The Girl, the Cat and the Navigator

by Matilda Woods

  Oona had tried to find out their identity. One year she had dusted salt on her window sill. In the morning she had found the imprint of a hand on top. But it was smeared so much she couldn’t even make out the fingerprints let alone use them to find out who the hand had belonged to. Another year, she set a trap with sailor’s string. She tied one end of the string across the outside of the window and the other end to her wrist. The plan had been for her to wake up when the stranger accidentally pressed against the string. But the stranger must have seen it, for, in the morning the string was still there, untouched, while a new present sat beside it.

  When her second idea failed, Oona tried a third. If she couldn’t wake up when the stranger arrived, she would have to stay awake all night. The plan had been going well. Midnight had passed and she had still been awake. But then she had started to yawn and her eyes had grown heavy. She stayed awake until one in the morning, but by two she was fast asleep. Oona awoke just before dawn to the sight of Gillbert sitting on her window sill. She had raced over to the window and peered outside just in time to see the glint of a ladder in the moonlight and the shadow of someone carrying it.

  The shadow had looked small, and Oona wondered who it belonged to. Had it belonged to one of the boys at school or perhaps to another girl? This possibility made her very excited: she’d never had a friend her own age before.

  Oona wondered what present the stranger would give her this year. But then she realized something. By the time she turned eleven she would be in the South. Whoever the stranger was, she doubted they would find her all the way down there.

  At the thought of never receiving another present from her secret friend, Oona’s heart sank. She had hoped to receive a third book this year – perhaps one about sea cats or famous captains. But she knew she should just be grateful for the two books she already had. After all, without them she wouldn’t have any, and her knowledge of this world would have come entirely from Nordlor itself.

  Two days after learning she was going south, Oona had snuck into the roof of the village hall for another day of learning. But before the lesson began, shouting came from below. Only the shouts weren’t coming from inside. They were coming from the street beyond.

  Oona peered through one of the wooden roof tiles. Outside a crowd had gathered and was marching towards the river. They were all chattering about the same thing: a shipwreck had washed up in Nordlor Harbour.

  Oona raced through the lanes of Nordlor. The sea cobbles that lined the village glistened blue and then green and then silver beneath her feet. Even through the soles of her shoes the cobbles felt wet, like they had just been dredged out of the sea. Oona had to tread lightly or else she might have slipped. To Oona, it felt like she was walking on top of the ocean. It was the closest she had ever been to the Northern Sea.

  When Oona reached Nordlor Harbour she pulled herself to a stop and stared up, in awe, at the skeleton of a vast ship.

  Oona had never seen a shipwreck before. She had only ever seen broken ships that had already been pulled apart and built back up into something new.

  The sea currents had pushed the ship on to Nordlor’s shore. Despite all the water that had seeped out of it, the ship looked soggy, like the weight of the entire ocean weighed it down. Every section of wood was charred black. Oona thought a fire must have destroyed it, but then she saw the holes.

  Eight holes, each one perfectly round and larger than a man, were ripped into the hull.

  “It’s not natural,” a sailor standing near Oona said. “No storm could create holes that shape.”

  Oona’s eyes moved from the holes dotting the hull to the deck of the ship. Despite the charred wood, she could still make out the smooth curve of the rails, the roof of the bridge and the distinct shape of a small seagull carved into the bow. The seagull’s wings were outstretched, like it had been frozen and encased in wood at the exact moment it took flight. Oona recognized the statue. She had seen a sketch of it in one of her books: the one about the greatest shipwrecks. This must be the Gandering Gull.

  At the same time Oona recognized the ship, so too did several people around her. Within seconds, everyone was shouting or talking or whispering about the Gandering Gull.

  “It’s the eighth greatest shipwreck of all time,” someone said. They must have owned a copy of the same book as Oona.

  “It disappeared without a trace fifty years ago, in the coldest winter ever recorded in the North,” said another. “It was sighted by another ship as it passed Fisherman’s Hell. Then, it was never seen again.”

