Drowned Ammet (21 page)

“Well, you did throw a bomb,” said Ynen. “And I can't see why you did. There must have been lots of people in Holand far worse off than you. Why did
you
do it?”

That was a home question. Twenty-four hours earlier Mitt could have given all sorts of answers. He could have told them at least that it was to be revenged on Siriol, Dideo, and Ham. But he had gone out of his way
not
to be revenged. And he had run and run and run. He did not know what he thought he had been doing. He was reduced to answering with another question. “Could
you
have seen things so wrong and not think you ought to do something about it?”

This in its turn was a home question to Ynen and Hildy. They had indeed seen things wrong. All Ynen had done was wish he could whirl a rattle in Hadd's face. All Hildy had done was tear a bedspread and make empty threats. Then they had gone out sailing—a piece of defiance which had thrown them in the way of this boy. And he had not only told them more things that were wrong but had demanded that they help him. With the result that they were now sailing back to Holand to deliver him to Uncle Harchad.

“Ynen—” said Hildy.

“I know,” said Ynen. “All right. We'd better take you North. Hildy, could you go to the foresails again?”

Mitt was rather taken aback. He knew he had not given Ynen a reason. He felt dishonest, and shamed. What would happen to these two in the North? He thought of the Northmen shuffling through Holand to be tried and hanged. “See here,” he said. “All you got to do is land me near Kinghaven or whatsits—Aberath—and I'll do nicely. Or you might try Tulfa. Then you go back to the Holy Islands. You'd be all right there if she's betrothed to Lithar—What's your name, by the way?”

“Hildrida,” said Hildy. “Hildy for short. And this is Ynen. What's yours?”

“Mitt,” said Mitt.

“Oh, not another Alhammitt!” said Hildy. “That must make at least twenty I know!”

“Common as dirt,” agreed Mitt.

Ynen had been thinking over what Mitt had suggested. Tired as he was, he began smiling. “Let's go to the Holy Islands, Hildy. I'd love to see them.”

Hildy just could not see herself sailing up to the Holy Islands and announcing she was Lithar's future wife. The idea made her stomach squirm. But she looked at Ynen and decided he was too tired to be argued with.

Mitt could see how tired Ynen was, too. He remembered how he used to feel on a long stint aboard
Flower of Holand
. “How about you getting some rest, now we seem to know where we're going?” he said. “I can sail her for you. Can she?”

“Naturally I can,” Hildy said haughtily.

So it was settled that they divide the rest of the night into three watches. Ynen reluctantly took his numb hand off the tiller and watched Mitt settle into his place. He felt very dubious as he stumbled off to the cabin. But he supposed that if Mitt could tell in his sleep when they turned the other way, he must be able to handle
Wind's Road
. As Ynen lay down, he heard Hildy walking uncertainly forward over the roof, half blind from the light of the cabin. He saw Mitt's bony hand pushing the tiller firmly over. Once more
Wind's Road
surged round. Her sails ran out, clapped, and filled. Ropes rattled as Mitt and Hildy reset them. And shortly Ynen felt the tug and surge of
Wind's Road
riding properly northward, and he knew Mitt could indeed manage her. He fell asleep, to the creak of ropes and the hurrying of dark water.

13

The night seemed extraordinarily long. Mitt stayed at the tiller for as much of it as he could. He wanted to get a good start Northward. It felt good to be handling a boat again, particularly a responsive racing boat like
Wind's Road.
But with the good feeling went long, mindless boredom. There was nothing to do but watch the slowly wheeling stars and listen to the whelming of the huge sea. Mitt did make several honest efforts to decide just what he thought he had been doing back in Holand. But every time he started to think, he came to, some time later, to find he had been thinking of nothing at all. At length the stars began taking little jumps through the sky. Mitt did not know if he had been asleep while they moved or not, but he saw he had had enough. He hitched up the tiller and woke Hildy.

Hildy was so sleepy that she took her watch almost unconscious. It seemed a very long time. Then Hildy found herself doubled painfully over the tiller in a paler world. The sea was dark and glossy. A white wave fizzing past had woken her. Hildy hobbled off like an old woman and woke Ynen.

Ynen, much more refreshed by six hours' sleep than Hildy felt he had any right to be, went gaily out into whitening dawn. The bank of mist where the land was seemed too near. Ynen corrected their course and tightened ropes, and sang while the sun came melting red and yellow out of the mist. Now it was settled, and they were going North, it felt like the best holiday Ynen had ever had. When Mitt came out a while after,
Wind's Road
was sailing briskly in a brisk wind, under a streaky gray sky. The land was a chalky smudge, and the vigorous gray waves were galloping North, too, dividing into two lines of white round
Wind's Road
's eager bows. Hildy crawled out later still, groaning. It was so early.

They got the pies out. They were staler, soggier, and much less appetizing. “I reckon,” Mitt said, “that they'll be old enemies by the time we make Kinghaven—if they last till then.”

