Marigold in the Glass

Caspian kneels on the dock beside a small wooden boat. The boat lies upside down on two trestles, and its white paint is cracked like dry mud. In his hand he holds a scraper. On the bench behind him sits a snow globe.

Hiba arrives with two paper cups of juice and a bag of sandpaper. She is sixteen, like Caspian, and she has promised to spend her Saturday helping him.

"You look worn out already," she says.

"I have been here since seven," Caspian says. "The boat must be ready for the harbour regatta, and the office wants its name by noon."

"Its name? Doesn't it have one?"

"That is the problem." He puts down the scraper and wipes his hands on his shirt. "My dad bought it years ago from a man who never said. The papers say 'name unknown'. If I don't paint a name on the stern by noon, the boat cannot race."

Hiba laughs, but he does not. She looks at the boat. It is small and round, with a faded line along the side. It looks like a boat that has forgotten something.

"And the snow globe?" she asks.

Caspian's face changes. He picks the globe up very carefully with both hands, as if it were a sleeping bird. Inside the glass, a tiny blue boat sits on a painted wave. The water is cloudy, and a heap of white flakes lies at the bottom.

"I found it yesterday," he says. "It was in a locker under the back seat, wrapped in an old cloth. Look at the little boat."

Hiba bends closer. The tiny boat has a yellow stripe along its side and a round window at the front. It is exactly the same shape as the boat on the trestles.

"It's a model of this one," she says.

"I think so. And I think the paint on the model is the real paint. The boat was blue and yellow once. Somebody painted over it in white." Caspian touches the glass with one finger. "There are tiny letters on the front of the model. I think that is the boat's name."

"So read it."

"I can't. The snow is lying on top of the letters." He pauses. "The only way to move it is to shake the globe. But my dad says the glue on the base is old. One hard shake, and the water will leak out and ruin it. Hiba, I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Do not shake it. Not once. Not even a little. Promise."

"I promise," Hiba says, and she holds out her hand. Caspian puts the globe into it. It is heavier than she expects, and it feels as cold as a stone.

They work for an hour. Caspian scrapes the old paint, and Hiba follows with the sandpaper. White dust blows over the dock and settles in her hair. Every few minutes, she glances at the globe. She has placed it on a flat cloth beside her knee.

At half past ten, the sandpaper reveals something on the back of the boat. Hiba stops. Under the white paint, the wood has faint marks, like the ghost of a handwritten word. She rubs gently with her thumb.

"Caspian, look. There are letters. I can see an M, and maybe an R."

Caspian drops his scraper and crouches beside her. The marks are shallow, and the paint has filled most of them. "M, something, R," he says. "Something, something, something, something."

"That helps a lot," Hiba says.

"It's a start."

By eleven the sun is high, and they still have no name. A woman from the harbour office walks along the dock with a clipboard. She stops beside them and taps her watch.

"One hour," she says. "After that, I write 'unnamed' on the form, and the boat watches the race from the shore."

"We know," Caspian says.

The woman leaves. Caspian sits on the edge of the dock with his head in his hands. Hiba looks at the globe, and then at the flakes that cover the tiny letters. The bow of the little boat is a white cloud.

"I could shake it a little," Caspian says. "Just once. I could be gentle."

"You made me promise," Hiba says.

"I know. I am the one who made you promise. Maybe I was wrong."

"Maybe," she says. "But I promised. If you shake it, you do it yourself."

Caspian looks at the globe for a long time. His hand moves towards it, and then it stops in the air. He puts the hand in his pocket.

"No," he says. "My dad would rather have the globe than the race."

Hiba picks up the globe. If she cannot shake it, perhaps she can tilt it. She turns it slowly on its side, so slowly that the water barely moves. A few flakes slide, but most of them stay in a stubborn heap. She tries tapping her finger on the glass, and the heap does not move. She tries the light of her phone, and the letters shine and then vanish in the cloud.

"It's no use," she says. "The snow is glued to the boat."

Out on the water, a large ferry sounds its horn. It leaves the harbour with a deep, slow roar. Hiba stands at the edge of the dock, still holding the globe in both hands. She watches the long wave that the ferry makes. It spreads across the water towards the dock.

"Caspian," she says. "Hold my elbow."

"Why?"

"Just hold it."

The wave reaches the dock. The whole wooden floor rises and falls with a long, soft movement, and the trestles creak. Hiba keeps her feet apart and her hands very still. She does not shake the globe. She only holds it while the harbour moves.

Inside the glass, the white heap trembles. It breaks into many small flakes that rise in a slow, gentle cloud. They turn, drift, and settle again. For a few seconds, the little boat sits clear and bright on its painted wave.

On its bow, in thin gold letters, is a single word.

"Marigold," Hiba reads.

"Marigold," Caspian says. He says it again, more softly. "M, A, R, I, G, O, L, D. That matches your marks."

They both look at the stern of the real boat, at the faint letters under the dust. Hiba laughs and puts the globe on the cloth, exactly where it was. She has not shaken it once.

"I kept my promise," she says. "The harbour broke it for me."

Caspian picks up a brush and opens a can of gold paint. He does not start yet. He looks at the blue boat in the glass, and then at the white one on the trestles. His voice is quiet.

"Then who painted Marigold white, Hiba, and why did they want her name to disappear?"