The Fork-Tongue Charmers (14 page)

“Don't be,” Abby reassured.

“What's he like?”

“He's a strong man. Proud. Wise. Stubborn at times—but you'll learn that is the way of many great
men. All of Pest respects him. As long as he leads them, no Uninvited will ever rule the Isle again.”

Rye shivered as the wind whistled across the bow. Abby pulled her close. “When I was your age, Waldron would put a gentle hand on my head and it would warm my whole body, even in the fiercest storm.”

Rye thought of Harmless. That was something he had done for her.

“I'm still nervous,” she said.

“Me too, Riley,” Abby whispered, with a knowing smile. “But just a little.”

The moon slipped behind a cloud and the sea went dark.

“Now go belowdecks and try to get some rest,” Abby said kindly. “Tomorrow's a new day. Let's welcome what it brings us.”

“All right, Mama,” Rye said.

Rye returned to their cabin and climbed into her hammock. Despite the rocking of the sea, she finally drifted off, dreaming of the lush island that might soon greet them on the horizon.

Unfortunately, when she woke the next day and joined her friends on deck, she found the
Slumgullion
engulfed in an ominous fog so dense she couldn't see anything at all.

“I
t's called the Salt,” Captain Dent said as they peered out over the rails blindly.

Rye felt the fog settle on her face. It left her tongue thick and heavy, like she needed a drink.

“Where did it come from?” Folly asked.

Quinn spread his fingers in front of his eyes. By the time he fully extended his arm, his hand had disappeared.

“Islanders say Pest wears the Salt like a cloak,” the Captain explained. “The High Isle draws the Salt around
her shoulders to protect her from unwanted strangers.”

Abby raised a suspicious eyebrow at him, as if the Captain might be to blame.

“The Pests are a superstitious lot,” Dent said, returning a frown. “Even worse than sailors.”

“So we're at the island?” Rye asked, nerves and excitement rising in her voice. She couldn't see the far side of the ship, never mind any shore on the horizon.

“We are,” Abby said. “I suspect the Captain will have us in port shortly.”

The Captain waved both hands in protest. “That I will not, Mrs. O'Chanter. This is as far as I go.”

“What?” Abby said, her voice even but severe.

“The
Slumgullion
is built for speed and stealth. There's not a ship in the king's fleet we can't outrun or a cove into which we can't disappear. But I can't steer where I cannot see. Pest's reefs are littered with the bones of captains who've believed otherwise.”

Abby stepped close to the Captain and stared hard into his one eye. “Your bargain was to deliver us to the Isle of Pest. It was a bargain you made with the High Chieftain of the Luck Uglies.”

“The ocean is measured in miles, not inches,” Dent replied. “You're much closer now than when we left Drowning.”

Abby's body had become stiff with menace. Rye
noticed the crossbow slung across her mother's back. Abby was known to hide even nastier bits under her dress. But Rye could also feel other eyes upon them. She sensed more bodies gathering around them in the fog on the deck. Abby must have felt it too.

“Mrs. O'Chanter,” Dent said, his voice quieter. “If I ordered my crew to try to sail us into port, I'm quite certain we would all find ourselves strung from the mast.”

“So we're to swim?” Abby said.

“Daggett Dent is no cutthroat!” he corrected, taking great offense. “I have a perfectly seaworthy longboat ready for you.”

Rye felt her ears burning. Were they being betrayed by this man who'd pretended to be their friend?

“You're going to set us adrift?” she said, unable to contain herself.

“Of course not, lass,” Dent said with a dismissive wave. “You'll have oars.”

And so it was that Rye, her family, and friends found themselves back in a longboat, being lowered into the waves. At least the crew had loaded a supply of fresh water.

“Farewell, Mrs. O'Chanter! Good-bye, children! Be well, Pickle.” Dent waved from the rails above them. “I'm truly sorry about all of this. But if you row east with haste, I'm sure you'll reach the shore by midday.”

“I hope a pelican gets his other eye,” Rye said glumly.

“Pelican? Where?” Dent said, his good eye darting anxiously at the sky.

“We'll find our way,” Abby reassured Rye. “Children, take up the oars.”

They did, and after just a few strokes, the
Slumgullion
disappeared behind the wall of fog.

The small boat inched along blindly at the mercy of the Salt. Quinn did an admirable job of manning the oars long after Rye and Folly had tired. Folly entertained Lottie while Rye and Abby traded Rye's spyglass back and forth. But neither of them could see anything through the thick stew that hung in the air. Fortunately, the sea and the winds remained gentle.

