The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (14 page)

“Lucy! Where'd ye slip off ta?” It was Addie's voice.

“Be right there, Addie. Would you pour me some coffee?”

Rasjohnny turned, throwing furtive glances this way and that. “Ya see, back on my island, me, I be da shaman. I feels dings of da spirit world. And sence you fell overboard, well, da spirits be twitchy. Restless. I feels it, here.” He patted his chest with an open hand. “It be da spirits called you into da waters, yes, it be true.”

I felt my mouth go dry. He pressed on. “So, Rasjohnny, I calls da Loa, da spirits of good to protect you. Just in case. Not black magic like Grady say.”

“Lucy!”

“Coming, Addie! Just a minute!”

“You believe me?”

I stared at his dark eyes, his halo of tiny braids, full lips. There was nothing in his demeanor that suggested anything but caring. Nothing in his words that rang false. In fact, he'd sensed what no one else, save Marni perhaps, had suspected about my plunge into the sea.

He sighed, and I realized he took my silence as an unspoken no. “Miss Lucy—”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I guess I do believe you.” I hesitated, trying to think of how to phrase my next question.

“I hears a ‘but' in your voice. . . .”

I took a deep breath. “If you're a shaman, you must know about magic, right? I mean, where it comes from, if it's good or bad?”

“Ah,” he said, considering. “Magic—it be a mystery. Like love. Like death. Pow'ful stuff, deez myst'ries! It ain't t' understand, much as to respect it. Some's dey got eyes to see it comin', some's blind.”

I considered this—thought about how some of us fully recognized the peculiarities of the specter ship. Coleman did, and certainly Grady. Marni and Walter. Addie. Annie. The cap'n. Javan. But the rest seemed to perceive only what seemed reasonable. Maybe Rasjohnny was right—you needed the eyes to see. “But the magic . . . is it bad, or is it good?”

“Why you askin' bout good 'n' bad? Open dem eyes. Just like wid folks in da world. If what dey's doin' bring bout good, dey's good. If what dey's doin' bring about bad, dey's bad. Same wid magic. See what it done, den ya know if it be good or evil. Fact dat you standin' here look pretty good t' me. . . .”

My hand went to my aching ribs, the lump on my head. Rasjohnny nodded. “Dat, danks to Grady, gettin' in da middle of it.”

Georgie appeared, running at full tilt, Javan following behind him.

Rasjohnny met my eyes, blinked slowly, then headed back toward the galley. The cabin door opened. I turned around and came face to face with Walter. My heart thumped. He'd come looking for me after all.

Georgie clamored through the portal and I stared up into Walter's face, a smile playing on my lips.

But as much as I willed it, he didn't meet my gaze. His eyes shifted to some point above my right shoulder. I turned to see Javan standing behind me, hands in his pockets, a lazy smile playing across his lips.

“Time for my watch,” Walter mumbled, pushing past. Javan shrugged and loped into the cabin, his eyes fixed on the lovely frosted torte awaiting him.

I watched Walter go, feeling suddenly ridiculous in my fancy dress, and even more foolish for thinking he'd notice.

B
ack in my cabin I peeled off my frock, which had, to my mind, lost much of its luster. I hung it carefully in the armoire, silently thanking Addie for her efforts, even though I clearly could not do the dress justice. I'd no sooner pulled on my cotton work shirt and overalls when Annie and Pugsley tumbled in, followed by Ida.

“Why'd you take off your beautiful gown?” Annie asked.

“Didn't want to dirty it,” I lied. I grabbed my flute, my birthday book of
Fingering and Embouchure Tech
nique for Flute and Recorder,
and my old crumbling volume of sea chanteys. I needed something to lose myself in, and the finer points of the music might be just the thing. The songs I was able to play consisted of only a handful of notes. I decided I'd learn the names and finger positions of all of them.

Annie chirped, “Ooh—will you teach me too?”

“Once I learn it!” I felt snappish with her, and ashamed of myself. But she didn't notice, taking my words at face value.

I flipped open the new book and stared from the diagrams to my flute. Hole to hole, they matched. I stretched and plied the fingers of my left hand, anchored with my thumb, carefully covering each opening, as indicated. T for the thumb, 1 for my index finger, on to the middle fingers, 2 and 3. Then, the fingers of my right hand, all in a row, 1, 2, 3, 4, with a couple of tiny holes for the pinkie. Each corresponded to a note with a letter name. I tipped my fingers so that the soft pad of flesh on my fingertip completely concealed the opening. It wasn't as easy as it looked.

