Aching for Always (2 page)

“My poor, dear Monk,” a soft voice cried. “Let me see you. You're hurt.”

Mrs. Brand took his hands and turned his palms up to look. The unexpected touch made him think of his mother. He believed, though he could not rightly remember, that her hair had had the same moonbeam sparks
to it and her eyes the same wide, knowing gaze. How a woman like Mrs. Brand could be married to such a man as Mr. Brand, Monk did not know, though Yannick, the carpenter's mate, had said, “Gold buys more than an unemployed sea captain,” when Monk had asked.

“How old are you, Monk?”

“Ten, m'um.”

She shook her head. “Has the captain seen your hands?”

“I shouldn't like to bother him with such things.”

“Aye, he does seem to be quite busy as of late.” She cast a gentle look in the direction of the captain's quarters. “Nonetheless,” she said firmly, “you are in his care.” She took Monk by the shoulder, guided him toward the door and knocked.

“What is it?”

“Mrs. Brand, sir, with Monk.”

Instead of a terse “Enter,” or an angrier “Not now,” Monk heard the remarkable sound of a chair being pushed back and the approach of footsteps. He barely had time to wipe the surprise from his face before the door opened.

“Mrs. Brand, good evening.”

“Are you aware, sir, that your charge has been worked until he bleeds?”

Monk shut his eyes instantly, waiting for the explosion.

“I-I am generally not told of such things.”

Monk slitted a lid. Spots of color had appeared on Granite's cheeks, and he stood as meek as a mouse.

“I know you have much on your mind in the running of this vessel, sir, but the boys are in your care, this one
most specifically. I believe the matter warrants your attention. How many hours have you been working, Monk?”

Monk, who had been working six and had many times worked more than twelve, said, “Four, m'um. A standard watch.” There was a brotherhood amongst sailors, after all.

Granite cleared his throat. “He may clean up in my washroom.”

Monk rounded the corner into the captain's tiny privy at a clip, pausing only to see if the sailors in the passageway were witness to this unimaginable privilege. He dumped the pitcher's cold contents into the basin.

“It has grown into a beautiful evening,” Mrs. Brand said, her voice carrying on the thin night air.

“Indeed. How is your little one? I hope the storm did not bother her.”

“My daughter can sleep through anything.”

This was decidedly untrue, thought Monk, whose hammock hung outside the cabin Mrs. Brand shared with her husband and one-year-old daughter. Many a night, he had heard the angel-faced girl singing nonsense words to herself in her crib while her parents talked in tense undertones on the deck above. He thrust his hands into the water and shook them.

“I am sorry for my husband's driving insistence. I fear he has no more understanding of the intricacies of running a ship than I.”

“Please do not trouble yourself on that account, milady. My only wish is to see the ascent of the islet accomplished quickly and safely so that I may return you—that is to say, you and your family—to England.”

“I thank you for that.”

There had been an odd tone to her words, and Monk, who was now rolling the small ball of soap against his palm, paused to be sure he could hear what followed.

“I should do anything, I think,” Granite said softly, “to ease your burden.”

This was hardly the first time Monk has seen the two speak. Mrs. Brand appeared regularly on the quarterdeck when her husband and his companions took over the officers' mess, whispering over their map. But it was the first time Monk had noticed this curious import. It was as if each sentence had a meaning apart from the words being spoken. As always, he found it unsettling adults had the ability to appear to speak plainly without actually doing so.

“Is there anything, anything at all, you can tell me about your husband's intentions at this place—only so that I may make the effort more efficient?”

Again Mrs. Brand hesitated. “I cannot in all honor say anything.”

“Nor do,” Granite added after a beat.

The pause that followed was so long, Monk wondered if one or both had been struck by apoplexy.

“Nor do,” Mrs. Brand agreed with evident sorrow.

“Hear me,” Granite said in a hoarse whisper. “I do not censure. I do not judge—except to judge you honorable and true. But, oh, if I could only see you happy.”