  “It was built right here in Nordlor,” said a third person. He was an old man – one of the oldest in the village. “I remember watching it set sail for the first time, and also for the last.”

  “I always thought the men froze in their sleep,” said a woman. Tears shone in her eyes; her father had been a member of the crew. “But, alas, they must have burned instead.”

  Talk of what had sunk the Gandering Gull soon turned to talk of what it could be taken apart and rebuilt into.

  “My workshop’s getting old,” yelled a man standing near the stern. “Maybe I could build a new one.”

  “I’ve always wanted a second bakery,” said Mister Blom greedily.

  “You can have the hull and the deck for your bakery,” offered Mister Bjorkman. “But can I have the mast for my tower?”

  “Of course not,” snapped Lady Summer. “You’ve already got fifty masts. Besides, I need the wood – deck, hull, mast and bridge – to build a summerhouse. They’re all the rage down south.”

  Though she did not say anything, Oona knew what she would turn the ship into. If she could have it her way, the Gandering Gull would not be broken apart and built back up into something new. It would be restored, so the great ship could sail upon the Northern Sea once more. And maybe, just perhaps, she could captain the ship herself!

  Hours after the crowd dispersed and all the people of Nordlor were lying tucked up in their warm beds, a thin cat left one ship and sauntered towards another. The cat was called Barnacles and he hated walking on land almost as much as land cats hated swimming in water. But he kept going, for he had somewhere important to be.

  When Barnacles reached the wreckage of the Gandering Gull he stopped walking and sat down. The blue waves that crashed inside his eyes stilled and, for a moment, he looked just like a land cat. He let out a sad meow and stared mournfully at the broken ship.

  Barnacles knew the ship well. After all, it used to be his own. He had sailed on it for eighteen years before it was destroyed. He still couldn’t remember what had sunk it. All he could recall was being hit on the head with something hot and heavy at dawn. When he next awoke it was night-time and he stood on the bridge of a newly built ship in Whitlock.

  That’s how things worked in the North. Every sea cat had nine lives and lived them on nine ships. They didn’t really have a particular role on their ships. They were more like a mascot – a good-luck charm – that made sure the ships returned home after months at sea. The Gandering Gull had been Barnacles’ seventh ship; the Plucky Leopard was his ninth. He really did not want her to sink. When she did, that would be it. All his lives would end, and he would never rise to sail upon the Northern Sea again.

  Two months had passed since he last went to sea on the Plucky Leopard. Barnacles loved the ship itself, but he didn’t love the captain. In fact, Barnacles hated Captain Britt almost as much as the captain hated him. It wasn’t normal; captains usually loved their sea cats. But Captain Britt treated Barnacles like he wanted to steal the ship, not keep it safe. He didn’t seem to understand that sea cats weren’t like humans. They didn’t want to captain their own ship or command their own crew. They just wanted the privilege of sailing on the ship: the thrill of being on the Northern Sea.

  Despite the way the captain treated him, Barnacles sure missed sailing on the Plucky Leopard. He missed the feeling of ocean frost dotting his whiskers in the morning. He missed standing on the bow as the ship
ploughed through the icy water. He missed the sound of arctic gulls squawking in the air and then squealing as he sliced at them with his paw. He never ate them, of course. He only ate things with fins or scales. Yes. A fine sea bass drizzled with butter. A plump cod roasted on an open fire. Or a pawful of fresh arctic clams.

  Barnacles purred and licked his whiskers. Then, his thoughts returned to the ship before him. He had loved the time he spent on board the Gandering Gull. It was the best crew he had ever sailed with, and the captain had been the kindest man he had ever met. Barnacles hoped that somehow the men had survived. But, looking at the holes ripped into the hull and the burned and twisted wood, he knew deep down that on the day it sank he hadn’t been the only one to drown.

