My Diary from the Edge of the World
I couldn’t say a word. The question didn’t completely surprise me. I’d wondered it a few times myself, though I’ve never wanted to admit it on paper.
Someone like that, I thought. Mentally I cataloged what kind of someone Captain Bill is. Attentive. Brave. Cultured. Loves poetry. Wildly romantic. Then I thought about my dad, and how I couldn’t really say he’s any of those things.
“Mom would never leave Dad,” I said, but it sounded unconvincing. I wanted to say just the right thing to Millie that would make me sound wise and worth confiding in. I also wanted my words to be true.
“They laugh together a lot,” Millie said despondently, zipping up her makeup bag. “Mom and Dad never talk anymore, much less laugh together. Dad’s really hurt her. Those kinds of things matter.”
“Maybe, but . . .” I tried to protest, but found I didn’t have one good argument in Dad’s favor, and it gave me a sudden stomachache. Then I remembered one. “He tried to give his life for Sam’s,” I said hopefully.
Millie took this in silently. She stared down at her hands. “But he lost,” she said.
“Were you trying to trade your life for Sam’s, when you were talking to the Cloud the other night?” I asked.
She laid her makeup bag aside and brushed her hands together, looking at her fingers. “No. I promise you I wasn’t. I was just . . . trying to negotiate.” She didn’t meet my eyes. “It’s useless, apparently.”
She picked at the bedspread for a moment, and then looked up and smiled at me. (I can’t remember the last time Millie smiled at me like that! What is the world coming to?) “You’re done,” she said, scrutinizing her work. She handed me the small mirror, and I looked at my reflection.
Someone stared back at me, but I barely recognized her. She was older than I was, and prettyish. Not as pretty as Millie, but not as uglyish as the usual Gracie either.
* * *
Millie made a big deal of presenting me at the dinner table about an hour later, making me wait outside the galley until she announced me, which was embarrassing.
As I stepped inside, Mouse’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Mom’s eyes widened. Captain Bill laughed with pleasure, and Oliver blushed and looked at his feet under the table as if he were the one showing up to dinner in mascara. Even Dad was taken aback.
“Gracie Bee, you’re growing up under our noses,” he finally said.
“You look like a girl,” Mouse said.
I could feel my face going red. Millie smiled encouragement at me again, like this was all good feedback.
We ate our dinner by lantern light. (Macaroni and cheese—yes! And mashed potatoes! My dream meal.) The sky outside the windows was getting blacker by the minute and squeezing the stars out—pop pop pop. Soon I forgot what I looked like and started making a mashed potato sculpture for Sam, and Millie tried to stand a hardboiled egg on its bottom, while Mom and Dad got engrossed in a discussion with the captain about what mermaids eat. “Mostly sea cucumbers and large fish, like tuna and swordfish,” the captain said. “Sometimes people, but they don’t prefer it.” I watched his face for special wildly romantic attention to my mom, but I couldn’t tell if there was any. Though I’m not much of a romance expert. I noticed that Dad, also, looked especially attentive: He was watching the captain and Mom interact, and I could tell he didn’t like what he saw. Had he been noticing them all along? Or was I only just noticing him notice?
After dinner Millie piggybacked Sam away for a game of go fish, and Mom and Dad went on talking with the captain. Oliver and I found ourselves with nothing to do, so we left the galley and walked along the leeward deck, far away from everyone else.
“Do I look weird?” I asked suddenly. I wanted him to say something nice, because I did feel I deserved a compliment of some sort.
Oliver shook his head. “You look very pretty, Gracie. You know that, I think.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I guess I just wanted to hear it.”
Above, to the west, two dragons were flying toward each other—one from shore and one from over the sea—leaving trails of smoke scarring the dark sky. They met each other in the air and circled, parted, came together and circled again, their claws almost touching—like a dance. Up above in the topmast, Virgil was following their movements with his hands—like he was doing a hand ballet. It was kind of sweet and weird at the same time.
