“She looks tired out,” said the innkeeper’s wife, also stout and white haired, who had just emerged onto the stoop. “Come in, both of you. Miss Sentith, it’s good to meet you. You’d like a bath, I daresay.”
“Gar … Papa suggested I visit the baths tomorrow,” said Genevieve as she stepped through the open door into a neat little foyer, and from that into a large room with a warm stove in its middle.
“Aha,” cried Mrs. Fentwig. “He hasn’t been here for months, so he doesn’t know! We now have a bath-room, two, in fact, one for ladies and one for gentlemen. We already had water piped in for other things, so Fentwig decided to bring water from the nearest hot spring uphill. We built a room, all nicely tiled, and the cooper made us half a dozen comfortable tubs. It’s all clean and toasty warm in there, so you have a bath, dear, you look as though you could use one. Nothing like hot water to soothe away a long day on a horse!”
“Go along, Imma,” said Garth, waving her away in Mrs. Fentwig’s care. “Take your packet with you. Meantime, I’ll see to getting us some rooms.”
“Roast leg of lamb for supper tonight,” Fentwig cried after Genevieve’s departing form. “Boned and rolled around a stuffing of dried mushrooms, mint, basil, thyme, and parsley, with roast garlic and sea-potatoes on the side.”
“Oh,” said Garth, rubbing his hands together and turning with his back to the fire. “How fortunate I feel.”
“Up at the Highlands, were you? Did you buy those bottles you were set on?”
“I did. Lovely little things they are, too. Here’s a sample.” And again, he dug out the little bottle and presented it for inspection. “Wouldn’t any woman, old or young, like a dear bottle like that, sitting before the mirror on her pretty-shelf?”
“Well, Mrs. Fentwig would, for sure, and our daughters no less. When you come this way next, Sentith, bring one for each of my womenfolk.”
So they chatted about nothing very much while Genevieve lay in a curtained cubicle, warm water up to her chin, half floating, the scented steam gathering on her face, for Mrs. Fentwig had come in to whip the bathwater with a bundle of herbs that had lent a soft, clean smell, like rain in a garden. Though Genevieve had been careful not to think of Aufors during all the miles she had ridden for the last two days, the warm water loosened all her constraints and her mind flew to him like iron to a magnet, clinging. Oh, Aufors! The touch of the water was the warmth of his mouth, the embrace of the flannel was the touch of his hands, and there was a tremor inside her, a molten feeling, as though she had become a little fire mountain, flowing with white hot stone, no longer rigid and hard but liquid, shapeless, capable of running over or around everything, anything in its path. Oh, this was a twitch of the loins indeed!
She had not really known she was in love with him until the moment of leaving him. She had wanted to be with him, surely, because he flattered her and she felt wonderful in his company, but she had not known this feeling until he held her. Barbara had been right, quite right, a twitch of the loins was unmistakable! Oh, she would willingly give up being part of the nobility if that would let her be with Aufors. She would love to be common, common as he! As Alicia’s first husband had been! And safer for it!
She sighed, giving up thought. Thought did no good at all.
So determined, she dozed until the water began to cool, at which point she came out of the water like a pearl from the waves and dove into the folds of the thick towel that had been warming on the pipes from the hot spring, and thence into clean garments while the tub glugged itself empty. She was rosy and warm when she went back through the common room into the kitchen where both the Fentwigs were busy.
“Imma, my dear, but you look rested.”
“I am, Papa. The lovely bath was almost enough to make me forget my disappointment in Upland.”
“Disappointment, my dear?” asked Mrs. Fentwig. “Who would disappoint such a lovely child?”
Which led to the story of the bad cold and how she had seen absolutely nothing, so the whole trip had been less than amusing. “But, I feel very well, now, and I’m looking forward to the sail home.”
“Sail, Sentith? This time of year?” Fentwig opened his eyes wide, miming astonishment.
“Now should be possible,” said Garth. “It’s windy, I grant you, but—”
“Windy! This season is a good bit more than windy. If you’re going to sail south, well, you’ll have to wait a few days on the Northerlies, which’ll be even breezier! The islands of the Drowned Range don’t protect the lagoon as well as once they did, now they’re being drowned all over again!”
