Free Anton and Cecil by Lisa Martin

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 bird’s long, hooked beak and sharp claws. Caution was in order. Birds were unintelligent and unreliable, in Cecil’s view, but it had been days since he’d talked to any other creature, and he was desperate for company. He slowly advanced until the bird took notice of him.
    â€œSay there, cat,” said the bird, amiably enough. “How do?” 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.
    â€œI’m fine,” said Cecil, though this was far from true. “I’m Cecil. You okay?”
    â€œYou can call me Shag,” said the bird. “I’m all right. Trying to dry my wings here, heavy as rocks, and this rain isn’t helping much.” The little white feathers rippled as he shook his head in disgust.
    Cecil kept his back legs tensed, ready to spring away if necessary. He’d never seen a bird this big before.
    â€œWhere are you headed?” Cecil asked, trying to sound casual.
    Shag made a clucking sound in his throat. “The 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.” He glared up at the sky. “Strength almost gave out, had to land on a crusty old whale, if you can believe that.”
    Cecil said nothing. I can, he thought.
    â€œMy island’s still a ways off.” Shag flicked his beak in the direction of the starboard bow. “But I spied this ship just sitting here . . .” He stopped and seemed to notice the way Cecil was keeping his distance. “Say, I’m a cormorant, you know. We don’t eat things with legs, if that’s what’s worrying you.” He cocked his head. “You’re a cat who doesn’t know his avian classification?”
    â€œAs far as I’m concerned,” said Cecil, “there 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?”
    The rain had stopped and the clouds thinned out to the west. “Nope, not lately,” said Shag, rebalancing himself on the railing and turning to face the weak sun. “But I’ve seen plenty of cats. When you come across cats on ships, you’ve got three categories. The first is pets and they’re pretty happy with their lot. Second, you’ve got your captives and they’re all miserable. And third are the questers, looking for some sort of adventure, or else they’re on a mission.” He surveyed Cecil with round eyes of brilliant blue, like the harbor at Lunenburg on a sunny day. “So which kind are you?”
    Cecil swallowed and looked away. “Questing, I’d say.”
    Shag nodded, then lowered his wings and glanced around the deck, which was strewn with pieces of mast and rigging.
    â€œYou got a big problem here,” he observed.
    â€œThey’re just about done fixing the mast,” Cecil said. “We’ll be on our way in no time.” He nodded sagely. Saying it made him feel more confident.
    Shag examined one of his talons. “Not in my experience, you won’t.”
    â€œOh really?” Cecil asked dryly.
    Shag gestured with his wing at the broken mast. “From what I’ve seen, a busted mast like that doesn’t get fixed.” They both regarded the beheaded mast. “And ships with no