the east rose something that meant we would never return for them. High in the hills behind the inlet, four tall scribbles climbed the morning sky.
The tides would obscure our marks on the beach but, if the Salt Men searched, they might find the animals. So used to us, unafraid, they would trot up and be killed and eaten, I thought, but said nothing to Taur.
On the outgoing current, the raft drifted towards the flat-topped island. The wind strengthened and shifted north. I tied the sail sideways for its advantage. Taur leaned on the steering paddle, holding us on course. All that morning he stared ahead, lifting the island, willing it closer. Never once looking back. I saw no reason to tell him about the smoke signals.
Chapter 8
Adrift
Halfway to the island, wind and current died. The sail slatted as the raft’s dip and pitch made the animals sick. As if it had waited this chance, the sun glared and winked off an oily swell, malignant. Taur and I had some protection from flax hats and tunics. We lowered the sail, rigged it to shade the animals as well.
The raft nudged into a belt of seaweed like a bridge towards the island, thick tangled straps of what Taur called kelp. I pulled one aboard, fastened it around the mast so we did not drift back towards the Salt Men.
The animals soon drank most of our few pots of water. As I wondered if I should tell Taur about the smoke signals, the nestled straps of kelp came undone, stretched, and pointed in the direction of the island. A current beginning, a breeze with it. I hacked the kelp loose from the mast. We worked our way out under sail again.
Taur looked at the island standing higher and made a mooing noise, trying to remember the name his family had called it. I helped with various sounds, but each time he shook his head. “Marn!” I said at last, and Taur leapt in agreement so the logs jostled under him. The goats looked uneasy.
“Marn Island!” I said. Taur grinned and smacked the steering paddle, shouting, “Gurgh, Marn!” I thought it was a good sign. We moved closer, Taur steering towards the grassy flat at the south-east end where a stream tumbled down.
The goats sniffed the air as if they could taste the grass already. The sheep seemed to realise we were safe. The dogsleapt to see what they could. Taur roared his song, and we braced to run the raft upon a beach of rounded boulders.
I could have taken a rope and leapt ashore dry-footed. And just then, the wind died. The sail fell slack. A current formed along the beach and carried us away. Taur worked his steering paddle. I thrust a pole to keep the raft moving, touched bottom, saw sand puff at the pole’s prod – then we were swept into deep water, the current strong. On my own I might have flung the animals into the water, led and called them to the beach, but Taur could not swim. I cursed myself for not jumping when there was a chance.
Off the northern tip of Marn Island we drifted past outliers, rock towers and pillars. Coiling in endless ribbons, thousands of gulls swung and cried and jostled for air, somehow keeping their distance from each other. Huge yellow-headed seabirds dived, closed elegant angled wings. Their feathers whistled and they splashed about us. Their dives still pouted the surface as they came up with fish. The current here weakened, and we paddled for the cliffs of the northern end.
The island dragged itself away again, and Taur shouted and spat. He saw me look and grinned. We could never have climbed the cliffs anyway, he said. When the wind came up from the north, we sailed down the outside of Marn Island, its western side facing the South Land, all cliffs. Along their rocky base, logs were pitched helter-skelter, enormous skeletons rinsed by the sea, bleached by the sun.
Towards evening, the northerly dropped. A black cloud came up from the south. Cold rain hit. Taur and I were both sick, so lost in despair we left up the sail. With a bang that set the goats lamenting, the mast
The tides would obscure our marks on the beach but, if the Salt Men searched, they might find the animals. So used to us, unafraid, they would trot up and be killed and eaten, I thought, but said nothing to Taur.
On the outgoing current, the raft drifted towards the flat-topped island. The wind strengthened and shifted north. I tied the sail sideways for its advantage. Taur leaned on the steering paddle, holding us on course. All that morning he stared ahead, lifting the island, willing it closer. Never once looking back. I saw no reason to tell him about the smoke signals.
Chapter 8
Adrift
Halfway to the island, wind and current died. The sail slatted as the raft’s dip and pitch made the animals sick. As if it had waited this chance, the sun glared and winked off an oily swell, malignant. Taur and I had some protection from flax hats and tunics. We lowered the sail, rigged it to shade the animals as well.
The raft nudged into a belt of seaweed like a bridge towards the island, thick tangled straps of what Taur called kelp. I pulled one aboard, fastened it around the mast so we did not drift back towards the Salt Men.
The animals soon drank most of our few pots of water. As I wondered if I should tell Taur about the smoke signals, the nestled straps of kelp came undone, stretched, and pointed in the direction of the island. A current beginning, a breeze with it. I hacked the kelp loose from the mast. We worked our way out under sail again.
Taur looked at the island standing higher and made a mooing noise, trying to remember the name his family had called it. I helped with various sounds, but each time he shook his head. “Marn!” I said at last, and Taur leapt in agreement so the logs jostled under him. The goats looked uneasy.
“Marn Island!” I said. Taur grinned and smacked the steering paddle, shouting, “Gurgh, Marn!” I thought it was a good sign. We moved closer, Taur steering towards the grassy flat at the south-east end where a stream tumbled down.
The goats sniffed the air as if they could taste the grass already. The sheep seemed to realise we were safe. The dogsleapt to see what they could. Taur roared his song, and we braced to run the raft upon a beach of rounded boulders.
I could have taken a rope and leapt ashore dry-footed. And just then, the wind died. The sail fell slack. A current formed along the beach and carried us away. Taur worked his steering paddle. I thrust a pole to keep the raft moving, touched bottom, saw sand puff at the pole’s prod – then we were swept into deep water, the current strong. On my own I might have flung the animals into the water, led and called them to the beach, but Taur could not swim. I cursed myself for not jumping when there was a chance.
Off the northern tip of Marn Island we drifted past outliers, rock towers and pillars. Coiling in endless ribbons, thousands of gulls swung and cried and jostled for air, somehow keeping their distance from each other. Huge yellow-headed seabirds dived, closed elegant angled wings. Their feathers whistled and they splashed about us. Their dives still pouted the surface as they came up with fish. The current here weakened, and we paddled for the cliffs of the northern end.
The island dragged itself away again, and Taur shouted and spat. He saw me look and grinned. We could never have climbed the cliffs anyway, he said. When the wind came up from the north, we sailed down the outside of Marn Island, its western side facing the South Land, all cliffs. Along their rocky base, logs were pitched helter-skelter, enormous skeletons rinsed by the sea, bleached by the sun.
Towards evening, the northerly dropped. A black cloud came up from the south. Cold rain hit. Taur and I were both sick, so lost in despair we left up the sail. With a bang that set the goats lamenting, the mast
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