The Bird of the River by Kage Baker Page A

her family. Eliss had never told it to anyone before. She didn't think she'd tell anyone again.
    "Oh. I'm sorry." Salpin's ebullience faded. He leaned on the rail, studying the water. After a while he said, "At least you know your mother is with your father now. She went under the water and met her true love there, maybe. Waiting to carry her away to a good place."
    Eliss nodded. It was a nicer thing to imagine than what Falena had actually met under the water.
    They sat in silence a long while, except when Salpin would point and say things, such as, "That's not a town, that's somebody's private boat landing," or "See that red color in the mud? That's where the stream comes down from the iron mine at Branka." Twice they spotted marker buoys--Eliss saw them first--and after the second one, while the Bird sat unmoving in the stream and the divers went in, Salpin scrambled down through the rigging and came back up with his concertina. When the Bird sailed on again, he sat with his back against the mast, a faraway look in his eyes. He played no proper song, but only little fragments of melodies that wandered like raindrops down a window, and now and then joined up to make a longer tune. Eliss watched the river all afternoon, while the music came together in bigger and bigger pieces. By the time the sun sank down behind them, throwing the mast's long shadow across the world, the song was complete. It was a bittersweet melody, sad but beautiful. The other musicians below left off playing and listened.

    "WHY'S YOUR BROTHER MAD AT ME?"
    Eliss looked up in surprise. She was alone on the mast platform, so intent on the river she hadn't noticed Wolkin's climb through the rigging. He sat down beside her now, looking mournful.
    "Are you supposed to be up here?" Eliss asked him, looking to see if he wore any kind of safety line. She couldn't see one.
    "It's safe," said Wolkin, putting his legs through the rail. "Anyway. He won't talk to me. Why is he mad?"
    "He isn't mad at you," said Eliss, and then thought about what she'd said. "I mean ... he isn't mad at any body . He's just mad. Probably because of what happened to Mama. He's only ten."
    "I'm almost ten," said Wolkin. "I'd be mad if my mother died. But she won't, of course."
    Eliss sighed, but decided to say nothing. Wolkin fidgeted.
    "You think he might be mad because I said he was a greenie?"
    "Maybe."
    "I said I was sorry. I didn't mean it mean."
    "I know."
    "I mean, I get mad when people say my daddy was a bad captain. Tappy and Boley said it and I beat them up. You think if I beat up the other kids for him he'd stop being mad at me?"
    "Are the other kids calling him a greenie?"
    "Sometimes."
    Eliss winced to herself. "No wonder he's unhappy. But I don't think he wants you to beat up anyone for him."
    "I could. I could beat up anybody on this ship," said Wolkin. "That was my age, I mean. It wouldn't be any trouble." He edged a little closer to her.
    "No. Thank you. Really."
    "But I owe you a blood debt. Your mama saved my life. I have to kill anybody who hurts you. Or him."
    Eliss bit her lip, trying not to smile. "It's very nice of you to offer, but I think you have to wait until you're grown up to pay blood debts. Besides, we aren't important enough for anybody to start a vendetta against us."
    "You are so," said Wolkin. "And people will always go after Alder, won't they?"
    "Maybe not."
    "What's it like, being a Yendri?"
    Eliss looked down at Alder far below. He sat, small and forlorn, by the aft rail, staring into the trees on the far shore. She felt a pang of guilt. "I don't know what it's like," she told Wolkin, and thought: Alder doesn't know either, does he ? "WOLKIN!"
    Mrs. Riveter stood below, staring up from the deck with an expression of outrage. Eliss hadn't known the divers were taught the Carrying Voice too.
    "Oh." Wolkin looked down. "Well, time to go."
    Much to his embarrassment, he was lowered from the platform in a painter's seat, strapped in too tightly to move,