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Pisces of Fate

Page 10

by Pisces of Fate (retail) (epub)


  “The gold the ship’s doctor wrote about in the Bilgepuppy log. He said it was a pirate ship and the first Captain Aarrgh was a pirate. He buried his treasure somewhere in the archipelago and then his ship went down in a hurricane. The crew got off somehow and either drowned or disappeared. Only the ship’s surgeon went down with the ship. He was the one holding the metal case with the log.”

  “Well, yeah,” Shoal said. “But what does that have to do with Tacus?

  “Parrots can live for a very long time. His drawings…I think they are a map. A map of where to find buried treasure.”

  “You said he was drawing amoeba,” Shoal reminded him.

  Ascott stood up so fast he almost dropped the towel and Tacus on the sand. “That’s it! Shoal, you’re a genius!”

  She stared at him, one eyebrow raised in a dangerous way.

  “Tacus isn’t drawing amoeba, he’s drawing the island of Saint Amoeba.” Ascott said.

  Shoal looked around to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “You mean that the treasure is here? Buried on the island of Saint Amoeba?”

  “Exactly.” Ascott beamed and then sat down hard as dizziness overwhelmed him.

  “We can’t go digging around on Amoeba, this is sacred land. The only time we are allowed here is during Migration. Even then we’re not allowed past the beach.”

  Ascott looked inland, beyond the partygoers huddled around the flickering fires, where there was nothing but dense forest, the calls of night-birds and the gentle shushing of waves on the sand.

  “Well…how would anyone know we were here?” he asked with a sideways look.

  “I would know,” Shoal said firmly. “I would know and that would be enough.”

  “But there is treasure here. Right here. And Tacus can draw us a map.”

  “Maybe the treasure should stay here. Untouched. What good comes from digging up the past?”

  “It’s a discovery. It’s begging to be found. That’s how it works. Things are lost, maps are found, and then discoveries are made.”

  “Why can’t you just be happy with what you have? Why do you always have to go off and claim everything like it is meant to be yours?”

  Ascott didn’t have a ready answer to that question, and Shoal didn’t wait for him to come up with one. She stood up and storm­ed off through the partying crowd.

  “Idiot,” Tacus muttered, and yawned before tucking his head under his plucked wing.

  Ascott sat there, watching the flames and the people dance. They seemed happy. It wasn’t just the java—they seemed genuinely happy. They had witnessed the natural order of things come around again with the whales migrating. They had cheered on their favourites in the races and they had food, drink and someone to dance with.

  Does knowing too much make you unhappy? Ascott wondered. Was it simply because he knew an entire world existed beyond the horizons of the islands that he had this urge to catalogue and quantify everything? Did knowing that Charlotte was going to die mean he could have done something to save her? Drakeforth had said it would happen anyway. But what did he know? He was a god who hated religion. He certainly wasn’t happy, and if he was a god, he must know pretty much all there was to know.

  Ascott gingerly touched his face. The scratches where the broken bottle had cut him stung, and the glued-up cut under the dressing throbbed. Shoal had been happy before he came along. She knew little of the world beyond the archipelago and was content with her world. Then along came city boy Ascott Pudding, who started imposing order on everything. Making the world change to his view of how it should be. Every fish labelled, named, and described. Every treasure unearthed and the one girl other than Charlotte that he could ever imagine being friends with driven away because it was more important to him that he find a stupid buried treasure than ask her—

  Oh…bite my biscuits, Ascott thought with an inward groan. You really are a complete idiot.

  Ascott stood up, then gently crouched down and put Tacus in his towel nest in a woven basket of leaves.

  “Wait here,” he said. Tacus snored and clicked his beak.

  Hurrying across the san with his blanket flying out behind him like a cape, Ascott smiled and nodded at the dancers who reached out and tried to draw him into the festivities. With the fire at his back and the moon high in the sky he could see quite well. Apart from the occasional staggering party-goer giving a spirited inaugural address to the sand-dunes, the beach was empty.