Monk held himself very still. A ship lived hour to hour on the mood of its captain, and theirs could be determined, disappointed, angry or serene, but he was always in control, and this gush of florid emotion shocked Monk.

A confusing silence followed, filled with the rustle of
clothes. Then Monk heard the cabin's main door bang open.

“I've found you at last, my dear,” Monk heard Brand say. “Our daughter is making an unmerciful racket.”

“I should go,” she said in a choked voice.

“Aye, please do,” said Brand. “Captain, the storm has lifted. Let us proceed.”

The sea rocked the ship. Even with every anchor laid, the approach would be something close to fantastic. Monk held the mast top easily and listened to the men far below.

“We cannot get a rope across,” Granite said, his voice raised to be heard over the rising wind, “nor the ship any closer.”

“You gave me your word, Captain. Are you saying you will not uphold it?”

The infernal bugger!
Monk's blood boiled. He gauged the distance to the islet. At this height, he was nearly eye level with its small, flat ledge and the peak that rose from that. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he called, “but I can do it.”

Granite glared into the top sheets. “Who spoke?”

The crew fell silent. Talking out of turn was an offense.

“Monk, sir,” he said. “I think I can do it.”

“Come down here.”

Monk caught a shroud and sailed to the deck. In an instant, he was staring into a pair of fiery eyes.

“What nonsense are you spouting?”

“Sir, if I can catch the ship as it rolls toward the island, I can swing in on a rope. I can catch the top, or at the very least the edge.”

Those steely eyes traveled up the mast and over to the islet. “Good Lord, you'd have to be as high as the crosstrees.”

“I can do it, sir. Have done. Or something very like it.”

“Let the boy try. At least someone here is willing to make an effort.”

It was Brand's associate, Spears. Spears and the other man—Collingswood—gazed at him from the rail. Monk dearly wished he were grown. He wanted to pop each of them square in the nose for their blackguardly insubordination.

Brand said, “The boy says he can do it. Surely, Captain, you can't object.”

For a moment, Granite looked as if he were about to fulfill Monk's wish himself, but with evident reluctance he relented. The order was given, and in less than a quarter hour, Monk stood on the edge of the extended foremast, outfitted with the tools necessary to anchor the rope were he to find himself lucky enough to land without breaking his neck. He clutched the line, which was attached to the crosstrees above his head. The end of another rope, one much thinner, whose length lay curled into hundreds of neat, wide loops on the deck, was tied around his waist. He observed the immense roll of the ship, sending him in dizzying circles high above the sea, and even at this height felt the spray of salt upon his cheeks. He would have to jump as the ship swung away, praying the forward movement that followed would carry him over the island's flat top, then release the rope and drop. If he let go too high, he would batter himself upon the unforgiving rock. If he let go too soon or too late, he would fall into the sea, and
while he was a capable swimmer, he had no wish to exercise his skills in the churning darkness below. If he were able to avoid all possible dangers and land on the narrow flat surface, he would anchor the rope around his waist in the island's surface, and the crew, still in possession of the other end, could rig a makeshift seat and use a pulley to deliver the men safely to their destination.

He wanted to do this for Mrs. Brand, who gazed worriedly at him from her husband's side; for his shipmates, so that they might find him a worthy addition to their ranks; for Brand and his sneering compatriots, who wouldn't know true courage if it stared them in the face; but mostly for the shadowy figure standing alone on the quarter deck, hands clasped behind his back, watching him intently.

Monk edged forward. The wood was wet and his toes curled into the grain. He could feel his shipmates' worry like the thick, charged air before a storm. He needed a roll that would fling him hard and fast. The first one came. He took a step and slipped, catching himself as the entire deck gasped. He believed he could do this, though he had lied when he said he'd done it before. Never had he done it from such a height, or in the dark, or with such a pitching, angry sea beneath him.

The next roll was too small. Collingswood called, “Make your move, boy.”

“Silence,” Granite ordered.