I stared at the diagram and tried it several times without blowing into the shaft, watching to be sure my fingers formed an airtight seal, then lifting one, then the next, until all the top holes were open. Then I put it to my lips.
Hoot . . . hoot . . . hoot . . . hoot . . . hoot.
I did it with only a slight waver between the G and the A notes. I was so focused I forgot Annie and Pugsley sitting beside me, hanging on every reedy sound, until Pugsley raised his flat snout and howled.

I moved from one note to the next, and the do-re-mi-fa-sol flowed. One by one I learned the rest of the notes by adding my pinkie, then the fingers of my right hand—low C, D, E, and F, and by covering, then uncovering, each hole, bottom to top. As I mastered this, a colorful cloud of mist rose from the instrument, floating, in increments, with each ascending note.

“Oh my!” Annie whispered. “Lucy—you're playing a rainbow! I want to learn that too!”

I smiled at her and continued practicing, following the patterns and finger numbers, producing a range of pitches. The colorful mist danced merrily, larger bursts when I played greater intervals, cascades for ascending or descending scale tones.

Feeling confident, and having mastered these simple patterns, I turned the page and learned still more combinations. Each new note changed the color of the magical mist, shooting off bursts of fuchsia and teal, copper and silver. Annie oohed and ahhed. Side by side, I compared the fingering and note chart to my book of sea chanteys. It would take a lot of practice to become proficient enough to produce the correct notes in time. And certainly more patience than I had at the moment.

I was about to hand the flute off to Annie to give her a try, but my elbow locked, and the flute remained stubbornly in front of me. I moved it from my lips and it persistently flew back toward my mouth. My heart began to race as I realized I was, once again, being led by a mysterious force. On its own, a melody tumbled from the instrument, over and over again. My fingers were sucked to the tone holes, pulled into the pattern of the repeated snippet of song. Over and over it repeated, until I knew it by heart, the soft pads of each finger sore. The melody always ended on the same pitch. I looked at the chart.

D. It ended always on the low D. Heavily, deliberately, the emphasis on the D as if saying, “I told you so!”

Then, something peculiar happened. With my fingers hypnotized, still repeating the tune, the flute began to move. I had no choice but to follow.

“Where are you going, Lucy?” Annie asked. I tried to pull my lips away in order to answer, but they too were under the spell. I felt like the Pied Piper, marching out the doorway and along the hall, tootling the notes in triplets–D–D–F, A–G–F, G–E–C, D . . .

A parade followed—Annie, Pugsley, and Ida—Annie in the lead, skipping in 6/8 time, humming along. We passed Javan in the hallway. Upon seeing the glittering waves of music, his amber eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “Miz Lucy—I's think you learnt to conjure the Loa!”

“Come on,” Annie cried. “It's magic music!” Javan's shocked expression turned into a grin and he joined the spectacle.

The tenacious tune drew me along the hallway. The tempo increased as we neared the chart room, puffs of dazzling vapor in jewel-like shades creating a fireworks display. The glittering mist seeped around and beneath the chart-room door, and without so much as a nudge of my foot, the portal opened. Faster and faster my fingers flew over the notes, stronger and stronger became the invisible current that dragged me inside. The melody slowed as it led me to the corner where Father's safe taunted me. The flute dipped, pulling me to my knees before the locked strongbox. The tempo decreased, dramatically ending on the D note. That final tone sounded until every last ounce of breath was expended, and I went limp as a jellyfish. My hands finally relaxed and dropped from the instrument, which, of its own accord, waggled and danced before the safe, sounding the D one more time like an encore. Annie and Javan applauded. I sat there exhausted, the tune still running through my head, when the ship's bell sounded, signaling the beginning of the first dog watch—it was four o'clock. “That's my watch,” I said. There would still be plenty of repairs to do after the beating we took in the storm, every sail carefully examined, frayed ropes repaired or replaced. There was rigging to be tarred, and sticky oakum fibers to be pressed between the timbers of the deck, resealing her surfaces.

“Leave the flute with me,” Annie begged.

Javan chimed in. “We want a turn!”

