Ana has hair red as fire and a temper to suit. She’s been through thirty-five or thirty-six Hard Seasons, making her one of the oldest people on the island. She is also one of the most important people who doesn’t serve the royal family. She is the cook and manager of housekeeping. Those titles would suggest that she has some talent in making meals and organization, but she has neither. She’s very good at stretching a piece of fish to feed several dozen hungry mouths, and she’s even better at barking orders. She was also my foster mother, and Tiam’s, too. She’s good at this job, at making sure no one laid a finger on me whenever Buck was busy tending to the fishing. Even now, she runs the sleeping compartment so militantly that it’s the one place I don’t fear closing my eyes. People listen to her, respect her.
The job of Craphouse Keeper, Ana told me when I assumed it when I was five, “always falls to the youngest person in the world.” But Tiam never had to shovel crap, and neither did Memory, the next youngest person in the world. And Fern is now the youngest, but when I pointed that out, Ana just shook her head and barked, “Be grateful.” It seems that either I am the greatest Craphouse Keeper in the world or they think shoveling crap is the best job a one-handed nobody should be entitled to.
By the time I get up my courage to steal a glance at our future king, he’s already strolling down the beach, his back toward me, scribbler-nose spear in his hand. Looking for treasure, I guess. He never stays still for long, so I don’t know why it hurts me that he didn’t take the time to say goodbye. I trudge around the compartment and down the path a ways to another smaller compartment of rusting metal walls, bolted into the ground. I pull open the door and climb inside the dark building.
It smells, obviously. At first, the stench was unbearable, but now I guess I’ve grown accustomed to it. There’s a constant drip-drip-dripping here, just like in the sleeping compartment, as this building is also underwater when the tide comes in. Though my arm ends about a hand’s length below my elbow, the stump is useful for many things. I’ve gotten pretty good at using my stump to support the shovel when I dig in and using it to heft over my shoulder, even without fingers to grip it.
I guess I should be grateful there’s only one of these to clean. We used to have two craphouses, but the other washed away, so now we have only one for 496 people. Well, the royals have their own, supposedly, in the palace, but I’ve never been there. One craphouse for 496 people is pretty, shall we say, crappy, considering that the craphouse is one of the few places on the island where a person can be completely alone. Some people, like Mutter, who hates everyone, will brave the stench and stay in there for half a tide, just so he doesn’t have to see anyone. Others will pee in the tide pools or defecate wherever they please, and though that is illegal, no one says anything. There are far worse offenses in our world.
There’s a little seat with a big hole in the center of the room, and though I fill it with sand before the tide comes in, sometimes excrement will come loose and end up everywhere when the tide goes out again. So I’ll need to shovel it back into place, then add in more fresh sand, make sure the seat is clean.
I try to imagine myself in the castle, wearing long pink robes that stay dry, as I shovel the wet sand and excrement. I’ve come to realize that the only way to make it through this job is by daydreaming. I imagine myself sleeping on that giant seashell bed and feasting on good food and smelling like something other than seawater and crap.
The only problem is that my daydreams often wander to Tiam, and thoughts like that can kill a girl.
By the time I’m done and step outside into the sun again, there’s a line of three people waiting. Luckily it’s no one who’s going to give me trouble, like Ana or Mutter. Fern is there, legs together, hopping about. The other two, Mick and Vail, twins who are fishermen, look through me.
I fold my crap-crusted shovel in a tattered cloth and pack it into my bag. Then I start over to the east side, where the tide pools are. But I notice that, strangely, the shores are empty of people. On such a small island, when the shores are empty, it means only one of two things: the tide is coming in, or an assembly has been called. It’s impossible that the tide is coming in; the horn announcing low tide hasn’t yet blared. When I walk to the sleeping compartment and see Tiam peeking through one of the rusted holes in the metal, I know that Ana has called an assembly. The king does not like these, but he is never around to dissolve them, and so they go on, maybe once every hundred tides or so. When I approach, I can hear voices inside, raised in argument. Keeping my distance from Tiam as I know my stench is unbearable, I whisper, “What? Something bad?”
