by Dave Shelton
“Good,” said the bear. “The extra weight might slow him down.” He glanced over his shoulder to check their progress without breaking the rhythm of his stroke. “Good,” he said again.
He was right. The bird slowed and, increasingly often, it paused and spent time circling in the air before setting off again on a slightly different course. They drew closer and closer to it, the boy seeing it ever more clearly, but there was still no sign of anything on the horizon to indicate that it was heading for land.
“It seems to be looking around,” said the boy, “trying to work out which way to go. Maybe it’s lost too.”
“We’re not lost!” said the bear. “And I don’t think that bird is either. Now tell me: am I heading straight towards it?”
The boy said nothing, but indicated with an outstretched arm a minor adjustment in their course to starboard. The bear gave a more powerful stroke to his right oar than the left and the Harriet shifted direction perfectly. The boy gave the bear a nod of approval which, just for a second, took his eyes off the bird. He looked back up and found it again instantly but, oddly, though they were closer now, it was harder to see. The bright blue was not so bright now. But it was too early in the day for the light to be fading. He squinted at the bird and rubbed his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” said the bear.
“I don’t know,” said the boy.
The bird was a vague blue smudge now.
“I think there’s something wrong with my eyes,” said the boy. He sounded scared.
The bear looked round, spotted the bird and carried on rowing.
“Your eyes are fine,” he said.
“Then why …?” the boy trailed off.
“Mist,” said the bear.
It fell quickly and thickened. After so many clear days with nothing to look at, here was a mist to hide their first glimpse of hope. The air turned cold around them in an instant and the blue smudge of bird dissolved before the boy’s eyes. The bear kept rowing.
“Which way?” he said.
“I’m not sure,” said the boy, staring as hard as he could, casting his eyes round this way and that. He caught a glimpse of colour and raised a straight arm towards it.
“There!” he said.
The bear adjusted his stroke, steered the boat round as instructed and powered on. But the mist grew thicker still and the boy lost sight of the bird again.
“I can’t see it!”
“Just keep looking!”
“I am keeping looking. You keep rowing!”
“I’m rowing. Does it look like I’m not rowing?”
“I don’t know, I’m not looking at you.”
“Well does it sound like I’m not rowing?”
“All right, all right. Shut up and let me concentrate!”
The boy turned and twisted, but it was no use. He could hardly even see the bear now.
“I can’t see it. Stop rowing!”
“Stop rowing? First you say ‘Keep rowing,’ now you say ‘Stop rowing.’ Make your mind up!”
“Stop rowing!” said the boy.
“Well if you’re just going to give up …”
“And shut up!” said the boy.
The bear stopped rowing and shut up. The boy was right. There was no point just carrying blindly on. They might be heading away from the bird for all they knew. The mist covered everything. He looked at the faint shape of the boy still standing poised and alert on his seat. Even now the bear could tell that he was concentrating very hard. But why? There was no way that he could see anything.
“Kark!” said the bird.
It was a faint noise, but not so faint that they couldn’t tell roughly which direction it had come from. The bear set off again. They went on, neither saying a word.
“KARK!”
“That’s close,” said the boy, “and straight ahead!”
“Straight ahead it is,” said the bear.
The boy couldn’t see anything now, but he could feel how fast they were going. The bear was sending them along at a tremendous pace.
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” said the bear.
And the boy was about to reply when –
BUMP!
“Oh!” said the boy.
“Oof!” said the bear.
“Ow!” said the boy.
And then no one said anything for a while.
The Mermaid
The boy awoke.
For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. Then he remembered that he was in the boat, but couldn’t remember having gone to sleep. But he was lying down in his usual spot between the rear and centre seats and he had just woken up, so he must have gone to sleep. But he couldn’t remember. And there was something else wrong.
“Ow!” he said again. And that reminded him.
“How’s your head?” asked the bear, standing over him with a cup of tea as the boy delicately raised himself up from the deck.
“It feels like it’s full of bees,” said the boy.
“You should be more careful,” said the bear. “You went flying into my belly and then bashed your head on the deck after you’d, uh, bounced off. You could do yourself a serious mischief jumping about like that.”
“I wasn’t jumping about! I fell off,” said the boy. “You should be more careful and look where you’re going.”
“I couldn’t look where I was going, could I? We couldn’t see anything!” said the bear. “Because of the mist. Remember?”
“Well that’s no excuse for bumping into …”
The boy looked at the bear.
“We bumped into something!” said the boy.
“Yes,” said the bear.
“What did we bump into?” said the boy.
“See for yourself,” said the bear, waving a paw over his shoulder.
The boy looked up past the bear and through the thinning mist at a dark looming shape close behind him.
“It’s a ship!” said the boy.
“Yes it is,” said the bear, sipping from his cup.
“Well, are we going on board then?” said the boy. “What are we waiting for?”
The bear lifted his cup.
