The Girl from Everywhere (33 page)

“Kashmir . . .” I fumbled for the words. What could I say to him, this boy who knew me so well? The truth, of course; he knew already. “It’s compelling. I can feel it now, the pull my father feels toward a place and time. This is where I would have grown up. This is the life I would have had. The friends and . . . the family.” I took up a handful of sand and let it pour through my fingers. “And maybe—maybe if I’d never known another life, it’s a life I could’ve loved. But that’s not what happened. I won’t be staying. The
Temptation
is my home.” I reached over and took his hand. We were quiet for a while. The sun was gone, and only a slender belt of gold along the horizon remained. “At least, for now.”

He squeezed my fingers. “Until when?”

I put my other hand to my throat. “Do you remember that night in New York? When you gave me my necklace? Remember we talked about jumping ship?”

“I do.”

“Now that I can Navigate . . . if I did leave the ship—I’m not saying I will. But if I did. Would you come with me?”

His answer was immediate. “You know I would.”

I let my breath out; I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it.
Then I grinned at him. “We could get our own boat.”

“I’ve never stolen a boat before.”

“You’ve stolen enough we could buy a boat,” I said, thinking of the pile of jewelry he’d given me over the years. All the treasure I hadn’t cared for at the time. I might not even need the map of Carthage.

“Who would be captain?” he said.

“Uh, I would.”

“Oh, no, no no. Guess again.”

“You can’t mutiny, we don’t have a ship yet.”

“I’m planning ahead.”

I grinned at him, suddenly feeling free—expansive—like full sails and an open horizon. “If you could go anywhere, where would you want to go?”

“Could we find a map of someplace perfect?”

“Like paradise?” I asked, teasing.

“Here? No.” He stared upward, the first stars shining in his eyes. “A better place. Someplace where nothing goes wrong. There must be a myth like that somewhere.”

I bit my lip; my shoulders fell. “Navigation involves the beliefs of the Navigator and the mapmaker. And I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who truly believes in a world without suffering.”

“Ah.”

I dragged my fingers through the soft sand. “You know, Slate was right. This place is dying. If I’d grown up here, I would be seeing it firsthand, like Blake is.”

“And you wouldn’t have met me, which is the main thing, of course!”

I laughed. “Of course.” I let go of his hand, and then, a moment later, I wished I hadn’t. “I will admit though. It was fun.”

He sat up, cross-legged, facing me. “Being in Hawaii?”

“Flirting with a stranger.” I ducked my chin, suddenly shy. “I can see why you like it.”

“You should have taken my word for it, and not wasted your time testing the theory.”

“It wasn’t a waste of time,” I said.

His mouth opened a little, closed again, and the muscles of his throat worked. But all he said was “Oh?”

“Don’t judge me,” I said, exasperated. “You and Bee and Slate and Rotgut, you all had lives, you all have stories and memories. You’re worldly and experienced.” I wrapped my hands around my knees and watched the rising moon lay a path of silver on the sea. “I’ve never had anything or anyone outside the ship.”

He reached into the bag for another orange, turning it
over and over in his hands. “Why does it have to be someone outside the ship?”

I tensed, cautious—suddenly sensing the reefs only inches below the surface, but I couldn’t go back. I had to keep my eye on the horizon ahead. “Knowing something has an ending . . . makes it easier to begin,” I said carefully. “I never want to be stuck missing something I didn’t expect to lose.”

“
Baleh
, I understand.”

“You do?” I checked to see if he was making fun, but his face was earnest.

“Of course.” Kashmir started to peel the orange; the smell of citrus perfumed the air. “When I was young, I learned to expect loss. Every time you slept, something disappeared. Whenever you woke up, someone else was gone. But . . . I also learned that every day, you created everything anew. And whatever you had, you enjoyed as long as it lasted. Spend money when it’s in your pocket.” He took my hand and put the orange in it. “Eat fruit while it’s ripe.” His other hand found my cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “Paradise is a promise no god bothers to keep. There’s only now, and tomorrow nothing will be the same, whether we like it
or not.”

I bit my lip and tasted oranges; the juice was very sweet. “Is that really true?”

His smile was bright in the moonlight. “I promise.”

“Then I suppose . . . just tonight—”

This time I did not turn away, and so I discovered that his lips were even sweeter than the orange.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I
woke naturally before dawn and went to stand watch at the water’s edge. The sky lightened from the color of stone to the soft purple of lavender blossoms, then to the rich blue and orange of a gas flame, all reflected in the mirror of the morning sea. As the sun began to glow gold, Kashmir came to stand beside me, very close but not touching, giving me space. Flecks of foam washed our feet. Words came to mind and then melted away like spun sugar on my tongue. Last night, there had been so much to say, but tomorrow had become today, and everything was different.

I turned from the sea and kicked sand over the coals of our little fire. Kashmir washed his hands and face in the Pacific. In silence, we gathered our things. Finally I spoke. “Breakfast?”

“Absolutely.”

We found a saloon that was serving eggs and hash to patrons who looked like they’d had a liquid supper. After we’d had our fill, we hired horses and bought shovels and torches from the general store downtown. Then I led Kashmir up into the mountains.

We took Nu’uanu Road, past the little stream, by the boxy white house, onto the track in the woods, through the empty clearing where we tied our horses, and up to the waterfall Blake had shown me.

“He told me there were caves above the falls,” I said.

Kashmir put his hands on his hips and assessed the craggy mountainside, a wall of orchids and bromeliads and wet, mossy stone. “Did he tell you how to get up there?”

“There’s an old trail somewhere,” I said, walking along the edge of the greenery. “But it may be hard to find. The Hawaiians used to keep the bones of their kings in caves along the ridge, and the locations were very secret because the bones had great power. Ah.” I pushed aside a tangle of ferns to reveal a slippery trail, little more than a path for runoff. “Let’s try this.”