He turns to me, his face serious. “I guess. I don’t know.” He throws up his hands. “If only I could be in there.”
We can’t because we’re not yet adults. When we’ve reached our sixteenth seasons, our voices will matter. Right now, we’re forbidden from assemblies. But that hasn’t stopped us from watching everything from the outside; the walls of this place are so full of holes, we might as well be present. I can still remember my father striding among assembly. Back then, I didn’t understand much of what they were quibbling about, but still, Buck Kettlefish was a force. He always had a voice, and a strong one. People listened to him. Now they are looking for someone to listen to, but nobody has presented themselves yet. Maybe Tiam, when he is of age, will be that person.
I peek inside. They are just finishing up discussing the king’s visit to the platform, obviously, because his cough is the big topic of discussion.
“Something’s going on. Why was he there?” Vixby grunts, and the group begins to bubble with speculation.
Ana says something I can’t quite hear, and then, “And if the death of the king is imminent, we must make preparations...”
Someone talks of Star, but Ana says, “Star is too young to be of any help in this matter. We cannot rely on...”
“But you are to be king,” I whisper to Tiam.
He says, “Quiet. No one knows that yet.”
“Well, they should. Why else would you have been called there yesterday evening?”
Ana says, “Do we have any nominations?” and a sickening feeling wells in the pit of my stomach. No, this is wrong. There is nobody in assembly that’s fit to rule us. Nobody.
“Are you going to tell the king? He needs to announce his plans, and soon,” I urge.
He doesn’t answer, just continues to stare through the peephole, so I do the same. Finn strides up to the front of the room. Vail is another. Ana asks for more, but there are no more. Standing there, Finn and Vail shift awkwardly. I try to think of Finn ruling the world. He’s a good person, I suppose. Another fisherman, he’d been one of my father’s closest allies. He’s quiet, does what he’s told. But a leader?
“But what about you?” I ask Tiam.
“I don’t know,” he says. Then he turns to me and smiles. “Don’t worry, little Coe. I’ll think of something.”
Assembly ends. People disperse, hanging their heads as they leave the compartment. I walk to where Melame Wiggins has positioned himself. Melame minds the tide pools. That’s his job. He’s in charge of making sure they’re clean, and that no scribblers are near.
We wash in the tide pools. Freshwater, which we get from the rainstorms, is only for drinking, since it can burn the skin off commoners if they come in contact with it too often. Sometimes we don’t even have enough for drinking, so we ration it and we’re often thirsty. Our skin is always coated in salt and sand. I taste salt constantly on my lips, and sometimes they blister and burn. Sand constantly grits in my clothes and between my legs, creating raw welts on my skin, but I’m used to it. What I can’t stand, though, is stinking the way I do.
This tide pool looks clean and new, as if not too many people have washed up in it yet. Melame, as well as a few others who are lounging in the pool, see me coming. They all start to get out, which is ridiculous,
considering I’ve never bathed near anyone before.
Melame positions himself between me and the tide pool. “You have no place in this pool,” he grumbles.
“You should know by now that I’ve never bathed in your tide pools,” I mumble.
He wrinkles his brown face. “Sheesh. You stink.”
“Does that surprise you?” I snap back.
I walk toward the southern shore, where I find another tide pool. It is small and free of scribblers. I sink into it slowly, cautiously, and scoop water into my hand and wash it over my arms and back. For thousands of tides I’ve been the vilest person on the island. As if Melame and the others expect that to change.