  Ascott ran, ignoring the pounding in his skull. He didn’t shout her name, afraid that might drive her away. Instead he headed to the far end of the beach, where the cliffs came down to the sea and extended long snouts of smooth stone into the waves, like giant beasts bending to drink.

  Shoal was sitting on a wave-polished boulder, caught in the moonlight in a way that made her hair and skin glow. Her knees were drawn up and her chin rested on her folded arms.

  “Shoal,” Ascott said, rather recklessly from well within rock-throwing range. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a complete fool and I apologise. You achieved something wonderful today and I nearly ruined it by doing something stupid. Then, just to make sure, the first thing I do when you rescue me, again, is completely ruin it by suggesting something else even more stupid. I’m sorry. I should be congratulating you. You ran the Migration Race twice today, and then you won and I haven’t even said congratulations.”

  “I didn’t win,” Shoal said, as quietly as the waves stalking the beach.

  “What? Of course you won. Isn’t that why we’re having this party?” Ascott climbed up the rocks and sat next to her. There was plenty of room on top of the round rock, so he chose to sit close.

  “No,” Shoal said and sighed. “Migration is about more than winning a race. It’s about celebrating the return of the whales. The whales come here to give birth and as long as they come, we know that the oceans beyond the horizon are still kind to them. In the old days people marked the passing of the years by the arrival of the whales. We rejoice because as long as they live, there is hope for all of us.”

  “I didn’t know,” Ascott said.

  “Of course you didn’t. You are so focused on looking at the fish you can’t see the life that is all around you.”

  “I need to leave. To go home to the city. I can catch the next flight out. My sister, Charlotte, she’s the only family I have, and…she’s in trouble. Drakeforth says there is nothing to be done to save her, but that’s no reason not to try,” Ascott said, staring out at the incoming swell.

  Shoal said nothing for a long minute. Ascott wondered if she had heard him at all. Then she lifted her head. Watching the water, she said, “Nana Smith used to tell me the story of the House Crab.” Shoal’s accent changed and she spoke in the patois of her ancestors. “She would say, “He’s a big fella, about the size of your fist. With claws that can cut a man’s finger clean off. House crab, he don’t like the shell of his own that he growed. So he goes around picking up empty shells and putting them on his back, carrying them around, and when something big enough to eat him comes along he hunkers down and hides under that borrowed shell. Only his big ol’ claws sticking out. But then he sees a new shell that he thinks is even better than the one he’s already carryin’. So he goes over and picks up this new shell and puts it on top o’ his other borrowed shell. Some house crab get so they have three of four shells piled up on themselves. Get to carryin’ so much junk they can hardly move.

  ““People are like ol’ man House crab,” Nana would say. “They got everything they need right there on their shoulders. But they go around picking up new problems and worries. Putting them on their backs and carrying them everywhere they go. Only difference is people think that goin’ somewhere else means they can leave their problems behind. They always act so surprised when they find they carried them with them, jus’ like ol’ House crab.” That’s what Nana Smith always used to say.�


  Ascott considered her words for a while. “Why do you think the House Crab gathers those extra shells? Maybe the females are attracted to larger specimens and the extra shells create an illusion of—” he broke off, aware that Shoal was regarding him with a determined expression.

  “It’s not a story about crabs dating, Ascott, it’s about people. You’re supposed to learn a lesson about life from it, not try to analyse it for your book.”

  Ascott took a deep breath, aware that his legs was going numb on the cold rock. “You’re saying that if I leave here, I’ll just take my problems with me, like a House Crab loaded up with extra shells?”

  “Bongo,” Shoal said.

  “Did your Nana have any tips on how to get rid of the extra shells folks might be carrying?”

  Shoal shrugged. “She didn’t have a story for that.”

  Ascott wrapped his blanket around them both. Shoal’s body pressing against his was warm and soft. She laid her head on his shoulder and he could smell all the warmth of the lagoon at midday in her hair. It was the scent of peace and perfection.

