“Everybody was so—so obedient that they’d no characters,” she said. “The aunts were just fine ladies. And those cousins! All ‘Yes, Grandfather,’ and ‘No, Grandfather,’ and pretty dresses and despising people who didn’t feel like being obedient.”
“The boys were worse,” Ynen said feelingly. “They had such a good opinion of themselves under the obedience.”
“Like the uncles,” said Hildy. “I don’t think Uncle Harl ever did anything but crawl to Grandfather while he was alive and go around looking smug and being boring. But when Grandfather got shot, Uncle Harl got drunk to celebrate. It made me feel awful. And I will say this for Father—he wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was—is he like?” Ynen asked resentfully. “You got more sense out of a fish on a slab!”
“Except fish don’t make jokes at your expense,” Hildy added.
“Ah, now I’ve had quite a bit of dealings with fish, on slabs and off,” Mitt said. “Sad look, they often have. And speaking as an authority, as you might say, I get to feel quite sorry for your pa, hearing you talk. Happy family, weren’t you?”
“Sorry for him!” said Hildy.
“I know. That’s a fine thing, coming from me, isn’t it?” said Mitt. “But as far as I can see, he’s not let do anything, except maybe play soldiers or go out for a shoot now and again. All he’s let do is sit about in the happy family and take orders, and since he’s not booked to be Earl or anything, he’ll be doing that till he dies. Not much of a life, is it? On a slab, you might say, until he’s under one.”
Hildy and Ynen sat digesting this unusual view of their father for some time. Even then, all Ynen could think of to say was, “Well, I don’t know,” which he said very dubiously indeed. They seemed so perplexed that Mitt tried to cheer them up by telling them stories from the time he used to fish with Siriol and how he used to sell the fish. He amused Hildy and Ynen mightily. Hildy nearly rolled overboard laughing, and Ynen doubled up over the tiller. But this led to another difficult moment.
Ynen straightened up, tenderly shifted Wind’s Road a point or so, and asked: “Is Siriol a Free Holander? He seems to have been very kind to you.”
“Yes.” Mitt went to pick at a blister the storm had raised on the cabin paint. He caught Ynen’s eye and stopped, trying to grin. The puzzled, serious look he was growing to dread was settling on Ynen’s face. “All right. He was one of them that informed,” Mitt said. “Only don’t start asking things again! I tell you straight I don’t know how I feel about him. So he was good to me. So I didn’t want to go near him after the bomb, for fear I brought the soldiers on him. That’s all I know.”
Ynen’s mouth opened to ask another question. Hildy saw Mitt’s face had gone elderly. She nudged Ynen and hastily got out the pies. The survivor from Sevenfold II was still asleep, so Hildy left a rather withered steak pie between his face and the cabin wall. When she came out into the well again, Mitt was still elderly, and she could tell from Ynen’s face that he was going to ask more questions any minute.
Hildy began to talk brightly about the Holy Islands. She was not sure why she did, except that it was clear to her that Mitt’s feelings were in a most painful muddle, and she knew a little how that felt. Perhaps the Holy Islands was not a good choice of subject. Hildy’s feelings about them and about Lithar were in as bad a muddle as Mitt’s about the Free Holanders. Because of this, and because she was so anxious to keep off Mitt’s feelings, Hildy began to boast. All through the long afternoon, while Wind’s Road ruckled her way gently through small blue waves, Hildy sat on the cabin roof and boasted about Lithar’s famous fleet and the beauty and the strangeness of the Holy Islands. She told Mitt about the magic Bull, the mysterious piping, and the old man of the sea and his horses. She told him the Holy Islands were the most favored place in Dalemark. Before long, she began to feel that she was indeed extremely lucky to be going there, and she told Mitt all over again about the fame and beauty of the Holy Islands, in even more glowing terms.
On the third repetition Mitt felt he had had enough. “All right,” he said. “You were so lucky to be betrothed, you ran away the first opportunity. So stop swanking.”
“Yes, do stop, Hildy,” said Ynen, who was as bored as Mitt.
Hildy was furious. “Why should I?”
Ynen looked at her whitening face and did not answer. Mitt could see Hildy was angry, too, but he did not see that was any reason for holding his tongue. “Because you said three times,” he said, “that you’re going to be Holy Hildrida. You’re going to ride about on a bull, blowing a little whistle and hopping from island to island, granting everyone wishes. Now tell us how poor old Lithar feels about it. Pretty sick, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Hildy stood up on the cabin, so blazing white that Ynen winced. How dared Mitt make fun of her! She had only been trying to help him, too! And he repaid her like the street boy he was. She was so angry that she wondered whether to jump down on him where he sat in the well and hurt him as much as she could. Mitt grinned up at her, not in the least dismayed. Hildy realized he was probably stronger than she was. “You,” she said, “are just a horrible little murderer, and don’t you forget it!” She turned on her seaboot and stalked to the bows of the boat.
Mitt saw he had gone too far. He was sorry at first. Then, as Hildy continued to sit, white and blazing, looking out over Old Ammet, he became resentful. “Give me the tiller,” he said to Ynen. “You need a rest, anyway. And go and tell that sister of yours to jump in.”
Ynen took Hildy a pie instead. She refused to speak to him. He took a pie to the man from Sevenfold II. The man had not eaten the first pie. Ynen was just going away when the man roused a little. When Ynen asked if he wanted a pie, he growled. The only word Ynen heard was “guvnor.” He leaned over, rather nervously, and asked the man his name. The man growled to call him Al, guvnor. Then he reached out and snatched the pie Ynen was just taking away again. Ynen retreated to the well, feeling he was the only good-tempered person aboard.
“He’s horribly hard to get on with,” he said to Mitt.
“He’s a right brute,” Mitt agreed. “Mind you, he may be better tomorrow.”
They settled the watches for the night, with Ynen having to run back and forward between Mitt and Hildy because Hildy would not speak to Mitt. Mitt took the dawn watch. He wanted to be on hand in case they reached land then.
But by morning there was still no sign of land. The wind was brisker, and the day promised to be clear. Mitt leaned against the side of the well, with his foot up on the seat, humming a tune and feeling fresher and calmer than he had felt for years. He wondered what he would do when he reached the North. Go back to fishing, he supposed, or get work on a farm. But he was sure there were a hundred other things, as yet unthought of, which he could do quite as well.
He was so cheerful and confident that he was really hurt when Hildy came out of the cabin and pushed past him without a word. “What am I supposed to have done—bar teased you a bit?” he demanded.
“And why should I put up with that?” asked Hildy. “It’s not your place to criticize me.”
“Oh, go and get a nice long drink of arris!” Mitt said disgustedly.
Hildy was looking at him, uncertain whether to laugh or fly at his throat, when Wind’s Road vibrated to a string of swearwords. Hildy had never heard the like. Even Mitt had seldom heard so many at once. Al stuck his head out of the cabin and gave Mitt a bloodshot look.
“Isn’t there a razor in this godforsaken tub?”
“There may be,” said Hildy. “The sailors often leave things. I’ll look.”