The Rowan

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Not today,’ and Lusena shooed the Rowan on her way. There was a good deal to be ordered for the food preparation unit. Some visitors were not as scrupulous in replenishing stocks when they left.

  A leisurely swim, time to adjust her skin tone to a decent tan, greatly improved the Rowan’s mood. She and Lusena dined out and several men cast admiring looks in their direction.

  ‘You’re sure no-one here knows who I am?’

  ‘Not likely. Besides, even Gerolaman would have to look twice to recognize you right now. Oh,’ and here Lusena shrugged her shoulders, ‘it’s suspected that you might have some Talent, but then a third of the planet can lay claim to some sort of minor Talent.’

  ‘It’d even be nicer to be me and not have to worry about that sort of thing at all.’

  Lusena wasn’t sure if the Rowan had spoken that wistful sentence aloud or not. Over the years, Lusena had occasionally ‘heard’ purely mental comments but she’d never mentioned it to save the Rowan any embarrassment at having been overheard. On the other hand, it signified the girl’s complete trust in her. Lusena had never regretted these fifteen years, though now and then both Bardy and Finnan had unkind words about her dedication.

  That was why, two days later, when Bardy’s husband, Jedder Haley, vized that her daughter had gone into an early labor, Lusena felt obligated to leave immediately to Haleys’ claimsite on the eastern edge of the Great Southern Wastelands.

  ‘If I tag along, Bardy’ll be upset,’ the Rowan told her firmly. ‘Bardy needs you by yourself. You said I’m old enough to manage for myself. And you did say,’ the Rowan went on, overriding Lusena’s objections, ‘that no-one knows exactly what or who I am so I’m perfectly safe. Frankly, I’d welcome the idea of a few days alone. Most kids are out on their own at sixteen. I can’t be vacuum-wrapped all my life.’ The Rowan had read deeply enough in one quick shot to perceive all Lusena’s reservations and her dilemma over her daughter. ‘It isn’t as if I can’t keep in touch, dear Lusena. I’ll behave. I’m not Moria!’

  ‘Indeed you’re not!’ Lusena had never forgiven her niece even if her brother remained unaware of why the holiday had been shortened by several days.

  ‘We might as well use Camella’s shuttle since it’s at the airfield for our use. You’d have no delays getting there then,’ the Rowan continued, rapidly but neatly filling Lusena’s travelpak with items from her drawers. ‘You’ll be on your way in ten minutes. Bardy can’t ask for a better response than that!’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Lusena’s mobile face shadowed with regret.

  ‘Nonsense, dearest friend,’ and the Rowan embraced her, wrapping Lusena with love, affection, and understanding. ‘I did monopolize you, and you know I did. Bardy has every right to resent me deep inside but she was generous enough never to chide me for it out loud. I needed you far more than she did. Until now. She needs you now.’

  As the Rowan stood on the verandah, she felt the oddest exhilaration: a curious sort of release, even though Lusena had always been discreet and subtle in her care of the Rowan, so that there had never been a reason to resent the supervision. But she was alone – alone for the first time in fifteen years, since that famous miraculous escape of hers. Not even a pukha with her.

  She spun on her heel and went back into the house, slapping her hand against the door, running fingers along the hall table, pinging the vase with its fresh spring blossoms, twirling into the sitting room and stroking the polished wood, the brocade of a chair, as if to establish their inanimacy and that she was the only living being in the house. She whirled in a wild pirouette and then collapsed on to the sofa, laughing at her own whimsy.

  What a wonderful feeling. To be alone! To be on her own! At last.

  She reached out for Lusena’s mind: The poor woman was still dubious about the wisdom of leaving her charge all by herself, but she really had to respond to Bardy’s appeal. The Rowan softly and gently lifted the anxiety from Lusena’s mind, setting up a diversion anytime Lusena might start to worry about the Rowan who was going to thoroughly enjoy her first really true holiday from her previous regime.