  “I really thought you were going to win,” he murmured.

  “So did I. I came second! I missed the last jump and ended up in the water. Lost ten points.”

  “No way? Can you appeal? Ask for a recount?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t need to beat everyone else. I needed to know that I had run the race. I did that. I did that twice.” Shoal pulled the blanket away from Ascott and tighter around herself.

  “You sure did,” he said.

  She didn’t reply. Instead she lay down on the wide rock, wrapped in the blanket, and fell asleep. Eventually Ascott lay back on the stone and Shoal murmured in protest and sleepily punched him in the rib.

  Ascott stared up at the stars and wondered what to do next.

  Chapter 15

  Drakeforth nudged Ascott with a sneaker-clad foot. Ascott mumbled something and threw an arm over his eyes to block out the morning sun. Drakeforth gave a long-suffering sigh.

  “You’re awake, Ascott. You’re awake and, to prevent undue fuss, you are also fully dressed.”

  Ascott blinked. He was standing up. A sense of vertigo rocked him and he almost tumbled off the rock. The blanket lay neatly folded by his feet and he was wearing trousers, a shirt and a snap-brim straw hat. Waking up and finding himself in such a state was unsettling.

  “These…these are not my clothes,” he managed.

  “The man makes the clothes,” Drakeforth replied. “More importantly, you’re an idiot.”

  “Yes, Tacus said exactly the same thing to me last night.”

  “An eminently wise old bird. You sat here last night and told that girl you are planning on turning around and running away. Exactly what is that going to achieve?”

  “I need to save Charlotte,” Ascott said.

  “Well, you can’t. So stop thinking that you can waste time trying. Instead, try looking at what you have right in front of you.”

  Ascott looked. “The ocean?” he offered.

  “Close enough for our purpose, I suppose. Yes, an entire ocean of possibilities. You need to stop letting opportunities slip through your fingers. Especially when those opportunities don’t want to slip through your fingers.”

  “What does that mean?” Ascott asked.

  Shoal surfaced out in the breakers, her head tilted back as she swept wet hair from her face.

  “Oh,” Ascott said. “Right.”

  Drakeforth stepped in front of him, blocking the view. “Pay attention. This isn’t about her. At least, not like that. Your destinies are linked, but not intertwined.”

  Ascott nodded and walked down to the water’s edge. He handed Shoal the blanket as she came out wearing only her usual kibini top and cut-off shorts. She wrapped herself up and frowned.

  “When did you go shopping?”

  “I woke up wearing them,” Ascott said truthfully.

  “Suits you. The hat is a nice touch.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you mean what you said last night?” Shoal flipped the edge of the blanket up so it covered her head in a hood.

  “Which part?”

  “About leaving. Going back to the city.” Shoal rubbed her wet hair vigorously.

  “I…Charlotte is my only surviving family,” he said.

  Shoal stopped moving under the blanket. “Do you have anything to stay for?” He couldn’t see her face.

  “Yes. Yes I think I do. I…I have everything to stay for. My research, the encyclopaedia, Tacus, and, uhm…you.”

  The blanket slid back and Shoal glared at him through her tousled blonde fringe. “What about me?”

  “Well I mean…I uhm…the thing is…” Ascott felt his face growing hot under her stare. “I like you? I mean, you’re a good friend.”

  Shoal combed her hair back with one hand. Her blue eyes sparkled. “Mum thinks I should marry you.”

  Ascott opened his mouth and closed it again.

  “Your face!” Shoal laughed. “It doesn’t matter what Mum thinks. I don’t want to marry anyone right now.”

  A sharp whistle cut through the conversation. Ascott looked up the beach. Between the remains of last night’s fire and a boat bobbing in the surf, a figure was waving.

  “We’d better go. Once the last boat leaves, it’s a long swim home,” Shoal said and walked off along the beach.