“I’m just finishing my tea,” he said. He took another sip. “And I’ve shouted ‘Ahoy!’ and nobody’s answered. The crew are either very rude or …”
“Or what?” said the boy. “Or deaf?”
“No,” said the bear.
“Or very, very shy?” said the boy.
“No,” said the bear. “I don’t think there is anyone on board.”
“Well then,” said the boy and he pushed past the bear, picking his way past the gas stove and teapot on the floor, leaned over the side and reached out a hand towards the ship. “Look, there’s a rope here we can climb up.”
“At least, no one alive,” said the bear. “I think it might be …”
“What?” said the boy.
“… a ghost ship,” said the bear.
“That’s ridiculous,” said the boy, but it came out sounding strange because he shivered as he said it. He looked up at the ship. It did look creepy. And it was very old, old enough to be in a museum rather than out at sea. Its sails were tattered and its rigging looked like spiders’ webs. Faded, flaking painted lettering spelled out the ship’s name, The Mermaid, on its prow beside a carved wooden mermaid figurehead, her face worn almost featureless by many years of sea and weather. But, more than how it looked, there was something the boy felt, something deep inside his otherwise empty stomach, something wrong.
The boy’s hand wavered in the air, just short of the dangling rope. The gentle rise and fall of the waves rocking the Harriet tipped the boy’s arm sometimes towards and sometimes away from the ship. A slight breeze pushed the rope and set it in motion, its free end swinging in a slow circle. Hand and rope moved back and forth and round and round, dancing a strange dance together without ever quite touching. The boy watched them, mesmerised, forgetting altogether that the hand was his own and that he could pu
ll it away at any time and stick it safely in his pocket. He was fascinated and petrified, wondering what would happen if the hand were to touch the rope. Maybe if anything living touched anything ghostly then it died. Could that be right?
“Kark!” said the bird.
The boy and the bear looked up and saw a bright blue shape perched in the rigging of the mainmast, looking very much alive.
The rope brushed against the back of the boy’s hand. Nothing bad happened. The boy grabbed the rope, pulled it towards him, took hold with the other hand too and stepped up onto the side of the Harriet.
“I suppose you thought you’d scared me,” he said to the bear, “but I’m climbing on board.” With that, he lifted his feet and swung the short distance to the ship. His feet hit the side with a reassuringly unghostly thud, and he began to climb the rope.
Only he couldn’t.
The boy had seen loads of films where heroes climbed up ropes and it always looked really easy, but he’d never actually done it himself. It turned out it wasn’t easy at all. Especially when sea spray had made both the rope and the side of the ship wet and slippery. His feet slid down and it was all the boy could do not to fall off entirely. He dangled there for a while feeling equally scared and silly, his feet just above the water.
“Take your time,” said the bear, eventually. “No rush.”
“Oh shut up and help me out here,” said the boy.
“Righto,” said the bear. He swallowed the last of his tea and put down the empty cup. Then he took hold of the boy and lifted him effortlessly back into the little boat.
The boy grabbed the rope again. “You could climb this, couldn’t you? You’ll have a good grip if you dig your claws in.”
“Maybe,” said the bear, “but I’m not happy going aboard uninvited. It’s rude to go aboard another captain’s vessel uninvited.”
“But if you think there’s nobody on board then how can you be invited? In fact, if there’s nobody on board then maybe, as a fellow captain, you should go aboard just to make sure the ship is all right. As a favour.”
The bear glanced up at the ship and then back at the boy. He looked like he was thinking. And then he looked resigned. And then he looked determined.
“You’re right.”
“I am?” said the boy.
“Yes. We have to go aboard. You can climb onto my back and I’ll carry you up. Here, tie us to the ship, I need to grab a few things.”
The bear handed the boy the end of a short coil of tatty rope and began to stuff some things into his suitcase. He was busy and efficient now that the decision was made. The boy looked up again as he tied the bear’s rope to the ship’s rope. The mist had risen enough for him to have a clear view of the ship now, but a few foggy tendrils remained, clutching at the upper parts of the masts like the fingers of a giant ghost. He finished off a messy knot joining the two ropes, quickly attached the free end to the Harriet and gulped down his fear.
“Come on,” said the bear. He was standing right in front of the boy with the suitcase in one paw. He turned around and crouched a little. The boy climbed onto the seat and from there jumped up onto the bear’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck.
“Hold on tight,” said the bear, and the boy did as he was told. The bear put the handle of the suitcase between his teeth, leaped nimbly from the side of the boat, neatly caught hold of the rope and climbed straight up it as effortlessly as walking along a pavement. The boy clung to his neck, dangling and swaying as the bear raced upwards. Then all at once they were over the rail, the bear landing elegantly on his feet, the boy losing his grip and sprawling on the deck. He got up and took a deep, calming breath as he looked around. There was no sign of life on the deck but there was no sign of anything dangerous or scary either. Just nothing. And no one. Aside from the blue bird, quietly watching them from its place in the rigging, the ship seemed entirely deserted. There was no sound either, except for the lapping of the water far below them and the faint snuffling of the bear sniffing inquisitively at the air.
