Drowned Ammet (UK)

by Diana Wynne Jones

  It occurred to Ynen that if Al was this alert, the thing to do was to make use of him. “How well do you know the coast?” he asked him.

  “Like the back of my hand,” Al said over his shoulder. “Told you I’d been around, guvnor.”

  “Then could you stay on deck?” said Ynen.

  Al said nothing. He simply went into the cabin and back to sleep again.

  But as things turned out, they had no need of Al, nor of the charts, that day. The wind continued light. No land appeared. It was clear that they were in for another night of standing watches.

  “We’d best turn due North,” Mitt said. “We could run aground in the night on this course.” And again he settled to take the dawn watch.

  Ynen called Mitt earlier than usual. The sky was hardly beginning to pale. But Ynen was horribly sleepy. He kept nodding off and kept feeling that gentle nudge in his back from Libby Beer. The last nudge was not quite so gentle. Ynen jumped awake, into air that was chilly and muggy at once, and knew something was different. Wind’s Road was riding in a high, jerky way. Ynen had not felt the like since the day they picked up Poor Old Ammet, and, for a moment, he was as terrified as he had been that first night, when there was space all round him and Mitt crying out in the cabin. He put his hand on Libby Beer to steady himself and realised that the only thing to do was to wake Mitt.

  “I think we must be in coastal waters,” he said to Mitt as he fell on to the warm bunk Mitt had just left.

  Mitt knew they had been in coastal waters since yesterday. He got to the tiller before he was really awake. While he was furiously jerking the rope from the mainsail, which Ynen had tied in a manner Siriol would have given him the rope’s end for, Mitt could tell Wind’s Road was in alarmingly shallow water. He searched that paler side of the sky, but there was only misty darkness. Yet while he searched, he could hear the roar and rumble of waves breaking.

  “Flaming Ammet! That’s a reef somewhere,” Mitt said. He wiped a sudden sweat out of his eyes and stared forwards into the paling dark. He thought his eyes were going to burst out of his head with the strain. He could hear the waves clearly, but he could not see a thing.

  The figure with flying light hair, half hidden by the foresail, was pointing right and slightly forwards. Yes, but which? Rocks there, or go there? Mitt wondered frantically. The tiller swung firmly left under his hand. Wind’s Road leant right, in the crisp wash and guggle of a current. Waves crashed over to Mitt’s left, and he saw the dim white lather above the rocks she had only just missed.

  “Phew!” said Mitt. “Thanks, Old Ammet. Thanks, Libby. Though I don’t know what call you have to keep on helping, with me and Al on board. I suppose you got Ynen and Hildy to consider. Thanks all the same.”

  He heard the waves round more rocks ahead as he said it. This time he did not hesitate to turn Wind’s Road as soon as he saw the light-haired figure pointing. He was pointing the other way almost at once. Waves crashed on both sides of Wind’s Road, and the white spray showed whitish yellow in the growing light. Mitt found he was following Old Ammet’s pointing arm through a maze of rocks it made him sweat just to think about. Once or twice, in spite of Old Ammet’s care, Wind’s Road’s deep keel grated, and she was snatched sideways in an undertow. Then Mitt would feel Libby Beer’s strength on the tiller, pulling them to rights. Frightened as he was, Mitt smiled. The light was growing all the time. If this kept on, he was going to see them as they really were. Old Ammet looked more of a man every second. If Mitt pushed his eyes sideways, he had glimpses of a long white hand behind his on the tiller. It was worth the danger.

  The last reef he saw clearly for himself. It was a welling and a milling of yellow water. It was nearly light. Then it was full day. The sun was up, making the sea look as if it was scattered with broken glass. The mainsail was cloth of gold; the island ahead was half golden, and the birds circling it were stabs of dazzling white; and the mist over to the right was a molten bank. The only sign of Old Ammet was a tuft of sunlit straw beyond the mast. Libby Beer was back to a coloured knobby thing, tied with string. And Mitt was so disappointed that he could think of nothing else.

  Then he came to his senses. He bent down and whispered into the cabin, “Island ahead! Come and look!”

