Drowned (5 page)

I jump up. You’d think by now I’d have learned
never
to close my eyes.

Mutter is holding the bucket and scowling at me. “You think that taking a bath will clean you, Bait? Why don’t you go back to the crap, where you belong?” Vixby stands behind him, laughing.

I start trying to scoop the fish pieces out of the water, but it’s fruitless. Now they’re spreading across the surface of the entire pool in a greasy mess. The boys strut back down shore, toward the other fishermen. Or maybe they’re men. When men here reach past their eighteenth Hard Season, they all start to look alike, so it’s difficult to tell age. It’s true that I’d often thought that when the king was weeding out the troublemakers, Vixby and Mutter would be his next choice. But they weren’t always this difficult. They used to be the quiet ones who just went about their duties, pulling in lines, bringing in fish, standing in their circles in formation like good citizens. But gradually, they began acting out. Calling people like me Bait. Squabbling over their places in the formation. People say it’s the sun. But I think it comes with the gradual realization that this life has no purpose. It’s not as if there’s good in this world anymore. It’s just day after day of misery, of waiting to die. Every day you wonder what the point is, or if there even is a point, and the longer you go on, the more life seems like a game you’re meant to lose. Mostly it drives people to harmless things, like Xilia, who talks to herself and sees apparitions everywhere. But every once in a while it will drive a person to worse. “They’re harmless,” I say out loud, as if saying it aloud will make it true.

Suddenly a shadow descends upon me. I brace myself for more cold water, but instead, the brave person just slinks into the water next to me. It’s Finn. I stare back at him in shock and begin pulling my ragged dress down over my scars. No one has ever ventured into a tide pool with me. He says, “Depends on who you are.”

“Um. What?” I ask, confused.

“Whether they’re—” he nods his head toward Vixby and Mutter “—harmless really depends on who you are. And they don’t like you very much.”

“But I didn’t do anything.”

He proceeds to scoop water into his hands and splash his face. The water slides among the fine hair on his jawline. Finn has been around three Hard Seasons more than I have, and I think he’s rather nice to look at, for now. But as I said, after a certain age all the men begin to look alike. He’s getting to that age where all the expressive, interesting parts of his face will be covered with knotted hair. Eventually, the men on this island all start to look like monsters, like the hairy animal from the
Beauty and the Beast
story in my fairy-tale book. Each time I’d read that story, I’d always imagine Vixby or Mutter or one of the other men, roaring from behind their mask of matted, dirty fur. They are altogether frightening.

Finn, though, is different. He was also one of Ana’s children. He’s always been the quiet, unassuming type. Even though he’s a fisherman, he’s not one to astound with his abilities; he just does what he’s supposed to do. Where Tiam knows how to attract attention, Finn deflects it. He’s steady and reliable, and was always right behind my father whenever work needed to be done. My father had mentored him, so I’d often see them together. Which is probably why I’ll often turn in formation and see him, several rows back, watching me. In the compartment, he’ll usually find a place near me. He’s rarely talked to me, though. I suppose I could find it unsettling, but I guess I just need to believe that someone, anyone, cares about me even one-tenth of what my father did.

“Sometimes you don’t have to
do
anything,” he says softly. “You just have to be. That’s what scares me.”

“Scares
you?
” My eyes widen. I lap up the attention eagerly. It’s so sad; we’re not supposed to care for each other, and yet I can’t imagine that anyone on this island is so damaged that he doesn’t want to be cared about. I feel as if I thirst for it each day, like water; and like water, it is always in such short supply. That’s probably why I jump at Finn’s expression of concern.

“Well, yeah,” he says with a small laugh. “I don’t want you to get hurt. You need protection. Especially with your father...away.”

I don’t answer. I know everyone assumes I need protection because of my arm, because my size and ruddy skin and bad eyes make me so different and unsuited for this world. And maybe I do. The way he pauses when speaking of Buck Kettlefish tells me all I need to know. He thinks my father, my protector, is dead. No one has said as much, but I guess that’s the consensus. People know that it’s high Hard Season now, and he left at the beginning of my fifteenth Soft Season. He’s been gone for 539 tides. Not that I keep count or anything.