“What can you smell?” said the boy.
“Only the sea,” said the bear, his eyes hard and serious; then with a smile and a glance towards the boy, “and exploded monster. You need to wash your clothes, you know. Come on then, this way.” He strode off towards the rear of the ship. “The captain’s cabin will be in the aft, I should think. We should see if he’s home.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” said the boy, looking around. After so long on the Harriet, the first thing he noted was the vastness of it all. He had seen from sea level that the ship was big, of course. In some ways its scale had been even more impressive from that perspective, but now not only did he see the size but also the space. It was eerie and set the boy’s nerves jangling, but at the same time it felt tremendously good to stretch his legs again at last.
They went down some steps from the raised foredeck, back along the main deck and then up again, up two sets of steps, to the highest deck at the back of the ship. They came to a door. The bear tapped on it with a delicate knuckle and then, after a moment’s silence, with a heavy one. There was no reply.
“Let’s get in there then,” said the boy.
“We can’t just barge in,” said the bear. “A captain’s cabin is …” But the boy had already pushed back the door and poked his head inside.
“Coo-ee! Hello? Ahoy there!” he said.
There was no one there so he went all the way inside, and the bear, muttering darkly, followed him. It was an impressive room, full of finery: intricate ancient charts on a solid-looking desk; behind the desk, an ornately carved chair with a fine patterned silk cover on its cushioned seat; a painting of a sea battle in a fancy golden frame on one wood-panelled wall; a shiny brass lantern hanging from the ceiling.
“Ooh, now this is nice,” said the bear, gazing around, impressed at the luxurious quarters of a fellow captain.
“Captain’s not here,” said the boy, tugging him hard by an arm back towards the door. “Where’s the kitchen?”
“Oh, the galley’ll be below decks somewhere,” said the bear, stumbling back out into the light. “Follow me.”
They headed back down to the main deck and from there through a hatch and down steep wooden steps into the half-light of the ship’s interior, where the boy’s briefly forgotten fear returned.
Above decks had been empty of all signs of life; here below there was still no one to be seen, but every sign that there once had been. They were in the crew’s sleeping quarters, which was crammed with too many rough wooden bunks, each of them still covered with dishevelled blankets. Here and there were items of clothing – a waistcoat, a jacket, a hat – all of a style from centuries ago but looking, from their condition, only a few years old. On the floor were playing cards, set down mid-game next to coins of a kind the boy had never seen before. It was as if life had been going on here only moments ago and then suddenly everyone had just disappeared. The boy shivered. The bear sniffed the air.
“What do you smell now?” said the boy.
“Danger!” said the bear.
The boy looked alarmed. The bear sniffed again.
“Or maybe marmalade,” said the bear.
The boy gave him a dubious stare.
“Possibly both,” said the bear. He set off cheerfully towards a door at the far end of the sleeping quarters, the boy pacing after him.
They passed through another set of quarters, as empty of life and full of mystery as the first, through a further door and down some steps into darkness.
“Where are you taking us?” said the boy.
There was a scratching sound and a match flared into life. The bear held it up near his face, illuminating it as he answered the boy.
“Just following my nose,” he said, tapping his snout. They were at another door, which he now pushed open. Somewhere in the room beyond, the feeble light from the match found shining metal to glint off.
“Ow!” said the bear and the fading flame of the
match, burned right down to the bear’s paw, dropped to the floor and expired, sending them into a darkness seemingly deeper than ever before.
The bear struck another match and carried its faint halo of light into the room. The boy stumbled part-way in after him, squinting into the gloom, trying to make sense of the shapes that swam almost into focus then sank back into darkness as the bear moved around.
There was a loud clanging sound and the bear came to a halt.
“Ow!” said the bear again. He lifted the burning match and then raised his other paw beside it to steady the lantern that he had just set swinging with his head.
“Aha!” he said and the firefly light of the match bloomed and expanded inside the lantern, and the room revealed itself to them. The lantern hung above a simple, sturdy wooden table with a large, sharp knife upon it. On one wall hung a variety of brass saucepans. On another there were some shelves containing various tins, bottles and jars. Beneath these were some wooden boxes and small barrels stacked rather precariously on the floor, a number of unmarked brown sacks slumped beside them. The bear looked into one and then, after a shake of his head, another.
“Here we go,” he said. “Biscuits!”
“Really?” said the boy. “Are they chocolate ones?”
“Ah, not that kind of biscuit. These are ship’s biscuits. Hard tack.” He held one out to the boy. The boy took it and examined it closely. It looked pretty much like an ordinary biscuit but one of the boring ones that he would only eat at home when all the interesting ones had gone. And it was thinner than a proper biscuit. But it looked like it might not kill him. He took a bite. It was very hard and dry and tasted almost of nothing at all, only not as nice. It was the boringest food he had ever eaten and it disappeared in two seconds.