Sea. Sarah Driver

in a nest cos I ent got round to brushing it today.

      ‘You better fetch that brush from—’

      ‘Shhh!’ hisses Sparrow. He bounces up on tiptoe and grabs the edge of the porthole to peer out.

      A knot of women pass along the storm-deck, right below us. ‘Carpenters,’ I whisper, cos I can hear the little silver hammers on their belts chiming as they lug wood to patch some of the damage to the Huntress.

      ‘Bleeding nippers running about, bringing troubles on us,’ says one. ‘They should be kept below when the beasts come near! Captain’s granddaughter or no, it can’t go on!’

      ‘Aye, she could’ve scuppered us! We’ve a long night ahead.’

      Me and Sparrow stare at each other. ‘I was just trying to keep our Tribe safe, and this is the heart-thanks I get?’

      ‘I’m cold.’ Sparrow pulls the porthole closed with a bang. ‘Who cares about the stupid carpenters? Can I have a story?’ he begs. He plops himself down amongst the bed-furs and wriggles his hand under the pillow to search out a crispy old starfish.

      I sigh. ‘Crafty little bargainer, ent you?’ I shut one eye and squint at him. ‘All right. Just one.’

      He pulls off a starfish arm and shoves it into his mouth. ‘No sky-monsters! And no stogs – Thunderbolt hates all giants cos they gobble up sprites and spit out their wings.’ The moonsprite hops about inside her glass bottle, making a tiny thudding sound like a moth beating against a lantern.

      ‘Gods,’ I mutter, rooting around under the bunk to grab the long, smooth walrus tusk with the pictures of Sparrow’s favourite story etched into it. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you still believe in the ghost of Captain Rattlebones or—’

      ‘Don’t!’ Sparrow shrieks, face gone pale. ‘You’re only allowed to tell the story of the Storm-Opal Crown!’ He nestles in next to me, peering at the pictures in the tusk. His yellow hair smells like nutmeg and his feet are cold as stones.

      ‘Get them freezing planks off me!’ I move the tusk to catch Thunderbolt’s moonlight. ‘One hundred moons and suns ago, long after the first oarsman beat his drum, but while you was still just a puny sea-spark on the wind—’

      ‘I weren’t never!’

      ‘—the last King of Trianukka had a golden crown that got gobbled up by a great whale. Three powerful Storm-Opals were to be set in the ancient crown, to heal the trouble between all the Tribes of Sea, Sky and Land and let them live in peace together. The first Opal held a foam of sea, the second a fragment of sky, and the third a fracture of land. But after the crown was swallowed—’

      ‘Did it hurt?’ murmurs Sparrow sleepily, tracing the etched outline of the whale with a fingertip.

      ‘Did what hurt?’ I kick his cold feet away again.

      ‘Swallowing a crown?’ He belches and I waft away the starfish-stink.

      ‘Ugh! What do you think, clumber-brain? Anyway, the Opals had to be kept safe somehow, didn’t they? So the crinkled old mystiks of the Bony Isle guarded them, deep within the walls of Castle Whalesbane, where the last King dwelt.’

      I’m getting pulled into the thrill of the story, but Sparrow’s breath is soft with sleep, so I skip to the last bit and make it quick. ‘And he blamed the Sea-Tribe captain, Rattlebones, for hiding the crown in the whale’s belly, and that brought a hundred years of war, and gifted all the power to the land.’ My voice trails away. I run my finger across the etching of the first oarsman’s drum, then lean down and put the tusk back under our bunk.

      Soon Sparrow’s garbling in his sleep. The Huntress creaks and the wind wails loud enough to almost burst my brain. The whales keep up their moaning; I try to block out their song with my pillow but it’s too loud. Shouts drift from Grandma’s medsin-lab – must be she’s stitching a wound, and I know she’s run out of stingray venom for the numbing. ‘What are you, True-Tribe or land-lurker?’ comes her distant roar.

      When I hear her boots creaking down the steps to the cabin I turn towards the wall. I listen to her get ready for bed; taking out her glass eye, peeling off her armour. She flings off her boots but keeps her tunic and breeches on, in case she’s needed on deck.

      She clambers into bed and I think about calling out that I’m sorry about the terrodyl, but I don’t know how to start. I dig my toes into the mattress. She might tell me off if I wake up Sparrow, so I keep quiet, but then another thought makes me bite my tongue – nighttime’s always when I think of questions about Ma. Ma was Grandma’s own daughter, but we never talk about her. Oftentimes I’ve lain in my bunk and wanted to call across the cabin: do you miss her? Cos I do. That’s the only gap between me and Grandma. The missing Ma and not saying a thing about it.

      I open my mouth, turn over, but then Grandma’s walrus-snore starts rumbling so I shut my mouth and sigh.

      When I’m captain I’ll have my own cabin, with no noisy kin to disturb me. I can’t wait to fill a captain’s boots. My eyelids grow heavy. Da’s coming home tomorrow, once we reach port. I grin sleepily into the pillow, imagining the treasures he might bring me for my thirteenth Hunter’s Moon. But having Da home will be the best gift of all. He’ll make everything right again.

      I gasp awake from nightmares of ship wreckers as first light strikes through the porthole. I’m frighted enough to reach out for Sparrow, but his chest still rises and falls when I put my hand on him and slowly my nightmares fade into the bed-warmth. It’s been two full moons since he had one of his shaking fits, and I’m always tensed for the next one.

      Sudden as lightning, bubbles of excitement pop and flutter in my belly. Da comes home today! Finally, he can teach me more about stars and tribe-tongues, and I can ask him again about what Ma liked to eat and how sweet she smelled.

      I hop onto my knees and swing open the porthole. Only one or two other masts jut into the sky. The squawks of razorbills and black-backed gulls fill my ears.

      I shake Sparrow’s shoulder. ‘We’re in port! We’re at the Western Wharves!’ He snuffles and rolls over, pulling the furs over his head. I leap from the bunk and fling on the first thing I can find that ent spattered with terrodyl blood. After pulling on my walrus-skin boots I fasten my fur cloak with a bone pin and fix Ma’s copper dragonfly brooch to my tunic. It’s the only thing I’ve got of hers, so I always wear it, to keep her spirit close to my heart.

      As soon as I step above decks my eyes are dazzle-hurt and my nose fills with the stinks of smoke, fish, sweat, grease and tar.

      Kids play amongst jumbled lengths of rigging and a group of Tribesmen struggle under the weight of the terrodyl corpse as they carry it towards the lowered plank, yelling whenever a drop of blood scalds them.

      No one greets me. A cold feeling settles in my gut. So they all think me a fool for shooting the beast?

      While I’m lost in thought, a heavy hand clamps down over my eyes. ‘Guess it, Mouse-Bones. A mouse should have the sharpest senses of all.’ A cool pod of something sweet is pressed beneath my nose. Bear must’ve been trading spices. At least he’s not being fierce with me.

      I breathe in deeply. ‘Vanilla?’

      Bear’s hand lifts from my eyes and he spins me round, a big grin lighting him up. ‘Dead right. And look what else I found for you – one of your favourites, I think?’ He pulls a small jar of amber goo from his pocket.

      ‘Honey!’ I stretch up to take the jar, twist off the lid and scoop out a sweet glob, sucking it off my finger. ‘Heart-thanks, Bear!’

      He beams, then shivers and wraps his arms around himself. ‘You know, ’tis early in the year for such a frost,’