Minerva's Voyage by Lynne Kositsky Read Free Book Online Page A

through the air and hit me on the head. It bounced away before I could see what it was. I thought at first it had come out of the hammock, which swung alarmingly. My forehead must be bleeding. I clapped my hand to it. I felt a sticky wetness and a hard pain. I staggered up with a loud cry. It was Mary, and the witch was laughing. Her hand reared above her shoulder, her fingers still splayed open. She’d cut me. A small cut, but a cut nevertheless. Soon, if I wasn’t careful, I’d be as brainless as Boors.
    â€œA stone. I meant it for your better,” she cackled. “Scratcher, I mean. Pig that he is. Shame it missed him. Lucky it hit you.” Incredible! She was more interested in revenge than safety, even with us jouncing up and down in the hold as if on wayward horses.
    She cackled again. “I’ve been through this before. I’ll go through it again in the future. This ain’t nothing to what I’ve seen. I ain’t afraid of a rogue wave or two.”
    Scratcher had been sleeping most of the day and evening, between bouts of drinking. He snorted and woke now, gripping the sides of his hammock. His knuckles were stretched taut. He took one hand off the canvas and fumbled in his clothing. After a moment he pissed in a huge arc onto the floor. He was worse than the bloody dog. His eyes were glaring, first at Mary, then at me. His face was grey and menacing in the half dark.
    â€œShe cut me, Master Thatcher, with a stone.”
    â€œShut up or I’ll cut you worse.” The two deep lines running down his cheeks looked in the dimness as if they’d been painted on. He lay back down.
    The ship rolled. He suddenly sat bolt upright. “I must go see Boors immediately.” He sounded stone cold sober, and was struggling to put on his jerkin as his hammock rocked precariously. “I must get to his cabin. Starveling, you bone bag, my boots have slid away. Find my goddamn boots.” Boots on, with no little help from me, he rushed up to the first deck. I went after him.
    â€œStay below,” he commanded. “Who told you to follow me, carrytale that you are?”
    â€œCarrytale, sir? Not I, on my life. Merely your servant, here to aid you in all your endeavours.” We were under the top deck. Heedless sailors lay in hammocks, covered by the deck above. But it still rained in at the sides, and the sea was high and ominous. I tried to assure myself of our safety. After all, the mariners seemed unperturbed by the storm; they had doubtless been through rougher waters in the past. But true it is that one careless move, one slight push, could pitch me or anyone else into the water.
    Scratcher moved among the crew and across the deck. I took his silence as assent and followed close upon him. He was already knocking on one of the doors of the middle rooms. No response. He banged harder. Boors appeared, in nightgown and cap.
    â€œWhat is it? Is there a fly? I thought I had them quite cleared out despite the hot weather.”
    â€œNo Sir Thomas. It is merely I, William Thatcher, come to remind you to keep your promise.”
    â€œPromise, promise. What promise is that?” He took off his nightcap and scratched his head in bewilderment.
    â€œIn the event of a storm, Sir Thomas … you remember, surely?”
    â€œOf course I remember.” He paused. “What is it I remember, exactly?”
    â€œMake for the Isle of Devils.”
    â€œOf course, of course.” He neighed.
    â€œTell Sir George Winters to do so,” prompted Scratcher.
    â€œSir George…?” Boors was, if anything, getting worse.
    â€œWinters. The admiral.”
    â€œOh, yes, of course. I’ll tell Sir George Winters right away, sure as shipshape.”
    â€œThat’s if there can be any making for anywhere in this weather,” muttered Scratcher, water running down the deep lines in his face as if they were trenches. “And that’s if Winters will