  THERE WERE SOUNDS of heaving and stumbling inside. To Mitt’s disgust, it was Al who appeared, blinking and rubbing his bristly chin. Al glanced at the island. Then he calmly opened the locker and helped himself to the last hunk of cheesecake. Munching it, he surveyed the island again. Ynen and Hildy came out into the well. They looked first at the vanishing cheesecake, then at the island.

  “That’s Tulfa Island,” Al said, with his mouth full.

  “Are you sure?” asked Ynen. “I thought it was bigger than this.” The island was no more than a great rock, surrounded by drifting seabirds that kept up a long, melancholy crying.

  “Positive,” said Al. “You want to turn into that mist there.”

  “I’ll try,” Mitt said doubtfully. There was little wind now, and that fitful. He put the tiller over and hauled in the mainsail. Wind’s Road went dipping and swinging gently towards the mist that hid the land.

  “Watch out!” said Ynen. “The land’s awfully close!”

  It was too, Mitt realised. It was a low green hump in the mist, only about a hundred yards off. He put the tiller hard over again. Wind’s Road turned elegantly and leant along outside the mist. “This must be wrong!” Mitt said angrily to Al. “There’s no land this close to Tulfa. Do you know where we are or not?”

  “I’ve a fair idea,” said Al. “Turn round again.”

  To do that would mean tacking. Besides, Mitt did not trust Al in the least. He hesitated, and looked over his shoulder, beyond Libby Beer. And he saw a tall ship gliding out of the mist. The sun was just catching her topsails and the gold on her many pennants. Mitt turned back again. “What the—?”

  The silence of Ynen and Hildy almost warned him. Al had Hobin’s gun in his hand again. Mitt found himself looking into its six deadly black little muzzles. “You do what I say,” said Al. He came a step closer. Mitt resigned himself to being shot. He felt, very fiercely, that it was a pity. He would never be able to sort himself out now. On the other hand, he supposed he deserved it. He was afraid it would hurt.

  Then, most unexpectedly, Al hit him instead. A great blow caught Mitt hard in the stomach, and he sat down, hawking and gasping, hard on the lockers, feeling very angry, rather foolish, and quite helpless. Wind’s Road yawed about in the douce breeze. Ynen put his hand out for the tiller and took it back again when the fat little gun pointed his way. There was no danger. Wind’s Road simply swung and creaked and drooped, rather as Mitt was doing.

  The tall ship came gliding closer. They could hear the ropes of her many sails creaking, see the dew from the mist shining in drops on her canvas, and pick out every grain in the wheatsheaf carved on her prow. She stood over Wind’s Road like a house and took the last of the wind from her sails. Al grinned up at her tall side, highly pleased with himself.

  “This has worked out wonderful,” he said. He jumped up on the cabin and ran along, shouting, “Hey, Wheatsheaf! Hey, there! Bence! Is Bence aboard that thing?”

  The tall ship turned. Her creaking sails flapped gently against the wind, until she and Wind’s Road floated a yard or so apart. Mitt, holding his aching stomach, looked up to see a row of heads watching them, and a man on the highest part leaning over the rail to shout to Al.

  “Al! Where did you take off to? There’s been no end of askings and botherings and wanting to know where you were. Want to come aboard?”

  Al laughed heartily. “What do you think, Bence? I’m sick of this tub. See it gets stowed in harbour, will you, and throw us a rope.”

  “What about them?” Bence asked, moving his head towards Hildy, Ynen and Mitt.

  “They can come with their tub,” said Al.

  Orders were shouted high above Wind’s Road. Two small, agile men came over the side of the
tall ship and descended on ropes like two rapid white-headed spiders, until they landed lightly on Wind’s Road. While she was still dipping and swinging, they handed their ropes to Al. He took hold of them and was hauled up, with a heavy scramble or so, until he reached the ship’s rail, where a mass of hands reached out to pull him aboard. The tall ship turned at the same moment. Her sails creaked and filled. The air was loud with rippling for the few seconds it took her to vanish into the mist as quickly as she had come.

  Hildy, Ynen and Mitt were left bobbing in Wind’s Road with the two small brown sailors. But they seemed to be rid of Al. They gave long breaths of relief about that, even while they were looking dubiously at the sailors. Ynen hurriedly took hold of the tiller. Wind’s Road was his.