“Oliver,” I said slowly, “I’ve been wondering . . . has it helped?” I asked. “We’re far across the earth. Are your memories of your family fading?”
Oliver looked down at the ocean, frowned, and shook his head. “No. But . . .” His shoulders lifted and fell, like he was pushing at some weight and then accepting that it wouldn’t leave. “I’m not so sure I want to forget them anymore.”
I nodded. “I don’t think I’d want to forget either,” I said. I was thinking maybe the more Oliver tells me about the things he remembers about his mom and dad, the more I can help. I wonder, if a person cares about you enough, if they can help you carry all your difficult memories. I wanted to say that to Oliver, but the moment was so quiet and perfect that I decided to save it for another time. For now, it felt right to say nothing at all. I never really knew before this year that sometimes silence is best.
The whole world felt peaceful for the moment. The Cloud was nowhere in sight—maybe temporarily snagged on a piece of beach somewhere along the coast, or obscured by the fog. I wished I could freeze the moment, keep us all happy and together forever, never get to the Southern Edge, never find out whether we are wrong or right.
A few moments later the captain appeared at our side, followed by my parents. “You’ll all want to get a look at this,” he said, summoning us to the opposite railing.
Soon Millie was beside us, then Mouse. We strained to see what there was to see.
To the southeast, a shadow loomed up from the Chilean shore, getting bigger as we got closer, looking impossibly tall but also, somehow, fragile. It dwarfed the shore itself—rose and spread its limbs like enormous arms sheltering the ground beneath it. It was a tree (the biggest tree in the world, I know now), thick and wide. It seemed to call us closer, though the ship listed leeward and held steady.
“The World Tree,” Captain Bill said. “Legend goes that as long as it lives and thrives, all is right with the world.” I tried to gauge how “thriving” it looked, but I couldn’t really tell. The captain rubbed his beard, gazing at the shore. “This is where we turn seaward to try to get around the Horn. We’ll be at the Trading Post when you all wake tomorrow morning.”
We watched the World Tree slip by us, lonely and defiant. We watched until it was small in the distance, until the shore of Chile began to shrink away in the darkness. We kept our eyes on the land as long as we could, each understanding the reason why, without saying it.
And then we turned to face the open sea.
January 16th
I can barely keep my hand from shaking as I write this. We aren’t safe. Something is very, very wrong.
We’ve arrived at the Land’s End Trading Post. The coordinates are right, the captain is sure of it, but the whole area is completely empty. No ships anywhere on the horizon, not even seagulls, or fish jumping, or mermaids playing in the wake of the ship. Not a sound.
The captain, for the first time since I’ve known him, looks frightened—his eyes scanning the horizon intently and his jaw tense. Virgil said a while ago that he was going off a little ways to see what’s going on, and he hasn’t come back yet. I’m pretty sure he’s gotten spooked and flown away. Millie keeps saying she’s worried about him (my guess is he’s halfway up the coast of Chile right now) and she’s been asking me how I can sit here writing at a time like this. She’s on the bench kneeling beside me right now (we’re in the galley) with her face pressed against the window, watchful. I know she’s right, that I should be looking out the window with her, or at least just sitting and chewing my nails like a normal person. But writing is the only way I can get myself to feel
even a little bit calmer. I—
Wait, we think we see a ship. It’s coming fast toward us across the water, and there’s something odd about it, but I can’t tell what from this far away. We’re going above deck to check.
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER
We’re all (except the captain and the shipmates) now hiding in the galley together. I’m writing in case this is my last chance to write anything before we disappear. I’m taking deep breaths between sentences to make my hand steady.
Arriving above deck right after I last wrote and joining the others at the rail, I could see that the ship that was approaching appeared blacker than most—like a smudge on the horizon. As it got closer, it became clear that it was burned and blackened, that the mast listed to one side, and that its sails were torn to shreds.
