by Dave Shelton
“That was horrible,” he said. “Are there any more?”
There were. He had another eight, the last three made more palatable by the addition of a surprisingly good marmalade that the bear found in a cupboard full of interesting jars.
“So,” said the boy, speaking with his mouth full and spitting crumbs, “it wasn’t danger you smelled then.”
“Maybe not,” said the bear. He looked serious and seemed about to say something else, but then he was distracted by the discovery of some dried meat (“What kind of meat?” asked the boy; “Best not to ask,” said the bear), the chewing of which took all their effort and concentration, and rendered any further conversation impossible.
When they had had enough, the bear got his ukulele out of the suitcase and played it and sang some songs. The boy joined in as best he could, but couldn’t really get hold of the tune and didn’t know the words. Eventually he just sang something else entirely at the same time. The bear seemed not to notice the difference, or perhaps he just didn’t care. The boy was enjoying himself too.
In a break between songs the boy said, “So can you sail this thing?”
“Well,” said the bear, “with the sails so torn and without a crew it’d be quite tricky but, yes, of course I could.”
“Great!” said the boy.
“But I’m not going to, obviously,” said the bear. “We’ll get back on the Harriet.”
“But why? Why do we have to be cooped up together on a silly little rowing boat when we could have all this space and marmalade, and you wouldn’t have to row?”
The bear gave the boy a stern look.
“The Harriet is my boat. I’m the captain. This ship has some other captain. Just because he isn’t here right now doesn’t mean we can go stealing it. We’re not pirates.”
The boy thought about arguing, but could see that the bear was decided and determined on this matter.
“We’ll take some more of the food though,” said the bear. “I’ll leave a note telling them what we’ve, um, borrowed.” Then he set about cramming all the food he could – biscuits and bottles and meats and jars – into two of the sacks. He handed the smaller one to the boy and they headed up and out and back towards the Harriet. The boy, dragging his sack along the deck, soon fell some way behind the bear, who carried his as if it weighed nothing at all. By the time the boy came up the steps from the main deck to the foredeck, the sack clumping up the steps behind him, the bear must have been back at the rope for some time. Something was wrong. The bear was looking over the side of the ship, slumped over the rail as if he had begun to deflate. As the boy got closer he thought he heard a tiny sob.
He stood next to the bear.
“Um, is something the matter?” said the boy.
The bear turned his head a touch, but only looked at the boy out of the corner of his eye. He raised a forlorn arm and made a weak pointing gesture down at the sea. The boy looked over the rail.
“Oh,” he said.
He looked back at the bear, who seemed to be growing floppier and sadder with each passing moment.
“Um,” said the boy.
He looked back over the rail to make sure he had seen what he thought he had seen.
The rope trailed down the side of the ship. On the end of it was the thinner rope that the boy had tied to it. On the end of that was nothing at all. A quick look around revealed only an empty sea in all directions. The Harriet was gone.
“Ooh,” said the boy.
Still the bear did not look at him.
“You were meant,” said the bear, “to tie the other end to the Harriet.”
“I did. I tied it to the metal thing that the oar goes in.”
“What kind of knot did you use?” The bear’s voice was heavy, sad and quiet.
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a knot. Not precisely. I just sort of … wrapped it around a few times.” The boy, listening to himself as he spoke, realised that this didn’t sound good. “It seemed safe at the time,” he said in an apologetic whisper. He thought the bear would be angry, but he didn’t say anything or do anything, he just stood there, slumped over the rail, gazing sadly down at where the Harriet should have been but wasn’t.
“Sorry,” said the boy.
The bear took in a very deep breath very slowly and then let it all out again in a long, sad sigh, like a gigantic tyre with a puncture, leaving himself more crumpled and deflated than ever.
“It’s not your fault,” said the bear at last, in a voice full of disappointment and defeat. “I should have done it myself.”
“Sorry,” said the boy again, but the bear didn’t reply or move. The boy could think of nothing more to say so he stood there awkwardly, watching him for a while, and then shuffled away. He wished he could make the bear feel just a little better somehow, but the only thing he could think to do didn’t seem nearly enough. But it was all he had. He ran back down the steps to the main deck, leaving the bear drably slouched over the rail, still and sad and broken-looking.
Oops
It wasn’t a very loud bang but it was enough to rouse the bear. He unfolded himself and stood smartly up, turning to see the boy approaching at some speed carrying the suitcase.
“Did you hear that?” said the bear.
“What?” said the boy.
“That bang.”
“Er, no. I don’t think so. Look, I was thinking, you’re right, it’d be wrong to take this ship. Maybe if there was a lifeboat on board somewhere then we could borrow that and it’d be quite cosy, more like the Harriet, and you might feel better about it.”
“No, there’s nothing. I looked,” said the bear. “I’m afraid we’ll have to take the ship. I don’t like it, but it does look like there’s been no one aboard for a long old while so hopefully there’ll be no harm done.”
“No lifeboats at all?” said the boy.
“No,” said the bear. He looked at the boy more closely.
“Why is your face so dirty?” he said.
