The Rowan

by Anne McCaffrey

  The first thing she did when she got back to the cottage was get an update on the weather pattern. She knew that he had not accessed his ship’s facility so she was intrigued to find that a new low-pressure pattern was forming in the arctic. How in the name of all the holies had he known something which was happening thousands of klicks away? And his family had never tested for Talent? Curiouser and curiouser! The Rowan made up her sailing pack, and stuffed in wet-weather and a few non-essentials that might prove useful.

  With her pack slung over her shoulders, she cycled down in the faint light of the dawn, grateful she knew every rut and hole in the road to the main wharf. When she hailed the Miraki, moored fore and aft to the wharf and gently rocking in the outgoing tide, her voice seemed overloud.

  ‘Stow that cycle and loose the aft line, mister,’ Turian said, emerging from the cabin and pacing to the cockpit. ‘Now, stand by the for’ard line and we’ll get underway.’

  Laughing at how nautical Turian had become, the Rowan did as she was bid and neatly jumped to the deck to coil the for’ard line as the Miraki’s blades took hold and propelled her away from the wharf.

  ‘Stow your gear, mister, and grab us both a cup of the brew. We’ll need it,’ he said, ‘while we’re clearing the harbor.’

  As she cheerfully did his bidding, she was positive that this was going to be a glorious day, certainly a highspot in the past year. She hadn’t an ounce of precognition in her Talent but there were moments, and this was one of them, when you didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know the auspices were good.

  Once clear of the harbor and beyond the fishing boats chugging more slowly out to their day’s labors, Turian ordered the sails hoisted. The exhilaration in being under sail in a stiff breeze and hull down in the sea thrilled the Rowan and she caught Turian’s tolerant grin at her abandonment to the experience.

  ‘I thought you said you’d sailed before,’ he said, half-teasing as they sat in the cockpit, Turian’s capable hand on the tiller between them.

  ‘I have, but never quite like this. Always on “outings”, not adventures like this.’

  Turian threw back his head with a hearty guffaw. ‘Well, if a common ordinary shakedown sail is an “adventure” for you, then I’m glad to have offered you this rare occasion.’ Poor kid, his mind said, though his glance on her was kind, if this is all the adventure she’s ever had.

  However, he intended to give her full measure of the experience and in doing so, forgot his own weather prediction. He had filed a day trip to Islay, the largest of the nearby coastal islands, but they made such good speed to their destination that he decided to continue on, picking up the Southerly Current. That should carry them neatly to the southern tip of Yona, then they’d swing nor’west and come up the coast back to Favor Bay. That would make it more of an adventure for her.

  Meanwhile he took great pleasure in seeing the girl so eager and vivacious: She didn’t relax much and, although he approved her diligence, she got far too tense doing the simplest jobs. The odd time or two she had spoken with an authority and maturity that surprised him yet at other times she seemed even younger than she looked.

  The purple mountains of Islay Island, with Yona just south of it, were on the horizon when Turian sent her below to her galley chores. By the time they had sated their sea-sharpened hunger, he had steered in close enough for the settlement on Islay to be visible. They picked up the current and the girl’s eyes widened at the way the Miraki drove now, spume flying the bow, heeled over. He had her furl the jib and he close-hauled the mainsail. Just as she came aft again to join him in the cockpit, he heard the chatter of the Met-alarm.

  ‘Grab the printout, would you, Rowan,’ Turian said, ‘and get us something warm to drink.’ He craned his head about, but there weren’t many clouds yet on the northern horizon.

  ‘You were right about a weather change,’ she said, coming back on deck with steaming mugs in her hands. ‘Low-pressure ridge making down from the arctic, crowded isobars so the winds are likely to be galeforce.’ She pulled the printed sheet out of her pocket and handed it to him. ‘But you knew about a change yesterday.’

  He laughed as he read the Met report, cramming it into his pocket to take the mug in his free hand. ‘My family have been seafarers for centuries. We’ve got a kind of instinct for the weather.’

  ‘You’re weather-Talents?’

  He gave her a very odd look. ‘No, nothing formal like that.’

  ‘How do you know? Didn’t you get tested?’

