The Girl from Everywhere (28 page)

I took the sketchbook. Suddenly I was nervous too. But
my curiosity overcame my hesitation. I opened the book and found what I’d hoped, what I’d feared. “I thought you’d been practicing drawing the map,” I said softly as I flipped through the pages.

“I never thought I’d find a more compelling subject than the islands,” he said, still pretending to focus on the pen. Then he looked up through his lashes. “I wanted to capture you before you are gone.”

My lips parted, but not to speak. Warmth crept into my stomach like sunlight through deep water, but I turned my head, confused, and immediately regretted it.

It took another half day to place the last flourishes. He added a tiny square to represent Princess Pauahi’s new tomb at Mauna ‘Ala, as well as a detailed, decorative compass rose. He did seem to be dawdling as he worked, taking his time at meals, and breaks for fresh air, though he no longer spent time sketching. Eventually, though, despite the distractions and delays, there was nothing left to add but his name, and the map was complete.

It was a work of art, rich in details only he knew. Had he drawn accurately, or had he added something in, something imperceptible to me, to keep us from returning and prevent the Hawaiian League from collecting its payment? I couldn’t
tell, and I wouldn’t ask.

Blake chewed his lip as Slate studied the paper, spread across the drafting table. The captain gave it his highest praise, considering he was in one of his darker moods: a nod and a hint of a grim smile. He showed Blake and me to the door. “Make ready!” he called to the crew. Then he shut the door hard behind us.

Blake raised his eyebrow. “You’re leaving so soon?”

“Before the day ends.” I led him off the ship, dodging around the sudden flurry of activity, and we both stood on the dock, at the base of the gangplank, reluctant to say goodbye.

“I should have worked more slowly.”

I thought of Joss then, gazing clear-eyed at her future. “Why hold off the inevitable?”

“Why, for the sake of the ephemeral, Miss Song,” he said. “And in the hope of making it last.”

My paths diverged, and for a moment I imagined I too could see the future, but two versions, the ship and the shore. I stood frozen for what seemed like an hour—an eternity.

Was I more like my father than I thought? No. The beauty of the ephemeral was in its impermanence; I couldn’t have let myself feel for Blake had I not known there would
be an end. And I could admit it now: I did feel for him. There was safety here, at the end of our short story, and it made me bold. Though my heart shook like a luffing sail, I would not leave the moment with only my regrets, so I rose up on my tiptoes and kissed him before I could think twice.

It was strange and stomach churning and over too soon; still, his pale cheeks went even paler, and then the bright pink spots reappeared, deep as the blush on a ripe apricot. “You have changed me,” he breathed. “I never thought I would look longingly out to sea.”

I gathered my own longings in my fists, clenched by my sides. “Good-bye, Blake.”

The seconds stretched, but then he tipped his hat. “Nix.”

When he rode away, he did not look back. I knew because I watched until he was out of sight.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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MAP TO COME

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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W
e clipped along under our unfurled sails, their bellies full with the breeze, and soon the city of Honolulu was just a dark smudge on the thin gold band of the shoreline. Then I realized Slate and I were both watching the shore as it receded, so I turned to face the sea, and the sight of the open horizon was as heady as the salt wind.

After Blake had gone, I had placed the map we’d be using—the map Joss had sold me, the ancient, crumbling piece of paper, probably among the very first pieces of paper ever made—on the wide drafting table. I’d unfolded it carefully, teasing it apart; it was stamped in faded red at the bottom and brushed with quick, bold strokes of ink in choppy handwriting.

As Joss had promised, the map did indeed depict the tomb of Emperor Qin, who had died in the second century
B.C. The Chinese historian Sima Qian had described it in his historical opus, the
Shiji
.

After his death, and just before all he built had crumbled, Emperor Qin had been buried in a massive underground complex underneath Mount Li in Xianyang. He rested in a representation of his palace placed in the center of a scale model of China itself, with rolling hills cast of bronze, mountains assembled out of fine cut stone, and rivers and seas of mercury. Along with the rich clothes, fine jewels, and masterly weapons with which most prestigious persons were buried during that era, Emperor Qin was guarded in death by some eight thousand terra-cotta warriors. They were what had caught my interest.

As Joss had mentioned, the legend said that in the lofty vault of the tomb, these warriors had sprung to attention to serve the emperor in his afterlife, along with the various terra-cotta acrobats, jugglers, musicians, and concubines. This clay court was rounded out by a coterie of living attendants who’d been sealed up with the emperor as a reward for being his most favored.

I gazed at the familiar handwriting. When Joss had sold me this map, she’d said it had come from a dying woman. Suddenly I was appalled that I’d considered throwing the leather case into the sea.

After I laid the old map down on the table, I covered it
with a sheet of glass to protect it from the sea air, or from coffee spills. Then, following my internal script, I cleared the cabin of cups and plates and put away all the books on the shelves, secure behind their rails. But most importantly, Slate and I sat together, he in the attitude of a Buddha, cross-legged, and I with my knees drawn up to my chin. This wasn’t our typical exchange, however, where I told him all I’d learned about the legend and era we were visiting and he listened. Instead, it was my father teaching me.

He was, as usual, an abysmal teacher, and soon enough I found myself shaking my head. “What do you mean, you just let go?”

“Once you know where you’re going, and you’re sure it’s there, you have to let go of where you’re from. You look straight forward, you keep the land ahead in sight, and you don’t look back.”

“Literally or metaphorically?”

“Both. Once you sight your shore, you keep an eye on it. But you’ll never see it if you’re still in port.”

“Running away and running to.”

“Sort of, yeah.”