  The sailors seemed in no hurry. They stood together by the mast, looking over Wind’s Road, down at Old Ammet, up at the poor tattered pennant, over beyond Ynen to Libby Beer, and exchanging small singing murmurs. Quite suddenly, they came briskly to the well and swung themselves down into it.

  “Will you move out and give us some room, little ones?” one of them asked cheerfully. He had a soft singsong accent, the like of which none of them had heard before.

  Ynen clenched his fingers round the tiller. “This is my boat.”

  “Then you must continue to steer her,” said the sailor.

  “But you must be guided by us. The road has hazards,” said the second sailor. “And will the other little ones go up before the mast to give us room?”

  Mitt was so fascinated by the singing talk that he did not gather straight away that the men were asking him to move. He got up, holding his stomach, and saw that Hildy still had not understood. Mitt nudged her, and she jumped, feeling as if she had been dreaming. They scrambled stiffly on to the roof of the cabin. The sailors settled on either side of Ynen as naturally as if they sailed Wind’s Road every day, and gave him gentle instructions what to do. Mitt and Hildy knelt on the cabin roof and stared, while Wind’s Road turned and heeled softly into the now thinning mist.

  They were little brown men with dark eyes and oddly light hair, as fair as light new rope. They felt safe, somehow. They were as warm and brown as the earth itself. Even Ynen felt lulled and peaceful with them. Mitt and Hildy could not shake off a feeling that they were dreaming – a good dream that they had dreamt several times before.

  “This is a fine sweet boat,” one sailor remarked. “Will you take in the foresails a fragment – Jenro will do it, little one. You steer left now.”

  Jenro, the second sailor, put his brown hand to the ropes that led to the foresails. Ynen was a little shamed to see how much better Wind’s Road sailed. “Very sweet,” Jenro agreed. “What is the name she goes under?”

  “Wind’s Road,” said Ynen.

  The dark eyes of the two sailors met across him. “Is it so?” said Jenro. “Who comes sailing on the Wind’s Road? What are the names of them?”

  Ynen looked up uncertainly at the dreamy faces of Hildy and Mitt. There seemed no harm in saying. “My name’s Ynen. My sister’s called Hildrida, and our friend’s name is Alhammitt.”

  Mitt blinked. Both sailors were looking at him, smiling warmly. He smiled back. They both made a little gesture, almost as if they bowed. Rather surprised, Mitt ducked his head back at them.

  “This is Jenro, and I am Riss,” said the first sailor. “Remember us in times to come.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Mitt said uncertainly.

  Wind’s Road had come gently past the green hump in the mist. The mist cleared steadily as she sailed. When Mitt looked away from the sailors’ faces, he was astonished to find they were sailing among islands – more islands than he could count at a glance. Some were green and steep, with grey rocks standing above the green and trees clinging to the rocks. Some were green and low. Some were quite small. Others, in the distance, were clearly several miles long. Mitt could see houses on nearly all of them, usually near the shore, as if the sea were their road and the island their farm or garden. Sheep and cows grazed in pastures that mounted above the houses. Smoke rose from the chimneys. The sea space round them was so sheltered that it was warm and calm as a lake. Mitt could smell the salt of the sea mingling with the smell of earth, smoke and cattle, in a close, queer mixture. He looked round, sniffing, warm and delighted, wondering why he felt so happy and so much at home, and everywhere he looked he saw the astonishing emerald green of more islands.

  “Where is this?” Ynen said suspiciously.

  Jenro smiled at him. “The Holy Islands, little one.”

  Hildy’s head went up. The dreamy feeling left her, and left her feeling strained and rather sick. She retreated to the mast and knelt there by herself, nervously clasping her hands and gripping them with her knees. She seemed to feel better like that. Ynen looked dubiously at Mitt. This was not the North. Mitt still had to get away, and Ynen wanted to apologise. He was surprised that Mitt did not seem either annoyed or frightened. Mitt supposed he ought to be. But he was entranced, smiling and sniffing. Seabirds and land birds flew over, uttering their different cries. Jenro, with a mixture of pride and politeness, began to tell Ynen the names of the islands as they passed them, while Riss softly put in a word here and there about the steering. Their voices made Mitt feel as if this was a song he had heard a long time ago, which he had never managed to learn the words to.

