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 s
he 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.
December 15th
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.
It seems we’re always packing and always leaving. And now everything’s been carried on board. Eight men—each of whom is more muscular and smelly than the last—are lashing barrels and trunks to the back decks of our ship, which is called the Weeping Alexa. A skiff, which Oliver just explained is a smaller kind of boat, is attached to one side of the ship, just above the water line. Mom is vigorously discussing something with the captain, who seems to be doing several things at once: directing the men with strong thrusts of his arm in this or that direction, tying and untying things, and thoughtfully shoving obstructions out of my mom’s way with his foot as they move down the decks.
The smell of fish is so strong I’ve had to cover my nose with one sleeve. The port is bustling with ships—fishing vessels, steamers, and freighters on their way north to Canada or south to Central America. There are also cruise ships—emblazoned with names like West Coast Wilderness Adventures or Far Flung Global Expeditions—coming down from the northern frontier city of Vancouver, making a day stop to show people “Old LA.”
Prospero said he couldn’t bear to come see us off on our “hopeless misadventure,” so there’s no one here at the port to wave good-bye to us when we pull away, but of course Millie is waving anyway from behind the railing to California at large. She probably imagines she’s waving to invisible admirers. Virgil is circling above with the seagulls, and Oliver and Sam are sitting a few feet away from me, making bets on how long they can go without bathing. The Cloud is hovering just a little bit farther down the shore, like a loyal dog on a leash, waiting for its master to get moving.
I think I’m the only one who feels seasick already, and the captain laughs every time he passes me, because apparently my face looks green. “Hang in there, Gracie, we haven’t even left yet,” he said a few minutes ago, clapping me on the back. “Wait till our first storm.” Then he offered me some ginger root to suck on.
I’ve got that terrible leaving feeling, and it makes me sad that I forgot to pay attention to my last step on the solid earth before boarding the boat. It may have been my last footstep in my country ever. When I got on, I was stupidly thinking about how much I could go for some Twizzlers.
A FEW MINUTES LATER
Well, I’m already in trouble and we’ve only just let the final line loose from the wharf. Right after I wrote those last words as the shipmates were starting to pull up anchor and unleash us from land, I ran down the gangway, leaped onto the docks, ran to the end, and touched the ground, said “Good-bye, America,” and ran back. The captain shook his head in exasperation, and my mom went red with anger, but it was worth it. I’m back, but I keep putting down my pen to try to rub the lump out of my throat.
Now everyone is waving to no one on the shore, even Mom and Dad, so I’d better go because I want to wave too.
We’re leaving our continent behind.
Diary Number
Two
December 25th
(Christmas Day)
I’ll bet right now winter is tiptoeing through the hills around Cliffden, and Arin Roland’s fireplace is lit and crackling orange and bright.
I remember that the year Sam was born, on Christmas morning Mom packed him on her back in a baby carrier, and we all hiked out to see the frozen reservoir and picked icicles off a big rock. Sam giggled for the first time when I touched my icicle just for a moment to his tiny hand. It’s one of the few times I can recall Dad spending the whole day playing with us instead of focusing on the thin clouds over the reservoir or lecturing us about the scientific properties of snowflakes. It’s funny, I can’t really remember the winters at home before Sam came. I imagine they were similar, but with the feeling of something missing.
This morning, since we don’t have a Christmas tree, we gathered around a potted plant Captain Bill has on the dining table of the galley, and Mom and Dad (who are speaking to each other, but only barely, because Mom will barely even look at him) presented us each with one gift: for Millie, a bottle of perfume. (Mom says she splurged on it in Luck City, remembering that her own mom gave her perfume for Christmas the year she was sixteen.) For me, a set of nice pens—which Mom said she found at Prospero’s and took with his blessing. For Sam, a new teddy bear that she sewed together out of socks and buttons. And for Oliver, a signed copy of The Atlas of the Cosmos. The inside cover was inscribed in Mom’s handwriting, To our honorary sixth family member. Thank you for hopping into our Winnebago. We love you. (I couldn’t tell whether Oliver was pleased or just uncomfortable.)
“I know we can never take the place of your real family,” Mom said uncertainly, “but we want you to know how much we care about you.”
Oliver nodded shyly, and even though I felt sad for him, I also fought back a stab of envy. It’s partly that there’s never enough of my mom to go around, even for me. And it’s partly that, when he first stumbled onto the Trinidad, Oliver was my friend and my discovery, but these days he and my family belong to each other, too. I
’m trying to learn how to be gracious about these sorts of things, but it’s not always easy.
Now I’m sitting wrapped in a thin flannel blanket on the quarterdeck, with this diary leaned against my knees. You’d think I would have had endless amounts of time to write since we left port, but it’s hard to explain—the sea is mesmerizing, and hours go by without me even noticing. The ship is so aflutter with activity that sometimes I forget to worry about the huge crossing we’ve embarked on, I’m so wrapped up in the sights and sounds around me. I’ve decided to believe that we’re going to get where we’re headed, and that it’s all going to turn out exactly as Dad has hoped. I think it’s the only option I want to imagine.
The crew keeps busy. There are eight of them, but I’ve only really talked to two: There’s Troy, a balding guy from New Jersey, who says he used to work at a dart-and-balloon booth at the Jersey shore until the mermaids tore the boardwalk down. He wants to get back home just about as badly as I do, and every time I see him, he pumps a fist in the air and says, “Jersey forever.” It’s become our shared anthem for missing home, and even though I’m from Maine, I say it back to him. There’s also a white-haired guy named Ronald who’s lived in LA his whole life and has plenty of stories about giants. There are also a couple of young Canadians who apparently joined up when the ship last docked in Nova Scotia. At night just the captain and our family gather in the galley for dinner. The room is lit by glass lanterns with drippy white candles in them. The crew eats in a “mess,” which I haven’t seen.
Apparently it takes a lot of work just to keep the Alexa moving in a straight line, and the men are usually too busy to talk. Captain Bill seems to spend a lot of time paying attention to the winds and the stars, his face pressed to the breeze day and night, breathing in the air and always looking around him as if he’s in perfect harmony with the ocean.
The breeze is fresh and cool today, and the water is such a deep blue, it’s almost black. The farther south we get, the more alone we are. At first we passed other ships several times a day—on their way up to Canada with supplies, or slowly making their way south along the west coast of Mexico, full of passengers escaping the winter weather. Three or four days ago we saw two angels carrying a banner through the sky above the shore, and at first Millie and I thought it must be some sort of important announcement, but when we got closer we realized all it said was JOE’S VOTED #1 MARGARITAS ON THE COAST. I’m guessing that Joe’s may have the only margaritas on the coast, as Mexico has an infamous sea snake problem that keeps the beaches empty.