Descendant (Secrets of the Makai) (12 page)

Tristan sat on the bottom stair, staring at the opened trapdoor, trying to think of other options. Not an inch of storage space was available on the ship, leaving no chance of shifting things from one cupboard to another to make room for himself. Even the space under the stairs sat crammed with engine parts.

He climbed down the ladder to explore the compartment more thoroughly. A slight alcove behind the massive engine caught his eye, its walls glistening with black grease. To the left, he spotted what might be a crawlspace leading to the backside of the engine and squeezed through halfway. If his bags fit, there would be no other choice.

Satisfied with the hiding spot, Tristan disregarded the lengthening list of everything that could go wrong and left his bags to raid the galley again. He stuffed his pockets with granola bars and potato chips, and took an old blanket from a hatch along the stairwell.

He made it down the ladder and squeezed through the passage. The duffle bag sat propped against the wall and he leaned against it, glad the ship's blanket was large enough to cover everything, including himself. After making sure nothing physically touched the engine, he laid in total blackness, gripping his flashlight in case of emergency.

Creaking noises and other strange sounds nibbled at his nerves. The blanket made him itch beyond belief and the smell of mold and moisture overpowered the engine fumes. But no matter what excuses the voices of doubt came up with, he'd keep to the plan. No matter what.

* * *

The boat swayed and knocked with people boarding. Footsteps thundered down the stairs and he quickly arranged the blanket over his head. The trapdoor fell open and he held his breath to keep from panicking. Someone approached with a dim light, whistling while adjusting parts on the engine.

"Crank it!" a man's voice shouted, making Tristan jump. The command was repeated from a higher deck and the engine started with a massive roar, much louder than Tristan ever expected. He slapped his palms over his ears and the flashlight crashed to the floor beside him. The blanket slipped, exposing his face to the light, but the man was halfway up the ladder and hadn't heard a thing.

The first hour deafened every fiber in his body. Tight quarters got tighter and his insides sloshed from side to side at a steady tempo. Reality set in—he'd be stuck in this position for at least three days before Newport.

What on Earth was I thinking?

Tristan clicked on his flashlight to check the time: 4:21am. He directed the light toward the engine to make sure the blanket kept away from any moving parts, then turned it off after finding a granola bar. He tried to calm his frazzled nerves and waited, ignoring the thoughts of how toxic the fumes from the engine might be.

4:28am.

Three days may as well be forever. Tristan cursed the bird for making him choose this particular ship and wondered why the hard way always seemed better than the easy way.

The engine's rumble dropped an octave. Tristan frantically covered his head with the blanket in case someone came to fix something. No one did. The drone of the engine continued for a while longer before clanking into a higher gear. Every muscle resisted the vibration. He forced himself to relax and focused on various thoughts from above.

I want to be just off Valerian Point before dropping nets-

If he had a wife and kids, he wouldn't come out this far.

It's ideal, worth any risk. I'll circle around and take a few extra days.
Tristan assumed these were the captain's thoughts intertwining with the others, planning a route.

Overwhelmed with panic, itching what had to be a massive invasion of fleas, Tristan pushed the blanket to his feet and changed positions.
I can't stay like this for a week! One day will be tough enough, three…impossible. How am I supposed to pee?
The thought had never crossed his mind.
What was I thinking?
He hoped the extra days would come after the stop in Newport.

The ups and downs and side-to-side motion worsened. Heated diesel fumes made his stomach roll. He hadn't considered whether he'd get seasick; this was nothing like being on a lake.

Tristan let his breath out slowly, imagining that if he inhaled through his shirt, he could filter the fumes.

9:15am.

Tristan clicked off the flashlight, wondering how long he could realistically survive. Sweat dripped into his eyes and in the few seconds of light, the wall beside him appeared to be crawling with oil-slicked beetles. Inching closer to the motor, he made every effort to convince himself a bug infestation just wasn't logical, though they could've come from the blanket.

Tristan remembered the coral in the pouch around his neck. Within seconds of contact, he could relax. It didn't change the smell, but his head cleared and the air seemed breathable. Even the temperature was suddenly bearable.

Once again he shined the flashlight at the wall to make sure it wasn't crawling.

The day ticked by at a snail's pace. The engine shifted gears and idled on several occasions, each time raising hopes of being in Newport sooner than planned.

Watch the ropes, boys!

The engine worked harder. The rocking motion became worse. Thoughts of storms and sinking without a lifejacket fluttered through his mind. The greasy walls bulged and dripped, caving in around him as the engine pounded against his skull.

Tristan shoved the blanket away and scrambled to escape the hole. At the base of the ladder, he could almost stand straight and stretched his aching muscles. He sat on a toolbox and tried to listen for warnings, prepared to make a mad dash if someone came without notice. After half an hour of intense concentration,
he realized if the engine ran, no one would check it.

He pictured trawling nets coming in and out from the boat, though he had no idea what they were actually doing above him. Every time the engine slowed to an idle, he readied himself to rush for cover. The only thing he could gather from the thoughts of the crew was disappointment. He prayed they would catch the most fish in their entire lives and hurry back to the closest shore. Any shore would do. He'd never find the emerald while stuck out at sea like this.

What's holding up the night crew?
someone thought.

Devastated, Tristan shined the light on his watch.
What does a night crew do? Aren't there laws about fishing after dark? Where am I supposed to sleep?
He shined the light on the spot behind the engine, his coffin, and inched into place.

* * *

The fear of carbon monoxide kept Tristan awake. He struggled to remember if the little dot on his watch meant AM or PM and listened to thoughts above. The engine's roar made it too hard to concentrate. Subjects were harder to decipher.

