The tall ship came gliding closer. They could hear the ropes of her many sails creaking, see the dew from the mist shining in drops on her canvas, and pick out every grain in the wheatsheaf carved on her prow. She stood over Wind’s Road like a house and took the last of the wind from her sails. Al grinned up at her tall side, highly pleased with himself.
“This has worked out wonderful,” he said. He jumped up on the cabin and ran along, shouting, “Hey, Wheatsheaf! Hey, there! Bence! Is Bence aboard that thing?”
The tall ship turned. Her creaking sails flapped gently against the wind, until she and Wind’s Road floated a yard or so apart. Mitt, holding his aching stomach, looked up to see a row of heads watching them, and a man on the highest part leaning over the rail to shout to Al.
“Al! Where did you take off to? There’s been no end of askings and botherings and wanting to know where you were. Want to come aboard?”
Al laughed heartily. “What do you think, Bence? I’m sick of this tub. See it gets stowed in harbor, will you, and throw us a rope.”
“What about them?” Bence asked, moving his head toward Hildy, Ynen, and Mitt.
“They can come with their tub,” said Al.
Orders were shouted high above Wind’s Road. Two small, agile men came over the side of the tall ship and descended on ropes like two rapid white-headed spiders, until they landed lightly on Wind’s Road. While she was still dipping and swinging, they handed their ropes to Al. He took hold of them and was hauled up, with a heavy scramble or so, until he reached the ship’s rail, where a mass of hands reached out to pull him aboard. The tall ship turned at the same moment. Her sails creaked and filled. The air was loud with rippling for the few seconds it took her to vanish into the mist as quickly as she had come.
Hildy, Yn
en, and Mitt were left bobbing in Wind’s Road with the two small brown sailors. But they seemed to be rid of Al. They gave long breaths of relief about that, even while they were looking dubiously at the sailors. Ynen hurriedly took hold of the tiller. Wind’s Road was his.
The sailors seemed in no hurry. They stood together by the mast, looking over Wind’s Road, down at Old Ammet, up at the poor tattered pennant, over beyond Ynen to Libby Beer, and exchanging small singing murmurs. Quite suddenly, they came briskly to the well and swung themselves down into it.
“Will you move out and give us some room, little ones?” one of them asked cheerfully. He had a soft singsong accent, the like of which none of them had heard before.
Ynen clenched his fingers round the tiller. “This is my boat.”
“Then you must continue to steer her,” said the sailor.
“But you must be guided by us. The road has hazards,” said the second sailor. “And will the other little ones go up before the mast to give us room?”
Mitt was so fascinated by the singing talk that he did not gather straightaway that the men were asking him to move. He got up, holding his stomach, and saw that Hildy still had not understood. Mitt nudged her, and she jumped, feeling as if she had been dreaming. They scrambled stiffly onto the roof of the cabin. The sailors settled on either side of Ynen as naturally as if they sailed Wind’s Road every day, and gave him gentle instructions what to do. Mitt and Hildy knelt on the cabin roof and stared, while Wind’s Road turned and heeled softly into the now-thinning mist.
They were little brown men with dark eyes and oddly light hair, as fair as light new rope. They felt safe, somehow. They were as warm and brown as the earth itself. Even Ynen felt lulled and peaceful with them. Mitt and Hildy could not shake off a feeling that they were dreaming—a good dream that they had dreamed several times before.
“This is a fine sweet boat,” one sailor remarked. “Will you take in the foresails a fragment—Jenro will do it, little one. You steer left now.”
Jenro, the second sailor, put his brown hand to the ropes that led to the foresails. Ynen was a little shamed to see how much better Wind’s Road sailed. “Very sweet,” Jenro agreed. “What is the name she goes under?”
“Wind’s Road,” said Ynen.
The dark eyes of the two sailors met across him. “Is it so?” said Jenro. “Who comes sailing on the Wind’s Road? What are the names of them?”
Ynen looked up uncertainly at the dreamy faces of Hildy and Mitt. There seemed no harm in saying. “My name’s Ynen. My sister’s called Hildrida, and our friend’s name is Alhammitt.”
Mitt blinked. Both sailors were looking at him, smiling warmly. He smiled back. They both made a little gesture, almost as if they bowed. Rather surprised, Mitt ducked his head back at them.
“This is Jenro, and I am Riss,” said the first sailor. “Remember us in times to come.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Mitt said uncertainly.
Wind’s Road had come gently past the green hump in the mist. The mist cleared steadily as she sailed. When Mitt looked away from the sailors’ faces, he was astonished to find they were sailing among islands—more islands than he could count at a glance. Some were green and steep, with gray rocks standing above the green and trees clinging to the rocks. Some were green and low. Some were quite small. Others, in the distance, were clearly several miles long. Mitt could see houses on nearly all of them, usually near the shore, as if the sea were their road and the island their farm or garden. Sheep and cows grazed in pastures that mounted above the houses. Smoke rose from the chimneys. The sea space round them was so sheltered that it was warm and calm as a lake. Mitt could smell the salt of the sea mingling with the smell of earth, smoke, and cattle, in a close, queer mixture. He looked round, sniffing, warm and delighted, wondering why he felt so happy and so much at home, and everywhere he looked he saw the astonishing emerald green of more islands.
“Where is this?” Ynen said suspiciously.
Jenro smiled at him. “The Holy Islands, little one.”
Hildy’s head went up. The dreamy feeling left her and left her feeling strained and rather sick. She retreated to the mast and knelt there by herself, nervously clasping her hands and gripping them with her knees. She seemed to feel better like that. Ynen looked dubiously at Mitt. This was not the North. Mitt still had to get away, and Ynen wanted to apologize. He was surprised that Mitt did not seem either annoyed or frightened. Mitt supposed he ought to be. But he was entranced, smiling and sniffing. Seabirds and land birds flew over, uttering their different cries. Jenro, with a mixture of pride and politeness, began to tell Ynen the names of the islands as they passed them, while Riss softly put in a word here and there about the steering. Their voices made Mitt feel as if this was a song he had heard a long time ago, which he had never managed to learn the words to.
“That was Chindersay, and there Little Shool. Big Shool is after. Then Hollisay and Yeddersay and Farn—”