At the end of the jetty he caught sight of the red-sailed barge, which had just moored. On its side, in peeling paint, he could just make out the name: the Salamander. Quiet as a cat, he slunk against the Gloriana’s flank, keeping tight inside the fringe of her shadow.
The Salamander was unloved. Fishing nets lay strewn untidily on deck and the cabin windows were clogged with green mildew. There seemed to be a small crew: only three men in total, which was unusual for a fishing barge. Fenn guessed they were Scotians; they looked like some of Viktor’s crew. Their bushy, red-gold hair was matted and their faces were sunburnt to the colour of lobster. They had clearly sailed from warmer waters.
Fenn struggled to contain his excitement. It was a fishing ship; fishing and salvage, he guessed. It would probably have a big hold where they could all hide, so long as it wasn’t already packed to the brim with cargo or so empty that they’d be seen immediately.
Fenn decided to slip aboard and check it out before alerting the others. He waited while the crew secured the barge, learning from their shouted calls that the ratty-looking one with the scrappy beard was Owen, and that the larger, sloping-shouldered one was Logan. These two called the third man – who was the oldest – Captain; he was a burly man with a squashed face like he’d run hard into a wall. After a few minutes he left, passing within a whisker of Fenn, who was crouching in the shadows. The captain disappeared straight up into the hole in the Gloriana – the Salamander had obviously landed here before. As soon as the others’ backs were turned, Fenn scampered to the barge and slipped aboard. He was just about to run over to the hold when Logan suddenly loped back along the deck. Fenn had no choice but to dive down the stairs.
Inside, the Salamander was in a sorry state, but that was good news, Fenn reckoned: a slovenly crew wouldn’t be making inspections or be down in the hold setting rat traps every night. Fenn crept into a kitchen where he found a squalid mess; a pot of something sat on the stove with mould creeping over it, so thick and fluffy it looked like a pan of fur. Used plates had been dropped in a bucket of putrid water with food and dead maggots floating on the surface, and empty bottles of whisky lay broken on the floor. He waited a few moments to see which way Logan went, then suddenly heard his footsteps coming down the deck steps. Panicking, Fenn pushed open the next door and slipped behind it.
He found himself in a surprisingly neat little cabin, fitted out with small beds; basic, not the height of luxury, but better than anything he’d slept on in a long time. Judging from the size of the beds he realised this wasn’t a fishing vessel at all – they weren’t adult-sized. It looked like a convoy ship, similar to the one Fathom had talked about; shipping children to safety. Fenn wondered if any of the Shanties children would be lucky enough to get passage, recalling rumours that some were taken to foster parents behind the Walls. But if it was a convoy ship, why moor here, in secret? He listened as Logan thumped around in the kitchen for a bit, then he heard the sound of breaking glass, some swearing, and finally his footfall retreating back up the steps.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by more voices directly above him: a woman’s and a child’s, then the sound of them getting closer. Fenn stumbled backwards in the dark and found himself against a cupboard door. He swiftly slid inside and shut it quietly behind him, just as the door to the cabin opened.
“You promise me he’ll be safe?” the woman was asking. Her voice was thick with the sob she was trying to hold back.
Fenn peeped through a tiny crack in the door. It was the captain with the woman Fenn had seen on the dock the night he first arrived at the Shanties. Her young face was gaunt and she had a shrivelled, pinched look. Hunger had twisted her beauty to something ghoulish; her large eyes were now deep pits and her skin stretched yellow as parchment over her once fine features. Her head was shaved but a hint of golden hair remained. Like Amber, she must have bartered her hair for food. Holding her hand tightly was the little boy she’d tried to get aboard the Panimengro; his eyes were wide and frightened as he hid behind her skirts. In her other arm she carried a tiny bundle that was crying quietly; Fenn hadn’t noticed the baby at first. It was obvious the three of them were starving. If she had no way of keeping them all fed, then getting the child passage on board a ship off the Shanties was his – their – only chance.