“How do we know we're heading the right way?” Rye asked.

“It feels right,” Abby said. Rye raised a suspicious eyebrow. “And if we're not there by dark,” Abby added, “we know we've veered off course.”

“Did you see that?” Folly called.

“What?” Rye said.

“There,” Folly pointed overhead. “I thought I saw a bird fly past.”

“She's right,” Quinn added. “It looks like a break in the fog.”

Rye looked carefully. The Salt was turning wispier, less dense. Abby tried to peer through it.

Rye watched the sky for signs of another bird. Suddenly a large dark shape appeared overhead and fell upon them. Something damp and stringy clung to her face. She moved to pull it away with her fingers but it was now tangled around her hands too. Quinn stopped rowing and struggled to free his arms. Lottie screeched as if caught in a spider's web. The longboat rocked as they all flailed.

They had been captured in a net.

“Be calm, children. Stop struggling or it will just get worse,” Abby said. She dug into the folds of her dress and retrieved a sharp blade. “Riley, use Fair Warning. Quickly.”

Abby began to cut the fibers. Rye removed Fair Warning from the sheath in her boot and carefully did the same. When they had finished, Rye examined the delicate net strands in her hands. The longboat was no longer moving and she was surprised to see that the fog had suddenly lifted, the last wisps rising off the water like steam from a kettle.

“Mama,” Rye said. “Who's trying to capture us?”

“He is,” Abby said quietly. “Although I suspect he's rather disappointed in the day's haul.”

The longboat had come to rest on the sand of a tiny
beach. Chains of jagged rocks jutted out on either side, sheltering the cove. From atop a bird-soiled boulder, a weathered old man with a head of closely cropped white hair blinked down at them in surprise.

“Good morning, fine seas,” Abby called to the man, blending the words together as she spoke them so that it sounded like
Goomurnin-fi-seas
.

Rye had never heard her mother talk that way before. She'd never heard that expression either.

The old man seemed surprised but mumbled back, “Aye, fair winds to you,” which sounded a lot like
I-fairwins-t'ya
. He hopped down the rocks and made his way toward their landing spot on the beach.

Folly and Quinn climbed onto the sand while Abby helped Lottie out of the boat. Rye just sat and gaped at the landscape around them. The gray fog of the Salt still blended into the horizon in the distance, but overhead the sky was clear, bathing them in warm sunlight. The rocky crags of the island's cliffs were dotted with lush grass capped by crowns of wildflowers. Rye watched as legions of seabirds busied themselves making nests in the highest nooks and crannies. A small herd of woolly sheep as white as clouds made their way down the rolling green hill above them. They blinked at the seafarers curiously but soon lost interest, munching on the piles of kelp delivered by the tide.

“Rye, come on,” Folly urged.

Rye stopped her gawking and took a deep breath. It was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. She splashed ashore.

When the old man reached them, his wide eyes darted from Abby to the children and back again. He was lean and wiry, barely taller than Quinn. His weathered face appeared as dumbstruck as Rye's. She supposed it wasn't every day that a boatful of children washed up on the beach.

“Sorry about your nets,” Abby said, handing the pile of shredded ropes to him. “I'll mend them for you myself.”

The man looked at the nets in his hands and frowned.

“I'm Abigail.”

He shook out the nets, surveying the damage.

“Cutty,” Abby added.

The man looked up from the nets with a start.

“You may not remember me, but these are my daughters, Riley and Lottie,” Abby continued. “And these are our friends, Folly and Quinn.”

He blinked again, his eyes changing as he seemed to recognize something in her face.

“Huh,” he grunted.

Abby flashed him a smile.

“Shoo-gay-yoo a Wick, den,” he mumbled finally. “S'be off.”

“Did he say he's going to whip us?” Rye asked in alarm.

“No,” Abby said, and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “He said he should get us to Wick. It's the local village.”

Rye puzzled over the strange accent.

“It's called Mumbley-Speak,” Abby whispered. “Some of the old Belongers still talk that way. You'll catch on soon enough.”

The man turned and marched up the beach and the rolling hill, his nets dragging behind him. He gave a shrill whistle and the sheep stopped their grazing to meander after him. One of the sheep glanced back with its woolly head, as if waiting for them to follow. Rye, Folly, and Quinn looked at one another, then to Abby.

