Fenn pulled a face at the word. He’d often watched Halflin angrily scrub graffiti off a boat, later telling him, They’ll sink without that bleedin’ word on it.
But Magpie only laughed.
“Don’t you look at me like you jus’ smelt sour milk! Don’t mean nuffin’. The Terra Firma might use it bad, but Jipsea’s just a word for anyone the wrong side of the Walls. You know, sticks and stones,” she said mockingly, giving his chin a teasing pinch. She nodded towards a man with bright red hair, blowing through the tube of copper piping.
“One with hair like a lit match? Scotian. From them islands they say a place called Can-Ada used to be, years ago. Fishermen; tough as ‘gator skin. The tall one with hair black as a crow’s wing, like yours? Venetian, from New Venice. Clever and canny traders – got fighting spirit too – but too hoity-toity for me. There are Moken and Badjoa too, from the Fareast Islands; practically fish they love that water so much…”
Fenn pointed to a huge man with a shock of blond hair, fixing one of the catch barrels with a colossal lump hammer.
“And him?”
“Caspian,” she whispered, pulling a face. “So graspin’! Usually Mudlarks nowadays, allus sniffin’ out where money’s to be made. And then there’s—” At this point she grandly pointed her two thumbs to herself— “Cajuns, from the Southern Islands, the place they called the Old Americas.”
“I’ll never remember them all,” Fenn said.
“Don’t try. Truth is Seaborn is less a race, more a way of life. Nowadays you don’t have to be born on water to make the grade, yer just have to live on water … or the marsh. Like yer grandaddy,” she said with a bitter smile.
“Were you born on water?” Fenn asked timidly.
“My stock hails from swamps for sure, before they were swaller’d up by all this.” She swung her arm in an arc to convey the vastness of the empty waters around them. “This ocean gettin’ greedier every day, gobblin’ up the last bits of earth. That’s why Landborn don’t wanna share, not that it’s theirs to share. Plus they scared of our so-called diseases. Do I look like I got the plague to you?” she asked indignantly.
Fenn shook his head.
“Nope. Ain’t no one born on water these days, too dangerous! They say last one was that Demari kid, and look what happen to him!” Magpie stuck out her bottom lip sadly.
“Demari?” Fenn asked, making his voice as light as a bubble.
Magpie shuffled nearer, lowering her voice until it was no more than a scratchy whisper.
“The Demari family led the Resistance. When Chilstone started stealin’ the land and forcin’ folk out, it was the Demaris who kicked off most. Like I say, Venetians are a fightin’ sort. But some of the Resistance got crazy: blowing up ships, blowing up Walls. Madness. The Walls will save us all.”
Fenn nodded, trying to understand. He’d never thought of the Wall as a good thing before.
“Tomas Demari tried to calm things but Chilstone wanted blood. Rumour has it Tomas and Maya fled to her homeland, but Chilstone hunted them down and killed ‘em before they got there. Some say their baby lived and Sargassons hid him in an eel trap when Chilstone came callin’. I wish that were the truth cos things would be different now if it were. But anyone with any sense know it’s a figment. Chilstone’s a cruel one…” Magpie shook herself as she shuddered. “Anyway, enough!”
She reached deep into her pocket, pulling out a crumpled felt hat, pinned all around with little oddments of shiny metal: a silver cross, a coin with a hole in it, a gold pen nib, half a brass hinge. She started pulling it into shape.
“How did you end up on the Panimengro?” Fenn said.
“I was trying for the Mainland because it was their Wall that took the hit and lots of Seaborns got inside. Thought I’d get in, lay low, find work. I work hard. But the ship I was on ran into trouble so we headed to West Isle instead. Got no further than the marshes though, but still got lucky; Viktor trades that way. Needed a cook, took me on.”
“What’s West Isle like? Is it safe there?” Fenn asked.
“Nowhere’s safe!” Magpie clucked her tongue at Fenn’s ignorance. “The Terras gotta hold of all of it. But West Landborn’s s’posed to be more obligin’. Ain’t so picky about who gets to live there.” She plucked at a loose thread on her hat and bit it off.
“Land of hope and honey; they say it’s easier to get a permit there cos they got more food than all the other isles put together. Orchards drippin’ with apples!” At this thought Magpie hugged herself excitedly with a greedy glint in her eyes and smacked her lips.