  THE STORY OF THE NARDOOS

  As the richest man in Nordlor, Oona’s father could afford the most expensive house. Located at 31, Whalebone Lane, it was three storeys high and towered over all the homes around it. Each floor was built from a different ship: the Sea Deer, the Crustacean and the Limping Lynx. Yet despite the vast size of the place she called home, Oona lived in the cramped and dusty attic.

  Oona’s parents said it was because they had no spare rooms. But Oona had seen the empty room on the third floor. It was painted blue and had eight round windows that looked north, right along the fjord that led to the Northern Sea. When Oona had asked if she could have that room, her parents had told her it was a guest room, even though no guest had ever stayed in it. But still, she couldn’t complain too much. After all, her attic also had a window, and if she pressed her nose right up against the cold glass she could glimpse the main square and the dock that held her father’s ship.

  The day after the Gandering Gull washed into Nordlor, Oona found herself sitting beside this very window reading one of her books. School had been cancelled for the day and she wanted to keep herself occupied.

  At first Oona read about the disappearance of the Gandering Gull. But then she was drawn to her second book. For hours she became lost amongst the tales inked inside: tales of giant, magical creatures that called the North home. She read about the nasty kraken that picked ships up in the air and crushed them into splinters. The giant cetus that could swallow an entire ship in one bite. And the cheeky trolls that stole ships when they docked in harbour. Soon, the entire day had passed and outside the moon was rising.

  Oona lit a whale-wax candle and read the last chapter of her book. It was about her favourite creature of all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE TALE OF THE NARDOOS

  Thousands of years ago the entire world was covered in ice and everywhere was as cold as the North. Along with whales and fish and seals, creatures called nardoos lived in the sea. But the nardoos didn’t just swim in the water. They made the water, they made the sky, they made the snow and they made the wind.

  The nardoos were bigger than whales, brighter than the summer sun and kinder than the kindest man. They were gentle beasts that swam through the waters during the day and flew through the stars at night.

  It is said that when they cried, the nardoo’s tears floated up into the sky and became clouds that fell back down as rain. It is said that wherever they flew they left trails of brilliant lights behind. It is said they had the power to push away the stars with their fins and sweep away the moon with their tails. And when they swam the currents in the ocean changed. They were called the creatures of the North and they used to be as common as fish.

  But times changed. Just like we hunt whales today, the men of the past hunted nardoos. They speared them with their swords, trapped them in their nets and hauled them out of the sea. Then, when they died, they turned them into soup.

  To escape the men who hunted them, the nardoos fled north, taking the ice, the snow and the winter storms with them. Now, instead of saving people lost at sea, they hide from them. It’s said that if they all die the ice will melt and flood the world. People will have to live on ships until the sun burns all the water away and then we will all burn too.

  When Oona finished reading, not for the first time she wondered if the nardoos were real.

  “They’re probably just a story,” Oona whispered to herself. Nothing like that could really exist. After all, nothing was bigger than a whale and no animal could fly as high as the moon. But, the Northern Lights were real. Oona had never seen them herself, but once she overheard a fisherman speaking about how he liked to fall asleep beneath them.

  “They look like an artist has sneaked into the heavens and used the sky for a canvas,” the man had said one night while he drank outside the Rusted Anchor. “Sometimes the lights are so bright and so big you forget they’re half a moon away and reach out to touch them. But your fingers only close around empty air.”

  Once, in a moment of weakness, Oona had told Trine about the story and asked if she thought the creatures might be real: the rare and gentle nardoo, the wicked kraken and the giant cetus. But even she, by far the nicest of her six sisters, had just laughed. And then Oona’s parents had laughed too, when Trine told them of the tale their youngest daughter believed.

  “I’ll tell you this,” her father had said in one of the few moments he actually spoke to her. “I know those seas better than every man in the North. And there’s no magic up there, just ice, fish and, if you’re lucky, a few fat whales.”

  Maybe her father was right, Oona thought. Maybe there was no magic in the North, or anywhere in the world. But she really hoped there was. Because a world without magic would be a very dull world indeed.

