mast and fell in a heap on the ratlines.
The sole crewman on deck lifted the brim of his hat, glared at the bird, then lowered the hat and went back to sleep. Cecil ventured another look around the edge of the sail. The bird had extracted itself from the ropes and flapped over to perch on the railing, where it fully extended its wings to either side and held them open, sitting very still and looking around. Cecil took careful note of the birdâs long, hooked beak and sharp claws. Caution was in order. Birds were unintelligent and unreliable, in Cecilâs view, but it had been days since heâd talked to any other creature, and he was desperate for company. He slowly advanced until the bird took notice of him.
âSay there, cat,â said the bird, amiably enough. âHow do?â Its face was bright orange, wrinkled and featherless except for two short tufts of white feathers that stood straight up above its eyes like fluttering white eyebrows, swaying lightly as it talked.
âIâm fine,â said Cecil, though this was far from true. âIâm Cecil. You okay?â
âYou can call me Shag,â said the bird. âIâm all right. Trying to dry my wings here, heavy as rocks, and this rain isnât helping much.â The little white feathers rippled as he shook his head in disgust.
Cecil kept his back legs tensed, ready to spring away if necessary. Heâd never seen a bird this big before.
âWhere are you headed?â Cecil asked, trying to sound casual.
Shag made a clucking sound in his throat. âThe darnedest luck. Looking for some supper, saw a big bunch of bluefish moving fast, followed them for a while and lost my bearings in the clouds.â He glared up at the sky. âStrength almost gave out, had to land on a crusty old whale, if you can believe that.â
Cecil said nothing. I can, he thought.
âMy islandâs still a ways off.â Shag flicked his beak in the direction of the starboard bow. âBut I spied this ship just sitting here . . .â He stopped and seemed to notice the way Cecil was keeping his distance. âSay, Iâm a cormorant, you know. We donât eat things with legs, if thatâs whatâs worrying you.â He cocked his head. âYouâre a cat who doesnât know his avian classification?â
âAs far as Iâm concerned,â said Cecil, âthere are two types of birds: the ones I can eat and the ones who can eat me. Does a seagoing bird like you know much about cats? Have you seen a small gray cat lately?â
The rain had stopped and the clouds thinned out to the west. âNope, not lately,â said Shag, rebalancing himself on the railing and turning to face the weak sun. âBut Iâve seen plenty of cats. When you come across cats on ships, youâve got three categories. The first is pets and theyâre pretty happy with their lot. Second, youâve got your captives and theyâre all miserable. And third are the questers, looking for some sort of adventure, or else theyâre on a mission.â He surveyed Cecil with round eyes of brilliant blue, like the harbor at Lunenburg on a sunny day. âSo which kind are you?â
Cecil swallowed and looked away. âQuesting, Iâd say.â
Shag nodded, then lowered his wings and glanced around the deck, which was strewn with pieces of mast and rigging.
âYou got a big problem here,â he observed.
âTheyâre just about done fixing the mast,â Cecil said. âWeâll be on our way in no time.â He nodded sagely. Saying it made him feel more confident.
Shag examined one of his talons. âNot in my experience, you wonât.â
âOh really?â Cecil asked dryly.
Shag gestured with his wing at the broken mast. âFrom what Iâve seen, a busted mast like that doesnât get fixed.â They both regarded the beheaded mast. âAnd ships with no