If you walk at a leisurely pace, the island itself, when the tide is lowest, can be crossed four or five times in a tide. From one end, you can just barely see the ocean at the other end. It is small, and getting smaller every day. The castle stands in front of me, in the distance, about a stone’s throw from the platform, in the direct center of the island. There’s a bit of a breeze but not enough to sway the tower. I wonder what the princess does in there all day, alone. I wonder if she’s just as lonely as I am. As I’m about to lean my head back against the sandy bank and stare up at the sky, I catch a glimpse of Tiam in the haze on the horizon. He’s carrying his spear over his shoulder and strolling along the shoreline with Rickman, the head fisherman. Rickman, a man who never cracks a smile, like most of the people on the island, is making a weird noise I can’t quite make out. He’s laughing. Nobody on this island laughs unless they’re with Tiam. I guess it isn’t just me he puts at ease.... He’s like that with everyone.
I sigh. No wonder the king chose him. He gives the people of this island life, a reason to hope.
My brown-and-green tunic billows around me, floating on the surface of the water. I sink my toes under the cool sand and tilt my head to the sky, trying to think of some common bond we have. Well, we once had Ana. She clothed us, fed us, kept us out of danger. I can’t say she ever cared for us because caring for another person is just not done here. People have to watch out for themselves, above all else, or they’ll die. Ana did what she had to do. It was her job.
We both were born to mothers who had us just to get a better spot in the formation. At least, this is what Ana told me. She didn’t have me out of love, because love is far too dangerous. People don’t do that here. She had me out of fear. Tiam’s mother did, too. I wonder if he can remember his mother. He never speaks of her. The only real memory I have of mine is her pink eyes, but sometimes I think that might be wishful thinking. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so utterly alone if I had something in common with someone, even a dead someone.
I’m not sure why I still care about her, since she certainly never cared about me. Supposedly, one afternoon, when I was three, she left me out alone, making sand castles. By the time I was found, I’d lost my hand to the scribblers, and almost my life. I think they executed her for that, which is what they do to murderers here. Sometimes the king will make examples of wrongdoers, so that chaos won’t reign. The king also wanted to cast me out, too, because I was so badly injured. But somehow, I survived. I am sure Buck had a lot to do with convincing them. Anyway, this is what I’ve pieced together from the little I’ve heard. Nobody talks much about it. As I said, nobody cares about the past. We just have our memories, and I don’t have many of those.
Sometimes a foolish, girlish thought pops into my head. If Tiam and I had a baby, what would it look like? Would it have his blue eyes, or my icy pink ones? His heartbreakingly beautiful smile, my crazy black hair? And then I remember that’s selfish, impossible and just plain insensible. My mother might have been stupid and selfish for trying to save herself by bringing me into this world of pain, but she was right not to care about me.
Love is dangerous.
The scribblers got her, I think. When they execute someone, they simply throw them in the ocean. They’ll thrash about, but the guards will not let them back ashore. The guards will stand there and wait until the person falls beneath the waves. Sometimes the scribblers will get them. Sometimes they drown first. How is that for irony, that in a world governed by the ocean, not a one of us knows how to swim more than a few clumsy strokes? We don’t, can’t venture more than waist-deep into the ocean for long, for the undertow is vicious, and the scribblers are many. I’ve seen a few executions in my life. Well, I’ve heard about them. I don’t watch them. I’m not like some who enjoy watching people, even bad people, suffer.
As I’m just getting comfortable, massaging the knots out of my limbs, aching eyes shut in the blinding brightness of the sun, I suddenly feel a rush of cold water over my head. Salty fish entrails slip over my nose and cheeks, landing in big bloody chunks in my lap.
I jump up. You’d think by now I’d have learned never to close my eyes.
Mutter is holding the bucket and scowling at me. “You think that taking a bath will clean you, Bait? Why don’t you go back to the crap, where you belong?” Vixby stands behind him, laughing.
