Migrations(57)

21

The Saghani, MID-ATLANTIC OCEAN MIGRATION SEASON

It has taken us a month to reach the equator. No birds, no fish, and no other boats for quite some time. We are utterly alone out here, but crossing the equator, according to the crew, graduates me from landlubber to shellback. “You’re a real sailor now, Franny,” they say.

Ennis has been hugging the American coasts—he says we’d never catch up to the birds by turning east. Crossing the Atlantic would take too long, when instead we can set a more gradual course to intercept the birds somewhere much farther south.

Brazil is now to our right, so close we can see her. To our left is Africa. My feet itch to touch land in those places, to explore them, but there isn’t time.

Basil doesn’t look at or speak to me, which suits me fine. He spends most of his time snarling about his status as little more than a prisoner on this ship, since he wasn’t given the opportunity to vote for turning back. He’s still cooking obsessively but there’s only so much he can do now that our food stores have run down to mostly tins. I’ll be happy never to eat another variation of beans. Most of my time is spent with Léa, Dae, and Mal, learning the ropes. Even now, after so long at sea, I still seem to know next to nothing, and Mal makes an effort to teach me incorrect terms so that when I use them everyone giggles.

Out here it’s easy enough to pretend we aren’t fugitives. I can pretend I’m not wanted for murder—again.

This afternoon I am belowdecks in the belly of the boat, relegated to the engine room with Léa. It’s my least favorite task, it being hot and stuffy down here. Léa’s got me checking the gauges for things like hydraulic fluid, air pressure, and oxygen, which has to be done regularly. She’s working on something greasy, as usual getting it smeared all over hands and face, but stops abruptly with a string of curses.

“It’s stuffed.”

“What is?” I ask.

“Our backup generator.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Nuh.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Means we’re fucked, Franny,” she snaps, wiping sweaty hair off her face. “Without a backup, if the mains go down at any point all the power stops running and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“What do we use power for?”

She snorts. “Everything, dumbass. Temp regulation, navigation, the power block, all our hot water, everything in the kitchen, and not to mention goddamn drinking water.”

“Right. Shit. Is it likely the mains will go down?”

“Yeah, it’s likely, happens all the time.”

“Only we never notice it because the generator kicks in?”

“You got it, Sherlock.”

She stomps up the ladder—I was warned never to call them stairs—and I hurry to follow her. “Where’re you going?”

“To tell Skip.”

We find Ennis on the bridge and I listen as Léa explains the problem with a lot more patience than she did with me. Ennis doesn’t react except to let out a long breath, and I think his shoulders look less square. He turns back to the helm, gazing out at the empty sea before us.

“Thanks, Léa.”

“I think we have to go ashore.”

There is a long silence before he says, “Not for a while yet.”

“Captain, we can’t carry on without a backup. The risk is huge, it’s madness. Second something happens—”

“I understand, Léa.”

She swallows and straightens up, and I can see her gathering courage. “And do you also understand that you’re putting us in danger?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

She glances at me. Her gaze softens a little. “Okay, but we can’t keep on like this forever, Skip. We need a real plan to keep Franny out of trouble. Sooner or later we have to refuel and resupply—it’s not fucking Love in the Time of Cholera. Let’s just pray the old girl’s still above water by the time these imaginary fish come along.”

Once Léa has stomped out, Ennis and I share a quiet look.

“I’ll find another boat,” I offer.

Ennis ignores me. “Still on the same course?” He can see the on-screen chart as well as I can, but he makes me go over it again. We’ve been marking the terns’ route clearly so we can see the patterns of movement, which are appearing more unpredictable by the day. They’re currently flying away from the coast of Angola toward us.

“Still south-southwest,” I say. “We’ll intercept them if they hold their course, but Ennis, they might not. Depends on the wind and the food.”

Ennis nods once. He doesn’t care. Like Anik said, we’re in it now.

“They’ll hold firm, and so will we,” he says.



* * *



Léa always switches her bed light out first, while I read for longer. But tonight she doesn’t nod off instantly, as she normally does. She rolls over to face the wall and asks, muffled, “How’d you lose your toes?”

“Frostbite.”

“How’d you get frostbite?”

“I just … went walking around in the snow without shoes on.”

“That was pretty fuckin’ dumb, wasn’t it?”