“Still have to get over the Wall though, and Terras patrol ’em night ‘n’ day.” Magpie shrugged sadly. “Nope, my papers weren’t convincing no one. But yours…?” Magpie sucked her teeth approvingly and perked up. “Yours the best. Viktor say Halflin’s the man! Viktor too. Smart as paint, that one; allus keeps to the safe routes.” She jammed her hat down on her frizzy curls and tied a long woollen scarf around it to secure it.
“Do you speak French too?” Fenn asked.
“How’d you know ’bout Cajun French?” she exclaimed, clapping his shoulder.
“I had an encyclopaedia. Just the one though.”
Magpie raised her eyebrows.
“Then you a learned child! Me, I never had no books, never learned my letters. An’ French? Never knew none. Chilstone banned all languages ’cept English, though Sargassons do as they please!”
She glanced surreptitiously at the rest of the crew and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Cos Sargassons the only one’s puttin’ up a fight now Venetians lost their sting.”
Immediately Fenn leant in excitedly.
“You mean the Resistance is still going?” he asked.
But before she answered a low whistle sounded three times.
“Blackout!” Viktor hissed.
Without a word Magpie bounced up and grabbed a bucket, slopping water over the brazier fire, and throwing a wet blanket over the smoke. The boat began to turn a sharp course in the opposite direction to the one they’d been taking. She followed the men running along the deck putting out every light, even covering shiny metal objects. The engine was cut. Viktor sliced a finger across his neck. Everyone stopped talking and stood absolutely motionless.
“What’s happening?” whispered Fenn in Magpie’s ear. She put her finger to her lips, her eyes so wide with fright he could see the white around her pupils. She pointed out to sea. On the far horizon was the dark shape of a Fearzero, getting larger by the second.
Fenn watched as the men signed to each other. He understood what they were saying: Halflin went deaf in one ear when Fenn was six, and he immediately prepared the boy for a future when Fenn wouldn’t be heard at all. Were we seen? one signed. Viktor grimaced and shrugged in reply. Which one is it? signed the Caspian. Viktor peered through his binoculars. Warspite, he signed back. Fenn felt his heart constrict as Chilstone’s ship grew bigger and bigger. In front of it were beams of searchlights, sweeping the waves like a bright white broom.
As seconds passed in the black, eerie silence they peered anxiously into the sky. The sickle moon wasn’t strong enough for their boat to be silhouetted, but since they’d cut the engine, they’d been drifting inexorably towards the path of the Warspite. Even if they weren’t spotted, there was every chance they would be mown down under its steel bow. Viktor motioned to the Scotian, a burly man, who began to single-handedly winch the small lifeboat into the water. It would just about hold them all. The rest of the crew started to lower the survival barrels over the gunwale. The barrels could float alongside the dinghy, packed with enough food and water to last the crew three or four days. As quietly as possible the crew lifted down the oars and slipped them silently into the dinghy.
Viktor stared grimly at the Fearzero for a few moments more, then slowly raised his arm, the sign to abandon the Panimengro. But before he had a chance to drop it, the Scotian had touched Viktor’s arm and pointed. Before the lighted portholes of the s
tarboard side of the Fearzero had not been visible, but now there was a faint glimmer, meaning the ship was turning away slightly. With baited breath, his heart thumping so loudly he was sure he could hear it, Fenn watched as more of the Fearzero’s porthole lights slowly appeared. Still no one spoke, no one breathed a sigh of relief. Instead, crouching in the darkness, they waited and waited for what seemed like hours to Fenn, watching the monstrous ship turn completely until again no lights at all could be seen. At last they stood up, white and shaken.
“Were we off course, Cap’n?” the Caspian muttered.
Viktor shook his head.
“We’re on the normal trail; see the Slick?” he flicked his head towards the ocean and Fenn glanced at the water. It hadn’t taken long for the powerless boat to drift into the brown slurry of custard-thick sludge that they always kept in sight to navigate by.
“It’s the Terras who are off route. Lookin’ for something.” He stared stonily at Fenn. “Or someone.” He jerked his head towards Magpie. “Get him below,” he barked and strode back to the pilot house to restart the boat.
