Free Call Down the Stars by Sue Harrison

time, allowed the fish to exhaust itself against the line, then he pulled it to the edge of the boat. The fish flipped once and was still. It was a hake, black and silver, as long and big around as his forearm. Water Gourd lowered a shaking hand into the water, the breath tight in his chest until he was able to hook his fingers into the gills.
    “Now,” he whispered, and tried to heave the fish into the boat. But it was heavy and beyond his strength.
    “My,” Daughter said in a quiet voice, looking over the edge of the boat at the fish. She patted her little foot, bound in bloody rags.
    Water Gourd drew in another breath, pulled again, and this time was able to lift the hake, though not high enough to bring it over the edge. Then Daughter’s small hands were at the bend of his elbow, her fingers splayed out over the sleeve of his coat.
    “Now!” he said again. They pulled, and the fish fell into the boat at their feet.
    “Yours,” Water Gourd told her, and in the foolishness of his old age, he began to weep.

CHAPTER SIX
    W ATER GOURD USED THE hake’s innards to catch more fish, and after a few days of eating, he and Daughter both regained their strength. The currents still moved them north, and each night the water at the bottom of their boat turned into slush.
    Water Gourd began to wonder if perhaps the sea was carrying them to that land where it was always winter. He had heard stories about such a place. Traders claimed it lay north of the Bear-god islands, but others said it did not exist. How could anything live where it was always winter?
    The icy chill of the air seemed to live in fog, and Water Gourd could seldom see much beyond the bow of the boat. The fog not only battened his eyes, but also seemed to press against his ears, and sometimes he thought he could not bear another moment without sun and sky and sound. But one night the fog lifted, the clouds parted, and Water Gourd was able to see the stars. They looked nearly the same as they had from his village, and that comforted him, but there was some difference in their placement—more than just the turning that comes with the seasons.
    They had several days where the sun shone, and he began to hope that the sea had not carried them to the far shores of the winter land, and that summer had actually come. Though Water Gourd and Daughter had to huddle together for warmth during the nights, the sun, even on overcast days, warmed their bones back to living, and the morning frosts were so thin that he could scarcely add to their supply of water.
    He watched for land, and the watching made his head ache, his eyes burn. The pain of his toes had nearly gone, and Daughter’s small wound had healed well, but Water Gourd’s eyes grew steadily worse. He carved a chunk of wood from the inside of the boat, whittled himself a pair of slitted goggles to combat the glare of sun on water, and often, if he was not fishing, he sat with his eyes closed, droning out stories that for a few moments carried him and Daughter back to their own village.
    Daughter, too, was changing. Her delicate baby skin turned dark, and her legs grew thin. Her straight black hair, though tangled and knotted by the wind, now hung nearly to her shoulders. She had learned more words, and sometime during their days together, she had begun to call him Grandfather. He liked the sound of that in her mouth, her little girl voice crowing out when she saw something of interest, or slurring into baby words when she was tired and needed to sleep.
    Though he longed for his village, for old friends and even the sweet-water spring, he could no longer imagine himself without Daughter: her face tipped up to his, her lisping words and bubbling laughter filling his days.
    Sometimes in dreams he saw himself cut and mutilated beyond recognition as he pared himself away into bait. Toes, fingers, nose, and tongue, long slices of flesh all gone, eaten by fish too greedy and selfish to be caught.
    Then he would wake, in