The Rathbones by Janice Clark Read Free Book Online Page B

and never from so far away. My only voyages had been short excursions in the cove, searching with the crows for specimens for my lessons, or hugging the shore west of the house. Mama didn’t approve of my lingering near the docks where the whalers passed their time between trips, though no whaleman had docked there in nearly ten years. A few fishermen remained in the town of Naiwayonk, a cluster of cottages along the shore. Dories and smacks bobbed against the docks, masts tilting. The shapes of men moved through fog. Beyond the docks, on the far side of the harbor, the trying sheds where the whales were once boiled still commanded the western point, their high double doors locked for generations. According to Mordecai, in Great-Great-Grandfather’s time you could see the mammoth cauldrons through the open doors, the trying fires burning bright.
    The air this far from shore had no trace of tidal rot, of old fish and weed turned again and again in the surf, only keen clear gusts from the open sea. A sharp breeze blew the fog into tatters; the watery blue of the sky began to strengthen. The surface of the sea was a vivid green, brisk with whitecaps. I began to feel as though my mind were clearing as well, though I wasn’t yet ready to regard straight-on what I’d seen the night before: piercing glimpses of the broad back of the man in blue, of my mother turning away from me.
    I reapplied myself to my oars until the house was distant and the harbor too far for even the faint cries of fishermen to carry. Though my arms began to ache it felt good to stretch them, and I took comfort in the steady rhythm of my rowing. I heard only the splash of the oars, the water humming along my hull. Crow, lulled by the motionof the boat, tucked his head beneath his wing and dozed. My other shoulder felt bare; I tried not to think of my lost companion. My gaze drifted over the side to find a school of flounder swimming nearby, all their eyes looking up at me. The water was so clear; I could see far under the surface. I let go the oars and stared for a while. The flat, silvery fish swam tight together to form the shape of one large flounder. They drifted apart, then reformed, keeping always just alongside my skiff. Beneath them groves of kelp spiraled from far below and jellyfish pulsed and swayed. Some larger fish slid below the silver school, its dark scales shimmering in the clear green. I lay my head on my knees, wondering what Mama was doing now, how long it would be before she noticed I was gone.
    Mordecai finally stirred. The fleet of fish veered off and disappeared. One arm still over his eyes, he moved his free hand over the satchel in front of him until he found the open top and felt the rolls of papers protruding at one end. Before he noticed that I had stopped rowing I had found and tugged on my gloves, taken up the oars again, and returned to my rhythm. I already felt blisters forming on my palms. I glanced up at the sun; perhaps an hour had passed since we started.
    “Thankfully I didn’t drop the one with the charts. Though my fistulae are forever gone, and the Hand of Glory.” Mordecai sighed. He pulled out an old blue bandanna, faded but clean, and tied it over his eyes with the point hanging down over his nose. Spreading his knees, he unrolled a stiff chart that cracked as he opened it across the seat between his legs. He lifted the point of the bandanna to peer down at the chart, leaning close to the faded blue ink. I bent to look at his eyes. They were red and watering; through the squeezed slits his irises were vaporous, his pupils pin dots.
    I wondered if Mordecai would bring up the man in blue, now that we were safely away.
    He lifted the point of his bandanna a little higher to squint at the horizon. “That chain of islands straight out, to the south?”
    I turned and raised my hand to my brow and found a stuttering stretch of green.
    “The Stark Archipelago.”
    A cold gust of wind blew hair into my eyes. Turning