“Once, Clo, once there were some boys playing by a pond where there lived a small family of frogs.…”
They walked through the shadows of trees. Her father’s voice rose and fell, rose and fell. Her own steps rose and fell, rose and fell. The story drifted through the air as they walked and walked and walked through the forest and into the darkness settling around them.
In the darkness, rising and falling, in the dark of the ship, rising and falling, the floor of the ship, rising and falling, rising and falling, Clo finally slipped into a profound, dreamless sleep.
Only a fffa- fluttered on her lips.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
IN WHICH THE PEBBLE-MOUTHED MAN APOLOGIZES
WHEN CLO AWOKE, SHE WAS JUMPING REPEATEDLY OVER the village wall, no, falling repeatedly over the wall, no, being thrown repeatedly over the wall, no, no, no; she was in the dark and in her bed and being shaken by her father, no, by angry villagers, no, by hounds that had been set on her, no—the smell, the smell—the sea, the sea, the salt, she was underwater, no, in a net, no, in the belly of a fish, no, in a ship, a ship…
When Clo awoke in darkness, in terror, the gentle rocking of the boat had given way to violent roiling, up and down and up and down, movement that sent her thumping against the things in the dark, and the lappings of the waves had turned into crashings at which the boat creaked and groaned.
Reality came back to her in a sickening wave. Grief and dread rose in her all at once—she knew where she was. She did not want to know where she was. Her father. Haros. A ship. A ship.
She stood shakily, feeling that she needed to get out of this terrible, wallowing darkness, but on her feet, still in blackness, the buffeting grew worse; she could not keep her balance. And standing, she was suddenly ill—her stomach churned with the violence of the waves.
“Oh…”
She retched. But as she had neither eaten nor drunk in many hours, the retching was empty and terrible.
“Oh…”
She collapsed back into the ropes. If only the crazed rocking would stop. The ship rose… and crashed… and rose… and crashed. Clo curled herself into the darkness.
“Stop. Please.”
She could not hold any thought in her head except her desire for that movement to end. How long it went on, how long she lay trying to quiet the nausea rocking within her and willing the rocking outside to end, she could not say, but after a time, she became aware of a voice.
“Girly? Girly?”
Clo opened her eyes. The bosun stood at the door.
“Girly?” He raised a lantern. “You’ve got a bad look about you.”
Clo opened her mouth to speak, but all that came was the sound Uh.
“Come on, then, girly.” The bosun took her by the wrist and pulled her into a standing position. “The water here’s a bit rougher than we usually take, and with you deep in the bow, yer feelin’ the worst of it. This locker’s not called the hell for nothing, though none of us usually much notices. Can you hold this?” Pushing her cloak-wrapped bundle at her, he maneuvered her into the passage. “Haros says yer t’ come on th’ deck. Others’re all down below, an’ they don’t get the same sick. ’S been a while since we’ve had a half passage. The air’ll help, it will.”
Rocked and wobbling, barely able to stay upright, Clo was obliged to lean on the bosun for balance. His sea-rot breath fanned over her, and she turned away, afraid she would retch again. She desperately wanted to be anywhere, anywhere but this dark, crashing room. She had to get out.
“Come, then, girly, yer in a bad way. Jus’ a bit farther now. Up those stairs, an’—”
A whiff of air entered from above.
“Oh…” Releasing the bosun’s arm, Clo clambered up the stairs. Air, she must have air. Reaching the top, she took a long, deep breath. Air. Another breath. Air, salt, and wind. A shade of nausea evaporated.
“All right, then, girly. There you go.” Coming up behind her, the bosun prodded her to step onto the deck. “There you go.”
Still rocking, the world came into focus. Everything, Clo saw, was swathed in gray: gray tatters of mist that shifted and slid over the sky and sea, with only the roiling waves breaking across their form now and again. Clo felt the enormity of the rocking world around her, the immensity of the distance they had traveled.
“Where are we?” Her voice cracked in distress. “Is my father here? Has he come?”
Turned away, the bosun did not seem to hear.
Clo pulled on his sleeve. “Where is my father?” she cried over the wind. “Where are we?”
“Take this.” Without answering, the bosun pushed something firm and woodlike into her hand. “Ship biscuit. Scrounged it up for you. A bite or two’ll help settle yer stomach. And help smooth out yer teeth, too.”
Her stomach churning with dread—Where was her father?—Clo did not want to eat. But with the brown cracker now in her hand, she nibbled—then gnawed—at its edge.
“An’ some water. Look there.” He pointed. “Ladle in the bucket. Keep it on the deck t’ catch the rain when it falls.”
She had not realized she was thirsty, but seeing the bucket, she rushed desperately to it. Grabbing the ladle, she drank greedily: gulp after gulp of water. Salt- and oak-tasting water. She could not drink enough. When had she ever been so thirsty? It felt as though she had not drunk in days. Weeks.
“Apologies for forgettin’ you, girly. Didn’t mean to leave you there so long.”
“What do you mean?” Clo ran the back of her hand over her lips. “I only slept for a bit, I think.” She drank again, watching the bosun over the ladle.
“Ah…” The bosun looked uncomfortable. “So you slept, then? Felt like you slept? That’s good.” He looked out over the water. “Nearly there now. The waves’ll tell you that—always fiercest drawin’ close.”
“Nearly there?” Clo looked apprehensively into the grayness surrounding the ship. She could see no sign of land. “Nearly where?”
“Yer half passage. ’S why the captain called for you to come up. He’ll need us to row out soon as he gives his signal.”
“Is my father here?” Clo struggled to hide the unsteadiness in her voice. “Or there?”
“I’ve got no other half passage now, girly.” Working on the knots of a rope that lashed a dinghy to the rail, the bosun frowned. “That’s not to say he won’t come. He’ll come sometime. I can promise that. But yer half passage is on yer own now.”
Clo, considering the bosun’s words with ever-growing alarm, gnawed again on the biscuit. It did not taste like promise. Or always. It tasted hard and dry and bitter.
“I’ll take you there, o’ course. Haros was of a mind to leave you to the swabbies, let one of them row you, as we’d had no plans for a half passage, an’ when they all refused, he thought he’d leave you to yerself, but yer a slip of a thing, and leavin’ you to row through that”—he nodded at the waves—“well… half passage or no, it’s a fearful thing.”
“I’m not a slip of a thing.” Clo felt her face grow hot. She thought of the wall-climbing and wall-jumping and field-running and forest-trekking and dark and alone and brave, and knew she was not a slip of a thing. Still, looking into the waves that tossed and pushed and sent the three-masted ship rocking and heaving, she knew she did not want to be left alone in them.