I stood on shaky knees. Against their protests I tucked the instrument into my pocket. “I'll bet you'll see some dolphins doing tricks after the storm,” I said. “You should go and see. Go on!” They stood for a moment, eyeing me carefully, perhaps waiting to see if they'd miss one last burst of glitter. Ida tipped her head quizzically and Pugsley whined, his curly tail wagging. Annie shrugged and ran off, Pugsley and Ida behind her.

Javan lingered. “My ol' man, he said it, and I can see it's true. Da spirits don' sleep 'board dis ship. 'Tween you, and him, and Miz Marni . . . yas bring out a lotta good magic!” Javan grinned, a smile no less brilliant than the glittering music. “Gotta get back to work!” He turned and was gone, leaving me alone in the chart room. I glanced back at the safe and the flute purred in my pocket. What was it trying to tell me? I left the room through the companionway, and on toward my chores. It would be good to scrub and pound, swab and scour. Mindless tasks that required brawn, not brains.

I joined Irish, who acknowledged me with a nod, and began pounding oakum into each crevice. Side by side we worked. He whistled a Celtic ditty lightly through his teeth, but all I heard was D–D–F, A–G–F, G-E–C, D. . . . It was a nagging refrain, an annoying fly, a mosquito in my ear. The ship, cruising along smoothly at about eight knots, dipped and rolled in time. No matter how much elbow grease I used, how much concentration and effort I afforded the task, how many blisters I wore into my fingertips, the tune persisted. I decided to join the Reds, hoping a change of scene might interrupt the incessant melody, or enlighten me to its meaning.

As I crossed the deck I spied Grady, wedge-shaped sextant in hand, squinting through the eyepiece, measuring the angle between the sun and the horizon. He put the instrument aside, scribbled something on a scrap of paper, then went back to it. His movements were jerky. Agitated. After each coordinate recorded, he shook his head, tipped it to one side, narrowed his eyes, and scanned the skyline. Yanked off his denim cap, mopped his brow, slapped it back on his head. “It ain't right,” he grumbled. “Don't add up.” The lines, straining under full sail, squeaked and yawled like a peal of laughter.

“What's wrong?” I asked. Grady frowned, then spun about, glaring at me. “By all calculations, by dead reckoning, we ain't where we supposed to be.”

I knew the cap'n had abandoned course in order to cooperate with the angry seas. “The storm pushed us astray?” I asked.

Grady peered off into the distance, chewing his bottom lip, rubbing thumbs and index fingers together. “No storm could've thrown us this far. No regular storm, anyway.”

My stomach fell. This would add time to our voyage. Slow us down. “How much time will we need to make up?”

Grady snorted. “Make up? Makin' up time ain't the issue.”

“What do you mean? You just said . . .”

“I knows what I said. We didn't lose time. We gained it. We can forgit reprovisioning in the Azores. Passed 'em by completely, and Cape Verde as well!”

I did a quick calculation—Boston to the Azores should take about sixteen days, maybe more, then a week to Cape Verde. “But that's impossible!”

“Exactly my point,” Grady growled. “Ain't possible for a God-fearing seaman aboard a
normal
vessel. But with all the devilishness goin' on here . . .”

“So, where are we, exactly?”

He shook his head, dubious. “By all accounts—about a couple of days outside a St. Helena—South Atlantic, case you don't know.”

“That means we'll be rounding the Cape of Good Hope . . .”

“Much sooner than we woulda.”

“But that's wonderful news!” I exclaimed. If what he said was true, we'd gained over a week! Again, as if in agreement, the lines squealed and her sails flapped like a round of applause. Grady glared, spit, and stalked off, muttering under his breath. A smile spread across my face. It was a birthday gift—the storm! That much closer to finding Aunt Pru! I looked up at my ship's majestic masts, at her sails puffed proudly before the wind. “Thank you!” I shouted, waving a fist in the air.

I skipped over to the Reds.

“Help?” I asked. They nodded and tossed me a chamois cloth.

“Glad t' see you're not sportin' your lovely frock out here,” one of them said.

The other chuckled. “She's savin' it for a grand fete when we get to the down under. An Outback Ball!”

I grinned and rolled up my sleeves. D–D–F, A–G–F, G–E–C, D . . . I hummed the tune in spite of myself as I scoured the rail, making my way from the main deck toward the poop deck. Sailing at such a good clip produced a refreshing breeze, and that, with the snap and flap of its sails, the happy creak and groan of her planking, and the steady swish and roll of her bow, was music to a seafarer's ears.