  The trip back to Montaban was conducted in silence. Tacus raised his head once, gazing with a bleary eye at the pitching horizon, and moaned before burrowing back into his towel nest.

  Ascott picked him up, still swaddled, when they stepped off the dock.

  “You can bring Tacus to my place if you want. Mum’ll have some soup that should help him recover.”

  “What kind of parrot drinks rum?” Ascott said, regarding the wrapped bundle with concern.

  “I don’t think he’ll be trying it again for a while. I just hope his feathers grow back,” Shoal replied.

  They walked up the hill. The port was quiet the day after Migration. Everyone seemed to be resting in the shade, nursing their dancing feet and sore heads.

  “They will grow back,” Ascott said. “Birds moult, new feathers might take a while to grow in, but he’ll be back to his old self in…time.”

  “I never thought I’d say that I miss him constantly barking,” Shoal said.

  They went into the cool dark of Smith’s Dive Emporium. The shop was empty so they climbed the stairs to the house above.

  “Mum makes soup the day before, she doesn’t like cooking the day after Migration.” Shoal turned the stove on and set a large pot on the element.

  “I’ve got loads of Tacus’ maps back at my place. I stuck them on the fridge and the walls. But you know, I never paid much attention. Now that I think about it, they all look the same.”

  “In the log book, that ship’s doctor, Dentine Tubule, wrote that they found a great treasure somewhere in the islands. So…if Tacus was there, he could be still drawing maps of where they buried it. On Saint Amoeba.”

  “I guess so.” Ascott stroked the bird’s head, making Tacus purr. “Do you have any maps or charts of the islands? I’d like to see what Amoeba looks like.”

  “Never needed a map before. Most of us keep it up here,” Shoal stuck her head through the beaded curtain that hung from the kitchen door and waved a spoon at her ear.

  “Someone must have a map of the islands somewhere,” Ascott said.

  “Maybe the Exco?” Shoal replied from the kitchen.

  “I’ll check it out later.” Ascott sat down. His head still throbbed, and the strange clothes he was wearing felt stifling in the rising heat of the day.

  Shoal emerged with bowls of soup; one each for herself and Ascott and a third for Tacus. Ascott roused the p
arrot and held a spoon of broth to his beak, letting the bird dabble in it with his stone-coloured tongue.

  “Curthed liquor,” Tacus muttered, and gargled some more soup.

  “You shouldn’t drink, Tacus,” Shoal said, sitting on the sagging couch next to Ascott and curling her legs up under herself.

  “I drink to forget,” Tacus said mournfully, nibbling the edge of the spoon with his beak.

  “What does a parrot need to forget?” Ascott said.

  “I can’t remember,” Tacus said and then threw his head back and gave a squawk of laughter. “They took my featherth,” he said. Sobering under the influence of the soup, he preened the thinned remnants along his wings.

  “You’re safe now, and they will grow back. Think of it as an early moult,” Ascott suggested.

  “Pluckerth. If I thee them again, I’m going to pluck them up good.”

  “I think the plucked looks suits you,” Shoal said. “Makes you look like a bird not to be messed with.”

  Tacus preened his few remaining chest feathers and made a happy noise.

  They finished their soup in silence.

  “Can you look after Tacus while I go down to the Exco?” Ascott said.

  “Tacus can look after himself,” Shoal said, letting the spoon clatter in her empty bowl.

  “Or Tacus can stay here and look after himself and you can come with me to the Exco.”

  “You’ll get further with me than on your own,” she said.

  The streets were starting to fill with people again, most of them wincing at the daylight and moving quietly. Conversations were whispered, and even the gulls looked sceptical of their chances of a feed from the fishing fleet today.

  The Export Company office was open. Shoal said she had never known it to be closed, except at night, and even then you could usually find someone working somewhere in the building.

  “They don’t lock it up at night?” Ascott asked.

  “Why would they? If you start locking things up people start to wonder why you need to, and then they start breaking in to satisfy their curiosity.”

 

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