Minerva's Voyage (13 page)

“A word pudding,” I said. That reminded me of food once more. “I'd give a shilling — that's if I had one — for a plate of mashed neeps. Or a Shrovetide pancake sodden with butter and honey. Or an entire apple pie in its pastry coffin, with raisins and spice.”

“You
are
feeling better!”

“Yes, Fence, my boy, I am. I'm starving. The devilish pounding in my head has stopped. I still feel sore, though, where that monster kicked and punched me.”

“Aye, Robin. Monster he is, right enough; sadly for you he was on shoreline duty that day you came in. But the admiral has told him off, good and proper. He'd be mad to lay into you again.”

At that moment I noticed Fence's right hand for the first time — the first time, that is, without his glove. He had suffered the largest and most terrible gash sometime in the past. The scar looked like a big S. “What happened to your hand?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He hid it behind his back.

“I never pushed you before about it. But we're friends.

You can tell me.”

“It is a story I do not like to tell, and that's why I've always worn a glove. It's a pity you couldn't bring it with.”

“It's still in the chest. We'll collect it when we go back,
if
we go back. Now tell me. Please.”

“Aye, I feel right silly about it, but I will.” He brought his hand forward and stared at it as he spoke. “When my father died, my mother married another man, John Shepherd. He was cruel with me, Robin, right enough, and hated the fact I was another man's son. Every week he would ask the same question. ‘What is your name, boy?' and every week I would answer, ‘My name is Peter Fence, sir.' One day, when he was angry beyond reason because one of our dogs, which he'd beaten, had died, he said to me, ‘You're not his anymore. You belong to me.' He went and fetched a dagger and carved a long S on my hand. I suppose it stood for Shepherd. My mother cried, but did nothing, as she was very afraid of him too. I got a fever from the cut, but no one tended me. As soon as I healed, I ran away to sea. I've never seen my family since.”

He paused, but I stayed silent, unable to think of any
thing to say. I wasn't shocked. How could I be, having grown up in a world of cruelty myself? Scratcher had threatened me with a knife, after all. And he wasn't the first, by any means. And I'd been whipped and beaten many a time. But I felt very, very sorry for Fence, who said nothing about the horrible pain he must have endured.

“I thought it would fade and disappear, but instead, as my hand grew bigger, it stretched and grew bigger too.” Fence looked shamed and hid his hand behind his back again.

“You've nothing to be ashamed of, Peter Fence, and you certainly shouldn't feel silly. You should wear the scar as a badge of courage and honour.”

“Thank you, Robin. You are my family now.”

I wanted to respond in kind, but was unused to talk
ing in such a way. I didn't remember having either family or friends before. We sat quietly for a while, but soon I heard the sound of hammering, and roused myself enough to look around. We were under some kind of lean-to to protect us from the weather. Its back was resting against a large fallen cedar. The front, which slanted to the ground, was covered with slats made of branches, but through the open triangle at the side I could see men erecting huts, thatching roofs from palm leaves, and walling in wild pigs that wanted to be walled
out
. Tempest was barking at them and wagging his tail at the same time. Mary, sleeves rolled up, was roasting birds on a spit over a fire. Proule, thanks be, was not visible. Lying in wait behind a different cedar, mayhap. I shuddered. But for the moment anyway, the scene looked very peaceful and countrified.
Bucolic
, ratbag Oldham would call it, with an air of disdain. She was a town ratbag through and through. She looked down on country ratbags.

Fence was back to the subject of food. “We have some turtle eggs, raw still, or I could beg you a leg of plover from Mary. I'll say it's for me.”

I nodded at the mention of plover. I didn't think I could manage another turtle egg as long as I lived. The very thought of them raw, round and soft with watery whites and yolks spilling out of their papery cases, turned me queasy all over again.

Fence was soon back. He crept, doubled over, through the side opening. “Her red skirt was filthy, greasy with bird fat,” he reported. “What with that and the holes, she looks right bad. And she was talking to herself in what might have been Irish. But she gave a leg to me.”

“Not one of her own, I hope.” I grinned painfully. Fence laughed. After gnawing the plover leg, taking a long draft of water, and crawling outside the lean-to to piss, I was onto more important business. “Tell me your story, Fence.”

“What story would that be, Robin?”

“The story of how you came to be here on this island with Winters and the others. Before, I was too ill to ask.”

“There's not much to tell. The admiral and Boors were fighting all the time, and the admiral couldn't stand Boor's stupidity one whit longer. He wanted his own command. So he built a small boat, a pinnace, with some of his crew and sundry others, and came across here to live, despite Boors saying he was in charge. The boat was s'posed to be for Vir
ginia. That's what the admiral put about, anyway.”

“Yes, I heard tell there was a boat.”

“Admiral Winters told me nothing until ready to leave, but then woke me in the middle of the night and brought me with him. He said he couldn't bear to see me swatting flies any longer.”

I smiled. Pain shot down my cheek to my chin and I felt my lip split. “Real or imaginary ones?”

“Both. I wanted to tell you as we went, but he wouldn't let me. He said it would give us away and we'd have people moaning and muttering, trying to keep us there. So I left the glove as a clue. Now tell me your story, Master Robin.”

“I came to find you, of course. I brought the final emblem.”

“Where is it? Let me see.”

“I can't. I lost it to the sea, together with my last bit of warm clothing,” I confessed. “But Fence, I brought it in my head. The emblem with the big stand of trees. I have solved and memorized it.”

“What is it?”

“True it is that it will amaze you,” I said.

“Tell me, o tell me,” he begged.