“You heard him,” Abby said. “Let's not dawdle.”

The old man set a quick pace, pushing himself up steep hills and worn footpaths with a walking stick that reminded Rye of a longer version of her cudgel. Rye removed her own from its sling and tried to match his stride, but still found herself trailing behind. Quinn carried Lottie on his back when her short legs tired.

Spring had indeed taken hold on the island. Cool sea breezes stirred the air, but the children found
themselves loosening their collars as the sun warmed their backs. Rye was relieved when they reached the top of a tall bluff and the old man paused to take a breath. The Salt had lifted entirely and disappeared, and Rye could see the white-capped sea in all directions around them. Wind-scarred rocks and outcroppings stretched from the island, like the protective spines of the midnight sea urchins Harmless had collected at Grabstone. Nestled between them were small, sheltered coves and crescent beaches similar to the one they'd landed on. Littered among the outlying rocks, Rye saw the fractured remains of dozens of hulls and masts—the wrecks of ships that had never found those hidden harbors. She realized that luck had indeed been on their side that morning.

The island itself was mostly treeless, covered by lush but hardy turf that clung stubbornly to the ground. The hills were dotted with isolated stone cottages, gentle plumes of smoke wafting from their chimneys. White tufts flecked the rolling green meadows like dandelions. Rye squinted. They were countless flocks of sheep.

“Look over there,” Folly called. “What are those?”

At a far end of the island, a half dozen twisted pillars of earth seemed to rise from an open clearing. From that distance, Rye guessed they must be at least thirty feet tall. Rye extended her spyglass and was stunned
to find that they weren't natural outcroppings at all. Rather, they were boulders, each one as large as a horse, stacked and impossibly balanced into tall, narrow piles like plates in a cupboard.

Rye handed the spyglass to Folly, who took a long look and then passed it to Quinn. Lottie impatiently called for her turn, and Rye, Folly, and Quinn ignored her for as long as possible, as was their custom.

“Who built those?” Quinn wondered out loud.

“Jack-in-Irons, o'course,” the old man chimed in without looking up from lacing his boot.

“What?” Quinn whispered to Rye.

“A giant,” Abby translated, and flashed the children a knowing smile.

“What?” Rye echoed in alarm.

They were interrupted by Lottie's yelling. Her calls were not a product of her impatience this time. She ran around in a circle, angrily swatting at the air around her head.

“Bees! Bees!” she called.

Several large insects buzzed in and out of Lottie's hair.

Abby chuckled and tried her best to corral her.

“No, Lottie, not bees,” Abby said, kneeling down and carefully plucking one of the insects from its perch on Lottie's ear.

She extended her palm to show them the emerald green dragonfly. It gently opened and closed it wings. The air was filled with a colorful swarm of the harmless creatures.

The old man decided they'd rested long enough and they soon set off again. This time the footpath meandered down more hills than up, and Rye stumbled in her boots as her body got ahead of her feet on some of the steeper slopes. Eventually, Rye caught sight of numerous buildings clustered on narrow roads overlooking a harbor. The small fishing boats moored at the harbor's wharfs and piers were sheltered by a grand rock seawall that must have taken years to build. But instead of following the footpath down toward the village, the man veered to the left, where a crushed-shell path climbed back into the hills.

“Excuse me,” Abby said, stopping at the fork. “Cutty House is that way. In the village.”

The old man stopped and nodded. “Aye,” he mumbled. “Cutty House 'sin Wick. But Cutty's
house
'sup dar. He ain't lived in town for years.”

“Oh, I see,” Abby said, sounding confused, and not just by his speech.

“Come, step lively,” the man said, waving them on.

Traveling over a stone bridge and up another green slope, they came to a rather rundown-looking
homestead balanced on top of a high bluff. A small collection of livestock wandered in and out of pens in various states of disrepair, coming and going as they pleased. The hull of a large fishing boat lay upside down at the cliff's edge, although the jagged coastline was so far below, this seemed to be an impossible place to launch a ship. Several small outbuildings were clustered behind a rambling stone farmhouse with a turf roof that had deteriorated into a giant bird's nest. But what really caught Rye's attention was the farmhouse's crooked wooden door. Although any paint had long since peeled away, there was, undeniably, a silhouette of a dragonfly carved into the wood. Just like the door of the O'Chanters' own cottage an ocean away on Mud Puddle Lane.