Part 10 (1/2)

Then there's a guy with the body of a man and the head of a gray and blue fish. A tiny light hovers over his face, and I realize it's part of him-like a s.h.i.+ny flashlight dangling out of his forehead. He wears a traveling salesman kind of suit, and the slits on his nose wiggle against the salty wind. When his s.h.i.+ny black eyes catch me staring, I'm afraid he'll flip me off, or worse. Instead he bows.

Here we go again with the bowing.

A boy runs past me; a woman with curling brown hair chases after him. She picks him up, and he struggles against her until she reprimands him in his ear. He looks like he's wearing a turtle backpack, but as we pa.s.s them I can see the hard sh.e.l.l is part of him. She picks a spot with an excellent view of the sh.o.r.e. Then I notice her arms. They have no bone in them. Where there should be fingers are tiny suction cups that s.h.i.+ft back and forth from fingers to tentacles.

And then there's a guy. Just an average guy, a little older than me with dark jeans, black leather boots with archaic crosses on the s.h.i.+ns, a long-sleeved black T-s.h.i.+rt, and disheveled brown hair. He wears a baseball cap to the side and chews on a coffee straw. He's leaning against the side of the boat, watching and holding a small cardboard box with MTA stickers on it. He winks at me as we walk past, which is weird, but finally someone who doesn't bow.

”Let's go meet the captain,” Thalia says. In her ballerina skirt, she looks more like a regular girl than a sea creature. She leads us to the mast of the s.h.i.+p. Out here is just the horizon. Kurt knocks on the mast. There's a series of squeaks, like rope and metal being pulled. A deep voice comes out of the darkness and says, ”Kurtomathetis, I was wondering when you would make it.”

Thalia puts her hands on her hips and looks up at him. ”But we're ahead of schedule!”

I follow their stare up and over the front of the s.h.i.+p. Where there would be some carving, like a dragon on the Viking s.h.i.+ps they had at the Met, is a merman. From the waist up he has the V shape of a football player. His hair seems to be alive in full black curls. His shoulders have splotches of golden freckles where the sun hits the most. He bows his head with a kind smile.

Arion grabs the conch strung over his chest and blows it. The sails expand, and even though there is no strong wind just now, we start moving. The s.h.i.+p is alive with excited whispers. I hold on to the front of the s.h.i.+p, my legs feeling wobbly as we start moving. I'm really doing this. Oh, G.o.d, I'm really doing this.

”Lord Sea-” the captain says to me.

”You don't have to call me that,” I shout over the small wave that crashes against us.

Arion looks taken aback. His dark eyebrows knit together, and his black eyes look over his shoulder at me. ”What shall I call you?”

”Tristan is fine.”

”Tristan.” He tastes my name on his tongue, p.r.o.nouncing it a few times before he's confident about addressing me so informally. ”Son of?”

”David Hart?”

”Tristan Hart, son of David Hart. Welcome aboard.”

I'm too stunned. ”What are you?”

”A merman like yourself.”

”But you're, like, attached to the s.h.i.+p.”

We make a sudden turn to the left. ”Whoa,” he says. He raises his hand and makes a pulling motion. A sail drops. He uses his left hand to slap at the air, like he's trying to parallel park. Behind me the s.h.i.+p's steering wheel mimics his hand movement.

”How are you part of this s.h.i.+p?” I ask.

”I have carried my father's debt to the king,” he says. No big deal.

”What do you mean? What did he do?”

”I was a boy. It is so long ago I cannot remember. My father had the choice of being executed or indentured to the king. He was to serve millennia guiding the s.h.i.+p between Toliss and whatever coasts the Sea Court happens to visit. But my father grew old, and his sentence was carried over to me.”

”That doesn't seem fair.”

”That is the way it is, Tristan Hart.”

Arion's baritone laugh sounds like the conch strapped to his chest. He touches the tip of his bushy black beard. He finds something in it, a tiny crab, and pops it into his mouth like a grape.

”Guess you never go hungry,” I go. ”But how do you sleep?”

”The sails, they're quite soft.”

”Way to look on the bright side.” I wonder what other kinds of punishments my grandfather has given out, and if I were king, whether I could ever do the same.

There's another bang, and this time the rain breaks. It isn't cold, thunderstorm rain. It's soft, like pa.s.sing through a warm curtain. ”We've crossed the wall!” Arion calls out.

”Should we go below deck?” I instantly regret asking.

”We are of the sea, Tristan. No one objects to getting a little wet.”

Thalia's laughter is contagious. Here the clouds break up. This is the first stretch of sky I've seen in weeks. Around me, the other pa.s.sengers lift their noses to the sky or reach their hands over the side of the s.h.i.+p, where water will splash and lick their fingertips. Or tentacles, whatever the case may be. The only one I don't see in the crowd is the human guy with the cardboard box. Surely he did oppose getting a bit wet.

”Hang on tight, Lord Tristan!”

My stomach plummets with that tickling roller-coaster feel. I even let myself scream. A small wave pushes us past the wall.

”There's that,” Kurt says.

And yeah, there is that. Behind us, the wall of warm rain stands still. It marks the last of the ugly rain clouds that have latched on to the sky for the past few days. I can see the horizon ahead, and it is grand. The sun has begun to rise on this side of the wall. It's been so long since I've seen the sky. I'm about to tell Thalia as much, but then- That's when I hear her.

No. No, no, no, no.

”Let me go! Get your slimy hands off me.”

No.

The sound of feet hitting wood.

People shoving.

The pulling and pulling of limbs.

”Intruder!” someone yells.

”Get off me!”

It's coming from the main deck. The crowd gathered there reminds me of when fights break out in school. Everyone gathers around in a circle watching the brawl. Layla is being dragged across the deck by two guys who are stronger than they look. Their bodies are wire thin, with mostly human faces, and the scalps of sea urchins. They hold her wrists and ankles and sling her onto the center of the deck.

I've never seen Layla's eyes this wide. One by one she stares at the faces on the s.h.i.+p until she finds me in the crowd. Tiny gasps of air leave her lips, like she's trying to breathe and hiccup at the same time.

A second set of footsteps rushes up to the deck. The guy and his cardboard box.

”Arion,” one of the urchin guys says. ”She is an intruder.”

The black ropes that bind Arion to the front of the s.h.i.+p stretch, pus.h.i.+ng him up so he can turn around and look down at the scene. He glances back at the island. The speck of land is getting bigger by the second. ”State your name and how you managed to get on board.”

”Layla,” I blurt out. ”Her name is Layla. She's my friend.”