After the party, Bee watched while I made up an extra plate of food, but she didn’t say anything. There was no answer when I knocked on the captain’s door, but it was unlocked, so I let myself in.
The light was dim—he’d thrown bits of fabric over the lamps—and the room was stuffy, the heat raising the vanillin scent of old paper from the maps spilling from the shelves and cupboards lining the walls. Slate hoarded maps like a dragon hoards treasure: maps of every shape and shore, in parchment and paper, birch bark and Nile linen, kangaroo leather and sharkskin. There were maps punched in copper, painted on urns, and one scratched into the surface of a shelf mushroom. He even had Robert Peary’s 1906 map of Crockerland, a continent that enjoyed a scant seven years of existence before being judged a fata morgana; after 1914, it no longer existed on any map, nor anywhere else at all.
I needed air. I set the plate on the table and crossed the room, stumbling on a pile of books, to open the aft deadlights. The breeze ruffled the edges of the black curtains of the sleeping alcove. The captain dozed behind them, his newest map resting on his chest like a blanket. I clenched my fists to keep from snatching it away.
Instead, I went to the drafting table, where the map of 1981 lay, pinned down by half-empty coffee cups. I took the cloth off the lamp above the desk and leaned over the page, looking closely at the lines. The cartographer’s focus had been delineating New York neighborhoods, with each shaded in different watercolor and detailed down to major landmarks. I drummed my fingers on the table. Still, to my eye, there were no hints this map wouldn’t work.
Frustrated, I rolled up the map and shoved it into the cupboard with all the other dead enders. The rest of his Hawaii 1868 maps were there. There was no reason for me to worry that the new map would be different. I licked my lips and tasted salt.
No reason at all.
I closed the cupboard more noisily than necessary, but the captain didn’t even move. Since I’d started cleaning, I kept going. I picked up the books—myths, legends, history—scattered around the room like confetti, and returned them to their shelves. The dirty clothes I threw in the empty hamper. The caladrius’s cage was on the trunk; I filled a cup with water for her.
The bedsheets had spilled into a tangled pile on the floor. When I picked them up, I uncovered the box, lying open, displaying Slate’s most precious things: a block of black tar, a stained pipe and fresh needles, a bottle of pills, all nestled beside the map of 1866, the map of the time before I came along and everything went wrong.
I kicked the whole mess back under the bed, hard enough it hit the wall.
My palms were damp. I wiped my hands on the bundle of bedding and let it drop back to the floor. Then I took a deep breath to clear my head. The breeze off the ocean, cooler now the sun was down, had swept away the musty smell in the room, but Slate still hadn’t stirred except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest under the 1868 map. I could no longer contain myself; I took one corner between my thumb and forefinger, lifting it gently away, and he started awake, his hands closing reflexively on the edges.
“I’m going to put it on the table,” I said. His eyes focused on mine, and he released the map, trading it for the plate I’d brought. I glanced at the page, and my heart sank.
It was nothing like the others. Inked, faded, signed, dated. A. SUTFIN, the drafter, had printed in neat block letters and drawn in a very precise hand. And the map was original. But even that was no guarantee it would work. Suddenly I was absurdly grateful for the inexplicable failure of the 1981 New York.
“It’s a good map, isn’t it?”
I looked up at him; Slate was balancing the plate, untouched, on his knees, waiting for me to agree. I dropped my eyes back to the page and chewed my lip. “I hope it’s worth what it cost.”
“It is priceless, Nix.”
“Right.” Not a crease, nor even a crinkle. Someone had preserved this map quite well.
“Thank you,” Slate said then.
That gave me pause. “For what?”
“For the map.” He picked up the fork. “And for dinner.”
I pursed my lips. Why had I been surprised? He could afford to be kind now he had what he wanted. “Of course, Captain.” My voice was vague as I studied the map. It was only the island of Oahu, and in fine detail. Beautiful lines.
His duty done, he stabbed a dumpling with the fork. “This is good.”
“Good.” My eyes roved over the contours on the page, seeking flaws and finding none. The mapmaker had even labeled Honolulu’s main streets—Nu’uanu, Beretania, King—as well as the post office and the major churches. The city was centered around Iolani Palace, the seat of the King of Hawaii; there, just a few blocks northwest, was Chinatown. I ground my teeth.
“You know,” he said, his mouth full. “The last time I had a pastrami sandwich from Katz’s was when I was your age. This is from Katz’s, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”