Mattie's Compass

MATTIE’S COMPASS

by C.S. Torres

This Young Adult Novel is dedicated to

My daughter, Lisa

My son, Edward

In Memory of

Those who came before me, through sacrifices made and lives well-lived, through pragmatism and genius, who through missteps and mayhem, helped manifest my writing sensibility.

Copyright 2014 by C.S. Torres

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter One: The Dojang at the Base of Pike’s Peak

Chapter Two: Bon Voyage

Chapter Three: Sand and a Ball of Twine

Chapter Four: Fishing Out of Necessity

Chapter Five: Death by Dengue

Chapter Six: Seize the Moment

Chapter Seven: A Tale of Two Grandparents

Chapter Eight: Island Life

Chapter Nine: Come Hither

Chapter Ten: Morning Light

Chapter Eleven: Spam by the Sea, Part One

Chapter Twelve: Dengue – Case Number Two

Chapter Thirteen: Scouts and Soda

Chapter Fourteen: Hidden Treasure

Chapter Fifteen: Four Conversations

Chapter Sixteen: A Big Break

Chapter Seventeen: Odd Instruments from Useful Idiots

Chapter Eighteen: Groomed and Doomed

Chapter Nineteen: Reminiscing About Useful Tools and Fools

Chapter Twenty: Spam by the Sea, Part Two

Chapter Twenty-One: Lines of Defense

Chapter Twenty-Two: Knocking Off the Competition

Chapter Twenty-Three: On the Offensive

Chapter Twenty-Four: An Ironic Birthday Gift

Chapter Twenty-Five: Force Fields and Fences

Chapter Twenty-Six: An Inoperable Karate Kid

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Twilight, Firelight, and Morning Light

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Gramps, Iris-Ape, and Family

Chapter One: The Dojang at the Base of Pike’s Peak

The summit of Pike’s Peak levitates in the fog like a ghostly apparition above Manitou Springs, while sunbeams splinter through the clouds. Droplets of water fall from melting icicles on the dojang sign, with its stylized Yin-Yang symbol, then transform into liquid prisms as they drizzle down windowpanes. Inside, a student and teacher spar. Thirteen-year-old Mattie prowls in fighting stance, circling her prey. Kwan, a fit and formidable thirty-nine, follows his deft young student with intense eyes; his moves dare Mattie, as does his expression. Kwan outmaneuvers her. She thrusts her forearm to block a kick with flair. Impressive, but flamboyant, he quips, in a mocking tone designed to rattle her and tease out reactions that are too impetuous. But Mattie remains poised and nimble. She throws a stylized chigi and breaks out a roundhouse kick, her footsteps landing on the dojang mats with a kerplunk.

Mattie’s features are framed by ebony hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She focuses precocious eyes on Kwan with laser-like precision. For a fleeting moment, something more than student affection dances about the porcelain skin of Mattie’s expressive young face. Mattie stands upon the precipice between girl and woman, a place of beauty and promise and heartbreak. Her voice is provocative as it pops from squeaky kid chirps to sultry womanly tones and back again in two syllables. Say what?

Mattie momentarily becomes self-conscious, but quickly recovers, slinks like a tigress on the hunt, taking her next steps with a heightened sense of awareness. Fleet-foot to make up for lack of stature, she lands her next kick a hair short of Kwan. Disappointment, then frustration swirl across her face.

Kwan blocks, teases, and dances circles around Mattie. Fight brassy, not flashy.

Mattie trots about, sweats, and breathes deep. Her fierce gaze says she intends to give back everything she gets and then some. Just when Kwan flashes his devilish – give it to me – smile, bells on the dojang door jingle and he pulls back. His alert expression darts to the sixty-something-year-old stranger at the door.

The visitor wears his scruffy white whiskers like an announcement of impending dementia. He pauses, stares a moment too long, and rubs his fuzzy chin as if on the verge of a discovery. Captain’s hat in hand, with his wavy, rumpled salt and pepper hair gone to total disorder, he glances between Kwan and Mattie with optimistic blue eyes.

Spence Abbot, he finally says. As if by afterthought, he adds, I heard you’re looking for a skipper.

Kwan nods, strides across the dojang, and shakes hands. Kwan Lee. This is my daughter, Mattie.

Mattie bows, martial arts style, performs an abbreviated poomsae – a step-kick-step-punch-punch-kick routine, aiming at the air between them, impressing only herself.

Jacob says you’re an old pro. Kwan gives Spence the up and down.