  ‘Why? All the men in my family have the weather sense. We don’t need to be tested.’ He shrugged, taking a cautious sip of the hot soup in the mug.

  ‘But … but most people want to be Talented.’

  ‘Most people want more than they need,’ he replied. ‘As long as I’ve a ship to sail and an ocean to sail her on, enough money to keep her safely afloat, I’m satisfied.’

  The Rowan stared at him, bemused by his philosophy.

  ‘It’s a good life, Rowan,’ and he gave an emphatic movement of his head. Then he smiled at her. ‘There have to be some like us on every world, who are content with what they have, and not bored by sitting on their butts all day in an office, shuffling papers about.’

  She caught in his mind an acceptance of that ineffable consciousness which was not at all a lack of ambition: but a totally different life-style. It was part of his innate honesty and ethics. Briefly she envied him his certitude. She had no argument against it though she could never have been allowed to live as he could. That she almost resented. From the moment she was rescued from the little hopper, there was no alternative path for her to follow.

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Captain Turian,’ she said, with a twisted envious smile.

  ‘Why is it, Rowan, that sometimes you seem decades older than you can possibly be?’

  ‘Sometimes, Captain Turian, I am decades older than I should be.’

  That puzzled him, and she smiled to herself. If naught else works, being enigmatic might.

  ‘We’ll have to alter our plans, however,’ he said, hauling out the sheet and rereading it. ‘We haven’t a chance of making it back to Favor Bay before those winds arrive. And I don’t want to be caught on this side of the Islands. We have a choice, and I’ll leave that up to you, mister,’ he shot her a challenging glance. ‘We can go through the Straits,’ he pointed ahead to the fast approaching end of Islay Island, ‘and shelter on the lea side of Yona. There’s a nice little bay on Yona’s Tail. We’ll be safe there, and tomorrow we can make our way back. Or we can go back to Islaytown, moor her against the blow, and go ashore for the night.’

  ‘You’re the Captain.’

  ‘Passage through the Straits can be hairy at high tide and that’s what we’ve got.’

  ‘The Miraki would be safer on the lea side of the island, though, wouldn’t she?’ His smile answered her. ‘Then it’s the Straits.’ Her grin answered his challenge.

  Turian hesitated a moment longer. Islay Straits at high tide was a testing passage. She might have sailed a bit on her holidays, but she wouldn’t have encountered the boiling cross currents and riptide. He’d done it often enough in the Miraki and had complete confidence in his own seamanship and his craft. She wanted an adventure: she was about to get one.

  So, when the Miraki rounded the Gut Rocks that bordered the entrance to the Straits, he ordered her into her wet gear and life vest, stopping any argument from her by shrugging into his own.

  ‘Prepare to tack, mister,’ he roared at her over the surf pounding the Gut Rocks.

  By the time that was done, the Rowan had her first good look at the surf boiling through the Straits.

  ‘We’re going through that?’ she demanded, and he admired the way she covered the sudden fright she’d experienced.

  ‘You said you had a stomach of iron. I’m testing it.’

  As she made her way back to the cockpit, he grinned when he noticed how tightly she kept a hold of the life-rail, and how neatly sh
e balanced in her bare feet against the plunge of the Miraki.

  To himself, Turian thought that perhaps this had not been the kindest way to test her seamanship but he was as proud of her courage. She seemed undaunted until they hit the midpoint, and suddenly the Miraki was cresting a huge wave, plummeting down with stomach-churning abruptness, wallowing in the trough before being flung up again on the next wave.

  The girl beside him screamed and he shot a glance at her, her face white as the sheet, eyes distended and staring straight ahead, in the grip of complete terror. He spared one hand from the tiller long enough to haul her as close to him as the tiller between them permitted. He grabbed her rigid hand and placed it under his on the tiller. Then he coiled his right leg around her left one, angling his body to touch hers at as many points as the rough passage permitted.

  And it wasn’t the sea that terrified her. How he knew that he never questioned. This was an old terror, somehow revived by their situation. She was struggling with her fears, struggling with every ounce of her. He kept as close a contact as possible, knew she’d have bruises on her hand from his pressure but that was all he had to reassure her.