We explored the mountainside, ducking into caves and crevices, finding the occasional petroglyph but, thankfully,
no graves. We settled on a narrow cleft near the stream with a loamy floor where we dug a deep trench, working side by side in companionable silence. It only took an hour, but better now than the night of the theft.

When we finished, we left the supplies there and climbed gingerly, slowly down out of the mountains. I made sure to map the location in my head, the twists and turns of the narrow track that led us back to the ghost village where our horses grazed in the slanting afternoon sun.

We arrived at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel covered with mud to the knees and endured the tight-lipped disapproval of the concierge, but Kashmir put on a show and pulled out a heavy handful of coins, and suddenly rooms became available. We lingered in the lobby that night, being seen, and the next morning there was a message waiting for us at the front desk.

Dinner at the Palace, December 1. Will you be able to attend? —D

“December first?” I glanced at the newspaper on the counter. “So, ten days from now. That should be . . . just after full moon. A Monday night?”

Kashmir laughed. “Why are you asking me?”

“No, I know, it is,” I said, remembering an article I’d
read. I made a face. “It’s the Monday after the Independence Day celebration.”

Kash raised his eyebrow. “Tacky. Very tacky.”

“Hmm. It should also be . . .” I plucked a newspaper from the desk and flipped through it to the schedule of the mail ships. “Ah,” I said, finding the spot. “Tacky but clever.”

“The most annoying combination,” Kashmir said, reading over my shoulder. The
Alameda
was scheduled to leave Honolulu on the morning of December first. We could slip right into her empty berth.

He sent back a message before we left Honolulu:

Arrival at 10 p.m. Send H to meet us at the dock.

I left a message as well—the note I’d written to Blake—giving strict instructions that it be delivered on December second.

We retraced our steps to the ship, and although it was out of character for him not to needle me mercilessly at every opportunity, Kash never said a word about the last conversation we’d had on this journey. I was quietly grateful, although it was only a promise kept.

Back aboard the
Temptation
, snags had developed in our absence. They’d had time to repair the crow’s nest and the mast, and Rotgut was healing well, but once I’d left, the clay
soldiers had stood motionless on the deck of the
54
, their eyes dimming like banked embers. Not even Rotgut could make them budge, no matter how he shouted in his native Chinese. But he told me he’d known I was returning when scarlet fire had flared again in the general’s eyes.

The general tracked my movements as I came to stand before him, and when I spoke, he seemed to listen. I explained the army’s part in the theft—it mostly involved silent and stoic marching, which they were good at—and he put his fist to his chest and bowed, although he never said a word. The emperor had not given his warriors tongues.

Rotgut watched me with wonder in his eyes. “How did you do that?”

I licked my lips. “I don’t know,” I said, which was technically true, although I had a guess.

“It must be because you woke them,” he said, after a moment’s thought.

“Must be.” And I left it at that.

We gave each soldier a torch to carry, the old-fashioned kind, made with branches hewn from the trees above the bay, their ends wrapped in oil-soaked sailcloth. The warriors performed admirably; their brooding silence and red eyes were frightening enough by day, and I imagined how
terrifying they would appear by firelight, especially to the locals. And the locals were the only ones we had to worry about. The Honolulu Rifles sided against the monarchy.

When I had explained the plan to Slate before we sailed to Qin’s tomb, he’d looked doubtful. “Very impressive and everything, but how will we actually carry the gold?”

His expression had changed when I’d handed him the bottomless bag. “I couldn’t do any of this without you, Nixie.”

I shrugged. After all, it was because of me that he still had to.

So it was on December first we stood on the deck of the
54
and watched the
Alameda
leave for San Francisco. Once it was a misty speck on the horizon, we pointed our prow toward Honolulu Harbor. The wind filled the red sails of the junk and snapped the black flag flying above our heads: it was really one of the curtains from the alcove where Slate slept, but after all, we were only pretending to be pirates.

We had gone over the plan dozens of times, and we did so again as we approached the harbor. Our faces hidden by bandannas, and Slate sporting the reddish-blond beard he’d been letting grow, we would hail poor Colonel Iaukea and take the harbormaster prisoner when he came aboard. We
would tie up at the pier and presumably meet Mr. Hart on the dock—that is, if he decided to show up. Part of me wondered if he would turn on Mr. D instead, or even turn him in—but no. Self-preservation would win out over revenge.

That late on a Monday night, the streets would be quiet. Once ashore, Slate and Kashmir would lead the column of warriors to the treasury at Ali’iolani Hale. I had taught the general the simple one, two, one-and-two rhythm on the ceremonial
ipu
drum, and the army would be carrying their lighted torches, doing their best imitation of the Night Marchers. Kashmir would even be blowing a conch shell as best he could; so far he’d managed less of a haunting call from beyond the grave than the squashed
blat
of a disappointed goat, but hopefully it would be enough to cause the members of the Royal Hawaiian Guard to throw themselves on the ground and cover their eyes, where they would be easily tied.

None of us wanted bloodshed—as Sun Tsu had said, the supreme art of war was to subdue the enemy without fighting. But if the ruse didn’t work, the warriors still had their swords. I had impressed upon the general not to harm a living person, except to protect Slate or Kashmir.

Once at the treasury, Kashmir would open the vault, and
the gold would be loaded into the bottomless bag. As soon as the vault was cleared out, Mr. Hart would hand over the map and leave, able to confirm to the others that the job was done, and Slate and Kash would bring the bag to Nu’uanu to bury the money. When the treasure was hidden, they would return to the
54
and sail to Hana’uma Bay to meet the
Temptation
and leave this place behind for good.