  Favor Bay took on a glamourie that it had never before had for the Rowan. She ate only when she felt hungry, with no Lusena to remind her of ‘normal’ mealtimes. Especially with no Siglen encouraging her to eat this, or have more of that, or please to finish the food she was given since there were many in the world who were starving for a taste of such magnificent cuisine. By the time she felt any hunger, she was ravenous indeed and took one of the cycles down to the main town, following her nose to the best of the many smells wafting about on the light spring breeze.

  She parked the cycle in the rack outside a charcoal shop and glanced through the handprinted menu hanging from the ceiling. The smell of roasting fish tantalized her so she took her place beside the other patron in the grill shop. A second discreet look at his profile, and a light touch at his mind, and she recognized Turian, their captain and guide on that first Favor Bay excursion.

  ‘What d’they do best here? It all smells so good,’ she asked.

  ‘I’m having the redfish steak sandwich,’ he said, smiling down at her. ‘Pretty little thing,’ his mind was saying, ‘can’t be a student as it’s not holidays yet. A convalescent? Looks tired. Lovely eyes.’

  The Rowan wasn’t sure that she was pleased or annoyed by the fact that he didn’t recognize her. Well, he must have hundreds of clients in a single summer. Why would he recall one adolescent girl?

  ‘Are they all redfish?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but that’s the freshest,’ Turian replied. ‘I saw it unloaded from the dock a half hour ago.’

  ‘Then that’s for me.’

  So when the attendant asked her choice, she pointed and had a hard time not listening in on Turian’s stream of consciousness. He was mentally reviewing a list of things he had to do to get his ship back into commission and wondering if he had enough credit to do the jobs properly or where he could stint without risking the safety of his clients or his ship. He was hungry after a morning scrubbing the winter’s grime from the hull and the aroma was increasing the saliva in his mouth. Or was it the proximity of the pretty girl? She was enough to make any man’s mouth water. A little on the thin side: with that tan, she’d been here a few days at least. Strange! her face was oddly familiar. No. He had to be mistaken: he’d never seen her here in Favor Bay before.

  ‘D’you come from around here?’ he asked, to pass the time while his fishsteak was cooking.

  ‘No. From ’Port.’

  ‘On holiday?’

  ‘Yes, I had to take it early this year. Office schedules rarely give juniors a break.’ That should answer his questions. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m getting my ship ready for the summer.’

  ‘Oh, what sort of ship do you own?’ Might as well start afresh with him. That way he was less likely to remember the details of the earlier acquaintanceship – and how old she really was.

  He grinned. ‘Tour the sea gardens! Swim with the denizens of the Deep! That sort of thing.’ If I earn enough in the summer, I can sail all winter where I choose to go, was his silent addition.

  ‘Always in Favor Bay?’ She didn’t recall seeing him last year, not that she’d been looking for him, or had revisited the sea gardens.

  ‘Not always. Altair has some splendid harbors. I move around a lot but this is a good spot in the summer.’

  The attendant set their dishes on the counter and was asking for payment and, as the Rowan dug into the pockets of her light jacket, she flushed with embarrassment as her fingers touched only three small credit pieces. How could she have been so stupid? Always she’d had Lusena to remind her. On her first solo outing, she forgot the most basic requirement. She pulled out what she had, an inadequate sum for the meal.

  ‘Ooops!’ She gave the attendant and Turian an apologetic grin and thought hard as to where in the house she’d left her purse. She could ’port enough into the pocket of her shorts …

/>   ‘Here! Let me,’ said Turian, smiling. It beats eating by myself and she’s not on the take or make, not this one.

  The Rowan’s relieved smile was more for his charitable thoughts than the deed of paying for her meal.

  ‘I insist you allow me to pay you back,’ she said as he motioned toward an empty spot on the deck overlooking the bay. ‘I left my credits at home. True holiday mindlessness.’

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll spot you the sandwich for a couple of hours of not so hard labor. If your folks won’t object.’

  ‘It’s my holiday,’ she said. ‘But surely there’re enough …’ she gestured to the men and women walking up and down the street outside.

  ‘Everyone’s busy getting their own places in order. Mainly I need a couple of extra hands and someone who can take simple instructions.’ His grin told her she more than qualified. ‘I’ll teach you how to rig sail. A skill guaranteed to be useful – sometime in your life again!’

