Free The Luck of Brin's Five by Cherry; Wilder Page B

channel between two bars of sand so high and dry they were like islands.
    The water flowed swiftly through the channel, and I fought with the tiller. The stranded boat was not a barge but a keel boat, old and brown. It was caught up by the stern, and the bow swung free in the channel. As it moved, the keel scraped from side to side across the bar. Mamor hailed and hailed again, but there were no signs of life.
    I caught sight of Narneen, crouched by the door of our tent, hands to her mouth in fear. I shared her fear; there was something dreadful about the quiet old shell of a boat, swinging lifeless on the bar.
    â€œDorn!” It was Diver coming to help reef sail.
    â€œThat looks like the twirlers’ boat.”
    I recognized it then: the filthy old bird-boat that the twirlers were hustled aboard at Cullin. I slackened my grip so that we entered the channel badly; Mamor seized the tiller and gave me a shove. “Watch out!”
    He maneuvered more skillfully, and we drew level, away from the swinging bow.
    We could see aboard now; the deck was empty . . . a tangle of broken cages scraped and rattled as the boat moved with the current. Not a sign of the twirlers or the boat’s crew. We were all watching now, crowded to the low rail.
    â€œWhat crew was aboard?” asked Brin.
    â€œCaptain and one or two sailors . . .” said Diver, “old fellows in whitish clothes. Do you remember, Dorn?”
    â€œNo . . .” I whispered. “Two sailors helped the twirlers go aboard.”
    â€œNa-hoo the bird-boat!” Brin hailed them in her fine, mellow voice, seldom raised. Then we joined in, piping and calling, with the Harper making a melodious descant.
    â€œNa-hoo the birder . . . Brown Keel . . . you there, the bird-boat!”
    â€œVano deg!” boomed Mamor, and we laughed uneasily at his joke . . . it means something like “big, cross, old bird.”
    Then Diver filled his lungs and set the whole river ringing from bank to bank with his strange cries. “Coo-ee! Ahoy the bird-boat! Ahoy there!”
    There was no reply; the boat was derelict, deserted. Night was coming down, and we all felt the same uneasiness. Old Gwin urged Mamor to move on and made the averting sign.
    â€œWe must search,” said the Harper. He cursed the twirlers under his breath and Old Gwin rebuked him, saying they were holy creatures. No one wanted the task of searching the bird-boat. The Harper gritted his teeth and gave me his instrument, but Diver laid a hand on his arm.
    â€œI’ll go and take Dorn,” he said, “in case I need an interpreter.”
    I looked at Brin, and she questioned with her eyes: was I afraid? “I’m ready.” I was afraid, but game enough with Diver for company.
    Mamor timed it nicely; he inched his barge pole along the left sandbank and slewed the barge around as the bow of the bird boat swung towards us again. Diver and I leaped across the thread of water and landed in a heap on the limed deck. We picked our way across the boards, slipping over old tackle, a leather boot, a bunch of blue feathers . . . from a twirler’s cloak? Diver paused, head erect; even one thought-blind could sense it. He gripped my arm.
    â€œDon’t come any further. . . .”
    â€œI know,” I whispered. “Death . . . dead persons. Go on.” Slowly he bent down and lifted the worn leather curtain that covered the wooden cabin housing. He shone his light down into the blackness.
    The cabin was larger than I had expected, a bare, brown hold, with the ribs of the vessel showing through threadbare hangings. No twirlers, alive or dead, only a torn blue cloak to show that ten or fifteen passengers had been aboard. Then the circle of light rested on a tabletop, a rough thing made of a wicker bird cage upended. There were three of them, two slumped forward, one upright. Diver drew in his breath. The captain and the sailors were dead, dead as tree stumps on their