The captain knew long before we did, of course, what was coming for us, and started shouting orders to the men. It was only then that I noticed the strange shimmer to the ship’s form—the way I could see through the filmy hull right into its wooden interior.
“Phantom ship,” Dad said, his voice tight, putting an arm around Sam protectively.
Captain Bill nodded, his eyes glued to the dark vessel, unblinking, his face grim. “Most likely a trading ship dragged under by the Great Kraken. Now it’s sailing again, only it’s not what it was.”
As the ship grew closer, we could see its inhabitants moving quickly around the deck—ghostly figures in shipmates’ clothing: slickers, cargo pants, some vests, one in an “I ♥ Hawaii” T-shirt, drifting hurriedly to lower the shredded sails while others hailed us from the bow.
“Just keep going past them,” Millie breathed, terrified. “Please don’t stop.”
Captain Bill glanced at her. “It’s too late for that. Now we just wait for them to board.”
Mom let out a small moan, and the captain looked over at her.
“It’s all right. We just have to give them what they want, and they’ll most likely let us pass.” He looked down at Sam, who was clinging to my dad’s leg, staring over the rails with huge eyes. “You might want to take the little one below.”
As Mom hurried Sam downstairs, the captain gave a signal and several of the deckhands rushed downstairs, returning with several crates, lids sealed tight.
“I keep these in the hold for just this possibility,” he explained. “Try not to worry. We have a good chance here. I’ve stockpiled these items especially for this kind of situation.”
The phantom ship pulled up beside us, and its crew—luminous, gaunt, glowing—busied themselves tying up to the Alexa. Oliver stepped closer to me, protectively, but it crossed my mind that, as the far more fiery and bloodthirsty one, I should protect him. I scanned the horizon for Virgil again, but of course, he was nowhere to be seen. This, I thought bitterly, would have been the ideal time for him to step in and really guard us.
The ghost crew numbered in the thirties or forties—some just glowing bones and gaping eye sockets, and some more human-looking. They floated over from their ship onto ours in a wave of dim light and gentle moans as my family and Oliver and I clustered together. They eyed us excitedly, their jaws curving at the hinges in chilling smiles.
One woman in khakis—maybe the only woman on the ghost ship—reached out to touch Millie’s long gray skirt, and the captain rapped his cane down on the decks between them, cutting her off.
The ghost frowned, her eyes turning deadly angry, but the captain put on his most charming expression. “Now let me direct you to some items that I think you’ll like even better,” he said. She, and many of the others, trailed behind him dubiously to the collection of crates on the forecastle. With a flourish, the deckhands opened them all at the same time. There was a collective gasp. The crates were full of shiny objects—silver bars, pewter, and brass bowls and cups. I remembered Grandma, with her box of shiny objects for the ghosts in her yard.
There was a flurry of excitement and grim smiles and a rubbing together of filmy hands, and all phantom eyes turned to the one who seemed to be their captain—a tall man in a rain slicker, with piercing hazel eyes that flickered as he gazed around the decks, and a dark slash down his bluish nose. He nodded, and his crew began to transfer the crates to their own ship. It was all so simple and quick, we were dumbfounded.
When all was loaded, the ghost captain stared around at us for a moment more, sniffing, as if trying to smell out whether there was anything else on board that he particularly wanted. And then he nodded to Captain Bill, who nodded back. He drifted backward, keeping his eyes on us as he floated over the rail and onto his own ship.
* * *
Watching them drift away a few minutes later, we could see the phantom crew squabbling over the contents of the crates. Their ship got smaller and smaller in the distance, and it wasn’t until I looked back at Captain Bill that I saw he’d been sweating, and that his fingers were trembling as much as mine were.
Maybe he knew, at that moment, what I hadn’t even guessed. That we’d only just had a taste of what was coming.
* * *
I’ll start again at about ten minutes ago.