“He’ll be right as rain,” the captain said reassuringly. “There’ll be lots of other kids for him to play with.”
He had a gruff voice that sounded kind and comforting to Fenn’s ears; not like the delicate, fake voice Nile put on. He watched as the captain showed the woman where the child would sleep, when suddenly there was a commotion on deck and one of the men shouted for “Lord”. Immediately the captain stomped up the steps, grumbling to himself.
As soon as he had gone, the woman felt the rough blanket and then the hard straw mattress. She smiled at the little boy and sat down on the bunk, then lifted him onto her lap and started whispering in his ear. She was close enough that Fenn could hear she was trying to stifle a sob locking up the muscles in her throat.
“This’ll be where you sleep, my love. Look how cosy it is! You even have a little roof,” she said, pointing to the bunk above his bed. Her voice had that sing-song tone adults use when they are frightened but trying to stay calm.
“What’s that man called?” asked the child, his voice wispy and fragile from lack of energy.
“That’s the captain,” she said. “He’s called Lord. But you must always call him ‘Captain’. That’s the way it is aboard a ship.” The child nodded and laid his head against her arm. His mouth was wobbling as he tried not to cry.
“Chin up, sweetheart,” she said. She patted the bed and plumped up the pillow as best she could. “Look – the captain has made it all snug for you.”
She dipped her hand into her pocket and managed a smile for the boy, then pretending to be conspiratorial, she leant in.
“And see this…?” She opened her hand slowly, like a flower blossoming; a tiny stub of a pencil lay on her palm. “This is a pencil!” she announced, like it was a diamond. “I’ve been saving it for a special day. Like today!”
The boy stared at it and made himself smile, but Fenn could tell he was unconvinced.
“What do you do with it?” he asked.
“You draw with it,” she said excitedly. “It was mine when I was little. Use it on the wood here, where it’s nice and dry!” On the bottom of the bed above her she carefully drew something.
“You have to be careful not to break the black bit or it won’t work, and you don’t have a knife to sharpen it.” The boy watched her drawing with large solemn eyes, taking in the rarity of the gift, then she handed him the pencil as if it were a gold nugget. He carefully stowed it in his pocket.
Lord hurried back down into the cabin and explained to the woman that they’d be back in six months, and if she got a permit she could come and join her child. The child would be on the Mainland; he would be safe there. Then Lord suddenly lumbered towards the cupboard where Fenn was hiding and slammed his hand hard on the door.
“The children keep their stuff in here, if they have anything.”
The mother winked at the little boy, who touched his pocket furtively.
Fenn pressed himself flat against the back of the wooden cupboard feeling the rough grain in its surface and a knot bulging out. Suddenly it swung away from him to reveal a short passageway that lead to a small flight of wooden steps. Tikki must have sensed Fenn’s fear and was making a low frightened whine in his pocket. Afraid he’d be heard, Fenn slipped silently down the passageway and gently closed the secret cupboard door behind him.
He was in a dank windowless hold, well beneath the water-line. Stagnant bilge water lapped around his feet. Tikki slipped loose from his pocket and ran up Fenn’s arm, hissing gently. Behind him, Fenn heard Lord slap his fist on the cupboard door again before moving on. Fenn listened to their footsteps above: first the woman and child, plodding upwards, weak and worn out; then
Lord, impatient, hurrying, his steel-capped boots clipping the edge of the stair-treads.
He waited patiently in the dark; the stench was unbearable. One minute, then two minutes passed. Fenn thought it would be safe now and opened his box of matches. Only three left. He lit one, cupping the flare so carefully that he nearly burnt himself. The flame flickered in the clammy air. Fenn shuddered.
The cabin was filled with rubbish. It was as wide as the show cabin he’d just been in but only three feet deep. Around the walls were narrow planks, like shelves just long enough for a child to lie on. Fenn counted thirty of them. At the end of each platform an iron hoop was hammered into the wall with a chain fixed to it. Here and there were smears of dried blood on the wall. In the centre of the room was a slop bucket just within reach of each platform. There was a sluice gulley blocked with human excrement. Fenn felt a bolt of nausea in his throat and a crawling sensation up his spine as he looked around. This was no convoy. This was a trafficking ship, trading children. The woman would never see her boy again. The match fizzed out in the damp air.
