Page 60 of The Last Lost Girl

One shovel of sand at a time, Cairo is interred beside four others who fell before him. No driftwood waits on the shore, so Hudson walks to one of the other graves and with his hook, violently cleaves a branch off one of the other markers.

“A knife,” he requests.

Surat pulls a small, crudely forged blade lacey with rust from his pocket. None of these men should have to carve the name. They knew him. They loved him.

They’ve carved enough names. Into wood. Into skin.

I walk to meet Surat before he reaches Hudson. Surat’s beautiful dark eyes shine with tears. His chin wobbles as he holds back his pain. “Please?” I ask, holding out my hand for the knife.

He places the handle in my palm. When his chin wobbles, my chest aches.

His crewmates and friends come to console him as best they can, even though they need consolation, too. On Neverland, comfort is a scarce commodity.

I walk to Hudson and ease the blanched, twisted wood from his hand, then sit on the shore and begin to cut Cairo’s name into the wood, thickening the marks so they can be easily read. So they will last.

Hudson watches the blade, tracking the flecks of pale wood that fall away from the branch as Cairo’s name appears in it. When I’m finished, he crouches in front of me. I blow sawdust that fell into the letters I made, afraid that if I look up, I’ll bawl. The knot in my throat is swollen and tender as it is.

But eventually, I hand the piece over to him and meet his red, watery eyes. His jaw is so tense I worry it might break. He softly says, “Thank you, Ava,” before standing and moving to place the marker as his men watch and bear witness.

We linger on the island as the crew takes turns speaking for and about Cairo. They tell stories that highlight his silly sense of humor, talking about how grateful they were for him because Cairo brought levity when little else did. They laugh about the pranks he liked to pull, and brag about how fast he could climb the mast.

I note that all their stories are recent or related to his repetitive responsibilities aboard the ship and almost cry because none of them remember him as a child, or of the years between boyhood and when he became a young man.

It’s still hard for me to fathom how a shadow can possibly hold one’s memories, but the memories are the blocks that build the life of a person. Without them, these men are paper. Their pasts are soggy in the rain, brittle in the sun, and so easily torn by a hurried touch. One spark might burn their existence away entirely.

The skiff bobs in the shallows, waiting to ferry us back to the ship. I return with Dublin, who cut his dark red hair to the scalp on the way here. It’s choppy, like he took scissors to it without the help of a mirror.

Kauai takes the seat across from us, staring at the sunrise sullenly like it’s to blame for Cairo’s death. I’m still not sure what caused it. Part of me doesn’t want to know, but a greater part needs to.

With Smee at his side, Hudson is the last to leave the shore. The second his feet hit the deck, he crosses to his quarters and slams the doors behind him. A moment later, I startle when a loud crash comes from his sanctuary, followed by several more, before a guttural roar makes everyone on board pause and turn toward the captain’s quarters.

Smee’s voice cuts through the noise of Hudson’s anguish as he calls out to everyone on board. “Get some rest while you can.”

Milan strides by and I catch his arm. “Why are we resting now? I thought we were going ashore.”

“We can’t go ashore if we’re not alert, or else…”

“I understand.”

twenty-two

Hudson’s Journal

Ava is losing time. She doesn’t remember returning to town or playing cards with Milan and Kenya. She laughed with them as they taught her how to play, then how to cheat at the game. She doesn’t remember the fish and vegetables Surat and Dublin prepared for dinner, or how they beamed when she told them it was some of the best food she’d ever eaten in her life.

She doesn’t realize that she is the reason Sydney left the darkness he finds comforting to sit at the top of the steps. She thinks he always does that – takes his dinner apart but lingers on the edge of the crew. He doesn’t.

He watches as Kauai softly plays his flute while Kingston keeps the beat on a soft-leather drum at his side. As Paris approaches Ava and asks her to dance with him. She accepts his hand, smiles at his charm, and lets him put his hands on her sides.

It doesn’t take long for the damnable Frenchman to slide them down to her hips. He speaks and she laughs. He twirls her and her dark hair fans out before falling in a glossy curtain down her back. It was made to match the night. And she was made to bask in the starlight she loves so much.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was made for this place. Or for this moment.

Smee watched her, too. He chuckled when Paris captured her in a low, slow dip or picked her up to spin her around. When she grinned, so did he.

But I wonder how much of her is real if she can’t remember who she was yesterday. Then again, how much of any of us is?

I had to remind her about her journal again. She hasn’t written anything new or helpful, but I’ll keep encouraging it. Then I will watch to see what she pens.

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