7
The hatch closed over him and Fenn was plunged into darkness.
Someone. Viktor’s word bounced around like a ball in Fenn’s head for a long time after the dark closed around him. He was the someone. His mind was in turmoil; he’d woken that morning a nobody and now he was… Fenn stopped himself. He had to push his new-found knowledge deep down. Like Halflin said: bury it – for now at any rate.
He stumbled over to his makeshift hammock and climbed in. The stench of the flotsam and diesel, and a sudden pang of homesickness all crowded in. It was pitch black, but as clear as daylight Fenn saw Halflin trudging back up the hill. Something twisted painfully in his chest. He squeezed his eyes tighter to hold back the unhappiness but it was useless. Remembering Halflin’s words wasn’t going to help this time. A tear leaked out from under his eyelids and trickled down his cheek. He let out a sob.
There was a soft scurrying near by and something brushed his face. Instantly Fenn rolled out of his hammock, instinctively grabbing his rucksack to protect himself. He swung the bag wildly around and, as he did, heard something rattle. He felt inside and to his joy pulled out a small square box: Halflin’s precious matches, but there were only a few. Carefully taking one out, he struck it, and while it sputtered in the damp air he just had enough time to find an empty tin. In this he dropped a strand of oily rope. As the match began to burn his fingers he lit the rope, sending off a hazy plume of choking smoke.
Fenn scanned the floor. He remembered Halflin’s stories about king rats he’d encountered on the trawlers he used to work on in the old days – rats the size of small dogs. He could see nothing but something was scratching the beam above and he looked up. Next to a pulley for lifting the crates, a pair of red eyes stared down inquisitively. At first he thought it must be a cat, but as he crept closer, peering into the darkness, he could see it was shaped like a ferret, but with longer legs. It had pupils shaped like rectangular slits, a long snout, thick sandy fur, a fox-like tail and tiny ears like ormer shells, softly curved and delicate pink. It looked a bit like the otters Halflin used to rescue, washed up on the estuary banks, half dead and smothered with tarry oil.
If it had been a later volume of the encyclopaedia Halflin had found, Fenn would have known what a mongoose was and that it could squirt him with a foul scent. But he just understood that the creature was like him; afraid and alone.
“What are you?” he asked gently, clicking his fingers and whistling, but the more he tried to coax it, the further into the shadows it retreated, baring its teeth. Eventually it hissed at him and, as it turned back into the shadows, Fenn saw a ripple of ribs beneath its pelt; the animal was starving. He decided to save some of his breakfast for it. He felt happier; less alone. Curling himself into a tight ball, he fell asleep trying to work out what the little creature could be.
In the morning he woke to the hatch being opened again. It was Magpie. She put her finger to her lips.
“Cap’n says you ain’t to come up no more,” she whispered. “But he’s sleepin’ an’ I got a treat for yer!”
Fenn scouted around for the creature he had decided to call “Not-an-otter” and found it in the rafters above him, still staring down, as if it had kept a bed side vigil. He clicked his fingers again and it pricked up its ears like a dog, but it wouldn’t come nearer.
Fenn scuttled up and sat on deck with his feet dangling through the hatch. The night was fading and soon everyone would be awake.
“Rice ’n’ coconut milk,” Magpie said with a wink as she passed him a bowl.
Fenn started trying to pick out the tiny black bits, remembering Halflin telling him off for being too fussy about finding a few mouse droppings in the rice.
“Wha’chou doin’ to my puddin’?” whispered Magpie incredulously.
“I don’t like mouse dirt,” Fenn replied.
“You soft ’n the head? That’s vanilla! You pickin’ out the best bit!” Magpie scolded, giving his ear a quick cuff. “Try it before you turn your nose up!”
Fenn tested a spoonful, letting the sweet warm grains spread over his tongue. It was delicious and he ate quickly, staring out over the empty, slate-coloured sea and the congealing clouds. Magpie paced up and down the whole time he ate, and when her back was turned he picked out a clump, squeezed the milk into the bowl and stowed it in his pocket for the Not-an-otter. The instant he finished eating she whisked the bowl away and hustled him below deck again.
