Free Minerva's Voyage by Lynne Kositsky

That chest had been at least as important to me as to him.
    He cuffed me twice, but changed the subject. “My mouth feels as if it’s stuck together with fish glue. Find fresh water, you useless pile, or Proule and I are like to die of thirst.”
    â€œWait, Robin. I’ll come with you,” called Fence, as I set out across the beach, my feet covered in sand, which thereabouts was pink and fine enough for an hourglass.
    â€œWe’ll find water, soon enough, I’m sure of it,” said I. “And as time goes on, much more.”
    All manner of jetsam from the ship was already washing up on the shore: wooden planks and ribs, tackling, broken glass, cracked casks, bottles, and spoons. As we walked, I recognized with a thrill of surprise the kerchief I had shoved into the ribs of the hold to stem the leak. It was unmistakable, with its brown and black stripes. Tucking it into my sleeve, I vowed to find its owner and give it back to him.
    â€œNot that he deserves it,” said Fence. “He gave you a good shove, as I recall.”
    â€œRight. He was a swine. But I can’t keep it. I have put the whirr and whoosh of wickedness behind me.” And at that moment, scoured clean by the sea and deposited like the jetsam onto the shell pink beach, I truly thought I had.
    We continued searching for water in the edges of a spinney with its stands of strange trees, and along the rim of the sea, into which, experience had taught me, fresh rivulets often emptied. But besides a need for water, my belly rumbled mightily for meat. Would there be food here? Would we eat the sea-land crawlers who carried their houses on their backs? I asked Fence whether he thought them eatable.
    â€œThose be tortoises, Robin, or turtles, as some call them. I’ve seen small ones before. But as to eating one, why, I’ve never done so.”
    Could we catch the birds on the beach? They didn’t seem in the least afraid of us. One, indeed, had already landed on my shoulder before swooping away. His neck would be easy enough to wring, should he come back, though I felt sick at the thought of doing the deed.
    â€œI can hear the song of your stomach right loud, Robin,” said Fence. “But to be honest, mine is singing too.”
    â€œGrowling, more like.” I tapped my noisy belly.
    It was then that we saw it, a dark something farther along the shore, having come to rest in front of a rock. It must have been carried along in the wake of the ship, and the tide would have brought it in. My heart thudded as we raced towards it. Could it be? Was it possible? Yes, yes, it was. Just what I had wished and prayed for. Scratcher’s sea chest!

C HAPTER 15

O PENING THE C HEST
    The chest was rather the worse for wear, damp and dented and draped in seaweed, but luckily in one piece. And it was still as tightly closed as a clam shell. All thoughts of food vanished from my head, though a crab was crawling over the top of the chest, clicking its pincer.
    When I knocked it off it joined some other crabs, which were pursuing a small bird with a broken wing. I felt sorry for the bird, which would soon become crabs’ meat, but there was nothing I could do.
    I looked around carefully before we moved the chest. There was not a soul nearby, no one to stop us or confide our amazing secret to Scratcher. The voyagers were landing farther down the bay. We could hide the chest in stealth, and visit it at our leisure. But before I returned to my well-worn but risky occupation of pilfering, I had to know whether it might pay off. I sprung the catch, and the lid flew open. There was a smell of mold and seaweed. Inside the chest, wet and smeared but for the most part whole, were the emblems. Three of them. We would need to separate them and hang them to dry. Somewhere deep in the woods, I thought, on twigs and branches, where no one would find them. I imagined papers and pictures hung out like washing, fluttering in the