September/October 2005

“Your mother? Gone?” Lydia’s father asked. Lydia twisted her fingers around the edge of her battered suitcase and nodded. She didn’t open her mouth for fear she would say something she would regret. “Fever, Mr. Wainscot. She had it for months,” Sister Engels murmured, standing behind the eleven-year-old. “Months? Why wasn’t I informed?” Sister Engels put a wrinkled hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “Forgive me, sir, you were away for, how long, dear?” “Seven years,” Lydia whispered, looking down. Her shoes, polished the night before to be ready for this dull occasion, were now tarnished from her long walk to the church’s gate. The borrowed shirt and skirt she wore felt itchy and uncomfortable in the day’s heat. “Understandably, we would love to keep her here, but we are a church, not a convent,” Sister Engels continued. Lydia’s father put a hand to his forehead, tanned from days in the sun, and addressed the nun with a hint of politeness. “Could you yourself take her in?” Lydia could tell what her father was trying to avoid doing, and she smoldered inside. “No, sir.” Sister Engels’s grip on Lydia’s shoulder tightened slightly. “She could go with you on your ship, wherever it is you go. I’m afraid there are no other options.” Lydia’s tall father picked up Lydia’s suitcase and put it over his shoulder. He tried hard to disguise the look of distaste upon his face. Lydia could tell what her father was trying to avoid doing, and she smoldered inside “Lydia, follow me.” He was so tall that Lydia had to take several extra steps to match his long strides. When he paused to open the gate, he seemed to sway from side to side, as if blown each direction by the breeze. Lydia hunched her shoulders and kept it to herself. No words were uttered as they walked down the steep hill that the church was perched upon, to where a ship was docked. There, her father indicated the ship with a wave of his hand and spoke in a clipped voice that Lydia supposed was his usual tone. “This is the Poseidon. Walk anywhere you wish, but keep out of the way of Mr. Briggs and myself.” “Mr. Briggs?” Lydia ventured. “My first mate. I am the captain of the Poseidon. Thankfully, we only need two men,” he put emphasis on the last word before continuing, “to steer the ship.” “It’s . . . ” Lydia took in the entire ship in mere seconds. It had two masts, but was barely twenty feet across. It was painted a bright turquoise with white trim. Lydia finished her sentence. “It’s . . . it’s rather small, isn’t it?” “No,” Lydia’s father said curtly “You may bunk in the extra cot on the floor of the cabin below. Get aboard quickly I don’t want to miss the tide.” Miss the tide? You could miss the tide in so few minutes? Lydia thought to herself, but she walked up the thin board that served as a gangplank for the ship without arguing. *          *          * In the cabin, Lydia found a cot underneath a table made of smooth wood. On the table there were rolls of paper, and boxes of charcoal, stubs of pencils, and a set of moldy-looking watercolors alongside a frayed horsehair brush. In the corner of the room there was a stove with a bag of coal beside it. There were two hammocks strung on opposite sides of the room. Studying them, it was easy to tell which one of the hammocks belonged to Lydia’s father. Her father’s smelled like salt and seaweed—something Lydia would come to recognize as the smell of the sea itself. Her father’s hammock had a lumpy and stained pillow at the top, and underneath that, a heavy wool blanket that Lydia’s mother had given him before he left seven years ago. Lydia turned to the other hammock, the one she knew belonged to the barely-mentioned Mr. Briggs. Although she had not yet met the man, she could tell what kind of habits he carried. His pillow had been fluffed, his blanket had been carefully and meticulously folded. A pair of pants and a shirt were folded beside that, and underneath Lydia saw a book’s spine peeking out. However, there was nothing on Lydia’s new bunk that showed any signs of caring. Why should it? No one had expected her, after all. Lydia set her suitcase down, and sat dejectedly on the cot, the events of the past months threatening to overwhelm her. No sooner had she sat down than the whole world seemed to tip to one side, sending all loose objects in the room sliding. Lydia herself gave a shriek as she was tossed out of her cot and into the adjacent wall. The ship tilted back, sending a few objects rolling. At last, Lydia stood and stooped to pick up the supplies that had fallen. The first thing her fingers met was the book she had seen on the first mate’s hammock. The book flipped open unexpectedly, and a key slipped out onto the floor. Lydia put the key back in the book and walked across the room, placing it where it had been on the hammock. The door swung open and Lydia stumbled back. There in the doorway stood Lydia’s father and Mr. Briggs, who was exactly as Lydia had imagined him: short, clean-shaven, tan, and very neat. “Did you do all this?” her father boomed, taking in the chaos before him in the messy cabin. “No! No, I was sitting down and there was a shuddering . . . ” Lydia paused, watching Mr. Briggs. He had strode to his hammock and felt inside the book for the key. Strange, she thought. Very strange. “You were saying?” “And . . . and everything fell,” she finished lamely. “Then you wouldn’t mind helping Mr. Briggs pick everything up while I make dinner.” Her father turned to one of the cabinets