Free The Gracekeepers by Kirsty Logan Page B

the way that Whitby did. But when he said to her,
we are the sea
—that made the most perfect kind of sense. She was the sea, and so was everyone else. We all come from the sea.
    Melia had heard that in the olden days, when the world had lots of land spreading out over miles and miles in every direction, seas and lakes were called “bodies of water.” That made sense too. Her body was water, and Whitby’s body was water, and Red Gold’s and Ainsel’s and North’s and even the bear’s—they were the sea, and so they could trust the sea. She wanted to tell Whitby this. But her tongue was too heavy to make the words. Sleep took over her thoughts, and she slipped away.
    —
    M elia woke in blackness to the boom of Red Gold’s voice projecting across the coracles. Over his voice there was an odd whistling, a screeching, and Melia’s half-sleeping mind could not understand it.
    TIGHTEN THE CHAINS came Red Gold’s shout, and there was a clanking of the chains that tied together the line of coracles, HAUL IN THE SAIL and there was a whoosh and thwack of canvas, LASH YOUR OVERHEAD and this call was almost lost in the wind, but still the phrase worked on Melia like an alarm, jolting her awake, her fingers scrabbling at the buckle of her bunk strap. It was the wind, the screech and whistle of the wind and the rain, and as she swung upright she felt how the boat was rocking and dipping in the rough waves.
    In the dim light she could make out the shape of Whitby reaching for the canvas overhead, his knees bending and ankles rolling as he moved with the deep sway of the coracle. She staggered over to him. Her narrow legs felt as flimsy as seaweed, but she knew her arms were strong enough to fight even the roughest swell. Rain blew through the gap: the canvas had come unfastened and was flapping in the wind like a panicked bird. Melia was instantly soaked, and fought to keep her feet steady on the slick inside of the coracle.
    Working together in the darkness, they yanked the canvas tight and knotted it shut. There would be no point in lighting a seal-fat lamp; the sea was wild enough to knock it from its hook, and if the canvas caught fire then there would be nothing to protect them from the rain.
    When the canvas was secure, Melia went port and Whitby went starboard, running their hands over the shelves lining the coracle’s curved sides. Straps and buckles and strips of canvas kept everything flat. It was impossible to see in the darkness, but they knew the shapes of their belongings well enough, and could feel that nothing was missing. Melia tightened the buckles so that things could not knock together and break. Rainwater sloshed around on the deck of the coracle, but there was nothing to be done about that now. They could drain it all in the morning when the sun came out. She kept sidestepping round until she bumped into Whitby at the end of his half-circuit. Done.
    Overhead tight, belongings secured, they were safe. They lay back down on their bunk, frozen and sodden from the rain.
    “Thanks,” whispered Melia to Whitby.
    “For what?”
    “For keeping us safe.”
    “You’re always safe with me, my lass. Besides, I knew I had to patch that gap up quick-smart. Wouldn’t want that saltwater to get in here and cause damage, now would I? Just
think
about your hair!”
    “You mean your hair,” said Melia.
    “Of course I do,” said Whitby. “I have to stay beautiful for my women.”
    Melia sat up, pulling away from him in mock offense. “Women plural, is it?” But she could not keep the laughter out of her voice; could not even pretend to be annoyed at Whitby.
    “You and the sea.” He pulled her back down into his arms. “You’re better company than she is—but me and that briny temptress, we’re like this.” Whitby crossed his index finger over Melia’s so they were intertwined.
    As if in answer, the sea sighed and boomed against the hull. Melia felt the gentle scrape of coracles on either side and knew