Mokie and Bik

by Jonathan Bean

  MOKIE & BIK

  Wendy Orr

  illustrations by Jonathan Bean

  Henry Holt and Company • New York

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  For Dad & Mokie-Anne, thanks for the stones —W. O.

  For my sister, Emily —J. B.

  Contents

  Overboard or Underfoot

  Everyone Who Lived on Bullfrog

  Laddie and Slow

  Cowboys and Captains

  Seagull Boats and Police Cream

  Starfish and Sea Urchins

  Fast as Fisk

  The Enormous Fisk

  Sailors and Waggles

  Copyright

  Overboard or Underfoot

  Mokie and Bik lived on a boat called Bullfrog. They lived in it, on it, all around it—monkeying up ladders

  and

  down

  ropes,

  over the wheelhouse and across the cabin floor.

  “Twins!” their mother shouted, because the lines of her Art jiggled and jarred when Mokie and Bik played bumpboats—

  bump thump rumpboats

  up and down the wheelhouse,

  bump thump rumping

  from the steering drawers

  to the bouncy bunk,

  mump clump gumping

  from sleepdog Laddie

  to the potbelly hotter.

  “Get out from underfoot!"

  So Bik bumped Mokie out the door—splat!—into nanny Ruby’s bucket as she was sploshing the deck.

  “Twins!” shouted Ruby. “Get out from underfoot!”

  Bik and Mokie monkeyed up the wheelhouse.

  “Shh,” said Mokie. “Mom’s still Arting.”

  So they sunned like seals on the wheelhouse roof for about twenty hours till Ruby finished sploshing.

  “Let’s,” said Mokie.

  “Yes!” said Bik.

  They monkeyed off the roof to the slippery wet deck, slip slide slippering in soggy socks, skate chase racing up to Bullfrog’s bow—Mokie was bigger but Bik was faster—and Bik balanced on his sliptoes at the very front point.

  Mokie slip slid slippered back down the deck, skate chase racing past the wheelhouse, slip slide slippering down to Bullfrog’s stern, to balance on her sliptoes at the very back rail.

  “Yo!” shouted Mokie.

  Slow the tortle pulled his head in tight.

  “Ho!” shouted Bik.

  Ruby stuck her head out the galley hatch. “Be careful!” she shouted, because that’s what nannies have to say.

  “YO-HO!” shouted Mokie and Bik.

  Slip slide slippering up and down the deck, crashing in the middle, thump bump crunch—Bik was faster but Mokie was bigger.

  “Barnacle bells!” shouted Bik as he flipped over the rail—splash!—into the sea.

  “Twin overboard!” shouted Ruby, jumping out the hatch, snatching her boathook, and fishing Bik out by his overalls strap.

  Mokie and Bik were always overboard or underfoot.

  Everyone Who Lived on Bullfrog

  Mokie and Bik’s father had a ship-at-sea with clouds of sails on five tall masts and a brrr-ooping broop for fog, and he salty sailed around the world.

  He’d been on his ship-at-sea so long sometimes Mokie and Bik couldn’t remember when he lived on Bullfrog.

  “He’s a parrot,” said Bik. “He’ll come home with a pirate on his shoulder.”

  “And treasure on his chest,” said Mokie.

  “He’ll give me the pirate,” said Bik. “I’ll name it Jezebel.”

  “He’ll give me the treasure,” said Mokie. “I’ll buy a botormike.”

  Mokie and Bik’s mother had a botormike, with a little boat on the side. Sometimes, if Mokie and Bik were good as gold, she took them in the sideboat, roaring brrr-oaring down the road, wind knots in their hair, dust in their eyes, and spitting out flies.

  But usually she just took her easel and her Art and sometimes Laddie. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” she said when they asked where she was going.

  Ruby looked after Mokie and Bik when their mother was botormiking or in the wheelhouse Arting. Rubies are like red diamonds. Mokie and Bik’s Ruby had red hair and lots of songs but no diamonds.

  “Hi, ho, the illy-ally-o!” Ruby sang when she put on the kettle for breakfast, and “I’se the bye that builds the boat, I’se the bye that sails her!” when she polished Bullfrog’s big brass bell and whatumacallits.

