“One thing you might have done, Al,” he said from his corner. “You might have put me out of my misery quick, instead of running away to flaming Lithar!”
It was some hours before anyone came to put an end to Mitt’s misery. By that time he was rolling groaning in the middle of the room. He barely had time to scramble up and barely time to glimpse the little brown sailor, Jenro, and another he did not know, and Bence standing in the doorway, before a large sack was pushed over his head and he was bundled head-down over Jenro’s shoulder.
“Hey!” Mitt said, struggling miserably.
“Be silent, little one, and no harm will come,” Jenro said softly.
“Hurry up,” said Bence from the distance.
Mitt trusted Jenro and stopped struggling. The world began to bounce about as Jenro hurried somewhere with him. Mitt was uncomfortable with his head hanging down, but not badly so. After a short while he was swung up, swung down, and lowered surprisingly gently onto boards that dipped a little. Mitt heard water slapping quietly under the boards and guessed he was in a boat. He felt the boat sway, bumping as the two sailors hitched on the oars. Mitt tried to see through the sack where they were. It was a hairy, porous sack, which tickled his nose rather. He could see very little light coming through, which made him suspect that the boat was undercover somewhere and whatever was being done with him was a secret. He would have yelled, but for what Jenro had said.
The movements of the two sailors stopped. Jenro’s soft voice said, “Then, Captain, you are settled that we must be stirring out to sea to throw this little one in?”
“Yes,” Mitt heard Bence say from above some where. “And I’m coming with you to see it done.”
“Captain, there is no need to do that,” said the other sailor.
“Oh, isn’t there?” The boat surged heavily as Bence landed in it. “I know you lot. When you say no need, I start to get suspicious. Cast off there.”
The sailors said nothing. Mitt felt the boat move. The oars began a slow, sleepy dip-creak-splash, dip-creak-splash. Shortly, bright sunlight fell across the holes in the sack. Mitt thought they must be out in the harbor. They went on steadily in the sun, dip-creak-splash, dip-creak-splash. It was so soporific that Mitt nearly fell asleep, in spite of his misery.
Then he heard the gentle voices begin again. “Captain, throwing this little one in the sea is a thing we cannot do.”
“But you wait to tell me till we’re past Trossaver,” Bence said from the distance. “You’ll do it.”
“Captain, there are two of us and one of you.”
“All right. You can watch me do it, then,” said Bence.
“But that is a thing we cannot do.”
“You’ll have to put up with it,” said Bence. “Al wants it done. You always do what Al wants, don’t you?”
“We would not do this for Al either.”
Bence seemed really astonished. “Not for Al!”
“No,” said Jenro. “For this one came on the wind’s road, with a great one to guide him behind and before.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Bence demanded. “You saw Al come on the same flaming boat.”
“That matters not at all. The great ones contain multitudes.”
“Don’t you throw your religion at me!” said Bence.
The voices stopped. The oars dipped slowly and peacefully. Mitt grinned to himself inside the hairy sacking and rubbed his itching nose. He suspected that Bence was more likely to be thrown into the sea than he was. He thought Bence knew it, too. Mitt dozed off, soothed by the sound of oars and glad to forget himself. Every so often he woke up to find the argument going on again.
“What am I supposed to do when two of my best men don’t do what I say?” he heard Bence demanding.
“We will do what you say,” answered a gentle voice.
“Then I want this brat dumped in the sea.”
“But that is a thing we cannot do.”
Another time Mitt heard Bence say, “What do you think you’re rowing all this way for, then? Are we just going to turn round and come back again, or what?”
“If you wish for us to turn round, Captain.”
“I do not! I want this brat dumped in the sea.”
“But that is a thing we cannot do, Captain.”
The next time Mitt woke, Bence’s nerve had broken. “I see,” he was saying. “And if I lay a finger on him, it’ll be me in the sea instead.”
“You would not force us to that, Captain.”
“Then what can I force you to?”
“If it is a thing that meets your mind, Captain, we can be stirring to an island and putting the little one on it. There are those where no mortal men live.”
“Bother meeting my mind,” said Bence. “It won’t meet Al’s.”
“If you are not telling Al, we shall not be saying either.”
“Hmm,” said Bence. After a pause he said, “Well, it’s not so different from dumping him in the sea, I suppose, provided it’s uninhabited. Which island is it to be?”
“Lovely Holy Island is nearby. There is none on her but She Who Raised the Islands and the Earth Shaker.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No mortal soul lives there.”
“I thought there was supposed to be a mad old priest living there.”
“He does not live there. No mortal soul lives there.”
“Oh, very well!” said Bence.
There was a noticeable increase in the creak and jerk of the oars. Mitt could feel the boat shoving through the water. After barely a minute the swing of the oars stopped. Shingle grated underneath and grated again. Mitt could hear waves rattling the pebbles of a beach.
“Hurry up!” said Bence.
Mitt was lifted and carried by two people. Their feet crunched on sand, and then his own feet were placed tenderly on what felt like turf. Jenro pulled the sack off him and smiled at him.
Mitt had a feeling Jenro was going to say something, perhaps tell him something important, but while Mitt was blinking and rubbing hairs from the sack out of his eyes, Bence was climbing angrily along the rowing boat at the sand’s edge.
“Get back here,” said Bence. “Or else.”
The two sailors smiled at Mitt, and Jenro certainly winked, though Mitt could not see why, before they trotted back to the boat. Mitt stood, blinking still, while they pushed the boat off, twirled it with a deft shove of an oar, and rowed smartly away, getting smaller and smaller against the green of the nearest island. He thought they were going at least twice as fast as they had come.
Mitt felt desolate. The nearest island was far too far for him to swim. Holy Island towered above him in a tumble of rocks and green grass. Little trees and heather hung far above his head. It was wild, uncultivated, and deserted. To judge from the fresh, peaty smell, there was water somewhere, but there was no food except berries. Mitt could not see why Jenro had winked. He was going to starve to death.
He tried to remember what Holy Island had looked like from the other side, as they sailed past in Wind’s Road. He thought it had seemed lower and greener, and—though he might be mistaken—he thought he remembered that the islands were nearer on that side. It was worth going to look, anyway.
Mitt set off round the island. There was no clear path. He was forced to wander up and down, between rocks and over slippery turf, sometimes almost down to the water’s edge, sometimes quite far up the high hill, and, as he went, his miseries caught up with him again. He hated himself and Al and Navis—everything—so much that he wished someone really had drowned him. He no longer wondered why Hildy had exclaimed she hated life. It was not worth living.