“High Hard has been pretty gentle so far,” he says. “That’s good.”

I nod. High Hard is the most damaging. We lose most of our numbers during high Hard. But it’s been pretty easygoing so far. Though bad things always seem to happen just as we’re exhaling with relief. Just as we’re letting down our guard.

“How are you doing, by the way?” he asks.

“Um, I’m doing...fine,” I sputter, the words feeling foreign on my lips. But am I? I suppose every day I am still alive is a good day.

He gives me a sad smile. “Don’t lie. I know how much Buck means to you. So if you need anything, someone to talk to...” He looks away, his face reddening. “Well. I’m here. Okay?”

Someone to talk to? About what?
My breath catches in my throat. I don’t understand his offer. Nobody ever offers such things. But even as the proposition tangles up my brain, it also opens some small, hopeful part of me, a part that has longed for this kind of attention.

“Thank you,” I say, voice faltering.

“Coe, I know them. I fish with them every day. So I worry about you. We’ve lost enough people for stupid reasons. I don’t want you to be next,” he says, sliding out of the water and walking down the shoreline, toward them. The words
I don’t want you to be next
hang in the air after him, making me shiver. Sure, Vixby and Mutter have taunted me since my father left, but it’s never been anything too life-threatening.

I sit up. “Finn, do you know something I don’t?” I call after him.

He shrugs, but I already know the answer. Of course he does. Everyone does. He spends his time with other fishermen. I spend most of my time alone. No, you’re not supposed to trust anyone, but isolation can get you killed just as fast. I used to find out what I needed to know from Buck. Now it’s not just my deformity and my size that make me vulnerable.

When I am done washing, I walk past the fishermen and think I’ll take refuge for a while near the platform, away from the sun, where the small bit of shade there will give my stinging eyes a rest. I relax, closing my eyes there until at once I hear movement. I open one eye for a moment and see four pairs of feet marching toward me. Guards. They always walk in tight formation, purposefully, unlike most of us, who listlessly meander about. I wonder what on earth they’re out for, but I know it’s probably nothing good, and for a split second, I feel sorry for whoever they’re after.

That is, until they stop at my feet. I open the other eye and then sit spear-straight. Four of the eight palace guards are staring down at me. I try to choke out some words, but nothing comes. I’ve done a good job at making myself invisible. The palace guards have never approached
me.
What would they want with a Craphouse Keeper?
I think, but at the same time I remember Princess Star inspecting me this morning in formation.
This is the one, I thought.

“Are you space two?” one asks me. “In the formation?”

I nod, still mute.

The first one looks at his mates. “She’s the one. Get her.”

My hand tightens into a fist, though I’m not sure why. I wouldn’t strike any of them; I’m not suicidal. There are four of them. I’ve never seen this many of them together at once. I’m not quite sure why half of all the king’s guards have been summoned to retrieve
me,
the defenseless one-handed Scribbler Bait. I swallow. “What is this about?” I finally find my voice, as two of them reach their gloved hands under my arms and hoist me to my feet. They don’t answer, just lug me along as if I’m a beached fish they found on the shore, spraying sand as they march. I try to walk, but they’re moving too fast, dragging me inches above the ground so that my toes leave ruts in the sand. My face burns with a combination of humiliation and fear as the others watch me.

Of course, no one steps in to help me. Where is Finn’s protection now, when I need it? I can’t see him anywhere. On the shoreline, I see Tiam casting out a drop line, tanned back to me. He turns at almost the second I wish he would, as if he hears me screaming for him in his mind, and then he breaks into a run.

His long legs propel him across the sand so that he’s standing in front of them, spear drawn, in a matter of seconds. I expect that the next words out of his mouth will be, “What are you doing?” or “Leave her alone.” Instead, he says, very evenly, “Don’t hurt her.”

The men have metal spears, weapons that could slice him in half with one swing. They move around him, and he grinds his jaw. He doesn’t look as if he’s planning to attack, but maybe he’s going for the stealth approach. In case he’s about to lunge, I hold out my hand. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Just... My bag. Where’s my bag? Can you watch it for me?”