  The Rowan knew very well that he intended no more than that. Turian was still, as he had been four years before, a genuine and honest man.

  ‘Done! A spot of hard work’d do me good and be a nice change from sitting on my duff in an office. Where do I report to work in the morning, sir?’ And she flicked her hand in a nautical type salute.

  ‘Cender’s Boat Yard. Down there! Mine’s the sloop rigged fifteen meter with the blue hull.’

  Grinning, she raised her sandwich and bit into the crusty bread and hot flaky fish. The piquant sauce she’d slathered on the fish flowed down her chin. She cleared the overflow with a finger and then licked it. Turian was doing the same thing and his grin was one of camaraderie.

  When they finished their meal, he insisted on adding ‘afters’ to her tab with him: a half melon full of fresh spring soft fruits and a cup of the local infusion. Then he asked her to arrive by 7.00 so they’d finish the heavy part before the sun was high and gave her a courteous farewell.

  He went off, talking himself out of making any passes at such a young thing. He had the summer before him and he usually had many options.

  Somewhat piqued, the Rowan cycled back wondering how to prove to him that she wasn’t as young as all that! He was a good person, honorable and sensible, a capable seaman, and an interesting guide.

  Back in the cottage, she decided to study tomorrow’s tasks. She accessed information on sail-rigging, on seamanship in general, pausing long enough on the sections of refitting a ship that had been stored over the winter period to assimilate all the information available. Primes were generally blessed with photographic memories as perfect recall was a boon for the sometimes split-second decisions which their duties often required them to make. Not all those with the same basic Talents the Rowan possessed would be suitable as Primes.

  She also checked with the Maritime Commission Records concerning the credentials of one Turian Negayon Salik and, using her Station password, looked over his personal records, finding nothing untoward. Turian was thirty-two years Standard. Sun creases made him look a few years older. (From comments made by some of the females on the various courses, older men were apt to be more considerate.) He was single, had never even filed an intent to marry, let alone a short-term parental contract. He did have a large number of siblings and immediate relatives, most of them involved in the sea enterprises.

  Aware of a curious absence in the documentation of himself and other members of his family, the Rowan had to sit and think what was missing. Then it dawned on her: neither he nor any of his relations had ever taken a Talent test. This was most unusual since most families ardently looked for signs of such abilities, minor or major, in their progeny. Recognizable, measurable Talent meant preferential schooling, and often grants-in-aid for the entire family. Not, perhaps, as necessary on a rich, fertile, mainly unsettled planet as Altair, but generally comfortable additions to incomes. There was no law requiring registration at a Talent testing center but it was an odd enough omission.

  She checked on his ship, the Miraki, and had its voyages for the past four years graphed out so that she knew where he had sailed, anchored, and who his passengers had been. She learned that when he had finished his apprenticeship with a maternal uncle, he had been granted part of the credit needed to purchase the sloop, worked for the balance, and now owned her free and clear. The Miraki was licensed for charter, for trawling and for exploration, and in the eight years since her commissioning, had done about every job her size permitted. Her seaworthiness records had been scrupulously kept up to date and she had acquired no fines, penalties, or damages.

  The Rowan woke at six, ate a hearty breakfast and was nearly late at Cender’s Boat Yard because she spent so much time choosing appropriate clothing. That is, clothing appropriate for the end result she now wished. She was about to leave at fifteen minutes before the hour – the boat yard being downhill from the house – when she realized that Turian had been evading, or avoiding, the stalkings of many girls far more adept at this sort of flirting than she. He thought her a nice young girl, a bit too thin. Well, she’d start right there. And elaborate.

  So she appeared at the boat yard, promptly at the tone of seven on the tri-d blaring from the boat yard office window, in workmanlike gear, and a change tied on to the handlebars of the cycle. Her review last night indicated she was likely to get wet and dirty. She also had a hefty handful of credits stuffed into her spare-pants pocket.

  ‘Have you ever rigged sail before?’ Turian asked halfway through the morning as yet again, she anticipated an instruction.

