My Diary from the Edge of the World (22 page)

Dad nodded. “I think so too.”

“There's a chance it's out there,” I said. “Despite everything.”

“I really think there is,” Dad said.

I thought about how maybe there are still some things left to be discovered. I have to believe that there are still mysteries left on our planet.

“I don't want to give up,” I said, though I shivered a little as I said it, because I knew what it meant. It meant facing the sea, and whatever was beyond it.

*  *  *

And now I'm here on my mattress before dinner. I'm running over all the arguments in my mind. I'm going to do my best to convince the others, and I'm so nervous my stomach hurts. Wish me luck.

If convincing the others was
daunting (which it was, believe me—we argued for three hours nonstop, until I finally got Mom to admit that a sliver of hope is better than none at all no matter how angry she is at Dad), finding a ship and a captain was even worse. Yet somehow, we've done it.

It didn't really work in our favor that we want to be taken to a continent where few ships have ever been—and where the ones that have were met with disaster. But even beyond that, the cold in the Southern Sea is legendary, the Great Kraken lives in the waters around Cape Horn, and rumors run rampant that any sailor who's sailed much past the southern tip of Chile and lived to tell about it has come back speechless and insane.

Dad keeps pointing out that Ferdinand Magellan and his ship the Trinidad made it, conveniently ignoring that nobody knows what actually became of them, and that our own Trinidad went into the Grand Canyon, which isn't really a great omen.

*  *  *

We began our search at a dockside pub called the Squid's Arms. Prospero said it was the only place we might find a sailor drunk enough to say yes, and drew us a map to it. Mom said that she was the only one practical enough to hire the right captain, and insisted on going alone (coldly eyeing Dad as she said it). But when I tagged along behind her as she walked out of the observatory about an hour later, she didn't tell me no. I think she was actually glad for the company.

We found the pub on a narrow, overgrown alley near what Prospero said used to be Venice Boulevard. It was an old wooden building marked not with a sign, but with a cast-iron squid above the door lit from behind by a whale-oil lamp. The smell of liquor and smoke snaked its way out through the cracks in the door, along with the faint sound of a fiddle somewhere in the pub's depths.

Inside, the room was filled with
men
—men on stools, men behind the bar, men with big bellies in frayed polo
shirts, men in wool caps. Most of them had beards and mugs of beer in their hands, and they all made a racket—laughter, yelling, loud conversations about the weather, and advice about where to sail next. A fiddler stood in an inner room near a fireplace, playing a jig while the firelight flickered on his beautiful reddish wooden instrument. Two men were saying to each other that if only they were back east, they could be watching the Ravens vs. Giants game on ESPN. But all this was only momentary, because as the men noticed us, a hush fell upon the room, until only the fiddler was left fiddling, and then even he stopped. They all stared at us expectantly.

My mom looked uncertain. And then she cleared her throat and tossed her ponytail back a little. “We're looking to hire a small ship and a captain to navigate us far south,” she said loudly and stiffly. “We can pay ten thousand dollars.” I gaped. I hadn't known Grandma had given us that kind of money (though maybe when you're a witch, coming by money isn't that hard). It still didn't seem like enough for anyone to risk their lives and their ship.

“Where do you want to be dropped?” came a voice from somewhere back in the second room.

I happened at that moment to lock eyes with a man near the archway that led to the back. He was tall and strongly built, about my parents' age, with intelligent blue eyes that kept darting from me to my mom, and a mouth—hidden under his dark beard—that was smiling a little.

“We need to get to the Southern Edge,” Mom swallowed deeply, then went on reluctantly. “We're going to look for the Extraordinary World.”

There was a moment of silence. And then, like a wave crashing over us, came the laughter. The men on the stools doubled over as if they'd been punched. No one could catch their breath. A few guys in the corner lifted their beer mugs and clinked them together, and one person shouted, “Let's all take a trip to the moon!” I looked up at my mom. Her face went from pink, to bright pink, to beet red. Another shout came from the back: “I'm on my way to go live on the North Star, who wants to come?”