“Is it?” said the boy.
“Yes. Really black.”
“Oh, that’s odd,” said the boy, licking a hand and rubbing at his cheek.
“Looks like soot,” said the bear.
“Mm?” said the boy.
“Are you sure you didn’t hear a bang earlier?”
“Thunder maybe?”
“No, not thunder. I know thunder when I hear it.” The bear stared hard at the boy now, assessing the evidence in his dirty face, his fidgeting manner, his restless expression.
“What have you done?”
“Nothing,” said the boy, looking anywhere except into the bear’s eyes.
“Really?” said the bear.
“Well,” said the boy, “I just thought I’d make you some tea.”
“Oh,” said the bear.
“Because I thought it might cheer you up.”
“Mm?”
“So I tried to light your stove.”
“Oh dear,” said the bear.
“It’s a bit tricky that stove, isn’t it?” said the boy, adjusting his stance as the deck sloped to one side beneath his feet.
“Yes, it takes a bit of getting used to,” said the bear.
Somewhere above them there was a loud kerfuffle of flapping wings which turned into a steady fading flap. Neither of them looked up to watch the bird’s departure.
“And did the explosion make a very big hole in the ship?” said the bear.
“Quite big, yes,” said the boy. “Sorry.”
“I wondered why my feet were getting wet,” said the bear.
The sea, having very poor table manners, swallowed down The Mermaid with rude haste. The hole in the hull that the boy’s accident with the stove had made quickly widened as water surged into it, tearing free great chunks of wood. The vessel filled with water and plummeted down. The bear managed to hang on to the suitcase as they abandoned ship, but the sacks of food, heavy to begin with, quickly became saturated, tugged themselves free of the bear’
s grip and sank down. One half-full jar of marmalade bobbed back up to the surface, but the rest of the food followed The Mermaid down into the deep dark depths. The sinking hulk sucked at the sea above it and a downward tide pulled hard at the boy’s legs. The bear threw a thick, furry arm around him and held him up as the churning water slapped insolently at their faces. They kicked and flapped and spluttered and eventually the waters calmed around them. They floated, the boy gasping for breath, the bear sturdy as an island, amid scatterings of barrels, torn planks and ripped sailcloth. Somewhere, high and far away, a bright blue bird said “Kark!”
“What do we do now?” said the boy.
“Better swim,” said the bear. “You remember the rock on the map?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s not far. We’ll go there. It’s quite a big rock, I think. Almost a small island. Might be quite nice, you never know.”
“And you know where it is?” said the boy.
“Yes,” said the bear with confidence. “This way.” He raised a paw above the surface and pointed with a small but certain gesture.
“OK,” said the boy.
They put the suitcase on a fragment of The Mermaid’s hull that was floating nearby and, holding onto it, kicked their legs and made slow progress in the direction the bear had indicated.
“So it might have trees and food and water and stuff, this island?” said the boy.
“Maybe,” said the bear. “I’ve never been so I can’t be sure. It’s rather out of the way. I’m not sure anyone’s ever been there, actually.”
“Oh, right,” said the boy. “So if we’re the first to go on to it do we get to name it?”
“I’m not sure,” said the bear. “Maybe. Yes. Yes, why not?”
“Great!” said the boy. “We can name it after me.”
They both thought about this for a moment, though in different ways.
“Unless it’s horrible,” said the boy. “Then we can name it after you.”
“Thanks,” said the bear.
“You’re welcome,” said the boy.
They kicked on. They didn’t say much more as the boy was soon too exhausted to speak. After a while, the bear suggested the boy should climb on his back and rest a while, so he did. The sun was sinking now and the boy nestled his face into the fur between the bear’s shoulder blades. His wet shirt was beginning to dry a little in the still-warm sun and there was more heat rising into him from the bear. Despite the desperate situation, the boy felt strangely cosy. He was drowsy now, his eyelids dropping, then springing back open. He focused on the bear’s fur, close against his face, each hair sharply defined in the beautiful golden light then blurring again as exhaustion pushed him towards sleep. He could feel the bear’s slow, strong heartbeat bumping up against his chest with a comforting steady rhythm. He could hear that the bear was humming a tune. He tried to make it out, but it was too quiet. It could have been anything.
He closed his eyes to concentrate better and the darkness hugged him to sleep.
Dry Land
When the boy awoke, the first thing that he saw was the bear’s knees. At first he thought they were still on the Harriet, but then he recognised that the surface beneath him was stone rather than wood and remembered, with a pang of guilt, that the Harriet was lost. But at least the bear had got them to the island, it seemed. He felt stiff as he pushed himself part-way upright, as if the hardness of the rock had somehow seeped into him, and his eyes and head were fuzzy and half asleep.
“Hello, bear,” he said, blearily rubbing at his eyes and trying to focus.
“Oh, hello, boy,” said the bear. He was sitting on his suitcase with his back to the sea, looking down at the captain’s hat in his paws. Now he put it back on his head, blinked, and regarded the boy.
“You really did know the way, then?” said the boy.