  Fortunately, for all the danger, the Straits were not long and though under these conditions, the passage seemed to last an unconscionably long time, he was very soon able to veer into the much calmer waters.

  ‘Rowan?’ He let go of the tiller for long enough to pull her over on to his knees, holding her tight against him, while he grabbed a line to secure the tiller on the new course. He cranked on the cockpit winch to trim the mainsail and then he was free to comfort the shuddering girl. Gently he pushed the wet curls back from her forehead. ‘Rowan, what scared you so?’

  I couldn’t help it! It wasn’t the Straits. It was the way the ship bounced and rolled and surged. Just like the hopper. I was three. My mother left me in the hopper and it was caught in the flood, bounced about just like that. For days. No-one came. I was hungry and thirsty and cold and scared.

  ‘It’s all right now, girl. We’re past it now. Smooth sailing from now on. I promise you!’

  She made an effort to push him away but Turian knew that she was far from over the shock of that revived terror and he continued to hold her gently but firmly against him. Casting his seaman’s eye at wind and water, at the searoom between the Miraki and the shore, he was satisfied with their current course. Lifting the Rowan, light and shivering in his arms, he maneuvered her carefully down into the cabin and laid her down on the bunk. He started the kettle before he removed her life vest and wet gear. Her skin was chilled under his hands so he wrapped her well in a blanket before he made a restorative brew. Liberally lacing that with spirits, he handed it to her.

  ‘You drink that down,’ he ordered in an authoritative tone that provoked a slight smile from her as she obeyed. Then he stripped off his own rough-weather gear, rubbed his hair and shoulders dry before he made himself a similar brew. He sat down on the opposite bunk and waited until she felt like talking.

  ‘The ship?’ she asked once between sips, hearing the rush of the hull through the water.

  ‘Don’t worry about her.’

  Her smile was less tentative. ‘Don’t worry about me, then. I haven’t had that particular nightmare in years. But the motion …’

  ‘Strange what triggers off a bad memory,’ he said easily. ‘Catch you unawares out of nowhere. I damned near lost ship and self in a strait similar to that one. Scared me shitless and not a clean, dry pair of pants in the locker. You might say,’ and he ducked his head a bit, affecting embarrassment, ‘I sort of try myself more often in the Islay Straits just to prove I can’t scare any more.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly but the color was back in her face again, ‘that I’d like to go back through today, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Couldn’t anyway,’ he said with a laugh, and took the empty cup from her. ‘Tide’s the wrong way right now for the westward passage.’

  ‘Now, isn’t that a pity!’

  Admiring her resilience, he gave her a mock cuff on the jaw and then tossed a clean towel at her. ‘Dry off, change, and get on deck again. You’re standing the watch down to Yona’s Tail.’

  Something to do, he was telling himself as he went topside, was much better for her than reliving that old scare. The Rowan was in complete agreement but she couldn’t quite shake off her response to his immediate support of her in the depths of renewed terror. He might have mocked her lack of courage: He might as easily have ignored her as a coward but he had read her correctly and given her exactly the physical reassurance she needed – and had needed as that three-year-old child.

  Old terrors could indeed grab you at the most unexpected moments: this was the first time so much had surfaced past the blocks they had placed on that horrific experience. Her mind might not be allowed to remember but her body had. This time someone had been there to hold her hand.

  She dressed in her spare dry clothes, donning the warm sweater against the chill of bones that not even the hot stimulant had dissipated. As she scrubbed her hair dry, she was wryly amused that Turian hadn’t realized that her explanation of her terror had been subvocal. But then, so physically close, he didnt even need to be emphatic for her to ’path to him.

  His face brightened as he saw her emerge on deck. She smiled back.

  ‘Helm’s yours,’ and he pointed to the compass setting. ‘I’ll run up the jib. That way we’ll make our anchorage well before dark. I’ve changed our ETA with the Seaguards so they won’t panic but d’you want to tell anyone at Favor Bay that you won’t be back till noon?’

