Drowned Ammet (29 page)

The sailors seemed in no hurry. They stood together by the mast, looking over
Wind's Road
, down at Old Ammet, up at the poor tattered pennant, over beyond Ynen to Libby Beer, and exchanging small singing murmurs. Quite suddenly, they came briskly to the well and swung themselves down into it.

“Will you move out and give us some room, little ones?” one of them asked cheerfully. He had a soft singsong accent, the like of which none of them had heard before.

Ynen clenched his fingers round the tiller. “This is my boat.”

“Then you must continue to steer her,” said the sailor.

“But you must be guided by us. The road has hazards,” said the second sailor. “And will the other little ones go up before the mast to give us room?”

Mitt was so fascinated by the singing talk that he did not gather straightaway that the men were asking him to move. He got up, holding his stomach, and saw that Hildy still had not understood. Mitt nudged her, and she jumped, feeling as if she had been dreaming. They scrambled stiffly onto the roof of the cabin. The sailors settled on either side of Ynen as naturally as if they sailed
Wind's Road
every day, and gave him gentle instructions what to do. Mitt and Hildy knelt on the cabin roof and stared, while
Wind's Road
turned and heeled softly into the now-thinning mist.

They were little brown men with dark eyes and oddly light hair, as fair as light new rope. They felt safe, somehow. They were as warm and brown as the earth itself. Even Ynen felt lulled and peaceful with them. Mitt and Hildy could not shake off a feeling that they were dreaming—a good dream that they had dreamed several times before.

“This is a fine sweet boat,” one sailor remarked. “Will you take in the foresails a fragment—Jenro will do it, little one. You steer left now.”

Jenro, the second sailor, put his brown hand to the ropes that led to the foresails. Ynen was a little shamed to see how much better
Wind's Road
sailed. “Very sweet,” Jenro agreed. “What is the name she goes under?”

“Wind's Road
,” said Ynen.

The dark eyes of the two sailors met across him. “Is it so?” said Jenro. “Who comes sailing on the
Wind's Road
? What are the names of them?”

Ynen looked up uncertainly at the dreamy faces of Hildy and Mitt. There seemed no harm in saying. “My name's Ynen. My sister's called Hildrida, and our friend's name is Alhammitt.”

Mitt blinked. Both sailors were looking at him, smiling warmly. He smiled back. They both made a little gesture, almost as if they bowed. Rather surprised, Mitt ducked his head back at them.

“This is Jenro, and I am Riss,” said the first sailor. “Remember us in times to come.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Mitt said uncertainly.

Wind's Road
had come gently past the green hump in the mist. The mist cleared steadily as she sailed. When Mitt looked away from the sailors' faces, he was astonished to find they were sailing among islands—more islands than he could count at a glance. Some were green and steep, with gray rocks standing above the green and trees clinging to the rocks. Some were green and low. Some were quite small. Others, in the distance, were clearly several miles long. Mitt could see houses on nearly all of them, usually near the shore, as if the sea were their road and the island their farm or garden. Sheep and cows grazed in pastures that mounted above the houses. Smoke rose from the chimneys. The sea space round them was so sheltered that it was warm and calm as a lake. Mitt could smell the salt of the sea mingling with the smell of earth, smoke, and cattle, in a close, queer mixture. He looked round, sniffing, warm and delighted, wondering why he felt so happy and so much at home, and everywhere he looked he saw the astonishing emerald green of more islands.

“Where
is
this?” Ynen said suspiciously.

Jenro smiled at him. “The Holy Islands, little one.”

Hildy's head went up. The dreamy feeling left her and left her feeling strained and rather sick. She retreated to the mast and knelt there by herself, nervously clasping her hands and gripping them with her knees. She seemed to feel better like that. Ynen looked dubiously at Mitt. This was not the North. Mitt still had to get away, and Ynen wanted to apologize. He was surprised that Mitt did not seem either annoyed or frightened. Mitt supposed he ought to be. But he was entranced, smiling and sniffing. Seabirds and land birds flew over, uttering their different cries. Jenro, with a mixture of pride and politeness, began to tell Ynen the names of the islands as they passed them, while Riss softly put in a word here and there about the steering. Their voices made Mitt feel as if this was a song he had heard a long time ago, which he had never managed to learn the words to.