“Of course,” said the bear. “We were lucky, actually. It wasn’t too far and there was an anomaly in the currents that helped us on the way.”
“Have you had time to explore much of the place yet?”
“Um, yes.”
“How’s it look?” said the boy, yawning and stretching.
“Er, see for yourself.” The bear waved a paw over the boy’s shoulder.
The boy turned his head and saw for himself.
It wasn’t an island, it was just a rock. There wasn’t a single tree or plant to be seen. It wasn’t even a very big rock. It certainly wasn’t a pretty one. And it was almost as cluttered as the Harriet had been, as various bits of flotsam from The Mermaid seemed to have washed up onto it.
“Oh, this is useless. We’re on a cold, wet, ugly rock full of junk,” said the boy. “We’re naming it after you, then.”
“The sea’s over there if you’d prefer it,” said the bear, pointing. “It’s roomier, but it’s not so dry. Take your pick. Anyway, we’re not stopping long.”
“Oh, great. Where are we swimming to next?”
“We’re not swimming. I’m building a raft.”
The boy took another look at the scattered bits of wood and other bits and pieces around the place. There were some reasonably intact planks and some empty barrels. There was also a section of mast with some rigging attached, so they had some rope to work with at least. And there was more such debris floating in the waters around the rock. If they swam out a little they could gather in some more material for the raft. He was about to suggest this to the bear when he noticed how wet his fur was. The bear had been busy while the boy had been asleep. Not much of the wood had drifted onto the rock unaided.
“That’s a good idea,” said the boy quietly. “Can I help?”
“Yes,” said the bear, “but I’m tying all the knots.”
They worked quietly but happily together. The boy was hungry and still tired despite his sleep, but he helped where he could. Much of the wood was too heavy for him to carry, but he could roll the barrels along and sometimes he was able to hold things in place while the bear lashed them together. He did as he was told and made himself useful and the raft slowly began to take shape. At lunchtime they stopped and ate the marmalade, the boy working every last scrap of it out of the jar with a finger. Afterwards he was sleepy again.
“Have a nap,” said the bear, spotting a yawn that the boy had tried to hide. “I can do this next bit on my own and I’ll need you fresh and alert when we set off.”
The boy knew that the bear could have done all of it without him, really. He wanted to insist on helping, but from his sitting position it was far easier to lie down, just for a moment, than it was to stand up. So he lay down and found that the cold wet rock was surprisingly warm and soft. He closed his eyes, just for a moment.
When he opened them again the light had changed and the bear was tying a rope to the mast of the raft. It looked like it was finished, more or less.
“That was quick,” said the boy.
“Not really,” said the bear. “You’ve been asleep for hours. And snoring.”
“I don’t snore,” said the boy. “Do I?”
“Just a bit. I thought that monster’s dad was coming to get us. Had me worried till I realised it was you.”
The boy looked hurt, but only a little. He took a closer look at the raft.
“It’s a bit wonky-looking, isn’t it?” he said, pointing.
“Well, I had to improvise a lot, with such limited materials to work with,” said the bear, “so it’s no Harriet, I grant you, but it’s sturdy enough.”
“Will it float?”
“Of course it will float,” said the bear. He looked at the raft thoughtfully. “I think.”
“Well, can’t we shove it in the water and find out?” said the boy.
“Not just yet. The tide’s gone out. We’ll have to wait for it to come back in.”
“Oh,” said the boy, and looked away from the raft to the sea.
“Oh!” said the boy again.
The tide had indeed gone out. It had gone out rather a lot. The wate
r level had fallen by a good twenty metres. The island they were on, it turned out, was a tall column of rock, the sides of which dropped straight down to the sea. The boy looked cautiously over the edge to the distant waves, and felt rather dizzy. He stepped back and sat down.
“That’s not normal, is it?” he said.
“It is a bit unusual,” admitted the bear. “It’s probably down to—”
“Unforeseeable anomalies in the currents?” said the boy.
“That’s right,” said the bear. “How did you know that?”
“Lucky guess,” said the boy.
“Anyway, we’ll just have to wait for the tide to come back in, and then we can set off. In the meantime we need to get the sail on.”
The bear had managed to salvage a tablecloth from the debris of The Mermaid. He held it up for the boy to see.
“It’s a bit small,” said the boy.
“A bit, yes,” said the bear. “But it’s not such a big raft.”
“And there are a lot of holes in it,” said the boy.
“Well, if you’ve got a sewing kit with you then feel free to fix them,” said the bear a little testily. “But otherwise it will have to do. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”
He tied it on to the crossbar at the top of the mast. Then he tied the bottom corners to the base of the raft. He stood back with the boy and looked at the end result.
“Well,” said the bear, “it’s not pretty, but I reckon it’ll go well enough.”
The boy could only agree. It really wasn’t at all pretty; it was ragged and scruffy and just plain funny-looking. But it was also oddly impressive. It looked strong and safe, as if it would survive weeks at sea with no trouble at all. The boy wasn’t entirely sure it would float, but he was certainly confident that it wouldn’t fall apart. It was magnificent, in its way.