  At bunktime when she hung her hammock in Bullfrog’s cabin, Ruby sang, “Now her ghost wheels her barrow.”

  The song ghosted through the galley, wheeled past the engine room, and barrowed into Mokie and Bik’s cabin where their bunks pointed like an arrow at the very V of the bow.

  Mokie and Bik’s bunks had portholes over them to see the sea and drawers underneath to pull out like steps to monkey up at bunktime.

  When the sea was calm, Bullfrog rocked them gently like a cradle. When the sea was wild, Bullfrog rollicked them—thump clunk overbunk—to the floor.

  “Twins!” shouted Ruby. “What are you doing?”

  “We overbunked!” shouted Mokie and Bik.

  Ruby knew what Mokie and Bik were saying when nobody else did. She knew that cats were hissers because the cats on the wharf went sss-sss-hiss at Laddie. Fisk were fish, potatoes were tatties, and the illy-ally-o was a faraway sea.

  “What are you yabbering about, Twins?” their mother would say, but most of the time Mokie and Bik were just with each other or Ruby or Laddie and Slow, and they could yabber jabber yackety gabber as much as they liked.

  Laddie and Slow

  Laddie was a sheepdog, a saggy shaggy, long licky-tongue dog with brown eyes hiding under his wool.

  He licked Mokie’s and Bik’s fingers clean when they didn’t want to wash and thumped his tail when they got up in the morning—

  or jumped back onto Bullfrog,

  or when their mother’s botormike

  rumbled down the wharf,

  or Ruby chopped meat.

  Slow liked Ruby chopping meat too. Slow was a tortle, and he was slow, except for catching meat. Then he was Fast.

  When Mokie and Bik were buggy babies sunning on the wharf, Slow sunned too, but Laddie was a fierce “Who goes there?” dog and didn’t let anyone near until their mother said so.

  When they were crawling babies rollicking on the deck, he was a “No Twins overboard!” dog and grabbed their overalls in his teeth when they tried to crawl off the edge of the boat.

  When they were learning-to-walk babies bump thump rumping all around the boat, he was a “Hang on to my tail!” dog, and they pulled themselves up and monkeyed over him and on him and all around him.

  Now he was a sleepdog, still a saggy shaggy, long licky-tongue dog with brown eyes hiding under his wool, but he couldn’t hear very well or move very fast.

  “Laddie!” shouted Ruby when she was sploshing the deck and Laddie was snozzing in the sun. “Get out from underfoot!”

  Mokie brushed Laddie’s hair out of his eyes so he could see, and Bik shouted in his ear so he could hear, and they all skedaddled to the beach.

  Laddie went to the beach every morning and every evening to do what a dog has to do, but skedaddling with Twins in the daytime was sniff whiffing treasure time.

  Mokie found a green glass bubble from a fisk ship on the illy-ally-o. Bik found an oar with only half of it gone.

  Laddie found a m
uck uck gucky, sniff whiff stinky, long-dead fisk. So he rolled in it.

  Ruby was still sploshing Bullfrog’s decks and singing “Hi, ho, back again!”

  “What have you found, Twins?” she called.

  “A fisk bubble,” said Mokie.

  “An almost oar,” said Bik.

  Ruby wrinkled her nose —“PEE-YOO!”— crinkled her nose —“YUCK!”—grabbed her boathook, and marched them back down the wharf.

  “Laddie,” said Mokie.

  “Overboard!” said Bik.

  Laddie jumped in and paddled up and down at the end of Ruby’s boathook till he smelled like a saggy soggy dog instead of a dead fisk.

  Slow was still sunning on the deck, and he still smelled just like a tortle.

  Cowboys and Captains

  While Mokie and Bik’s father was illy-ally-o-ing, Bullfrog stayed tied up to the wharf. Her wheel didn’t spin to push the rudder behind her stern and steer her out to sea.

  “Let’s,” said Bik.

  “I’ll be Captain!” said Mokie.

  Mokie monkeyed up the drawers to spin the wheel, steering veering peering out the wheelhouse windows far across the sea.