“That was Chindersay, and there Little Shool. Big Shool is after. Then Hollisay and Yeddersay and Farn—”

“—to the right here, then left immediately—”

“—and Prest and Prestsay. High Tross there beyond. The large one is Ommern.”

“—your mainsheet out here, but with care. The wind gusts after Tross. And a sweet way to the right as you go—”

So
Wind's Road
threaded gently between tall emerald slopes and past low green humps, and Mitt listened and listened, trying to remember that song.

“Then you have Ommersay and Wittess, and we come out past lovely Holy Isle, the holiest of all. After, you will see Diddersay and Doen and the three Ganter Islands—”

Mitt thought it was not quite a song he had in mind. It was the astonishing turfy smell of the islands, or a mixture of the two. Anyway, had he not once, years ago, thought he knew this place and set out to find it? Navis came into it somehow. Mitt was so pleased to remember this much that he scrambled over to Hildy and beamed at her. “Hey, I take it all back about this place! You're going to love it here!”

He was rather hurt at the pale, haughty way Hildy looked. “This,” she said, squeezing at her fingers, “isn't the North.”

“Who cares?” Mitt said. “I think I'll have a go at staying here myself. I wouldn't mind—I really wouldn't mind!”

“—left now—”

“—and there is Trossaver, with Lathsay beside—”

Wind's Road
slipped between long, high Trossaver and lump-shaped Lathsay and came into a wide space ringed with islands, where there was ship upon tall ship at anchor. One was just hoisting sail. Another was gliding in through a wide gap opposite, as if it were coming off patrol, but most were anchored, with bare masts. Among the anchored ships Mitt recognized the
Wheatsheaf
. She had no doubt sailed fast on wind above the islands that
Wind's Road
was too small to catch, but she was evidently so far ahead of them that Mitt suspected Riss and Jenro had sailed them on a tour of the Holy Islands. That suited Mitt, but he wondered why.

They sailed toward a long horseshoe-shaped jetty, with a host of little ships tied to it. Behind it was a small town of gray and white houses, with what looked to be the Lord's mansion rising above them at the back. The mainland was beyond again, as green and rocky as the islands, as if the town was also on an island.

“That is the Isle of Gard. The hardway to the land is behind,” Jenro explained.

“And a fine fleet in harbor,” Riss added proudly.

Hildy tried to unbend. “There are more ships here than in Holand,” she said. She thought she sounded as condescending as her aunts. She saw Ynen wince a little. So she became angry with everyone and did not say any more.

As
Wind's Road
approached the jetty, Riss and Jenro sprang into sudden activity. Mitt had hardly had time to climb to his feet and offer to help before the sails were down, ropes out, and
Wind's Road
was quietly nudging the jetty stonework, tied up and her long journey over. Mitt and Ynen stared at one another, tired, sad, and a little aimless. Riss, meanwhile, was out on the jetty, talking to a number of large blank-faced men who were standing there.

“Will you go with these?” he said, coming back to Mitt and pointing to the men. “They are not of the islands.”

They were clearly not of the islands. They were dark and heavy, like a lot of men in Holand. But since they were standing in a line along the jetty, Mitt did not see he had any choice in the matter. “I suppose so. All of us?”

“If you will,” said Riss. “We shall see you.” He and Jenro both shook hands with Mitt, smiled warmly, and trotted away along the jetty. Feeling rather deserted, Mitt, Ynen, and Hildy scrambled out on the jetty, too. The men closed round them to lead them away. It was alarming. But it was also very silly because for a minute or so none of the three of them could walk. When they stepped forward, the ground was either unaccountably missing, or it came up and hit them before they were ready for it.