I was down in my berth trying to quiet my nerves with a game of solitaire, when Oliver appeared in my doorway, looking shaken.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“We have a problem,” he said, swallowing.
“Another ship?”
He seemed not to know how to answer. “A bigger problem,” he finally said. He stood back and nodded for me to head up the stairs. Sensing his urgency, I climbed them two by two.
Millie and Dad were already on deck, looking over the railings. I walked up beside them.
At first, I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. It was too much to be believed.
Not one, but hundreds of shadows were moving toward us the same way the ghost ship had, as if gliding on air.
“It’s a fleet,” Dad said, his voice empty of hope. I could see on Millie’s face too, only despair. Mom and Sam had come up behind us and were just taking it in.
There had to be hundreds of ships—some burned and charred, some missing their sides, some barely holding together. They were still far enough away that their crews looked tiny and indistinct, but there was no doubt they’d spotted the Alexa and were shifting sail toward us. I could hear the sound of their moans even from here.
“The Kraken has drowned them all,” Captain Bill said from his post at the ship’s wheel a few feet away, his eyes hard and flinty, his lips colorless. “Every last ship that’s come here. This isn’t a trading post anymore, it’s a graveyard.”
“What do we do?” Mom asked frantically. We were fast approaching the edge of the enormous fleet. Soon we’d be in the thick of it.
“We can’t fight them,” Captain Bill said. “We have nothing to offer them.” He rubbed his hands against the railing in front of him in agitation, thinking. After about thirty seconds, he finally spoke again. “The only thing we can do is hide below. Hope they think the ship’s deserted—that maybe the Kraken’s taken us already.”
“I suggest . . .” Dad glanced up toward the sky and around, opening his mouth to speak, stopping, and then going on, “When I picked Virgil, he said he was an excellent . . .”
“We’d better all get belowdecks before we’re spotted,” Captain Bill said, impatient.
“Well, I don’t know much about ships, but I think . . . ,” Dad ventured apologetically. We all turned to go without hearing what he went on to say.
* * *
So here we are. Hiding isn’t a good plan, but it’s the only plan we have. I can hear the crew banging around above—tossing barrels and nets all over the top decks so that it’ll look like maybe we were attacked and that the Alexa is deserted. They’ll come below too, in a minute.
I’ve been glancing out the window from time to time, but otherwise we’re all sitting here like statues, Sam on Mom’s lap, Dad with his arm around Millie, Oliver and me side by side.
Oh! I just heard the crew c
oming down the stairs! They’ve retreated to the galleries behind us, and I can feel the ship turning with the tide because it’s no longer being steered.
I guess I’ll stop now. I can’t steady my hand enough to keep going.
SAME DAY, 3:15 P.M. ACCORDING TO CAPTAIN BILL’S WATCH
I can hardly believe I’m alive to write this down. I just kissed this page because the last time I closed this diary, I thought I might never open it again. Millie and Oliver and Sam are dancing around in circles, and the strangest thing of all is that we owe our lives to . . . Virgil!!!
I must be getting very disciplined, because I’m not even tempted to jump ahead. I’m going to write down exactly how it happened and not leave out one detail.
After I put down my diary last, we all just sat in the galley, waiting and watching out the windows. For a few minutes nothing but ocean floated past us. None of us even whispered to each other. The entire Alexa had gone silent; the only sounds were the creaks and groans of her floorboards and walls.
When the bow of the first ship drifted into view, I felt like my heart might break out of my ribs and make an escape without me. And then came another ship, and another, their hulls gliding past us and blocking out views of anything else. Most of them were old like the Alexa, but some of them were newer steam ships and ocean liners. We were drifting right into the middle of them, surrounded on all sides. Still, none of them moved closer to tie up against us or try to attack us. I had to keep reminding myself to breathe.
“This could work,” Dad whispered. We slid our way along, or rather the phantom fleet slid along around us, parting to make room for us but otherwise keeping a steady course. This went on for what seemed like forever.