  ‘Well, yes and no. Sailing’s always fascinated me so I boned up on re-rigging sails. A good tertiary education teaches you how to find out what you don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll give you this: you’re deft at putting theory into practice. Intelligent helpers are hard to get in any line of work. What do you do?’

  ‘Oh, boring stuff, expediting imports and exports,’ and she added a diffident shrug. ‘But the pay’s decent and the perks aren’t bad. I’d need off-world training for any decent advancement. I’m being a good company person until they notice that I’m keen to advance.’

  This one has her head screwed on right, was Turian’s thought. He wasn’t a devious person so it wasn’t as if she was invading his privacy: everything was right up front, like an unvoiced monologue.

  As the sun reached its zenith in the brilliant cloudless skies, he called a halt and suggested they take a quick dip at the end of the boat yard wharf to cool off before lunch. She peeled to swim briefs and was into the water before him, laughing and splashing at him. He still had a finely made, strong body, enhanced by the deep bronze of his skin.

  Refreshed after the swim, they climbed back on to the wharf and sat in the shadow of drying trawl nets.

  ‘You’re such a good worker, I’ll spot you lunch,’ he said gratefully.

  ‘One meal you may buy: two within twenty-fours is not on. I brought enough for both of us.’

  His sea-light eyes crinkled into the sun creases as he stood, dripping wet, hands on his hips and looked down at her.

  ‘You’re a smarty, aren’t you?’

  ‘Fair’s fair. You helped me out of a spot: I paid my way out of the debt. Now I want to make it one up on you and the price is a sail when the Miraki is back in the water. Done?’

  They shook on it, Turian laughing while his mind admired her independence. She wished he wouldn’t think quite so loud: it gave her an unfair advantage over him. And yet, she seemed to be making all the right moves to prove that she was not as young as she might look.

  It took them three more days to be sure the Miraki was seaworthy, with the Rowan working right beside him, trying not to anticipate pre-vocal orders too frequently. In the cool of the evening, as he checked off completed chores on his master list, he’d tell her what they’d be doing the next day. If she had to study up on something – varnishing required no mental effort at all, but she found the physical effort, especially through her shoulders rather a remarkable exper
ience – she would access the proper authority before she went to bed. She was sleeping much better than she had in many months.

  When Turian had every inch of the Miraki, hull, deck, bilge, boom, mast, sheets, rigging, engines, cockpit, galley, and living quarters shipshape, he had the Favor Bay Marine Engineer come to recertify her seaworthiness. She passed and the Rowan could not restrain the shout of triumph at what she considered a personal achievement.

  ‘Now, do I get my sail?’ she demanded when Turian returned from escorting the Engineer back to the wharf. ‘Weather report says tomorrow’s going to be clear, with a fifteen-knot breeze nor’-nor’east.’

  Turian chuckled and reached out to ruffle her curls. She squashed the sudden surge of keen sexual awareness of him that his casual caress elicited. She mustn’t overreact to a friendly touch. But his affectionate, half-fooling gesture had not surprised her as much because he had extended the caress as because physical touching was rare between Talents, and reserved for moments to reinforce mental bridgings. She didn’t wish to prematurely give away her designs on one Captain Turian who still considered her as a ‘young’ girl despite her attempts to educate him.

  ‘Yes, you get your sail. Can you take a full day of it?’

  ‘I’ve sailed before, Captain Turian,’ she said archly, ‘and I’ve a cast-iron stomach.’

  ‘I’ll provision her if you’ll take charge of the galley,’ he offered. ‘And bring a change of clothing and a stout windbreaker.’ He looked appraisingly up at the sky, squinting at its brilliance, his eyes narrowed. ‘I make it we’ll have a change in the weather before the day’s out.’

  ‘Really?’ She laughed at his assurance. ‘Meteorology’s pretty advanced these days.’

  Parting his lips in a wise smile that showed her white but slightly crooked teeth, he nodded. ‘Can you be down here at 4.00 a.m. to catch the turn of the tide?’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ and she flicked an impudent salute at him before mounting her cycle and treadling off the wharf.