“They ought to. We've got two sacksful,” said Ynen, and could not help laughing at the look on Mitt's face.

“Then it's only water that's the worry,” said Mitt.

“Well, actually, the water barrel's full up,” Hildy confessed.

For a moment Mitt could hardly credit that he had been so taken in. Then, to Hildy's relief, he shouted with laughter. “I bet you were mad when I didn't have the arris!” he said. “Us rough fellows are supposed to love that, aren't we?”

Hildy bent her head, embarrassed. She was even more embarrassed when Mitt tasted the water and remarked that it was some of the sweetest-tasting water he had ever drunk. She and Ynen were both shuddering at its musty wooden taste.

Ye gods! What must the water be like down in Holand! Hildy thought. She was so uncomfortable that she jumped up and fled across the cabin roof, babbling that she thought the foresails needed looking at.

“Want a hand?” Mitt called.

Hildy did not know what to say and did not answer. Mitt was just getting up to help her when Ynen said, in great surprise, “I say! What on earth are those doing here?”

Mitt looked. To his astonishment, a number of half-submerged apples were bobbing in the waves beside the boat. He watched them apparently climb a wave, then get left behind by it, the way floating things do. There were dozens of them—bright red and yellow water-sodden apples, all round
Wind's Road
. And there were what looked like wisps of grass as well, and some almost waterlogged flowers.

“Oh, I know!” said Ynen. “Those must be the garlands from the Festival. I suppose the tide brought them out into the current.”

“No good to eat, are they?” Mitt wondered.

There was a scream of excitement from Hildy. She was pointing, jabbing her finger seaward, at something floating ahead. For a nasty second Mitt and Ynen both thought it was a drowned person. There was sodden flaxen hair and an outflung hand. Then it rolled and seemed simply a mat of white reeds.

“Can't you see!” screamed Hildy. “It's Poor Old Ammet!”

Wind's Road
veered and shivered in the excitement of that moment. Ynen almost let go of the tiller. Mitt ran from side to side. Whatever the differences between them, they were all three Holanders, and they knew this was the lucky chance of a lifetime.

“We'll miss him, we'll miss him! Hurry up, Mitt!” Hildy screamed. “Bring me the boathook!”

Mitt plunged round on Ynen and seized the tiller from him. “You go. I'll bring her round for you.”

Ynen knew the maneuver was probably beyond him. He let go of the tiller almost before Mitt had it and shot up along the deck, snatching up the mop and the boathook as he went. He thrust the mop at Hildy, and the two of them, waving their implements, balanced jubilantly on the pointed prow. As Mitt took
Wind's Road
racing past Old Ammet and then round again toward the wind, he was very much afraid either or both of them would join Old Ammet in the water. But they clung on. Mitt let the mainsail out with a long rattle, to take the speed off
Wind's Road
, and she plowed on,
bash-bash-bash
, with waves smacking at her bows and spraying Hildy and Ynen thoroughly. When they were a few yards off the floating straw figure, Mitt turned
Wind's Road
right into the wind, and she stood almost still, shaking and flapping. Hildy and Ynen both threw themselves on their faces and lunged at Poor Old Ammet.

Their efforts were agony to Mitt. They knew nothing about how to get things out of the sea, those two. Hildy prodded. Ynen was hanging right under the bowsprit like a monkey, wasting Mitt's accurate work by pushing Old Ammet farther and farther away. It was so clear that they were going to lose him that Mitt hitched the tiller up and set off to help.
Wind's Road
promptly jigged round sideways to the waves, where the strong wind threatened to fill her sails again. Mitt saw that she could capsize that way and hurried back to the tiller.

“Flaming mind of your own, you have!” he told
Wind's Road
. “Sail me or I'll drown the lot of you—that's you!”

That jigging gave Ynen the extra foot he needed. He managed to get a grip on Old Ammet with the boathook. Hildy planted the mop on him to steady him, and together they tossed Poor Old Ammet aboard like the stook of corn he was.

Mitt marveled that he could have taken that intricate mass of plaited corn for a drowned man. Old Ammet still had arms, legs, and a tufted head, but he was now more the shape of a starfish than a person. Most of his fine red ribbons were gone, and his face was cockeyed and blurred. He was a Poor Old Ammet indeed. All the same, they were delighted to see him. They all shouted, “Welcome aboard, Old Ammet, sir!” which they all knew was what you said. Mitt turned
Wind's Road
joyfully back on her way again, while Hildy and Ynen first did an unsteady dance of triumph on the cabin roof and then set about fixing Old Ammet to the prow like a figurehead—which was the other thing you were supposed to do.

Poor Old Ammet was limp and waterlogged. It was no easy matter to make him into a figurehead. Ynen fetched rolls of twine and rope. Mitt called advice. Hildy ransacked the cabin for things which might support that weight of wet wheat. Mitt called so much advice that Hildy snapped, “Oh shut up! We all know you get Old Ammet out of the sea every year!”