“Still, it’s the quickest way home,” said Garth comfortably. “Eight or ten days instead of twice that on a horse! We can sail close to shore and put in if there’s a gale, and I’m sure you’ll find someone to take us.”
“Some lunatic,” opined Mrs. Fentwig. “Like Weird Wigham.”
“Weird Wigham, exactly,” cried Garth. “The very person!”
“Who is Weird Wigham?” begged Genevieve.
Garth said, “Why, Imogene, he’s a strange old youngster or young oldster who rejoices in doing the different on weekdays and the ridiculous on holidays. And he has a boat, which is the most relevant thing about him.”
“Dinner first,” pronounced Mrs. Fentwig, much to Genevieve’s approval. “Then a good sleep, and Wigham tomorrow.”
Wigham was a long armed and stringy fellow who leapt through life with a jerky lack of conviction, like a marionette handled by an unpracticed puppeteer. His white hair billowed around his head like a fume of smoke. His protruding ears were reddish, as was his skin elsewhere, though little of it showed, for he was habitually dressed in a brightly woven shirt covered by stout canvas overalls stuffed into a pair of enormous red boots. Wigham’s boat was called the Unlikely Duck, though it was referred to by Wigham himself as Unlikely, which leant a strange flavor to the conversation.
“Unlikely’ll get there,” said Wigham. “Unlikely, she’s a good old girl.”
Old she was, as even Genevieve could see, though she looked well enough kept. She had a small, clean galley below, and beyond it a tiny cabin with two bunks hung high on the bulkheads with slant-backed cupboards below, out of the headroom of the table and benches, plus a tiny cubby forward, with a short bed athwartships and one tiny porthole. “You can have the cubby, girl,” said Wigham. “Your pa an’ I’ll do with the cabin. Since it’s only me taking you and your pa’s indifferent as a sailor, we’ll anchor near shore at night to get our rest.”
“The wind’s blowing the wrong way, isn’t it?” Genevieve asked, for she hadn’t taken time to rebraid her hair, and it streamed northward like a flag.
“Now it is. The Northerlies’ll be comin’ any day, how-somever, and once they do, they’ll be goin’ on an’ on until we’re sick of ‘em.”
“Will we see the Golden Talking Fish of Merdune Lagoon?” she asked. “Prince Thum—ah, yes, someone I met on this trip said someone named Prince Thumsort talked about them.”
She knew she had made a faux pas, but she thought she had covered it until she saw that Garth’s face was white, and no less Weird Wigham’s. This individual took himself onto the top of his cabin with a leap and a cackle and there began to do a rooster dance, hands tucked into armpits and elbows flapping, crowing as he bowed and pranced, head darting this way and that.
“He’s dancing to avert ill luck,” murmured Garth.
“I’m sorry,” she faltered. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Well, he doesn’t know who Thumsort is.” Garth smiled. “But he caught on to the ‘Prince’ part of the title. Weird isn’t fond of the nobility.”
“Don’t know who he is,” crowed Wigham from his perch, “but he’s no business talking of … them.”
“The man she spoke of comes from over in Sealand,” called Garth. “You know they haven’t good sense over there.”
“Well, I know that. Nowhere near the sea! Not good sense at all. Well, young lady, your papa
should have warned you. That’s not something we talk of here in Merdune. Don’t take them lightly. Nosir.”
Genevieve actually started to say that the Duchess of Merdune had been there at the time, but caught herself before the words came out. Instead, she apologized, saying she was very sorry, she hadn’t realized.
“Those particular fish,” whispered Garth, “are said to be magical by some, and it is considered unlucky to speak of them.”
Weird came down from the cabin top and the two men set about their business, Wigham ignoring her ostentatiously, though Garth nodded and smiled behind his back to indicate that Wigham’s displeasure would pass.
Soon they agreed that Wigham would lay in ship’s supplies and see to the sails, Garth would see to the foodstuffs, and meantime Imogene might buy herself a few books at the Midling Wells shop, for the boat offered no amusement and the weather might be too chilly for spending much time on deck. They would set sail when Weird Wigham, in his sole opinion (this intention delivered in a declamatory voice, with one or two flaps of the wings) declared that the Northerlies were underway.
