and body are covered in exposed gears. There must be thousands
of them, some so small that I can barely see them.
The seahorse’s body glows from inside with a dancing white light.
Bright little bursts of energy crawl like lightning along the surface and then
disappear back into the clockwork gears.
But its tail looks loose—it’s barely attached. Is this clockwork
seahorse able to swim properly with its tail so badly damaged?
As I’m thinking all this, I realize the seahorse is looking into
my eyes. I suddenly feel embarrassed that I’ve been staring. Although it’s made
of metal and gears, I can’t help feeling that this peculiar creature is as
alive as I am.
And I think it wants something from me.
“Hello?” I say. It just stares back at me. I feel a little silly,
but I keep trying. “My name is Merryn. I’m looking for someone.” It tilts its
head a tiny bit, as if it is listening. “I need to find my father,” I continue.
It tilts its head again. Does it understand me?
My face is close to the glass. The window is starting to fog up
from my breath. I’m about to wipe it clean with my sleeve when I have an idea.
With the tip of my finger I sketch a line of waves in the fogged
glass. I draw my father’s boat below the waves. I point to my eyes and then to
the boat. The seahorse just stares at me for a moment, then turns and swims
away into the darkness.
I wipe the glass free and start to pedal forward. Soon I see a
faint glow ahead of me. The seahorse is waiting for me! Is it trying to lead me
somewhere? Does it know where my father is? Part of me feels that it’s foolish
to trust this strange mechanical creature, but I don’t have any better ideas at
the moment.
The seahorse is moving awkwardly. I think his tail is bothering
him. He’s struggling to go in a straight line. Why am I calling a pile of
metal and gears a he? I guess it just doesn’t feel right to call the
seahorse an it .
I sail closer, beckoning him to come toward me. He swims up.
“Your tail is hurt,” I say. “Will you let me fix it?” He looks at
me cautiously. I don’t think he trusts me yet. I reach down and find my
screwdriver, holding it up for him, hoping I look like I know what I’m doing.
“Follow me,” I call to him, as I sail down toward a patch of kelp
on the seafloor. This is going to be a tricky maneuver, but I think I can make
it work. I roll my weight back and forth in the sub until it flips all the way
upside down. In one quick motion I pop open the hatch and dive out. I grab a
kelp strand and tie it to the hatch, holding the sub upside down. As long as it
stays in this position, the air won’t be able to leak out.
The water is freezing cold. I’m going to have to make this fast.
Holding my breath, I swim toward the seahorse to examine his tail.
As I reach out to touch it, a spark of energy jumps onto my hand and crawls up
my arm. I feel a jolt like an electric shock. At the same time, visions flash
quickly through my head.
I see a beautiful city made of gold . . . then a tall underwater
lighthouse, casting its searchlight through the water . . . then a circle of
stones, like an undersea graveyard . . . then another flash of light, and then
the images are gone.
As strange and wondrous as the images are, I have to push them out
of my mind and focus on the seahorse. I need to work quickly—I won’t be able to
hold my breath for very long.
The creature’s tail doesn’t look too bad. Two of the screws have
come loose and one of the gears is misaligned. Nothing I can’t fix. I snap the
gear back in place, and his tail immediately begins to wiggle as if he were a
happy puppy. I quickly tighten the screws and check to make sure there is no
other damage, then swim back up through the bottom of the hatch.
I close the hatch behind me and roll the sub back over so I can
start pedaling. I’m shivering from the cold, but when I see the seahorse swim
up to me, still wiggling his tail in thanks, I know I