I really don’t know if it’s okay, or if I’ll ever have the chance to see my bag again. But I know attacking the guards is simply stupid, even if he is going to be king one day. His eyes bore into the guards for a moment. “Don’t be afraid, Coe,” he mouths. Then he walks toward the base of the platform and picks up my sack, pulling the strap over his head so that it joins his own on his back. He never looks at me, just stands like stone as they drag me off.

I watch Tiam, standing motionless.
Don’t hurt her.
He knows. He knows where they’re taking me. Why they’re taking me.

We move beyond the sleeping quarters, the craphouse. Meanwhile, all the people we pass look at me as if seeing me for the first time. And then I look up and see the castle towering over me. The castle. I know I’d played there as a child, but my memories all seem like dreams. I can’t remember ever being this close to it. It’s towered over the island for so many days of my life, in its shimmering splendor, just like the moon; lovely to look at, impossible to visit. I’ve always thought of it as this fantastic mirage in the distance, that if I ever got this near, it would disappear. But here it is, enormous, a hundred times bigger than our sleeping quarters.

The guard slides open the door, and I find myself kissing the floor. But something is strange... There’s no sand there. It’s the color of sand, but smooth and cold. I quickly straighten and bring myself to my knees, then gasp.

The room is bigger than anything I can imagine, the color of a seashell, with sloped ceilings that glimmer like a pearl. There is no furniture, only a pink mat on the floor. Princess Star is sitting there, cross-legged, a bowl in her lap. She’s wearing a lace thing over most of her face, but I can see her jaw working. She’s chewing on something. “Keep her over there,” she calls across the room as I avert my eyes. “I don’t want her near me until she washes.”

Near her? Why would I go near her? “I’ve washed,” I say softly.

She laughs. “I can still smell you from over here. You’ll have a freshwater bath.”

Freshwater? Freshwater! My heart catches in my throat. I value my skin too much to have it burned off my body. Is this some kind of punishment? “For...for what?”

“To be my lady-in-waiting, of course.” She pulls the lace veil back from her face and studies me. “Or do you like cleaning the craphouse?”

“I’m... Me?” Surely she is mistaken.

“Yes. Governesses are for babies. And I’m an adult. This is my seventeenth Hard Season. My father said I could choose one servant. And you come highly recommended.”

“Me?” I sputter. Who would recommend me? “But your governess. What will become of Kirba?”

“Look at me,” she instructs, ignoring my question. Kirba has seen more than thirty Hard Seasons and is one of the eldest on the island. Surely, though, Star will have compassion for the lady who raised her. Hearing the iciness in her voice, I’m not so sure. “My lady-in-waiting may look me in the eye, from time to time. And I need to see your eyes to know if I can trust you.”

I raise my eyes to her, slowly, and as I do, she blows a puff of air that makes the lace thing over her eyes billow out. I imagine even her breath is sweet. When she stands, I see that she is wearing a short, tight-fitting garment over her breasts, with a silky cape that descends over her hips. Open to view in a small window is the smooth white skin surrounding her perfectly round navel. Her navel! I’ve never seen another woman’s navel before, except for my own, and that only rarely, as doing so also affords me a look at my horrible, deep scars.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my eyes falling to the floor. I can’t do it. I’m afraid my looking would turn into gawking like mad.

She motions to a servant, who brings her a cloth napkin and retreats to the corner of the room. She dabs her mouth daintily, and all the while I can’t help thinking that her napkin, this piece of cloth she wipes her mouth with, is finer and more delicate than anything I’ve ever even touched. “You’re not the first person who has had trouble, but no mind. Your eyes... They are unusual. They do work, don’t they? Can you see quite well?”

I nod. “Well, they hurt some in the daylight,” I mumble.

“That is no mind.” She continues, “What I need is someone who can draw me my bath every day and dress me. Who can take care of my needs. Who can dine with me when I choose and carry on a conversation and be at least somewhat interesting. Obviously that rules out most of the people on this godforsaken island.” She laughs, a bitter but still delicate sound, and I feel her eyes running over me. “I’m still not convinced
you
are. Interesting, that is. But you’ll have to do.”