I could feel my own face flushing with embarrassment, but what really made me angry was all those men laughing at my mom—my beautiful, book-reading, violin-playing, Sam-protecting mom who was better than all of them put together. I didn't mean to do what
I did, but something took over me that felt sort of like the time I hit Arin with the stick.

He was the only man not laughing, but still I grabbed a mug from the nearest table and splashed its contents into the face of the bearded man with the blue eyes. Then, for some reason I still can't fathom, I spit on the floor at his feet. I felt a hand on the back of my neck, and then my mom was dragging me out the front door of the Squid's Arms. The last thing I saw as it closed was the face of the man I'd assaulted—shocked, wet, his eyes glued not on me, but on my mother as she pulled me into the street.

Mom didn't say a word as we marched back down the alley in the direction of Venice Boulevard, which was really just a cracked, abandoned road with palm trees growing up through the cement. Just as we reached it and turned right, I felt a hand on my shoulder and whirled.

It was him. He was wiping his face with the collar of his T-shirt. Mom reached a protective arm between us, but he clasped his hands together and bowed, which made me blush with guilt! Why had I picked
him
to attack?

The man put an end to my misery by letting out a
peal of laughter, his voice crackling as warmly as our fireplace back home.

“I'm not here to make an arrest,” he said. He patted my shoulder so hard I had to step back to absorb the impact, but it was clear he meant it to be friendly. “I'm here to make a proposal,” he went on.

We stood staring at him, and Mom asked suspiciously, “What kind of proposal?”

The man tilted his head inquisitively, the way Oliver sometimes does. “I need a job. And you need a ship.”

Mom went on eyeing him skeptically. “You'd be willing to take us?”

He nodded, just slightly.

“Why?” I wished her voice didn't sound quite so sharp. He seemed to be the only friendly sailor in LA.

He smiled. “That's my business,” he said, but gently. “How about I come to discuss it tonight, once I get cleaned up. Where are you staying?”

Mom looked unsure whether she should give him the information, but then, what other option did we have?

“Griffith Park Observatory,” she said.

“I'll see you there. Let's say around seven.”

My mom looked startled, and then she nodded, giving in with relief.

Back in Cliffden the only people who wink are crazy or sometimes old people. But this guy winked at us. And then he turned back in the direction of the Squid's Arms and tromped off, and Mom and I headed for home.

*  *  *

That night, at seven sharp, Captain Bill MacDonald arrived at the observatory like a burly whirlwind, introducing himself as he dumped an armful of rolled-up papers and leather-bound books onto the low table by the door of our upstairs quarters, which Prospero led him to (and then left us to it, saying he'd be at his telescope). Before we knew it, he had nautical maps and journals spread everywhere. Something about him was so commanding that it was impossible to do anything but gather around him eagerly and hang on his every word. I have to admit, I liked him immediately.

“Here's what I think,” he began, running his fingers along a map of the Pacific. “We head down along the west coast of South America; there are islands there I know well where we can get supplies. Now, I've never been much beyond Cape Horn into the Southern Sea, but I do know my way around the cold—I've spent two winters up in the far north beyond Alaska importing oil, so I know a thing or two about handling the temperatures as we get that far
south. All the way to the cape is territory I'm pretty familiar with—down to the world's southernmost trading post there just a few miles beyond Chile.”

I looked around at the others. Captain Bill seemed like a dream come true, and only my dad—of all people—looked skeptical.

“Why are you willing to do this?” he asked. “There are easier ways to make money.”

The captain sat back in his parlor chair, which creaked under his substantial weight. “My reasons are private. Maybe I'll tell you sometime when we're sitting on the deck with drinks in our hands, but right now I'd rather keep it to myself.”

Dad shook his head. “I can't accept that.”

We all turned nervously to the captain. But he didn't seem as annoyed by my dad's insistence as I feared. He leaned forward and folded his hands together.

“No one wants to go to the edge of the earth unless they have no other choice. No one wants to leave everything behind.” The firelight flickered on his face and danced in his eyes, and he held a hand against his chest earnestly. I noticed his sweatshirt read, in faded letters,
Eat Bertha's Mussels
.

