Dormia by Jake Halpern

thousands of stars shining brilliantly. The ship itself was heading almost due north and the wind was already frosty with gusts of polar air. When the three arrived at the bridge, they encountered Shamus, who was standing at the wheel of the ship. The room was a mess of scattered maps, old sailing books, heavy rubber boots, ashtrays overloaded with used lumps of tobacco, and an old phonograph that was playing marching-band tunes from the 1920s. "Good evening," said Shamus wearily. "Sorry for the mess, but I pretty much live in this room. We're a wee bit short on help these days. Don't get
much sleep, but who's complaining? Not me. Oh, not me. Just head down that set of stairs and dinner will be served shortly."
    "Thanks," said Alfonso.
    "Don't thank me yet," he muttered. "If you can eat the slop that Hellen cooks then you've got a hardier stomach than I do."
    "Who's Hellen?" asked Alfonso.
    "You'll see," Shamus replied.
    They parted ways with Shamus and headed down a narrow flight of stairs that led into a dining room of sorts. Actually, it was a small room with a billiards table in the middle that had been converted into a dining room table. Above the billiard table hung a crystal chandelier that looked as if it had belonged in an opera house. It was enormous—far too big for the small space—and the lowermost crystals actually touched the surface of the billiards table. Dust lay everywhere. The place smelled of rotting fish, stale books, mildewed wood, and burned cooking oil. As Alfonso took a seat at the billiards table, a small mouse scurried into the corner pocket.
    "Hello, boys!" said a large, matronly woman who emerged from a door at the far end of the room. She wore an apron that nearly covered her entire body, a filthy-looking chef's hat, and a pair of large rubber gloves. "The name is Hellen. I am the cook, though I occasionally do the navigating as well. I expect you met Shamus already, and of course you've met the vice admiral, so now you've met the entire crew."
    "The entire crew?" asked Bilblox with a dumbfounded look. "Ya mean there are just three of ya runnin' this whole ship?"
    "That's right, honey," said Hellen. "The vice admiral doesn't take a liking to folks too quick. She prefers to operate with a bit of a skeleton crew. Keeps costs down. Of course, there have
been other members of the crew over the years, but they never seem to last."
    Bilblox raised his eyebrows. "I see," he said.
    "Anyway," said Hellen, "what can I get you fellows to eat?"
    "What's on the menu?" asked Hill.
    "Fried seal—that's all we ever serve."
    "We'll take three of those," said Hill.
    "Three fried seals coming up!" said Hellen cheerfully. "Do you want any hot sauce with that? It helps kill the taste and the germs as well."
    Alfonso, Bilblox, and Hill all nodded.
    While they were waiting for their fried seal, they heard the vice admiral's peg leg poking its way down the stairs. "At ease, gentlemen," she said as she entered the room. "How are my passengers doing?"
    "We're doing just fine, Vice Admiral," said Hill.
    "Good," she said. "Now tell me, Hill, do ya remember yer way around the ship at all? Last time ya were on board, when ya were just a little feller, ya and yer brother played around all day in every nook and cranny of this ship."
    "I don't remember much," explained Hill. "But there are some things, like playing hide-and-seek with Leif in the
Success Story
's cargo hold or climbing ropes on the deck. But other than that, my memory gets pretty hazy. It's like I've got amnesia or something."
    "Pity," said the vice admiral as she sat at the billiards table and lit her pipe. "Then ya've got no memory from before I found ya in the Urals?"
    "Hardly any," said Hill. "In fact, I have no memory of leaving my parents at all. I've tried everything to remember what
they look like, but nothing works..." He let out a painful, drawn-out sigh.
    "Well," said the vice admiral as she puffed on her pipe and sipped her beer, "it