Days and nights crawled by; the flotsam pile shrunk only to be refilled each night as the next load of rubbish was lowered down. To keep track of time Fenn unravelled some rope to make a simple calendar, just like Halflin had shown him, tying a knot for each day. On the fifth day, to break the tedium, Fenn started to try and tame the Not-an-otter every time he stopped for water. He’d already been leaving out any scraps he could spare to win its trust.
The Panimengro had to sail through the worst of the Slicks to avoid the patrolling Fearzeros and, on account of that, met no other Gleaners they could trade with. Soon rations got so tight Fenn didn’t have enough food to spare for the Not-an-otter, but then he remembered the turtle flesh in the barrel. Holding a scarf across his face, he lifted the barrel lid and pulled off a piece, laid it carefully on a lower beam, then got back to work. Out of the corner of his eye he kept watch. Within a few minutes the Not-an-otter scampered across the beam and climbed down the rope. Fenn watched as it tentatively crept nearer, putting out one delicate paw after the other; its snout in the air, sniffing and twitching its long silver whiskers. When it was within a few feet it suddenly bounced along the beam, snatched the meat and scurried back into the shadows.
The next time Fenn stopped to drink, he put meat on the beam again, but nearer. Only a few moments passed before the Not-an-otter crept out, but now it didn’t hesitate before thieving. Fenn did the same again, but this time worked a nail out of one of the crates and, using the iron-edged heel of his boot, hammered the meat to the beam. When the creature couldn’t shift the meat it tore a small chunk off and, emboldened by Fenn’s calm movements, stopped running back to the comfort of its den. It sat out the remainder of the day on the barrel top, twitching its nose for the next bit of food.
Fenn went through the whole process the next day and the day after. The Not-an-otter was constantly on the scrounge for food. In the evening, Fenn tucked a scrap of meat between the twines of his hammock, making sure the Not-an-otter could see what he was doing, then pretended to fall asleep. Through his half-closed eyes he watched the creature edge closer. The Not-an-otter ran and took the meat in its paws, but rather than scuttle away it clung on to the edge of the hammock and ate it there, watching Fenn carefully, sitting up like a squirrel with a nut. Fenn slowly sat up, pulled out another piece of meat and held it out in his palm. Now the Not-an-otter sniffed and crept along the edge of the hammock, made a dart for Fenn’s hand, snatched the meat and scurried dow
n Fenn’s legs to eat it, sitting on Fenn’s feet. Realising Fenn’s feet were warmer than the rafters, the animal finally curled up in the end of the hammock like a cat on a bed, and was still asleep there in the morning.
They had set off in calm waters, but now bad weather tossed the boat around like a cork, making Fenn sicker than he thought possible. He longed to be back at home with Halflin, where even the most horrible tasks suddenly seemed appealing, if only because he would have done them with solid earth beneath his feet. Cleaning out the pigs, scraping up frozen dung on a snowy morning, even gutting the yearling he and Halflin had slaughtered together just before he fled. However grisly the task, each seemed like a pleasant, distant dream. Anything would be preferable to the relentless, stomach-churning pitch and fall of the waves. Every time Fenn staggered over to the bucket to puke, the Not-an-otter ran up and down the beams, chattering at him, its big eyes filled with worry.
On the fifteenth day the hatch opened unexpectedly in the middle of the afternoon, but instead of Magpie, Viktor glared down, his face tense and frowning. Clouds were broiling in the sky and a gale was raging above the boat.
“Grab your gear!” he shouted.
“Are we there?” Fenn asked, but Viktor had already disappeared.
Fenn wasn’t leaving the Not-an-otter on its own; it had been half starved when he found it, and now its coat had grown sleek, and its tail fluffed out with a glossy curl at the tip. Fenn clucked and whistled, but the Not-an-otter was nowhere to be seen. He climbed up to the rafters, peering between the boxes of dried goods, whispering into the secret dusty places the Not-an-otter liked to prowl, coming out covered in cobwebs. But it was no good: it was nowhere to be seen. For a split second Fenn wondered if he’d poisoned it – the turtle meat had been pretty rancid – but he argued with himself that wild animals only eat things that are safe. On the other hand, was it truly wild any more? His thoughts were interrupted by Viktor calling again, even more angrily this time.
Fenn Halflin and the Fearzero Page 6