“A nice lady like your wife, a young girl . . .” He
nodded to me. “There's only one reason why you'd all take such a risk. And I knew for sure when I came up the hill and saw it floating up there above the path.” Captain Bill opened his hands now, as if he was offering us something. “It happens I have my own demons to face when it comes to Clouds.”

The captain looked around at us, finally turning his keen eyes on our frail little Sam. Mom made a signal to Millie, but she looked so reluctant to go that it was Oliver who stood and took Sam off to bed. When they were safely out of earshot, the captain went on.

“I lost my wife to a Cloud, when we were just a young couple, newly married.” Next to me, Millie reached out slowly and clutched my hand.

“The things is, she wanted to get away. She believed in the Extraordinary World, just like you do—she always had a lot of faith in those stories. I think she figured that since I was a sailor I could get us there. She had a lot of faith in me, too. But I didn't believe in those things back then. I thought I knew all the answers. I thought it was stupid to go searching for something that didn't exist.”

Millie, who up to now had been silent, let out a long, pitying sigh.

“And now?” Mom asked.

“Now . . . I know there's a lot I don't know. I want to make up for my mistakes.”

There was a long pause, and then Dad said, “Once we get to the Southern Edge, we'd need you to wait for us for a little while, to pick us up just in case . . .” He trailed off.

“In case it's not there after all. Of course.”

“Two weeks, I think, would be more than enough,” my dad said.

“Certainly.”

Glancing over at Millie, I wondered if I looked as dazzled by the captain as she did at that moment. Her eyelashes were fluttering at about a thousand beats a minute. Virgil, who'd been keeping the fire stoked and trying to stay out of the way, had absolutely wilted. Oliver, who'd come back from the loft after putting Sam in bed, had his arm crossed over his chest—curious, but not convinced.

Finally, Captain Bill stood up. “You all can think on it tonight and get in touch with me through the bartender at the Squid's Arms. Leave a message with him with your answer. If it's a yes, we leave in two days. I'll need time to get the ship and crew all set.”

I couldn't take my eyes off him as he stood to go, and neither could anyone else. We fluttered behind him to the front door. He patted me and then Oliver on the shoulder,
bowed to Millie, and gave Dad a firm handshake.

I didn't notice, until he was already out in the hall, the friendly smile he gave to my mom, and the frown she returned to him. Sometimes her frowns look just like Millie's—they both have a way of frowning a smile.

*  *  *

Tonight the loft is silent as we all keep to our own thoughts before bed. I miss hearing the hum of Mom's and Dad's voices talking into the night, just thinking out loud to each other the way they've always done. But ever since Prospero told us the truth about Dad's lie, there's no hum of voices at all.

Outside the big window I can see the moon. Miraculously (since as usual I wasn't paying much attention the day we learned it) I remember a line from poem we read in fourth grade: “The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.” I just touched my fingers against the window to see if I can feel the warmth of its light on my hands, but of course I can't.

I'm still as scared of the ocean as ever.
More
scared than ever. But I love my little brother, and I know that out there may be the only way for him.

We're headed to the edge of the earth this time, for real.

It's been ninety-nine days since
I started this diary, and I'm just about to run out of pages. I'm surrounded by activity, but there's nothing I can do except sit here on the deck of our new ship and describe the scene in the space I have left. Luckily Oliver found an old blank notebook of Prospero's at the observatory, which he allowed him to have, just in the nick of time. I'll start with it the next time I write. Prospero also gave my mom his old violin as a parting gift. Not to mention that he's outfitted us with fur coveralls and coats and microfiber socks, extreme cold weather gloves and seal mittens to go over them, fur blankets, two tents, some instruments, and who knows what else for our trip—a mixture of old explorer gear and newfangled items he
says he had flown in, via angel, from a store in New York a few years ago. (I guess we're not the first team of expeditioners he's sent into the wilderness on a mission of discovery—though probably we're the first going somewhere he doesn't believe in.) With his help (but not his blessing) we've also stocked up on crates and crates of food and water, tons of Slim Jims, canned soups, freeze-dried vegetables, and beans to stick in backpacks that are as big as I am.