Scarcely breathing, his heart thumping, Fenn grabbed Tikki and pushed him back in his pocket. He had to get off the ship without being seen, or he might never leave it at all. He waited a few more minutes to make sure the coast was clear before climbing back up the steps and into the cupboard. Finally he came out into the little cabin. On the bed the blanket was rumpled from where the mother and child had sat and talked. Fenn leant down and looked at what she’d drawn: a miniscule picture of a happy stickman in a triangular boat, sailing under a big smiling sun, towards an island with a wall around it.
He tiptoed back into the dismal kitchen, still keeping an ear out for the sound of the men on deck, wondering how he was going to get past them. Slowly he crept back up the deck stairs and peeped out. Owen was standing at the stern end, untangling some rope from where it had caught on the fishing tackle, swearing and muttering under his breath. Logan was just a couple of feet from Fenn, with his back turned to him, tapping the blunt edge of a cleaver in his hand. He was leaning on the bow and seeing how far he could spit into the water.
Fenn would easily be seen if he tried to jump onto the jetty. He spied a wooden pail lying on its side, just within reach. He managed to stretch out and get his fingertips around the handle, pulling it a little nearer. It scraped slightly as he moved it and Logan looked over his shoulder. Fenn ducked back down. He left it a few seconds, then slowly peeped out again; Logan had resumed his spitting game.
He gently picked the pail up and swung it with all his might across the barge deck, away from the jetty. It clattered over the side and splashed into the water. Logan and Owen immediately ran around the side of the barge, shouting at the would-be intruder. Seizing his chance, Fenn ran and slipped back over the rail, racing back down the jetty to the Gloriana, ignoring the angry shouts behind him.
By the time Fenn got back to the fort it was already dark, the wind was picking up and the waves were foamy white. The Shanties were closing down for the night as people returned to their barges. Down in the alleys below Fenn could just make out the glimmer of a Lighter-Upper, carrying a long fishing pole with a burning wick that he used to light a few torches around the main square. Wisps of music drifted up as a crowd gathered by the Mercy-Ship to sing old songs; Ancient always lit a fire by the ship for anyone who had no other home to go to. Fenn scrambled up the last few metal rungs to the fort, banged on the hatch and waited for the whistle. But before it came the hatch was flung wide open and the ladder dropped down by Amber. Her eyes glittered in excitement.
“You’re late!”
“You won’t believe this…” he whispered, but she interrupted him, flapping her hands at him to make him shut up. Two bright red spots had blossomed on her cheeks.
“No. You won’t believe this,” she countered. “Nile’s got us on a boat! And we’re having a party!” She giggled. “With bacon!” Her face was pink with happiness as she waggled a rasher in front of his nose.
Before Fenn could respond, Nile yelled at Amber to close the hatch and come back into the main room. Fenn hooked the nets up on the wall, let Tikki up onto his shoulder, pulled the two gulls out of his rucksack and hung them up for plucking later on. He went into the living area.
It looked different from normal; there was a proper fire rather than just the charcoal embers to smoke the rats, and around the walls all the tallow lamps had been lit. The air was full of a wonderful smell that conjured up memories of the kitchen at home. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he saw Gulper and Fathom huddled excitedly by the fire, and Amber pushing in to get closer. He looked around for Comfort and found her lying on her stomach by Nile’s feet as he chatted affably to another man, whose back was turned to Fenn. Comfort was meticulously packing her meagre belongings into a catch bag: a comb with only a few teeth left, a teaspoon sharpened to a knife, a raffia sleeping mat. On the other side of the man was Mrs Leach, sitting prettily, her hands neatly crossed on her knees. Her carpetbag bulged by her feet; she’d already packed all her worldly goods and now she waited excitedly, like a child about to go on a birthday treat. Every now and then she smiled gratefully at Nile.
