68 Knots (22 page)

“Fucking maggots,” Crystal muttered. “This is sick. Let's get out of here.”

“Sounds good to me,” BillFi said. He picked up the cage, holding the wires from above to keep his hands away from the damp sticky newspaper on the bottom of the cage. He followed Crystal up and out of the boat and into the clear night air. They carried their haul down the dock to the dinghy, where Jesse waited for them.

“Brought you a present,” BillFi said. “A present. It's for you.”

Jesse took the cage gently and looked inside. The kitten stared back, afraid and hopeful, mewing quietly. Jesse opened the cage door and pulled the tiny animal to freedom. He cradled her in his giant multicolored hands and petted her softly. He held her to his face, nose-to-nose, and stared into her eyes.

“We found it on one of the ships,” BillFi explained. “It was badly treated. Badly. So we took it. We took it, and you can have it.”

Jesse shifted his weight and moved forward in the dinghy. “You row,” he said. Shrugging, Crystal took the oars and rowed back toward the
Dreadnought
. As the dinghy cut through the black water, Jesse grabbed the empty filthy cage
with one hand and hurled it angrily overboard. It hit the waves with a splash and sank quickly. Jesse's eyes never left the tiny kitten that trembled in his oversized hands.

The sky was clear, and the moon was three-quarters full. Dawn stood at the rail of the
Dreadnought
and watched the sparks of moonlight dance on the ripples in the sea as the dinghy approached. It was a magical sight, and the air was cool, the stars bright; she lost herself in the weaving, waving light.

She thought about home. Along about now, in late July, her father would be in Zurich scheduling press conferences to alert the media to the latest robotic inventions cranked out by the company he worked for. Then he'd be off to Israel to alert the media there, and then he'd be back home for a few weeks, then off to some other place. To alert the media.

Dawn smiled. It seemed a bit ironic—her father off hawking the virtues of cutting-edge technology, while she lived on a wooden boat and ate her meals by the flickering warmth of an oil lamp. But maybe the irony wasn't all that surprising. After all, ever since her mother died and she left for boarding school, she and her father had hiked down different paths.

He had wanted her to be a lawyer. That plan, and his constant travels around the globe, prompted him to consider boarding school for Dawn. A few years ago, they spent several weekends visiting schools, reading brochures, talking to teachers and students, and evaluating matriculation lists. Dawn was dead-set against the idea of going away to school. Not only was she tempted by the freedom of living at home while her father was away, but she also hated the idea of immersing herself in the stuffy world of the super-rich and
super-bored. She had met enough of the upper-crust to know that she didn't want to join it.

Then they learned of Mount Greylock School. In Dawn's eyes, at first, it was barely a contender. It was founded by an evangelical Christian minister, but Dawn considered herself a firm believer in a more Hindu/Islamic/pagan/Baha'i sort of religion. Okay, she'd admit, it varied. And it wasn't very tightly nailed down. But it meant something other than sterile churches and expensive “show off” outfits and empty rituals and hollow words. There was no way she'd be happy in an evangelical school.

Plus, Mount Greylock was huge. The school had an enormous campus, and it was in western Massachusetts—not exactly the most glorious place Dawn could think of.

Her opinion changed swiftly when she visited the school. There was no dress code. No “I'm richer than you are” feeling. And no forced religion; the students studied the religions of the world and learned what they could about all of them. They talked a lot, and they shared their ideas, and they seemed genuinely happy.

And they sang. The whole school sang. Once a week, the students would gather in the chapel, share announcements and stories, and sing. The school song was “Jerusalem,” the lyrics by William Blake; it was a song of hope and freedom, of building a beautiful, all-embracing world “amidst these dark, satanic mills.” For someone who held Socialistic/Libertarian/anarchistic views—okay, it varied—Mount Greylock seemed like home.

It was while Dawn was at Greylock that she was inspired by her teachers to figure out what she really wanted to do with her life. One English teacher encouraged her to imagine her retirement party. What would she be proud of? What
would she shrug off? “And,” the teacher had said, poking her bony finger at Dawn's heart, “what would you regret?”

It was then that Dawn knew she didn't want to be a lawyer. She wanted to be a musician. A singer. And play the dulcimer with small wooden hammers that dance like lovers' fingers. She got a job in the school's library—without telling her father—and she saved enough money to buy a beautiful maple dulcimer and a cordless microphone headset that allowed her to play and sing at the same time without the intrusion of a standard mike. She practiced hard, often late into the night, and she performed at a few small parties. Finally, she demonstrated her art for the students at the all-campus meeting.

“Won't your father kill you?” her roommate asked over pizza late one night. “I mean, you're supposed to be going into law.”

“My father has plans and goals,” Dawn answered. “His plan is for me to be a lawyer. But his goal is for me to be happy. I think I can convince him that his
goal
is more important than his plan.”

The moonlight. Something was wrong with the moonlight. Dawn stared down into the water, trying to figure out what her eyes were telling her.

The light seemed to linger too long. As the dinghy approached, Crystal would pull on an oar, and the moonlight would reflect off the ripples. But then the light somehow persisted for just an instant after she lifted the oar and swung it, dripping, back for another stroke. Dawn watched intently, then she got it.