  At the same time Oona Britt was reading the story of the nardoos, Freydis Spits was wading gingerly into the icy water of Nordlor Harbour. Freydis hated this part of the job. Usually, the waves pushed the shells on to the shore and she just had to scoop them out of the sand. But sometimes, like tonight, the waters of the North stilled and she had to go into the sea to fetch them.

  Freydis took a deep breath and stuck her head beneath the water. Her fingers closed around a shell and, shivering, she pulled her head back out. The stars in the sky glinted, like they were laughing. Freydis hoped this shell was the one. She held it to her ear and groaned. There were no whispers inside.

  “Foxes and thunder!” Freydis cursed. She threw the shell back into the harbour. “I’ll have to go in deeper.” She took off her elk-skin cloak, laid it on the shore and dived into the water. She swam down to the bottom of the harbour and pushed her fingers through the sand. Just as she ran out of air, her hand closed around a large shell and her skin tingled.

  Freydis kicked to the surface and swam to the shore. She raised the shell to her ear and her eyes lit up.

  “Yes!” she said. “This will do. This will do nicely. I’m sure to fetch a whole gold crown for this.”

  Freydis threw on her cloak and raced towards the village square. For the first time in ten years, she had a future to sell.

  That night, unaware of Freydis’ latest fortune, the villagers of Nordlor dreamed of all sorts of wonderful things. In his tower, Mister Bjorkman dreamed of finding a mast so high that if he stood at the peak he could see all the way to the top of the world. In his cottage, Haroyld Nordstrom dreamed that the daughter he had lost was never lost at all. And in her home, Lady Summer dreamed of the roses and tulips that dotted the southern lane where she used to live. While most people dreamed of imaginary things or places and people who lived far, far away, one person dreamed of her sister who slept only one floor above.

  When Trine was younger she had believed what her older sisters told her. She had believed it when they said Oona was stupid. She had believed it when they said Oona was unkind. And she had believed it when they said their father’s bad temper was all Oona’s fault. But as Trine had grown up, her thoughts had grown with her. She had begun to realize Oona wasn’t so bad. In fact, there were a lot of things about Oona that Trine really liked.

  Trine liked the way Oona spoke up for herself and told people how she felt. She liked the way Oona argued for what she believed in, like
the time she asked the village elders if she could go to school. And she liked the way Oona tried new things, like the time she taught herself how to swim.

  In Nordlor, no one jumped into the river, not for anything. Even in summer it was cold enough to turn you blue. But Oona had dived in over and over again, for weeks and weeks on end. Slowly, she had edged further away from the shore until she could float and then swim in water higher than herself.

  Everyone in their family, and almost everyone in the village, had laughed as Oona jumped in and out of the river. But while her parents laughed and her sisters did too, Trine had stood there wishing she could be as brave and bold as Oona. But Trine doubted she could ever be that. She was too much like her older sisters.

  AN EARLY WINTER

  The following morning Oona awoke to the cries of a woman running up and down the lane outside screaming, “I’ve sold one. I’ve finally sold one!” By the time Oona got dressed and made it out the front door, the woman was gone. But her cries remained. Oona followed them through the winding lanes of Nordlor until she reached the main square. A crowd had gathered in its centre.

  “What’s happening?” Oona asked a woman in wolfskin standing at the back.

  “Apparently, the captain’s bought another fortune,” the woman said without looking Oona’s way. “I can’t believe he did it. Not after what happened the first time. It was so embarrassing, and the whole village was there to see it.” At that moment, the woman glanced at the child she spoke to and blushed. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

  Leaving the woman in wolfskin behind, Oona made her way through the crowd. When she reached the front, her eyes fell upon Freydis Spits.

  The once-famed fortune teller stood in the middle of Nordlor’s main square. Her clothes were in tatters and her hair was a mess. The only thing that looked clean and new was a silver coin clutched triumphantly in her hand.