At the sound of his footfall, Mrs Leach turned to beam at Fenn. She was rosy-cheeked from the heat of the fire and the excitement of having guests, and she had drawn little wings on the outside of her eyes to make them look wider and bigger, using pieces of charcoal from the fire.
“Coo-ee!” she called, wiggling her fingertips at him like a little girl. Somehow she managed to make her face lift up when she wanted it to, like invisible hooks were attaching her skin to pulleys in the sky; it made her look younger but also waxy and stiff, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
Fenn watched as Nile dug his fist into a small hessian sack in his lap and pulled out a handful of ginger-coloured leaves. He crumbled them between his fingers and brought them up to his nose, inhaling deeply.
“Fenn! I was worried you’d miss the celebration!” he said over his shoulder, not looking in the slightest bit concerned. He turned to refill the stranger’s jam jar from one of the three whisky bottles that stood under the stranger’s chair.
“Fenn is our latest recruit but he’s ever so keen to leave,” Nile said with a sneer. “So he’ll be very pleased to hear your news!”
The man turned and gave Fenn a friendly nod.
It was Lord.
18
Once, when Fenn was about nine, he hit Halflin really hard.
Halflin had been on the Punchlock all morning and, as always, left Fenn at home with strict instructions to hide if anyone came knocking. He had handed him a piece of slate and a chalk and told him to find out about a man called Chaucer, as he would test him when he got back. Fenn was soon so bored he decided to go and spy on Halflin.
He had crept up into the loft and trained the telescope over towards the Punchlock and found Halflin immediately. He watched Halflin destroy six boats that morning: two barges, two luggers, a houseboat and a drifter. Of course he knew that was what Halflin did for a living, but it’s one thing hearing about something and another seeing it. By the time Halflin got back, Fenn was in a blind rage of injustice. As Halflin came in through the door, he flew at him, punching and kicking.
Halflin had taken it. He hadn’t given Fenn a clout or even shouted. He let him beat his fists against his chest and held him while angry sobs racked through his body. But when Fenn screamed that he should be more like the Sargassons, who didn’t do any of the Terra Firma’s dirty work, Halflin pushed him off angrily, then changed his mind and gripped Fenn’s shoulders too hard while he told him a few home truths.
Sargassons didn’t help or hinder the Terra Firma, he said. After the great Sweep when their children were taken, they’d learned to survive by keeping themselves to themselves and never showing their feelings to outsiders, knowing concealment kept them safe, like the very eels they hunted. As Halflin jabbed the stump of his finger hard into Fenn’s chest, he explained that
secrecy was what kept them both alive too. He said that there were only four ways animals avoided being killed: kill first, fight, run or hide. Halflin said that he for one could only manage the last; he didn’t have the strength for fighting, nor the legs for running any more, and he’d never had the stomach for killing. Fenn could learn a thing or two from the Sargassons for sure, Halflin said; not flashing his emotions for all to see would be a start.
Fenn touched his chest now, feeling the very spot the hard stub had bruised him years before, and knew he must hide his true feelings. His life, and the lives of his friends, depended on it. He snapped to attention, focusing on Lord’s face.
“You’ve passage on my boat,” Lord was saying. “And I hear you’ve got your own permit too? That’s good; we’ll want that. At least one we won’t have to fake!”
Fenn hesitated, unsure what to say, and Mrs Leach chimed in.
“Didn’t I say!” she said, jabbing Nile in the ribs. “He’s speechless with joy!”
Nile swung an arm over the back of his chair and peered inquisitively at Fenn. His nose was practically twitching, like a ferret’s.
“Thought you’d be full of questions. Aren’t you wondering where we’re going?” he teased.
“I … I just can’t believe it,” Fenn muttered. He’d never said anything truer.
“Lucky there’s room for us all.” Nile winked at Lord, “Lord’s convoy ship is deceptively spacious.”
Fenn Halflin and the Fearzero Page 15