  “I’ll be Cowboy!” said Bik. He monkeyed over Bullfrog’s stern onto the rudder to slip dippery ride a little bit on top of the water and a big bit underneath.

  Mokie spun the wheel, steering veering peering toward the town where people lived in their houses-on-the-ground—like children in books, on streets with buses and trams and botormikes.

  The rudder swung wide, swinging side to siding, with Bik clinging tight, slip dippery riding.

  Mokie spun the wheel again, steering veering peering out past the harbor to where parrots and pirates lived on their ships-at-sea, far far away on the illy-ally-o.

  She spun the wheel fast

  so the rudder swung fast

  swinging side to siding

  with Bik slip dippery riding

  splish swish sliding—

  splash!—overboard.

  Bik grabbed the rudder and monkeyed back up to be Cowboy again, slip dippery riding, splish swish sliding.

  “My turn for Cowboy!” shouted Mokie.

  Mokie slid down to the rudder. Bik monkeyed up to the wheel. He spun the wheel fast, and faster, the rudder swung wider, and Mokie was splish swish sliding.

  “Barnacle bells!” shouted Mokie.

  “Twin overboard!” shouted Ruby, and fished Mokie out.

  Seagull Boats and Police Cream

  Every morning, as the sun came up, when Mokie and Bik were still in their bunks in the bow, they heard Erik the Viking’s seagull boat chug-chug-chugging out to sea while the seagulls squawk wawk rawked and Erik shouted “No fisk yet for pesky gulls!”

  In the afternoon, when the sun flashed low on the harbor and Mokie and Bik were monkeying on the wheelhouse, they watched the boat chug-chug-chugging home with clouds of gulls behind her and silver fisk in nets on the deck.

  When the nets were sad and empty, Erik was humph grumph mumphry thundercloud grumpy, and Mokie and Bik were good as gold and didn’t run down the wharf to yabber.

  But when the nets were shimmery shivery fat and full, Erik rumbled, “Plenty fisk, many fisk!” in a sunshine song, and Mokie and Bik ran down the wharf to see.

  They stacked fisk into boxes to go to market and sploshed the decks—

  splosh swosh galoshing,

  slimy blood and mucky guts

  and icky sticky fisky bits.

  The seagulls yabbered, “Mine, mine, mine!” squawk wawk rawking.

  “Plenty fisk for everyone!” Erik sang, tossing slimy blood and mucky guts and icky sticky fisky bits high in the air for the seagulls to catch.

  “Mine!” yabbered the seagulls. “Mine, mine, mine!” and squabbled back for more.

  “When I’m big,” said Bik, “I’m going to have a seagull boat.”

  “When I’m bigger,” said Mokie, “I’m going to have a police boat.”

  Bik wished he’d said that first. The police boat was the best of all.

  The police boat was clean and white.

  It didn’t have clouds of seagulls or decks covered with icky sticky fisky bits, but its motor roared loud and it was the fastest boat in the harbor.

  When Mokie and Bik waved to the police boat, the captain whistled his whistle and waved back. Sometimes he came alongside Bullfrog and gave them police cream in a cone.

  Mokie licked hers slowly, so it melted on her tongue. Bik bit the end off his cone. The police cream trickled, licky trickly tickly, down his arm.

  “I’ll have police cream every day,” said Mokie.

  “I’ll have a seagull boat for fisking and a police boat for patrolling,” said Bik. “Then I can have police cream for dinner and fisk for dessert.”

  When the decks were sploshed clean, Erik gave Mokie and Bik a fisk to take home—shimmery silvery fat fresh fisk.

  “Yum!” said Ruby.

  But when Mokie and Bik came closer Ruby wrinkled her nose —“PEE-YOO!”— crinkled her nose —“YUCK!”—because fisk is nice for dinner, but Mokie and Bik smelled like icky sticky fisky bits, and they stank.

  So Ruby sang “I’se the bye that catches the fish” as she filled the big kettle on the stove, poured hot water into the bathtub, and rub-a-dub-dubbed them till she couldn’t smell anything but soap.

  Their mother got out the big black frying pan and fried the fisk for dinner.