So for three days they stayed at Fentwig’s House, eating well and catching up on their sleep. Genevieve spent some of the time walking along the shore, well wrapped against the chill, tirelessly investigating the shoreline. There were many shells to be picked up, and in some places stone walls and truncated chimneys protruded from the surf, the remains of farms that had been swallowed by the sea when the waters rose. At two houses just above the waterline, people were busy moving house, barns, fences, and stock to higher ground.
What time she was not exploring, she spent in the lovely bath. In either case, lest she make another mistake in conversation that would give pretense away, she stayed as far as possible from Mrs. Fentwig, who was an avid talker and a keen questioner.
On the fourth day, quite early in the morning, they left their horses to be used by Fentwig until Garth’s return, and departed on Unlikely as she plowed sturdily away toward the south. After a precautionary lap or two about the deck, wings flapping and voice raised in imprecation against all evils of air, water, or reef, Wigham settled to the wheel. The winds were brisk, and though both Garth and Genevieve were arrant amateurs, their help was needed to set the sails. Genevieve surprised herself by learning first to keep her footing on a surface which tipped in every direction, sometimes in several of them at once, and then by learning what each rope was for and how each of them worked. By afternoon she was able to haul on this one or let go that one at command. So the first day passed swiftly by. Though Genevieve found herself sore from the unaccustomed bracing and bending, reaching, and pulling, by evening she was becoming adjusted to the rocking and pitching of the little boat. By nightfall they were at the southern end of the Tail, ready to run along the Rump on the morning. They anchored in a small bay open to the southeast, and when dark fell, they could see the lights of Eales, where the Covenantor’s Tribunal stood, its watch towers blooming in the southern dark like so many stars.
During the night, Genevieve dreamed of swimming. It seemed to her that she swooped and soared, and she woke with the feeling still strong for the ship was indeed swooping as it moved. With momentary panic, she realized that it was no longer anchored but was speedily going somewhere. She crawled from her cubby into the cabin, where Garth and Wigham lay exhaustedly asleep, and when she went between them and struggled her way onto the deck, she had to cling to the railing for dear life. She could not find the land that had lain close on the evening before. Spray washed over her, wetting her to her skin and the pitching, roiling ship seemed to be determined to go in three or more directions at once!
She opened her mouth to shout for the menfolks and half turned toward the cabin to summon them, but was frozen in place, clinging to the rail, as she stared across a narrow river of water between the ship and something huge and marvelous that paralleled their track. It was golden. It glowed. Though it lay almost entirely within the water, protruding only slightly above the wave-roughened surface, it was many times larger than the ship. It rolled away from her, disclosing amid wrinkled lids one great eye that stared across at her. The eye stared, the boat flew, the night roared with wind, and the long moment slipped by until the golden being rolled away from her and slipped beneath the waves once more, momentarily waving its enormous tail behind it. From below, coming up at her from the planks beneath her feet, Genevieve heard the sound of its singing.
Without any decision at all, from long training in the cellars of Langmarsh House, she leaned over the rail and sang a reply into the night, the sound going out over the water, a higher echo of the sound from below. She stretched across the rail, far, far out, putting out one hand to feel the spray, feeling the call of the depths, wanting to let go, leap out …
Then the sail flapped angrily, the boat heeled. Genevieve staggered and shouted in sudden fear. The men, thus wakened, stumbled onto the deck and soon found the broken anchor rope, nibbled along its underwater length and at one point chewed through.
“What did this?” cried Garth.
“Damfino,” muttered Wigham, not meeting his eyes “Not anything I’ve seen, I’ll tell you. Rope-eaters we have now! It an’t enough they chew the planks, now they’re eating the ropes.”
“You should’ve used chain,” growled Garth.
“Well, and if it was cheap, I would,” growled Wigham in return. “But chain is metal and metal an’t cheap, and we’ve never had rope-eaters before. Now an’t this a pickle?” He muttered and gibbered, pulling his hair into witches’ locks and turning this way and that in an attempt to get his bearings.
