Free Neptune's Fingers by Lyn Aldred Page A

Narrowgut?”
    â€œThe very one. That was a terrible, bad blow we had.” He shuddered with the memory. “Our main mast broke. The sheets tore and we were swamped.” He pointed upward to the tallest mast. This vessel had three masts, a tall one at the fore, a smaller one, where both boys were standing now, – the mizzen mast the boy told him, – and a smaller one aft that was fore-and-aft rigged. “Terrible bad.”
    Jack was confused. The boy talked as though the mast was in splinters and the square-rigged sails in disarray. They were anything but. Masses of white sheets, full before the wind, bloomed out in a magnificent display.
    â€œBroke?” he said, his brow furrowing as he tried to understand what he was told.
    â€œTerrible,” repeated the boy. “My beauty was smashed to pieces.”
    â€œYou mean, this ship is going to get wrecked?”
    â€œDon’t get yourself in a lather, mate. You did not drown.”
    Jack subsided a little. Still, it was plain the boy endured the shipwreck. It was unnerving how he talked about it so matter-of-fact when it must have been terrifying. He was not sure why he was here on The Kestrel in the first place. Did the boy summon him here? He remembered the dreamlike state he felt before he climbed the derrick. Now he was here, the picture of his climb was clearer. Not one soul on The Aurora paid attention to him as he climbed. There were no smart remarks or words of warning. He was ignored. He could see them in his mind, shouting to passengers on other trawlers or laughing with one another and Bill was too busy in the wheelhouse to notice his disappearance from the bow.
    â€œThey won’t miss you, either,” said the boy, reading his thoughts.
    â€œWhy not?” asked Jack.
    â€œBecause you are still standing amidships, looking up the mast.”
    â€œDerrick,” corrected Jack with no intention of rudeness. His mind raced to take this information in. “It’s a derrick.”
    â€œSo it is. So it is.” The boy was unruffled.
    â€œWhat are ye doing, boy? Those shrouds won’t fix themselves.” A voice of authority, peppered with a short temper, broke into their world.
    â€œAye, sir,” called the boy. “Got to get up the mizzen,” he said to Jack. “The ratlines are a bit frayed.” He pronounced it ‘ratlins’. “They are the bits ’o rope across the shrouds. They are sailor’s footholds when up above. A terrible thing it would be to lose your footing up there. They send us monkeys aloft to fix the rigging. More nimble, you see.”
    â€œWell, get on with you,” roared the boson, hands on hips and face red as beetroot.
    Jack watched him disappear towards the heavens and vanish behind the billowing sails, while he remained, sitting on the yardarm, abandoned. He blinked, trying to find the boy in his sights, but the sun only dazzled him. He lowered his gaze and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, all sign of sails were gone and he was sitting on the spar of the derrick, like a shag on a rock and feeling ridiculous. He slithered down the pole, carefully avoiding the people below. They were still intent upon their own pleasures and ignored his progress. In no time at all he was safely on deck once more.
    He shook his head like a dog shedding itself of excess water, hoping to relegate his memories to the status of dreams where they belonged. It had to be a dream. Convincing himself to be a victim of sunstroke or the like, he headed for his place in the bow. A sharp pain in his toe brought him face to face with reality. He stubbed his toe. His shoes, the ones he removed on the yardarm, were not on his feet. They were up the mast somewhere. He scanned the spar of the derrick for a sign of them. It was possible they fell off. An inspection of the base of the derrick revealed no sign of them.
    â€œBlimey, it really happened,” he mumbled.