  Starfish and Sea Urchins

  Sometimes Mokie and Bik didn’t want to be together all the time every day. So one morning Bik untied Tadpole from Bullfrog’s stern and went rowboating.

  Mokie drew a scotch-hop on the wharf. She scotch-hopped on her right foot, scotch-hopped on her left.

  Now she had to scotch-hop two feet together to the squares at the edge of the wharf. It was the biggest scotch-hop she’d ever done. She wished she hadn’t drawn it so far away.

  Mokie breathed in deep, crouched down low, and scotch-hopped so hard … she flew straight off the wharf.

  Mokie sank, sank, sank—

  past the wharf’s fat barnacled legs,

  past the starfish and sea urchins,

  past the surprised fisk,

  till she could see the rocks on the bottom of the sea.

  “Barnacle bells!” thought Mokie. She kicked hard until her head popped out—splash smash thrash—and gulped in air. “Huhh!”

  But Mokie couldn’t swim. She sank, sank, sank again—past the barnacles, past the starfish and sea urchins—and kicked and smashed and popped her head out again. “Whew!”

  Bik was rowboating Tadpole on the other side of the wharf. He heard the splash and the splash smash thrash. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he had to find it.

  He rowboated around the wharf as fast as he could and saw a tangle of yellow seaweed floating on the harbor.

  Bik rowboated faster than he ever could. He’d never seen seaweed like that, and he knew he had to get it. He grabbed the yellow seaweed and pulled, and Mokie’s head popped out of the water.

  Mokie spluttered and spat out mouthfuls of harbor. “I saw starfish,” she said. “And sea urchins.”

  She grabbed Bik’s arm to pull closer to Tadpole.

  “Twin overboard!” Bik shouted. Bik’s voice was loud, LOUD, LOUD—that’s what their father always said, and their mother, and Ruby.

  But their father was on his ship-at-sea. Their mother was on her botormike. Ruby was sploshing the floor in Bullfrog’s cabin and singing “Hi, ho, the illy-ally-o!” too loud to hear.

  “Twin overboard!” Mokie tried to shout, but her mouth was full of harbor and she blew bubbles instead.

  “Twin overboard!” Bik shouted again, LOUD, LOUD, LOUDER, but Laddie was too sound asleep to hear.

  Slow didn’t like Bik shouting, so he pulled his head back under his shell and didn’t tell anyone.

  Bik tried to pull Mokie in over Tadpole’s side, and Tadpole leaned over too—tip-tip-tipping—and Bik was slip-s
lip-slipping.

  The harbor started coming into Tadpole. Tadpole tip-tip-tipped more, and Bik slip-slip-slipped more, till he was nearly overboard with Mokie.

  Bik held on to Tadpole with one hand and Mokie’s hair with the other, and threw himself to the opposite side of Tadpole.

  Tadpole sat back on the harbor the way a boat should sit, and Mokie slithered in like a slippery fisk.

  “Huhh!” Mokie spluttered, spitting out mouthfuls of harbor over Tadpole’s side. Bik let go of her hair and rowboated back to Bullfrog because Mokie was wibble-wobbly, her teeth were chit-chattery, and she didn’t want to go rowboating now.

  “Ahoy, Bik!” shouted Erik the Viking, chugging to the wharf in his seagull boat. “What have you caught?”

  “Mokie!” shouted Bik.

  Ruby came out of the wheelhouse with a bucket of water to throw over the side.

  “Twins!” she said. “Don’t fall overboard while I’m sploshing!”

  “I already did,” said Mokie.

  “I caught her,” said Bik.

  “I’ll teach them to swim,” said Erik.

  Fast as Fisk

  On Sunday, when Erik the Viking’s seagull boat stayed home at the wharf, Mokie and Bik put on their overboard suits.

  “Mine’s a too-cold-up-here!” said Bik, because Mokie’s had a top and his didn’t. They shivered down the wharf to Erik’s boat.

  “When I was a yunge,” said Erik, “my far threw me in the fjord. `Sink or swim!’ That’s what my far said.”

  “Did you sink?” asked Mokie.

  “Or swim?” asked Bik.

  “I sank,” said Erik the Viking. “But then I swam, fast as a fisk.”