The Frost Child by Eoin McNamee Page A

front of her face as she spoke. Her words distorted as they passed through the swirling fog, the vowels elongated, as if someone had slowed them.
    "Let me try that," Owen said, doing the same thing. Cati heard his words in a deep, slow version of Owen's voice. She giggled, and the sound wavered as it struck Owen's hand. Then, as if in reply, there was another sound, right beside the Wayfarer , a long, mournful cry full of the sorrows of the vast ocean they sailed upon. Cati edged a bit closer to Owen.
    "It sounds like the schooner," he said. "I don't think it's dangerous."
    "No, I don't think so either," Cati said, peering nervously into the mist.
    They didn't hear the schooner again. Owen could see Cati yawning.
    "Why don't you go below and get some sleep?" Owen said. "I'll take the first watch."
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    Cati was going to argue, but then she thought of the cozy beds in the cabin, and she found her feet moving toward the hatch.
    "Just for an hour, mind," she said, opening the hatch and climbing through.
    Down below, all was calm. She was quite glad to be out of the swirling mist. The cabin was warm, and in a quiet way there was a welcoming feel, as though the Wayfarer herself was glad to have a crew again and wanted Cati to feel at home. Slipping off her boots, she climbed into one of the beds and pulled the blankets up around her. The bed was narrow but comfortable, and she lay staring at the ceiling and feeling the movement of the hull beneath her. She saw that the ceiling was engraved with symbols like those on the Mortmain. Then she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
    Owen studied the maps, but it was difficult to see in the mist and he gave up. Instead he stood at the tiller and abandoned himself to the rhythms of the vessel. He felt as if the Wayfarer was trying to tell him things, if only he could understand.
    After another hour his own eyelids grew heavy, the gentle motion of the ship rocking him. He tried to fight it, but gradually he slipped into a doze, the Wayfarer sailing onward, carrying her sleeping crew.
    Owen didn't know how long he had slept, but he woke with a start. He looked down at the tiller, his hand still
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    resting on it. Had he dreamed it, or had the tiller given an urgent jerk? The hatch opened and Cati leapt out, pulling on her boots.
    "What is it?" Owen said.
    "I don't know," she said, scratching her head. "One minute I was sleeping and the next I was on the floor." She looked down at the deck in disbelief. "I think the Wayfarer threw me out of bed!"
    Then, as if a curtain had been drawn aside, the bank of fog lifted, and they were sailing in a clear silvery light. But it wasn't the sudden emergence from the fog that drew the sharp intake of breath from Cati, or the gasp from Owen. They were no longer alone. All around them, and towering above them, were great white ships moving silently and swiftly, their ranks of sails billowing, a ghost fleet sailing through time.
    "What is it?" Cati said in a whisper. A familiar chill started to creep through her bones.
    "I don't know," Owen said. One of the ships was bearing down on them, and he moved the tiller so that the Wayfarer passed just under the bow. As they passed under he saw that the ship was nameless but bore a figurehead on her bowsprit of a haggard queen. And as the ship swept past them, he saw the gun ports on the side, and how the masts towered far above the Wayfarer's little spar.
    "Look!" Cati said, her voice trembling. At the helm of the ship stood a gaunt figure in white, cold eyes fixed on the horizon.
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    "The Harsh!" Owen said, weaving in between two more ships coming behind the first. Cati shivered and hugged herself tightly.
    "Why can't they see us?"
    "They're not looking," Owen said. "They don't think that anything can harm them, so they don't have any watchmen, and the Harsh at the wheel look like they are wrapped up in steering the ships. Still, better to be safe."
    He put the tiller hard over and brought the Wayfarer just