“Where are we?” whispered Genevieve, not daring or even wishing to speak of what had happened to her. She had heard the song of the depths. She had sung it in return. She knew exactly what it was—or what her mother had called it.
“East, a good way,” said Wigham, bracing himself at the rail. “Over the deeps of the Lagoon. Oh, it goes down, here, way down. The sea’s come up over the reefs these last few years, and the coral didn’t close off all the ways between the isles, in any case. Under the coral, deep down, there’s tunnels that go out to the sea.” He paused, as though regretting what he had said, adding as amelioration: “Or so they say.”
Garth called, “There’s the tops of the Mountains of the Tail, away north. They’re just lit by morning.”
Like a rose satin ruching on the skirt of the sky, the stiff folds of the mountains lay against the northwest horizon, extending in a ruffled arc to eastward, where soft-lit satin became saw-toothed iron against the dawn. Wigham, shouting instructions to the two of them, tried to tack back to coastal waters, all to no avail, for the wind pressed them strongly to the southeast as the northern mountains slowly disappeared over the horizon.
“We can wear ourselves out tacking toward the coast,” said Wigham at last, “or we can give in to fate and sail on to the Drowned Range. We’re past half there already, and though it’ll lengthen the journey slightly, it’ll be easier on us and Unlikely. There’s anchorage all along the Range on the lee sides of the islands.”
Garth confessed himself ignorant of the geography of the Drowned Range, and it was with some trepidation that he watched out the rest of the morning while the little boat plowed strongly through the waves, leaving a curled wake full of dancing fishes behind her. Genevieve scarcely noticed. In her mind she was still back in the night, clinging to the rail, singing with immensity. What had it meant? Mother had never told her what it meant! Perhaps she, herself, had not known.
“Why are they following us?” Garth asked, pointing to the fishes in the wake.
“They always do that,” called Wigham, from his position at the wheel. “They like looking at us.”
This brought Genevieve to the aft rail, where she looked down at the fish in return, small fat golden fishes with large eyes that faced more front than sideways. Beneath them, never appearing above the water, lay an enormous golden shadow.
“Do you eat that
kind?” Garth cried.
Wigham shook his head. “Bad luck to eat that kind.”
Genevieve noticed he had not actually looked at the fish, to see what kind they were. In fact, ever since the chewed rope had been found, he had kept his eyes resolutely away from the water around the boat. She had been going to mention the golden shadow, but thought better of it.
“What kind do you eat?” she called.
“Mostly skinny silver fish of various kinds. And on the reefs there are squeels and nonopuses and saltwater craylets.” His elbow wings flapped several times, telling her she was approaching a forbidden topic.
She asked nothing more. The golden shadow had departed. Except for the small golden fish, there was only water dancing in the wind and throwing sequined light into their eyes, splintered as a shattered mirror. No land showed at all, and only Wigham’s compass told them they still kept to the same course. Genevieve helped prepare and eat a scratched-together luncheon. Hours later, when the fight began to fail, she and Garth again went to the food stores, but within moments Wigham called them on deck to point out a line of foam eastward and a lone light southward, red in the center, with a white beam either side.
“That’s the light at Near Ledge Isle,” cried Wigham. “Hold off supper until we come to anchorage. We’ll sail a little farther east, then turn south to bring us in on the lee side of Ledge Isle, with Far Ledge Isle seaward. You two hold yourselves ready now, and we’ll be at quiet water in the hour.”
As they were, though they were covered with gooseflesh and soaked through before they lay to in a cupped bay of still water opening only to the north. Lacking an anchor, they might float gently ashore, said Wigham, but they could not be driven asea.
“Looky there,” he called. “Water-babies!”
Genevieve leaned on the rail to see the curious creatures swimming below, much like human babies when seen from the back, mostly buttocks and kicking legs, but when they turned over they were froggy things with wide mouths and hair that floated like waterweed. They seemed harmless enough as they circled the boat, swimming on their backs, peering up at the humans, gargling from their wide mouths as though they laughed.
Singer From the Sea Page 28