Since when does everyone think they can question me?

Tristan cracked a smile for whoever was complaining. Overlapping grumbles followed.
Good time to Kodiak. He's crazy. Really should stick to home waters. Fuel in Sitka.

Tristan bolted upright, bumping his head against something he couldn't see. He'd never heard of Kodiak, but knew exactly where Sitka was. "South! We were supposed to go south—not up to Alaska!" He tried to calm himself, completely aware he was losing his mind. Sitka had to be closer than Seattle.

The fumes, noise, and motion soon drowned out the useless complaints. Tristan moved to the front of the engine for more room. He was not hungry or thirsty, and thought about using the map to take him away like it had on the train. Forever. But it was in his backpack on the other side of the engine.

Time ticked.

He propped open the trapdoor with a metal rod from a toolbox for a bit of light and air. The temperature rose steadily, aiding his fantasy of being on a tropical island, much more preferable than an iceberg or tundra in Alaska, though ice would be a godsend if it were in a glass. Or a pool.

The faint line of light from the trapdoor grew into a horizon. Spacious white sand spread out before him, getting between his toes. A cool breeze blew the hair off his face and he could finally breathe freely. The sea rippled with the palest shades of blue imaginable. If only he was there for real, instead of here.

The metal rod he'd used to prop open the trapdoor must have vibrated loose; it fell with a thud, landing on his chest. The vast sky and endless beaches were gone in the same instant.

Tristan blinked in the darkness, desperate to recreate the location, but the roaring motor pounded in his head. Just as he complained, the engine sputtered and shut down altogether.

He dove into the hiding space, burning his hand against the engine as he went, and covered up with the blanket. His held his breath and plugged his ears against the shrieking silence.

The trapdoor opened and a floodlight appeared. Someone descended the ladder. Through the coarse weave, Tristan watched the dark figure fiddle with things here and there, pouring liquid into something. He shut his eyes and waited.

When he looked again, the floodlight had gone. The compartment was empty and the trapdoor stood open. He pulled the blanket down to breathe the rush of cool air, not realizing how hot the space had become.

For more than an hour, Tristan stared at the hazy light from above, his mind unusually still, numb at the lack of sound. A shadow brought him back to the moment and he almost forgot to cover his head with the blanket.

A person dropped through the trapdoor and tinkered with the engine again. "Start 'er up!" he yelled. Another voice echoed the call and the engine jerked to life, forcing Tristan's ears to adjust again.

The light from the trapdoor had just winked out when a firecracker pop shot something from the engine, hitting Tristan's arm. He recoiled with nowhere to go, in fear of being set on fire, surrounded by oil. The engine sat silent and a long list of mental curses mirrored his own. The trapdoor flew open.

This is it.
Tristan held his breath and watched the floodlight's beam shine through the engine at different angles.

"No prob," the man said. He rummaged through boxes of equipment.
Like a damn sardine in here.

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut when the light swept over the crawlspace.

Shist. They expect a person to squeeze through that?

12

-
C
APTAIN'S
O
RDERS -

TRISTAN CLUNG TO THE BLANKET while the man muttered something about fire hazards, trying to tug it free. Tristan let it go.

"What on Earth?" The man directed the beam of light from Tristan to his belongings. Of all the things he'd thought about to pass the time, what to say if he got caught wasn't one of them. He kept his mouth shut.

"It's a bloody 120 plus degrees down here. How did…when? Come on out." The man backed up as far as he could, keeping his light pointed at the crawlspace for Tristan. "I'll have to take you to Alex. He's our captain."

Tristan pushed his bags out first, unable to think of any plan.

"I'd leave 'em here if I were you." The man handed Tristan his own bottle of water. "I'm sure you could use a drink."

"Thanks." Tristan drank it all, startled by his sudden raving thirst. He imagined the man letting him stay, completely willing to sneak food and water down to the compartment until they reached shore. It took a few moments to register the order to climb out.

Tristan climbed the ladder first. The man was younger than he'd thought, with bright red hair. Oil smudged over masses of freckles. They traveled up the staircase and down a few narrow hallways, then stopped at a door. The redhead bit his lip, holding his speckled knuckles an inch from the wood. He finally gave it two quick raps.

"Better be good news," came an aggravated voice from inside.

"It's Charley, sir." The redhead took a quick look at Tristan before speaking again. "I need to see you."

"Make it fast. I'm not in a good mood."

Charley opened the door and motioned for Tristan to enter first. Tristan surveyed the room, nervous jitters finally making him light-headed. The captain, dressed in layers of bulky clothing, sat behind a large desk. A frayed stocking cap covered his wiry gray hair. Tristan listened for the man's thoughts, settling his gaze on the stack of nautical maps at the captain's fingertips.

"Who the hell are you?" Alex asked, using the eraser of his pencil to scratch his scruffy jaw line.

"Tristan—" Tristan stopped short, not daring to give his last name, in case the police were searching for him.

"Why are you on my ship? Did you swim here?"

Sweat soaked Tristan's sweatshirt and the hair hanging over his face was drenched. He tucked locks behind his ears, still trying to hear anything useful.

I don't feel sorry for runaways, druggies, or dropouts.

"I can explain."

"I can use the entertainment."
This oughta be good.
"We're not exactly going anywhere, are we?" Alex glared at Charley, then smiled cynically at Tristan.
More than five-hundred miles out. Nobody would find you if they tried.

"I'm on my way to my aunt's house. In California." Tristan waited, hoping he sounded law-abiding and responsible. "She's expecting me," he added, as an afterthought.