Star-filled heart on a forearm

The Marigold was three weeks past the Horn in 1871, with nothing above us but grey and a boy named Sam Heddle asking every night if the sky had given up yet. So Tomasz drew him a heart. He'd seen it once off Madeira, a heart of stars hanging over the water, its left curve a line of bright ones leading home, and its right side breaking apart into smaller and smaller stars that tumbled outward like sparks off a forge. He drew it on the back of a chart and pinned it above the bunk, and Sam slept better for it.

Then the foremast went in a squall off the Falklands, and two men went over with it. The captain ordered the chart burned, said a sailor's heart was a fool's compass. Tomasz didn't argue. He folded it small and kept it in his pocket instead. Later, when the sky cleared, he unfolded it under the binnacle and counted the scattered stars on the right side, giving each one a name. Sam was the last. Tomasz pressed his thumb to the lowest star on the outward trail, where the line of the heart nearly reached the edge of the page.

We made Valparaiso with thirteen of us aboard and the mainmast held together with rope and prayer. Tomasz paid off his debts, bought a new pencil, and drew one more star beside the others, though nobody could say which man it was for. He always said the empty ones were the ones you kept your eyes open for.