“Priest’s Point,” Tom confirmed, as he knelt to check on the depression in the plank where the dragon spit landed. Apparently satisfied all was well, he stood and continued speaking, “Would’ve been a long swim if’s you didn’t think quick back there. I’ll be needing a new plank laid in the hull before long. That one’s pretty thin in the middle, so don’t step on it.”
“New plank for the hull and new sails. Anything else you need?”
Tom turned to look at him, shrugged, and showed brown teeth. “I could use a new hat. One that looks like those the captains on big ships wear.”
“Never seen one. Never seen a big ship, either. But if I manage to sell my egg, I’ll get you a plank, sail, and hat. Maybe even have a little left over for your purse.”
“In that case, I’d appreciate it if you put that bag with the egg in a nice soft nest you make from the tarp you hid under. Then put it under the seat. Don’t want you tripping and breaking the thing, or foul weather smashing it. Do you think a new net for my fishing is a possibility to add to our bargain?”
Looking past Tom to the tangled pile of gray netting in the bow, Gareth pulled at the stiff, oiled cloth cape wrapped around him and said, “Get me something to wear besides this stinking cloak and we have a deal.”
They laughed together.
With the sea calm, the breeze brisk, the boat continued sailing ahead, but slowly. Tom had spilled much of the air from the sail in hope of preventing any holes from running into a tear and making them useless. The boat advanced causing hardly a wake. He took a long pull of water and handed the jug to Gareth, and then sat and ate some hard tack, chewing slowly as he watched the sea, land, and sky, all without talking.
Gareth watched him. Every movement by the old man had reason and seemed to consume the least amount of energy possible. He sat at the tiller and adjusted course minutely, compensating for the wind, tide, and the natural tendency of the boat to veer to the right. While Gareth understood little of the tasks, he figured out most of them without asking questions, a trait that Tom seemed to appreciate.
After a time, Gareth said, “You should bring a book out here to pass the time. Let the boat take care of itself.”
“Can’t rightly fish and keep an eye on all this if you’re reading a book.”
“You look like you’re just sitting.”
Tom smiled a little, showing maybe ten teeth, all stained a deep mahogany. “Be a mistake to think that.”
The shore drew closer, and Gareth saw over twenty wooden structures, all unpainted and looking forlorn. At the water’s edge, the docks were on crooked poles holding them up. Eight boats were moored. Six were similar in size and shape to Tom’s, obviously fishing boats. One much larger vessel carried a cargo of small logs. The last boat, moored all alone, was long and narrow, with a single mast standing taller than any other. A small house-like structure sat near the stern. Every brass fitting reflected the sun, not a spot of rust showed, and a fresh coat of white paint had recently been applied.
Tom nodded in its direction. “We stay away from that one.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“And fast. It belongs to a greedy pig of a ‘trader’ who works these waters. He’d as soon slit your throat as not, like they say he’s done to others. Little more’n a pirate if’n you ask most good people around here. He’s a smuggler, bounty hunter, thief, and killer. That’s before he finds out about your egg, then he gets mean.”
“Does he fish?”
“To own a boat that shape and size, a boat that don’t really do any work like fishing or hauling cargo, the owner has to kill off more’n one man to afford it, you see? Name’s Flagon. He’s someone to fear. If there were another place to replenish our supplies, I’d be heading there.”
Evil seemed to surround the white boat. “I’ll stay away from it.”
Tom snorted. “You’ll do more’n that. About now, I want you to drag that old tarp back across the bench seat there in the middle and make yourself sort of a tent. Be quick about it. You get under it, takin’ care of our egg when you do. Don’t talk or move till you know we’re back at sea again, and only then come out when I tell you.”
Gareth hadn’t missed the change in Tom’s speaking from “his” egg to “our” egg. Somehow it didn’t upset him as he carefully moved the egg under the bench-seat before adjusting the tarp. When he had created a small space under the seat, he inspected it from above to ensure it appeared the tarp was carelessly tossed there, and he crawled under. Tom lowered the sail and pulled out the oars for entering the port.
Gareth found he wanted to go ashore and see the town, which would be only the second town in his life, but knew carrying the egg with him would be a fatal mistake. Leaving it on board unprotected while he went ashore was unthinkable. He heard Tom call out a greeting to someone, and felt the motion of the boat change as it bumped gently into the dock. He heard and felt the shift in the boat as the old man climbed out.
Then he heard nothing but the gentle sighs and moans of a boat tied to a pier. Soon he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Two days and a night without rest caught up with him. The night whispers came immediately. As usual, they had no words, only feelings, and hints of things to come. They hissed of impending danger. Images of dragons and teachers in pairs spread fear to his sleep. Somehow Tom’s image became mixed in with the impressions.
He woke briefly, scared, and stiff from the cold. Or from the angry whispers. He rationalized that they warned him not about Tom, but of any who tried to intrude on his ownership of the egg. They didn’t know Tom and probably had never faced the dangers of being in a small boat in a large ocean.
But it hadn’t seemed so.
The whispers made him shiver more than the cold.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He lay awake in the bottom of the boat for a time, trying to sort out the meanings of the whispers and the feelings of dread and fear they spread, wishing they’d leave him alone. Whispers and nightmares. At first look, both were the same, but no. The nightmares were his. The whispers came from elsewhere, and from a mind not his own. He felt sure of it. Finally, he fell asleep again.
Urgent whispers woke him.
Not the night whispers this time, but nearby voices. Two of them. Neither was the old fisherman’s voice, yet they were close. Probably standing beside the boat on the dock, not more than a few steps away. The minimal amount of light filtering under the edges of the tarp indicated it must be after sundown, and the yellow light may be a lantern. He listened without stirring.
One young voice said, “Not me. I ain’t setting foot on that boat. Besides, I don’t see much worth stealing.”
“Go on, chicken. You can make a quick search before that old man comes back. Must be something down there on the damned boat we can take that’s worth a few coppers,” a different voice said, sounding older and more daring.
Gareth gently reached a hand near his head and made sure the egg was still safely lodged near the seat, and then placed the hand on his knife, wishing he’d taken the time to sharpen it after scraping the hull where the dragon had spit. He tensed, ready to spring from under the tarp and challenge the boys as the first of them came aboard.
Before the boys quit arguing a third voice, louder and one with the ring of authority, sounded from farther away, “You trouble-makers step one foot onto that boat, and I’ll bust your heads in before you can get back onto the dock. Best you get back to your mama before she finds out what you’re up to and takes a switch to you.”