“Too long at sea!” gasped Mitt. “You have to wait.”

The large men waited, silent and impatient, while Ynen fell into Mitt, and Hildy into both of them, and Ynen and Mitt shrieked with laughter, and even Hildy was forced to smile. None of the men smiled, even when they were able to set out through the town, rolling like old sailors and giggling as they went. They were not able to notice the town much, though Mitt did see that there were fields in it, confusingly, among the houses, with cows or wheat stubble in them, and that, every so often, there was a short square-topped pillar about as high as his waist, where people had carefully laid flowers, fruit, and ears of corn. But they saw few people because it was still early morning.

They came to the mansion and were taken inside through a small door. Hildy relaxed a little. The small door meant they were probably prisoners, which must mean that nobody knew who she was. She was glad of that because she could soon put that right. Mitt was not so sure. He had simply no idea what was happening. The only thing seemed to be to wait and see.

They staggered their way up a flat flight of stone stairs to a sunny stone landing. They waited, while one of the men went to knock on a door. Then—
bang!
There was an explosion somewhere. All the windows rattled. All three of them jumped violently, and Mitt, at least, burst out in cold, trickling sweat all over. He was nearly as scared as he had been in the storm. But the large man did not turn a hair and did not pause in knocking on the door. There was a voicelike noise from beyond it. The large man opened the door.

“They're here. Shall I show them in?”

“If you like,” said someone inside.

The man jerked his head. Hildy, Ynen, and Mitt trooped through the door into a long, sunlit room smelling of food and gunsmoke—as queer a mixture, though less pleasant, as the mixed smell of the islands and the sea. The food smell came from the table near the door. Al was sitting beside it, with his back to the table and Hobin's gun supported over the back of his chair. Another table was against the wall at the other end of the room. There was a row of bottles on it and cups balanced on the bottles. One bottle was smashed. Al fired again as soon as the door was shut. It was deafening. A cup jumped and shattered, and there was a great deal of laughter.

“Got the hang of this flaming gun now, Lithar,” said Al.

“About time,” said Bence, the captain of the
Wheatsheaf
. He was sitting on a chair by the window, eating an apple.

The third man said, “Oh, Al! I
have
missed seeing you do that!”

Lithar's clothes were nearly as rich as Harchad's, but he looked nothing like so well in them. He had a mop of fairish hair over the brown face of a Holy Islander and a long, long chin. He seemed quite well built, but he sat in a strange, hunched way which creased his clothes in all directions. When he looked toward them, Ynen, Hildy, and Mitt were uncertain how old he was, because his face was oddly lined, old and young at once. Like Mitt's face, Hildy thought, and she looked at Mitt to compare the two. But Mitt was young and undernourished, whereas—

With a horrible jolt, Hildy realized Lithar was a near imbecile. It was as if her whole future, and her whole past, too, fell away and left just herself—a small girl with untidy hair—alone in a sunny smoke-filled room. Hildy had not realized how much she had built on Lithar and the Holy Islands. She seemed to have founded on them everything which made her into Hildrida and not one of her cousins. It was not exactly her fault, but she had done the building. And it was all unreal. It had not even gone; it had just never been.

It was the same with Mitt. He took one look at Lithar, and one look at Hildy, and he knew that what was happening to Hildy now had happened to him in Holand. But he had not admitted it. Everything he had thought of as being Mitt—the fearless boy with the free soul, the right-thinking freedom fighter—had fallen to pieces there, as thoroughly as Canden in his dream, or Old Ammet in the harbor, and he had been left with what was real. And it had frightened him to death. Mitt thought his face must be as yellow pale as Hildy's. I hope neither of them are fools enough to say who they are, he thought. We better all make off North, quick.

“Who are you?” Lithar asked, with a surprised wag of his long chin.

Mitt and Ynen opened their mouths to begin on two separate false stories, but Al got in first. “Little present I brought you,” he said, without turning round. “Don't you like it?”