“Of course.” But when I came to repeat the cipher to him, it was like the turtle eggs, runny and slimy and leaking out of my brain in all directions. In my mind I saw an A, I saw a Y. I saw half of what looked like an O, maybe a backwards C. I could see nothing else and groaned. “God damned stupid message! I can't remember it. Not a single word. It's been knocked out of my head by Proule.” This wasn't the first time I'd lost something in the cipher line of business that was important. Memory is a slippery thing. You think you have it by the tail but it can wriggle free and jump out of your net in a flash.

Peter Fence seemed as downcast as I was, but didn't blame me for a moment. “There's a misfortune, but perhaps in time,” he said sadly, “you'll remember.” He started to suck his thumb. I was used to it now. He always sucked the tip of it when he was upset.

“Perchance I shall. I think I remembered it once before. But now it seems to have vanished from my bonce.” My head began to pound again. “I must sleep.” I lay down on my good, or at least better, side, pulling my knees up for com
fort. Tempest rushed in and lay beside me, his tail thump
ing against my back. I didn't have the strength to push him away, though true it is, there wasn't even enough room for Fence and myself.

Fence sat for a moment, as I began to drift off. “Before you sleep,” he said shyly, taking his thumb from his mouth so he could speak clearly, “I have something to tell you. And this is right good news.”

“What is it?”

“Remember what the other emblem said? About the crown and the path?”

“I do.”

“Well, listen.” He took a deep breath. “I know we searched and searched. But we were searching on the wrong island.”

“We were?” I sat back up. My head was still throbbing, but with excitement rather than pain.

“Aye,” he said, his eyes bright with pride. “I found a defi
nite path while out gathering wood for the admiral. It's not on the other island. It's here.”

“I wonder where it leads to,” said I. “I can't wait to find out.”

C
HAPTER 23
T
HE
P
ATH AND A
B
ATH

The next day we were running through the trees to where Fence had found the path. Or at least, he was running. I was limping and hopping as fast as I could. Limp, limp, hop. Limp, limp, hop. And the occasional bump. My head swam, my back burned, as if someone had shoved a hot poker against it, and my heart beat out of time. I should have lain in the lean-to for at least a few more days, thinking of buttery pancakes, of apple pies and raisins, the like of which I'd stolen off barrow boys' stalls back in Plymouth. Those Plymouth Barrows had been my first real treasure trove. But I wanted — no, needed — to see the path for myself, so we could mayhap find an even better treasure. We were getting closer to the secret of the cipher. I could almost smell it. I could also smell my own stink and promised Fence I would take a bath as soon as we were done.

“We call this Winters Island, after the admiral. But to be sure it's part of the Isle of Devils too,” said Fence. He picked up some pignuts and threw them in the pail we'd brought with us. Collecting food for the newly-caught swine was what we were supposed to be doing. It was our excuse for being where we were and doing what we were really doing — exploring.

“Yes, the Isle of Devils seems more like a bunch of islands.” I gathered some nuts and threw them in the pail.

“Aye. We could call the other Boors Isle. And the admi
ral says there are even more.”

“We saw some of them at least as the
Valentine
foun
dered. What's at the end of the pathway, Fence?”

“I don't rightly know, Robin. I never dared tread it on my own. I was afraid of what I might find. Witchcraft may
hap. Ghosts. Wild beasts.”

He had barely finished talking when I heard twigs snap
ping. I jumped. But this was no wild beast. It was Mary. She had leapt in front of us and was standing in our way, legs planted like tree trunks, hands on hips. Her tattered skirt trailed down where it had ripped. She shook her fist at me, and I fell back, deathly afraid that another good clip in the head would reopen my half-healed gash.

“I saw your red hair. Bright as flame it is. Brighter 'an my skirt. What you up to? You ain't s'posed to be here, toad spawn. And company,” she added nastily, noticing Fence for the first time. “The pair of you should be back at camp labouring, and not leaving all the hard work to others.”

“Then why aren't
you
back at the camp, Fish-Finney?” I couldn't stop myself asking.

She advanced towards me, teeth bared, fist up and dangerous. “Who are you to be telling others what to do?”

“You should be asking that question of yourself.” I had forgotten my scalp wound. My mouth, as usual, outstripped my sense.

Fence rushed between us before she could get to me.

“We are gathering nuts for the pigs, Mistress. The admiral sent us hither to collect food for them as they're no longer free to root for it themselves.”

“You ain't telling the truth. You're as bad as toad spawn there.”

She now lunged towards Fence, but the pail, thanks be, came to his rescue. He pushed it between them and waved it at her till the the contents rattled. “Don't hit me, Mistress Finney. I'm not lying. Pignuts, these are. Mast, they call them. Nuts for the pigs. I already have a goodly number.”

She stopped, glaring but undecided.

“See for yourself.” He thrust the pail at her.

“Well,” she said, hardly deigning to glance into the pail and clearly disappointed at being cheated out of a fight, “Make sure you fill that bucket, or I'll fetch the admiral down on you.”

If anything was an empty threat, this was, and she knew it. With a last backward sneer — “Those ain't real pignuts anyhow. Acorns are real pignuts” — she slunk back into the greenery. I saw a soft ripple in the shadows. It was one of the mariners. He accompanied her. No wonder she wasn't laboring. Not in the usual way, that is. But I didn't care what she did. I was no longer interested in her doings.

“Thank you Fence,” I said. “You bested her.”

“Lucky we brought the bucket,” said the boy, who still looked a bit greenish, as if he would mayhap throw up into it.

“Mary has other fish to fry,” I comforted him. “As always. And she's like Tempest, worse bark than bite.”

“Tempest has quite a bad bite when roused. Remember him hanging onto that pig? And I wager she does too.”

But she had vanished and we continued through the woods. The shadows cast by the tangled boughs grew long and sinister as we went deeper. I took care not to trip over tree roots that crept along the ground. They looked like long gnarled fingers. I wondered that Fence had ever ventured this far by himself.