I frowned at him, but he seemed in earnest. Furthermore, he had no reason to lie; I’d shown him the map and he’d
admitted he had no chance of Navigating there. My father knew almost nothing about ancient China; he had never read the
Shiji
. “How did you learn?” I said then. “Who taught you?”

“I . . . no one.” He sounded surprised at the question. “I taught myself.”

“How?”

He ran his hand through his dark blond hair, and for a moment, I saw lines of blue ink on his scalp. “I . . . tripped.”

I made a face. “I should have known.”

“No. I really—I fell. I was on the stairs. Maybe it was a little of both. I was at the library.”

“New York Public?”

“With the lions, yeah. I used to go there when my—Christ, it was ages ago—when my own parents . . . they hated each other. Fought all the time. I would go to the library and . . . It was different back then. 1981. The librarians didn’t watch too close.” His jaw worked as he searched for words, but I stayed quiet, waiting—he spoke so rarely about his past.

“I found an old—it was in a storage room—an old map, one of those architect drawings of the library from when it was being built, 1903, I think. There were photos too. I must have been staring at it for hours. It was very real in my head.
When I was leaving, I fell down the stairs, and there was a moment I could see the picture of Fifth Avenue—no concrete—and when I landed it was facedown in the mud. It was an accident, that first time. All I really wanted was to be somewhere else.”

His eyes were faraway, as though he could see that elsewhere from where he sat. In the silence I heard the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. “If you can go on foot . . . why did you build a ship?”

“It’s a safe space, no matter where I go. And I can bring everyone I need with me.” He sighed. “It was easier back then. Nowadays . . . I don’t know where I’d go without you.”

“Without me, you’d already be where you want to go, Captain.”

“No. Without you I wouldn’t be anywhere at all.” He dropped his gaze, and I was at least as uncomfortable as he was. I didn’t know what to say—or rather, how to say it. I had imagined leaving so many times, but the excitement I’d anticipated had not rushed in. I felt hollow.

He could have everything he wanted, but only without me, and I hesitated to leave—why? Was it the fear I might be unmade? Or was it because when I was free to go, I could remember all the reasons I had to stay?

“Let’s look at the map again, shall we?” he suggested then, and I sprang to my feet too eagerly.

It was a challenging first trip, to put it mildly. Fairy-tale maps were always the most difficult, and living terra-cotta warriors were certainly a fairy tale. But I was confident; the captain said I had to be. And Joss had said she’d seen me at the helm.

We were to use all possible precautions for the journey. Kashmir had his long knife hung on his belt, and I’d watched Bee check the bullets in her revolver. Slate had a long piece of oak, a length of an old yardarm, and Rotgut, having carefully considered the strengths and weaknesses of a terra-cotta army, had picked up a hammer.

I was the only one uncomfortable with a weapon. Fighting wasn’t my strength. I wasn’t even certain we’d need to. The warriors were there to protect the emperor; we didn’t plan to threaten him, but it was always best to be prepared, especially when traveling so far. After all, what else might we encounter in a place where clay soldiers came to life? What else did the mapmaker believe?

As Slate took the helm and pointed us away from shore, I didn’t wait for Bee to tell me to start hauling in the sails. Kashmir and I worked side by side in silence, clearing the
deck (including my hammock and the washing lines), battening the hatches, securing the halyard, cleaning the drains and the scuppers, and tying off lines. It was as easy as the waltz we’d shared; we slipped past each other through tight spots without having to push, hauled lines together that neither of us could haul alone, and knew what the other needed without having to be told.

And yet . . . there was a quality in our silence that had never existed before, almost imperceptible from the outside, but such a difference, like salty water instead of sweet. It was the same feeling I’d had the night of the ball, as we’d stood on the deck. I’d been unable to speak then. I’d been unable to speak for years. I steeled myself. “Kashmir?”

He was stringing the jack line and he didn’t look up, but by his face, I knew he’d heard me.

“Kash.”

His shoulders rose and fell in a sigh, but he met my eyes.
“Amira—”

“I just wanted to say—”

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “It was my mistake. The other night I thought—” He shook his head and laughed a little. “Well. Will you forgive me? I only hope it hasn’t hurt what we have.”

My hand went to my pendant; the pearl was warm and smooth on my skin. “And what is it we have?” I asked softly.

“Our friendship,” he said. “As you’ve said many times.” He searched my face. “Yes?”

I hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes.”

He nodded, and after a moment, he opened his arms.
“Viens.”

I stepped into his embrace, and he wrapped his arms around me . . . only to clip the jack line to my belt, giving it a yank. I gave him a shove in return, then I reached back and unclipped my line. “I don’t get one this time, remember? I’ve got the helm.”

“Oh, aye, Captain,” he said, grinning. “Why do you think the rest of us are roped in?”

I stuck my tongue out at him. Tying in was standard for any difficult journey, where the rough seas in the Margins might climb over the deck to clutch at our feet. Of course, no one but the captain had ever Navigated the
Temptation
, so none of us really knew what we might face when I took the helm. Would the fog rise for me?

I took one more look at Kashmir, who would have to ride out whatever I steered us into. As soon as I attempted to Navigate, the ship—my home—and the crew—my family—became my responsibility, and fear wrapped cold claws
around my spine as I walked to the map room and shut the door behind me.

I’d known for years how to use a compass or read the stars. But now, as I stood alone in front of the drafting table where the two maps lay side by side—on my left, where we were; on my right, where we were going—I didn’t know up from down, much less east from west. My eyes slid from one map to the next: from the blue Pacific under the open sky, to the silver sea deep beneath a man-made mountain. Right off the edge of paradise and into the afterlife, as long as I didn’t steer us into some kind of purgatory.