“It's glowing!” she called out. “The water is glowing!”

The others peered over the dinghy's rails. Sure enough, somehow the water glowed every time an oar swept along it, then faded back to black a moment later. As the dinghy bumped against the side of the
Dreadnought
with a barnacle crunch, Dawn grabbed a life ring and tossed it with a splash over the side. She held onto its line and gave it a vigorous shake, causing the ring to swish and wiggle in the water. All around the ring, the ripples glowed a rich yellow-green.

“Amazing!” Arthur said, joining Dawn at the rail. “What is it?”

“Plankton,” Dawn offered. “There are certain kinds of plankton that glow when they're stimulated. We must be in some kind of plankton field.”

“It's . . . kinda beautiful,” Arthur said.

“Yeah,” Dawn said. “It's beautiful—and alive.” Jesse clambered up the side of the ship and disappeared down to the galley, hunched over something in his hands. Crystal and BillFi handed the duffels up the ladder, and Dawn hauled them over the rail. When the dinghy was empty and everyone was on board the ship, Dawn turned to Joy. “How deep is the water here?”

“About twenty-five feet,” Joy said.

“Any rocks?”

“
Aqui
? No. Not here,” Joy answered. “At least I don't think so. We wouldn't have anchored here if there were.”

Dawn smiled in the moonlight. “That's what I wanted to hear.” She walked over to Arthur, who still stood at the rail of the ship and stared at the black water. “Hey, Arthur. Have you ever done anything really impulsive, really crazy? Have you ever done anything just because it seemed wild and fun at the time, without worrying about what people might think?”

Arthur looked away from her. “Sometimes,” he said. “You might even say recently. I'm still trying to figure out what to do about—”

“Lighten up,” Dawn said, poking her long fingers into his ribs. “A little controversy is good for the soul.” She stepped back, smiled again, and faced the crew. “I'm
glowing
swimming,” she said. “Anyone up for a skinny dip?”

She kicked off her shoes, shook off her clothes, bounded to the port rail, and disappeared over the side.

A short, baffled, breathless moment later, Arthur and the others ran to the port side. They looked down, and there was Dawn, swimming the backstroke, whooping and laughing and splashing.

“This is great!” she said. “Come on in!”

Around her the sea glowed with living light. The moon still sparkled on the waves, and the plankton beamed with every move Dawn made. She was swimming naked in liquid starlight.

A moment later, an intensely glowing splash marked the spot where Crystal had jackknifed into the sea. Then Logan held up the gin and lemonade he had poured for himself. “You only glow around once in life!” he declared. He downed the drink, dropped his clothes to reveal his pale and pudgy body, and jumped awkwardly over the side.

BillFi grinned. “To boldly glow where no one has—has
glawn
before?” He shrugged, took off his clothes, and hurled his tense, overwrought frame into the sea.

It didn't take the others long to “glow overboard,” as Joy put it. She jumped over the edge wearing her shorts and T-shirt. Jesse remained below, and the only other people who stayed on board were Arthur, who volunteered to mind the ship, and Marietta, who announced that she didn't do such stupid stuff.

“Besides,” she said to Arthur, “it'll be nice to be alone again.”

Arthur looked out at his friends, swimming, splashing, and spinning glowing webs in the water. Then he looked back at Marietta. He wondered why he ever found her attractive in the first place. She never seemed to have fun, unless she was putting down someone else. She never took crazy risks or did something goofy just for fun. Everything was calculated. Her whole look—the tight skimpy outfits, the tan, the streaked hair, the makeup, the carefully arranged poses—had been sexy at first, but now they just seemed desperate and needy. Dawn, on the other hand, was confident and intricate and
deep
. She didn't need to cozy up to some guy to get attention.

Arthur shook his head. He could see now that Marietta was attracted to him because he was the captain, not because she liked him. She craved power and superficial success, just like—

Arthur took a sharp breath. Just like my father, he thought.

“Actually,” he said, “I think I'll go swimming after all.” He took off his clothes and climbed up on the rail. The wind felt magical and powered against his bare skin.

“Hey, Arthur!” Dawn called out. “Glowing our way?”

“Glowing down!” Arthur shouted. He pushed off the side and arched gracefully in a gentle, dying-swan dive. He knifed through the chilly water and shot down fifteen feet below the others. At the low point of his dive, he spun around and looked up.

The saltwater stung his eyes, and the murky water blurred the images. But the sight above him nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. Overhead the water radiated with shimmering plankton, and the bodies of his friends danced in dark silhouette, treading in energized air. As they swam together and apart in kaleidoscopic patterns, Arthur imagined
that they were all part of one body. He could see legs and arms release from one person, attach onto another, then move away again like contra dancers changing partners. New people were formed, then dissolved, then reborn again as the black shapes teased and wrestled and embraced. He tried to figure out which one was Dawn, but these bodies had no names. They were the absence of light in human form, solid shadows in ethereal plasma. He pushed against the buoyancy of the water and watched for as long as he could, then he kicked to the surface to join in.