Begotten in the galley and born under a gun, Spence replies.

Sounds like you grew up swimming with sharks and dating mermaids, Mattie verbally spars, but Spence cuts off that kick of words and pitches his own string of prose.

A sailor’s yarn be true, he punchlines, appraising the father and daughter duo with a critical glint in his eyes: sparring mode, indeed.

Truth is, I’m on a search and rescue for my parents, Kwan says.

Dad wants to rent a schooner and set sail.

Spence rubs his whiskery chin. Where exactly?

The Bermuda Triangle, a place dad says doesn’t exist, Mattie answers in her dad’s stead.

Mattie, the Bermuda Triangle . . . that’s a myth, Kwan replies, momentarily nixing further discussion, before returning his attention to Spence. My parents flew to Bermuda for a one -week vacation. He fixes his anxious gaze on the aging skipper, almost three months ago.

That’s when we got the postcard. They said they were going on- -

A whale-watching tour, Kwan finishes Mattie’s sentence.

Whale watching in December? Unlikely, Spence says. March and April are whale season in the North Atlantic.

Local police have been sketchy. My plan is to sail out of Hamilton, search nearby islands and islets.

Mattie moves toward the old guy, as if sizing him up for the job. Her eyes twinkle with the thought that even if he can’t find Granny and Gramps, he could help her dad get some sense of closure. It would be closure for both of them. It’s one of dad’s gut feelings, Mattie says. He’s spooky that way, but spot on.

The morning light in the dojang flashes to twilight and the black of night.

After a red-eye flight, Mattie’s words echo in her mind – he’s spooky that way, but spot on. After this haunting mental replay, her thoughts race on. Does this stuff really happen? Mattie asks herself. And does it happen this fast? It must, because it’s happening now. Yesterday, she and her dad were sparring in the dojang at the base of Pike’s Peak and today, in the gray before daybreak, they walk the planks along a wharf in Hamilton, Bermuda toward a coffee shop, placing all their trust in Skipper Spence.

Spence gazes up at the starry, predawn silver canopy. Sky’s clear and all hands are on deck. We can set sail at zero dark thirty.

In the blink of a meteorite or the twinkling of a satellite, Kwan, Mattie and Spence enter a dilapidated coffee shop. Spence studies a pensive Kwan. Second thoughts?

Absolutely not. I will find Mom and Pop if it’s the last thing I do.

You can’t even find the babe who’s flirting with you, Mattie jabs.

Who?

Just saying. You should learn to flirt. Mattie playfully shoots a karate chop.

Kwan blocks it and catches Mattie in an affectionate hold. Advice from the kid whose sarcastic voice tosses out words before her brain processes them.

Mattie snickers, spins out of the hold to face her dad. Is flirting too flashy or brassy?

You’re thirteen and I’m thirty-nine. That makes me three times smarter. He takes a sarcastic tone and borrows Mattie’s catchphrase: Just saying.

Or slower. Three times slower. Just saying. That’s what happens when you get old.

Spence leads the not quite nuclear family to a booth, shoots them a mordant glare, and clears his throat, as if to say, is the old guy in front of you invisible? He considers glowering at the incessantly sparring duo, but surmises that this would be lost on Mattie and Kwan, sensing that they inhabit their own little world, an eccentric encasement, a vulnerable sheath for their private hurts and pains and losses. Spence perceives their effervescence to be a fragile bubble, and he will not be the one to pop it.

On the other hand, Spence reflects, I hate being the invisible old guy. He decides to interrupt the two odd ducks. Shouldn’t you be in a classroom right now or are you home-schooled, Mattie?

No, thank goodness. That scene’s not for me.

It’s Spring Break, Kwan adds and all the families we trade tween-sitting with are on normal vacations."

Except Nikki’s mom. She’s in jail.

Oh, that’s interesting, Spence banters with a humorous lilt in his voice.

Embezzlement, Kwan quickly adds. And I thought she was a boring accountant.

Eager for coffee and a hearty breakfast, Spence lets the thread of conversation he created deliquesce. A waitress pours him a hot cup of coffee, which he sips and gives his full attention, merely processing their verbal wrangling like white noise. It’s a spar without much punch and no kick, he thinks, while they prattle on.

Old? Kwan asks, going back to the father-daughter conversation.

The average life expectancy of an Asian male is 84. You’re almost halfway there.

84? Your grandparents aren’t even there yet.

Mattie covers her mouth, as if Kwan’s observation floors her. She vacantly stares at her dad and any quick comeback gets stuck in her throat.