Monk took a deep breath. The ship rode high, high, high, tipping past its peak. And he leapt, swinging into the roll, letting the ship's movement to right itself bring him in a delayed arc toward the dark, shiny rock. Higher
and higher he rose, until he was nearly over the surface, but not quite. Could he fly far enough to land? He kicked and let go, all in one movement, closing his eyes and saying a desperate prayer.

He landed with a crash that smashed his knee and emptied his lungs, and instantly scrabbled for purchase. He hadn't made the top. He'd made the edge and was slipping down the slimy moss. He found an outcropping and seized it, slicing his hand on the sharp rock.

But he held.

A wave plunged over him, pulling him and the rope nearly into the sea. He pumped his legs and found a toehold, gasping for breath. He had a sense of shouting from the ship, but his only thought was to make it to the top before the next wave hit.

He brought his foot up, but could find no place for it. Terrified, he pulled with all his might, banging his barked knee against the rock, hoping the outcropping would hold. The next wave hit only his legs. He ventured a hand free, reaching above the edge for something to hold. He found a seam and wedged two fingers. Slowly, with all his strength, he pulled himself onto the flat of the rock. He rolled on his back and waved a length of the rope in the air. A cheer rose over the seething sea.

Granite had traveled the pulley chair first, though even at this distance Monk had heard Brand argue he wanted no one but his own men going over, and now Brand, Spears and Collingswood conferred, each holding a lantern to view the map they'd unrolled in the center of their tight
circle. Granite, Mrs. Brand and her daughter, the last two of whom had been transported to the islet over Granite's fervent objection, stood apart—apart from the men and apart from each another. Granite stared out to sea, impatience on his face. Mrs. Brand looked sad. The little girl, tired of being held, played with a doll at her mother's feet.

Everyone, it seemed, had forgotten Monk, who had scaled the small peak that rose above the rock's flat surface, like a fat finger above a fist. The entire area upon which one could stand was no more than twenty by twenty, and where Monk lay in the dark, listening, he could see almost all of it. For the first time, he had a clear view of the map, though in the darkness and flickering lights, all he could see was a blue region, a tan region and a solid black line dividing the two. The land portrayed was unrecognizable to Monk, who could add geography to navigation, mathematics, knot making and carpentry to the vast inventory of skills he was certain he would never be master of.

“The entrance is supposed to be in the cave,” Collingswood said, speaking in a low voice.

“What cave?” Brand hissed.

“The seam. There. Don't you see it?”

Monk had seen it before they arrived. A narrow, vertical opening in the peak beneath him. The space it opened into could hold Monk, but he doubted it would hold very many adults.

“That's not a cave, man,” Collingswood said into the roar of the sea. “That's a slit. That could barely hold a—”

“Lower your voice! The old woman said we had to be in the cave.”

“I am not going in that thing.”

“Have you any interest in seeing your home again? Or would you care to stay in this godforsaken time forever?”

Collingswood huffed.

“See if you can fit,” Brand said.

Collingswood gave Brand a scornful look and inserted himself, shoulder first, into the opening. “Aye. Now what?”

Brand crouched and held up the lantern. “How much space is there?”

“Almost none. I can barely move.”

“Shove over.”

Brand edged himself in. “Spears, now you,” came his muffled voice a moment later.

Monk couldn't imagine what the men thought they would do once they made their way inside. He could see the mixture of disgust and wonderment on Granite's face as he watched this Merry-Andrew show from the far end of the ledge.

After a good deal of grunting and groaning, Spears worked his way in as well. Almost as soon as he disappeared from Monk's view, the rock started to hum and tiny green sparks like lightning bugs began to appear in a tight, neat dome that circled the peak. Monk gasped. He'd never seen such a thing before.

“Out!” Brand shouted in a panic.

Spears burst from the seam, tearing his britches, and Brand and Collingswood stumbled over him in their hurry to exit. Instantly, the violent humming stopped. With a pounding heart, Monk looked at Granite. His face hadn't changed, nor had Mrs. Brand's. It was as if they hadn't seen the sparks or heard the rumbling.

Collingswood struggled to his feet. “This is the place,” he whispered.