We smelled the sea before catching sight of it. The salt tang, the bite in the air, and the calls of seabirds all alerted us. We came over a slight rise and the sea was there—along with a cluster of small buildings and docks with boats bobbing beside them.
“Ander,” Will said, speaking as if he’d been there before. He hadn’t but paid attention when others talked. He always knew more than he said.
As we got closer, Coffin’s pace picked up. The village consisted of perhaps twenty homes, and twice that many outbuildings for tools, fishing equipment, boat repair, and drying racks for nets. It was a village centered on fishing and that required daily maintenance on the boats and nets. Those lacking the proper repairs were rotting on the shore. Fishing nets hung everywhere.
We passed the first few houses, and one painted a faint green became our destination as we turned away from the road. A dog barked incessantly. A woman peeked from behind a curtain and a few moments later a man wielding a curved knife as long as my forearm emerged. He stood in a defensive pose as he looked us over.
Coffin and his boys pulled to a polite stop. He spread his arms wide. The rest of us remained on the road. Coffin called, “Better get some food in the pot Captain, we haven’t eaten in two days and you need to show some love for your brother and nephews.”
The man with the knife twirled it above his head allowing the sun to flash off the surface to display his skills, which were considerable. He called as he finished, “Then you better get your asses over here or go hungry. This ain’t no city eatery, Coffin. Not even for my brother.”
For me, Coffin didn’t move nearly fast enough at the promise of food. We chased after them and found not all of us would fit in the small cabin. Wiley and Tang helped another boy place a few slabs of lumber turned gray by the sun across a pair of water kegs to the side of a stranded rowboat while trading friendly insults of the kind cousins do. Those boards became our table, one where we would all stand to eat because there were only a few chairs inside. It was located on the shady side of the house, so standing didn’t bother us as long as enough food was placed on it.
The house and village smelled of fish. Reeked is probably the better word and it was not strong enough. Everything had the taint of rotten fish. Seagulls wheeled in the sky and called, certain they’d find another meal of discarded fish guts and heads if they remained long enough. They’d learned well.
Elizabeth stepped out from the rest of us and scanned the fishing village suspiciously, finding nobody in sight. The docks were empty, the houses may have been deserted because there was no smoke from the chimneys. No children played. She said, “Where is everybody?”
Tang said easily, “Sleeping. Too hot to work in the afternoons and the best fishing is just after sunup.”
He’d obviously been to the village before. She scowled at him, confused at his explanation. “And?”
He continued as if enjoying telling her something instead of the other way around, “The best schools of fish are way out in deep water. You have to sail your boat there in the morning darkness and be ready with your nets before sunup. That means you sleep in the afternoon when it’s the hottest. You get up around midnight and sail to the fishing grounds, fish all morning, then return and unload and process your catch until the heat of the day drives you inside. They’re sleeping. This is the normal routine.”
Her expression was chagrined as she glanced around the village again. Kendra and I tried to act like we already knew all that. She gave me a wink and said to Elizabeth, “Fishing is hard work and you have to do it on the fish’s schedule.”
That sounded so silly I almost laughed.
“I had no idea it was that difficult,” Elizabeth said in a wondering tone.
Tang nodded, accepting her apology, and added, “It’s even worse when the fish don’t bite.”
Tang didn’t explain how it was worse but didn’t have to. I wanted to chime in and smooth things over but a stern look from Kendra told me to remain quiet and perhaps we’d get away with our pretend-knowledge. Jess and a girl of about his age arrived carrying a large black pot between them and Wiley carried a plate piled high with cooked fish.
Coffin, Will, and the fisherman who had greeted us were inside, heads huddled together. I imagined them all talking at once, trying to both ask questions and explain what was happening. It must have been quite a conversation. Will seemed to be holding his own. Coffin was angry, his arms waving and his voice rising. The fisherman was confused and scared—but still talking to them. He hadn’t thrown us out yet. That seemed hopeful to me.
I wanted to leap into the conversation and convince the man Coffin called “Captain” to allow us on his boat—and at the same time, knew that would be the wrong thing to do. Instead, I watched the others use a wooden ladle to scoop the contents of the black pot into an assortment of bowls, different colors, sizes, and conditions. I eyed one of the larger bowls but by the time it was my turn, I settled for one of the smaller ones, the only ones left.
The fish had been fried. It was crispy on the outside and the soft meat inside was pinkish. Each person before me had taken a fish and used their fingers to break it down the center so the bones were exposed. The bones were went into a waste pot that would probably go into a compost pile, while the tender pieces of fish were added to the watery stew.
The original pot of stew had been supper for Captain’s family, but when we showed up, his wife started cooking what they had plenty of, which was fish. She also had added water to make it stretch, and the addition of fish made the carrots, onions, and turnips it contained a meal fit for a princess.
Most people, both country and city residents, had a community pot. It generally simmered on a swing-arm over the side of a fire. Whatever food the day brought their way went into the pot. Some had cooked without interruption for days and days. Rumor said a few lasted months. As long as what went in equaled what came out and it simmered over a fire, a stew was endless in variation, taste, and always ready.
I thought about all that as I glanced at Elizabeth wolfing down her meal after a couple of days of not eating. At home in Crestfallen, I’d seen her turn her nose up at a biscuit whose edge was dark brown—not burned, just darker than others. The crust was always removed from her bread, the fat trimmed from her meat, and she always used dainty silver utensils.
Now, she held a hand-carved wooden spoon in one hand, a hunk of bread torn off a loaf in the other, and stuffed food into her mouth without bothering to wipe the crumbs away. I found myself smiling. Elizabeth glanced up and equaled my smile before turning her attention back to her meal.
I was too intelligent to say anything. Not now. But there would come a time, in private, when her eating today would be remembered—and recalled in detail. All to my benefit.
Funny what a couple of days without eating will do to a person’s attitudes.
Captain made his way in my direction without making a scene. He paused as he passed by me and whispered for my ears only, “Follow me.”
I casually set my bowl aside and without making eye-contact with anyone, eased around the corner of his house, and followed him down the slope to the dock where two boats were tied up. Another lay upside down on the shore. New tar had been applied to the cracks between the boards of the hull on the shore. It was bright and shiny black with long drips where it ran. A cauldron hung from a tripod at a firepit. The tar had been heated there.