I start trying to scoop the fish pieces out of the water, but it’s fruitless. Now they’re spreading across the surface of the entire pool in a greasy mess. The boys strut back down shore, toward the other fishermen. Or maybe they’re men. When men here reach past their eighteenth Hard Season, they all start to look alike, so it’s difficult to tell age. It’s true that I’d often thought that when the king was weeding out the troublemakers, Vixby and Mutter would be his next choice. But they weren’t always this difficult. They used to be the quiet ones who just went about their duties, pulling in lines, bringing in fish, standing in their circles in formation like good citizens. But gradually, they began acting out. Calling people like me Bait. Squabbling over their places in the formation. People say it’s the sun. But I think it comes with the gradual realization that this life has no purpose. It’s not as if there’s good in this world anymore. It’s just day after day of misery, of waiting to die. Every day you wonder what the point is, or if there even is a point, and the longer you go on, the more life seems like a game you’re meant to lose. Mostly it drives people to harmless things, like Xilia, who talks to herself and sees apparitions everywhere. But every once in a while it will drive a person to worse. “They’re harmless,” I say out loud, as if saying it aloud will make it true.
Suddenly a shadow descends upon me. I brace myself for more cold water, but instead, the brave person just slinks into the water next to me. It’s Finn. I stare back at him in shock and begin pulling my ragged dress down over my scars. No one has ever ventured into a tide pool with me. He says, “Depends on who you are.”
“Um. What?” I ask, confused.
“Whether they’re—” he nods his head toward Vixby and Mutter “—harmless really depends on who you are. And they don’t like you very much.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
He proceeds to scoop water into his hands and splash his face. The water slides among the fine hair on his jawline. Finn has been around three Hard Seasons more than I have, and I think he’s rather nice to look at, for now. But as I said, after a certain age all the men begin to look alike. He’s getting to that age where all the expressive, interesting parts of his face will be covered with knotted hair. Eventually, the men on this island all start to look like monsters, like the hairy animal from the Beauty and the Beast story in my fairy-tale book. Each time I’d read that story, I’d always imagine Vixby or Mutter or one of the other men, roaring from behind their mask of matted, dirty fur. They are altogether frightening.
Finn, though, is different. He was also one of Ana’s children. He’s always been the quiet, unassuming type. Even though he’s a fisherman, he’s not one to astound with his abilities; he just does what he’s supposed to do. Where Tiam knows how to attract attention, Finn deflects it. He’s steady and reliable, and was always right behind my father whenever work needed to be done. My father ha
d mentored him, so I’d often see them together. Which is probably why I’ll often turn in formation and see him, several rows back, watching me. In the compartment, he’ll usually find a place near me. He’s rarely talked to me, though. I suppose I could find it unsettling, but I guess I just need to believe that someone, anyone, cares about me even one-tenth of what my father did.
“Sometimes you don’t have to do anything,” he says softly. “You just have to be. That’s what scares me.”
“Scares you?” My eyes widen. I lap up the attention eagerly. It’s so sad; we’re not supposed to care for each other, and yet I can’t imagine that anyone on this island is so damaged that he doesn’t want to be cared about. I feel as if I thirst for it each day, like water; and like water, it is always in such short supply. That’s probably why I jump at Finn’s expression of concern.
“Well, yeah,” he says with a small laugh. “I don’t want you to get hurt. You need protection. Especially with your father...away.”
I don’t answer. I know everyone assumes I need protection because of my arm, because my size and ruddy skin and bad eyes make me so different and unsuited for this world. And maybe I do. The way he pauses when speaking of Buck Kettlefish tells me all I need to know. He thinks my father, my protector, is dead. No one has said as much, but I guess that’s the consensus. People know that it’s high Hard Season now, and he left at the beginning of my fifteenth Soft Season. He’s been gone for 539 tides. Not that I keep count or anything.
“High Hard has been pretty gentle so far,” he says. “That’s good.”
I nod. High Hard is the most damaging. We lose most of our numbers during high Hard. But it’s been pretty easygoing so far. Though bad things always seem to happen just as we’re exhaling with relief. Just as we’re letting down our guard.
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