  She shook her head, aware from his obvious thoughts that he wasn’t at all disappointed in extending the cruise. He had an edge of anger for people who had somehow put a three-year-old child in such peril. Turian was beginning to see her not just as another useful pair of hands, a workmate, but as a distinct and interesting personality.

  She watched his lithe body as he hoisted the jib, coiled some lines that the rough passage had scattered, and generally checked port and starboard on his way back to the cockpit. As he settled in the corner of the bench, he squinted at the compass and then at the shoreline.

  ‘Helmsman, set a new course, ten points to starboard.’ He raised an arm, pointing toward the distant tip of Yona Island. ‘We’re making for an anchorage on Yona’s Tail. Come morning, we can set a straight course back to Favor Bay.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Ten points to starboard on a course for Yona’s Tail. And I beg to inquire of Captain, if he brought along enough provisions for a starving sailor.’

  ‘No-one goes hungry aboard the Miraki,’ he said with an approving chuckle. ‘You can catch as much fish as you can eat, mister, and there’s plenty to garnish with.’

  Thick clouds had begun to darken the skies before they reached the anchorage, a pleasant little crescent bay with a fine sandy beach. Yona was a popular summer resort with hundreds of similar strands along its eastern shore. They were the only vessel in those calm waters for the cradled sailing boats and the shoreline dwellings were still in their winter cocoons. As soon as the sails were furled, all lines coiled, riding and cabin lights on, Turian broke out fishing gear.

  ‘No bait?’

  He grinned. ‘Drop your line overboard and see what happens.’

  ‘Incredible!’ was her reaction as flat fish seemed to leap on to the hook as soon as it dropped below the surface.

  ‘Right time of year for ’em. Always plenty in this bay. Now, five minutes from sea to plate and eat as much as you can.’

  The Rowan did for she had never been so hungry, nor appreciated a plain meal more. As she washed plates, pans, and mugs after the meal, she was suffused with an unaccustomed sense of contentment. She was also tired, with a fatigue of body, not mind, that was as soothing as it was soporific.

  ‘Hey, you’re asleep on your feet, mister,’ Turian said, his voice warm with amusement but his brows were slightly puckered in concern.

  ‘I’m
all right, now, Turian, really I am. You were marvelous back there. If you’d been in the hopper with me, I wouldn’t have been so scared.’ At the anger in his face, she held up a hand, ‘It wasn’t anyone’s fault. In fact, I survived because I was in the hopper. The only one who did.’ Then she wondered if she’d given away more than she intended. To hear Siglen tell it, everyone on the planet had been aware of her terror. Maybe he’d been at sea. He certainly wasn’t insensitive.

  ‘You’ve no family?’ Somehow that distressed Turian most.

  ‘I have very good friends who have cared for me better than family would.’

  He shook his head. ‘Family’s best. You can always count on family. Surely you had kin left someplace?’

  The Rowan shrugged. ‘You don’t miss what you’ve never had, you know.’ She knew that upset him deeply, a man who knew every one of his blood relatives, to whom family ties were sacred. ‘I’ll have a family of my own one day,’ she said as much as a comfort for his distress and a promise to herself. Maybe that’s why Reidinger quizzed her so on the course students: he seemed to dwell more on the boys than the girls. Primes were supposed to form alliances, preferably with other high Talents, to perpetuate their own abilities. Was Earth Prime also a marriage broker?

  With that running through her mind, she was unprepared for Turian’s embrace. She clamped tightly down on her emotions as his arms enclosed her and drew her tenderly against him. She surrendered to the luxury of being caressed, the feeling of a warm, strong body pressed against her, of gentle hands stroking her head, rubbing up and down her back. She turned her head against his chest and heard a heartbeat, faster than normal and knew that Turian was reacting to his outrage over her orphaned state.

  And suddenly the Rowan realized that this was decision time: without meaning to, she had achieved the desired effect on Turian. With only the slightest mental push, she could …

  She didn’t have to make a decision. Turian did it for her. A wave of tenderness, tinged only slightly with pity, but mainly comprised of approval for her courage and resilience, emanated from the man. She had never felt so appreciated, so comforted and … and wanted. Startled by the intensity of his emotion, she looked up and received his gentle but insistent kiss.