockets save for…” Corvino reaches out and plucks the compass off the table. “This,” he says inquisitively as he turns the compass’s smooth exterior over in his hands.
My mind races. Without the compass, any hope I’d have of finding my dad and getting back is gone. “It’s just an old broken compass,” I lie. “It doesn’t even point north.”
Corvino turns it over in his hands once more, then presses his finger on the latch, springing open the lid. He examines it for a moment and then nods. “Indeed, it does not point north. On that point, at least, you tell the truth. On every other, you lie.”
I make to protest, but Corvino raises a hand to signal that I should stay quiet.
“Your name is Mateo – that much was true. But not Mateo No-Name. Mateo Delmar. And this is no broken compass. It is a kelpwood compass – Captain Esteban Delmar’s kelpwood compass, to be precise.”
My heart sinks. Any chance of getting the compass back seems to die with my ruse.
Corvino looks me in the eye and then adds, “Salvage law is quite clear: the compass is mine. And yet… one job, faithfully done, and it’s yours again. Passage to Port Aurelia besides.”
I eye the compass that he holds in his hands and wonder what other choice I have. “What’s the job?” I ask, trying to sound more in control.
“All in good time. But first – surely you’re wondering how I know your name?” Corvino asks.
I nod. I am curious, although I’m more interested in how I’m going to get the compass back.
“In the Kraken’s Rest, in Black Tide Cove, there are books – great ledgers recording every pirate ship that has ever put to sea: who sailed on her, what each one’s share was, and whether they were paid. The logs, they call them. Most pay them no mind unless they believe they’ve been cheated. But some years ago I found myself at the Kraken’s Rest with no ship, no crew and not a coin to my name. So I read the logs. And there I came upon a little-known pirate by the name of Esteban Delmar. His first voyages went badly – shares owed, shares unpaid – and then, quite suddenly, one payout greater than the last, and the next greater still. I took it for luck. But his luck never ran out, and so I looked closer.” Corvino pauses for a moment, pulls his hands down the length of his beard and twirls the tip just a little. Looking me in the eyes, he asks, “Do you know what I found?” I shake my head, enthralled by the story.
“Esteban Delmar sailed this sea nearly half a century ago. Most who sailed with him were long gone – they’d made their fortunes and left, or met crueller ends at the hands of rival ships or the Aurelian authorities. But there was one man, an old drunk nobody so much as glanced at, a fixture in a dark corner of the Kraken’s Rest. Long ago he’d been a cabin boy on Esteban’s ships, and for a bottle of the finest rum the Rest could pour, he told me the tale of the kelpwood compass: a compass with no markings, that points not north but to treasure. This is that compass, is it not?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say nervously.
Corvino nods, then studies the compass closely. “There is one thing I cannot account for,” he says. “Where did Esteban go? The records are plain: each treasure larger than the last, and then, quite suddenly, an entirely new crew, every one of them green – save one, his first mate, Inés, who had sailed with him from the very start. And then? Nothing. Every last one of them, vanished.”
I try to think of some excuse for Esteban’s whereabouts, for my appearance, for everything, but it’s no use. Instead, from the moment Corvino mentioned Inés, she’s all I can think about. Inés, who’d sailed for years in this sea and then crossed the Morrow Line to wash ashore in Newfoundland. Inés, who’d taught my dad to sail and stood beside my mom at her wedding. Inés, who is dead now because I couldn’t listen.
“He crossed the Morrow Line,” I blurt out, not sure what else I can say.
“HA HA HA!” Corvino gives a hearty belly laugh. It’s like a punch in my gut. Of course he doesn’t believe it. Who would believe in a magical line where a giant sea serpent pretends to be your missing father and eats your ship? I can feel the rage building in me. I clench my fists and think about running from the cabin, or lunging across the table to slam into Corvino. Anything to stop from breaking down into tears.
Reining in his laugh, Corvino looks at me, glancing at my clenched fists. His eyes dart to the cabin door for a moment, and then he leans forward, his voice dropping to a hush. “Forgive my laughter. I took it for another ruse. Most think the Morrow Line an old sailor’s story. Some believe it. And a few will pay very handsomely indeed for any knowledge of the other side. Be careful whom you tell, Mateo Delmar. You cannot know whom to trust.” He stops, thinking for a moment.
“Now. You look near enough the part of a Wharf Rat from Port Aurelia. A change out of those strange clothes, and no one will be the wiser. Help us pull off this job, and the compass is your share. Then you may chase whatever treasure you came for – and find your way home.” Corvino goes to stand but hesitates a moment. Gesturing to the leatherbound book in front of me, he adds, “You should read it. It’s a rollicking good tale. But you’ll have to leave it here: there isn’t a Wharf Rat in all this sea who can read. I knew you for a liar the moment you opened the cover.” He smiles, stands and crosses to the door, where he opens it.
Outside the door stands the big man who had lifted me out of the water. Corvino whispers something to him, and he comes in and looks down at me. “Come with me,” he says in his deep voice. I stand, leaving the book, and follow him from the cabin. Corvino closes the door behind us.
“Captain wants you dressed, fed, and put to work,” he says, leading me down into the hold of the boat. Below deck it’s empty, with the crew busy up above. “Says your name is Mateo?” he asks, looking at me. I just nod. “I’m Patience, first mate on The Prodigal. Here.”
We’ve come to a corner of the hold, where Patience opens a large burlap sack and fetches out some odd bits of clothing. “These should do,” he says, handing them to me. Quickly I pull off the life vest, the soaked dress shirt and the too-tight khakis. I think about leaving my underwear on, but it’s soaked through, and Patience gestures for me to hand it to him. I quickly strip it off and hand it over.
“You ever worked a boat before?” Patience asks as I pull on the pants and shirt I’ve been given.
“No,” I say nervously. The pants are a coarse linen. It’s itchy, and they’re too big besides.
“Hmm.” Patience gives a little grunt, looking at me, and then grabs a loose line of rope and pulls it around my waist as a belt. As he ties the line, he says, “Work on a boat is hard, but we’re a fair bunch, and if you listen and do what you’re told, you’ll be well treated. Just remember.” He pauses for a moment, pulling a large knife from his belt. “On a boat the captain’s word is law, and my word is the captain’s word. You cross that –“ With one swift motion, Patience cuts the excess line. “– and we’ll throw you back where we found you.”
“Okay,” I agree.
Stepping back, Patience nods at my overall appearance. “Good,” he says. “We’ll let these dry,” he adds, gesturing with my wet clothes. “For now, we should go topside for some food.” Dropping them in a pile off to the corner, he leads the way up a ladder.
As I start up the ladder, I look back at the clothes, the only evidence of me crossing the Morrow Line. I know Nora will be hurt that I left her without telling her where I was going or what I was doing, but I imagine us on a rocky beach by Greywater Arm, Dad and me stepping from a small sailboat as Mom and Nora run down to meet us. I’ll need the compass to find Dad and get back across. Captain Corvino had said I have to be careful who I can trust. I’m not sure if I trust him, but what other choice do I have?
“Come on, little one,” Patience calls to me from the deck, and I climb the rest of the way up the ladder and into the midday sun.
~ ~ ~