  “That was Chindersay, and there Little Shool. Big Shool is after. Then Hollisay and Yeddersay and Farn—”

  “– to the right here, then left immediately—”

  “– and Prest and Prestsay. High Tross there beyond. The large one is Ommern.”

  “– your mainsheet out here, but with care. The wind gusts after Tross. And a sweet way to the right as you go—”

  So Wind’s Road threaded gently between tall emerald slopes and past low green humps, and Mitt listened and listened, trying to remember that song.

  “Then you have Ommersay and Wittess, and we come out past lovely Holy Isle, the holiest of all. After, you will see Diddersay and Doen and the three Ganter Islands—”

  Mitt thought it was not quite a song he had in mind. It was the astonishing turfy smell of the islands, or a mixture of the two. Anyway, had he not once, years ago, thought he knew this place and set out to find it? Navis came into it somehow. Mitt was so pleased to remember this much that he scrambled over to Hildy and beamed at her. “Hey, I take it all back about this place! You’re going to love it here!”

  He was rather hurt at the pale, haughty way Hildy looked. “This,” she said, squeezing at her fingers, “isn’t the North.”

  “Who cares?” Mitt said. “I think I’ll have a go at staying here myself. I wouldn’t mind – I really wouldn’t mind!”

  “– left now—”

  “– and there is Trossaver, with Lathsay beside—”

  Wind’s Road slipped between long, high Trossaver and lump-shaped Lathsay and came into a wide space ringed with islands, where there was ship upon tall ship at anchor. One was just hoisting sail. Another was gliding in through a wide gap opposite, as if it were coming off patrol, but most were anchored, with bare masts. Among the anchored ships Mitt recognised the Wheatsheaf. She had no doubt sailed fast on wind above the islands that Wind’s Road was too small to catch, but she was evidently so far ahead of them that Mitt suspected Riss and Jenro had sailed them on a tour of the Holy Islands. That suited Mitt, but he wondered why.

  They sailed towards a long horseshoe-shaped jetty, with a host of little ships tied to it. Behind it was a small town of grey and white houses, with what looked to be the Lord’s mansion rising above them at the back. The mainland was beyond again, as green and rocky as the islands, as if the town was also on an island.

  “That is the Isle of Gard. The hardway to the land is behind,” Jenro explained.

  “And a fine fleet in harbour,” Riss added proudly.

  Hildy tried to unbend. “There are more ships here than in Holand,” she said. She thought she sounded as condesc
ending as her aunts. She saw Ynen wince a little. So she became angry with everyone and did not say any more.

  As Wind’s Road approached the jetty, Riss and Jenro sprang into sudden activity. Mitt had hardly had time to climb to his feet and offer to help before the sails were down, ropes out, and Wind’s Road was quietly nudging the jetty stonework, tied up and her long journey over. Mitt and Ynen stared at one another, tired, sad and a little aimless. Riss, meanwhile, was out on the jetty, talking to a number of large blank-faced men who were standing there.

  “Will you go with these?” he said, coming back to Mitt and pointing to the men. “They are not of the Islands.”

  They were clearly not of the Islands. They were dark and heavy, like a lot of men in Holand. But since they were standing in a line along the jetty, Mitt did not see he had any choice in the matter. “I suppose so. All of us?”

  “If you will,” said Riss. “We shall see you.” He and Jenro both shook hands with Mitt, smiled warmly and trotted away along the jetty. Feeling rather deserted, Mitt, Ynen and Hildy scrambled out on the jetty too. The men closed round them to lead them away. It was alarming. But it was also very silly because for a minute or so none of the three of them could walk. When they stepped forwards, the ground was either unaccountably missing, or it came up and hit them before they were ready for it.

  “Too long at sea!” gasped Mitt. “You have to wait.”

  The large men waited, silent and impatient, while Ynen fell into Mitt, and Hildy into both of them, and Ynen and Mitt shrieked with laughter, and even Hildy was forced to smile. None of the men smiled, even when they were able to set out through the town, rolling like old sailors and giggling as they went. They were not able to notice the town much, though Mitt did see that there were fields in it, confusingly, among the houses, with cows or wheat stubble in them, and that, every so often, there was a short square-topped pillar about as high as his waist, where people had carefully laid flowers, fruit and ears of corn. But they saw few people because it was still early morning.