They took pleasure in assuring him that all the pies were gone. There was, in fact, a hunk of cheesecake left, but none of them saw any reason to waste it on Al. Al annoyed them by taking the news philosophically. He said his stomach was not too good, anyway, and turned to go back to his bunk.
It occurred to Ynen that if Al was this alert, the thing to do was to make use of him. “How well do you know the coast?” he asked him.
“Like the back of my hand,” Al said over his shoulder. “Told you I’d been around, guvnor.”
“Then could you stay on deck?” said Ynen.
Al said nothing. He simply went into the cabin and back to sleep again.
But as things turned out, they had no need of Al, nor of the charts, that day. The wind continued light. No land appeared. It was clear that they were in for another night of standing watches.
“We’d best turn due North,” Mitt said. “We could run aground in the night on this course.” And again he settled to take the dawn watch.
Ynen called Mitt earlier than usual. The sky was hardly beginning to pale. But Ynen was horribly sleepy. He kept nodding off and kept feeling that gentle nudge in his back from Libby Beer. The last nudge was not quite so gentle. Ynen jumped awake, into air that was chilly and muggy at once, and knew something was different. Wind’s Road was riding in a high, jerky way. Ynen had not felt the like since the day they picked up Poor Old Ammet, and, for a moment, he was as terrified as he had been that first night, when there was space all round him and Mitt crying out in the cabin. He put his hand on Libby Beer to steady himself and realized that the only thing to do was to wake Mitt.
“I think we must be in coastal waters,” he said to Mitt as he fell onto the warm bunk Mitt had just left.
Mitt knew they had been in coastal waters since yesterday. He got to the tiller before he was really awake. While he was furiously jerking the rope from the mainsail, which Ynen had tied in a manner Siriol would have given him the rope’s end for, Mitt could tell Wind’s Road was in alarmingly shallow water. He searched that paler side of the sky, but there was only misty darkness. Yet while he searched, he could hear the roar and rumble of waves breaking.
“Flaming Ammet! That’s a reef somewhere,” Mitt said. He wiped a sudden sweat out of his eyes and stared forward into the paling dark. He thought his eyes were going to burst out of his head with the strain. He could hear the waves clearly, but he could not see a thing.
The figure with flying light hair, half hidden by the foresail, was pointing right and slightly forward. Yes, but which? Rocks there, or go there? Mitt wondered frantically. The tiller swung firmly left under his hand. Wind’s Road leaned right, in the crisp wash and guggle of a current. Waves crashed over to Mitt’s left, and he saw the dim white lather above the rocks she had only just missed.
“Phew!” said Mitt. “Thanks, Old Ammet. Thanks, Libby. Though I don’t know what call you have to keep on helping, with me and Al on board. I suppose you got Ynen and Hildy to consider. Thanks all the same.”
He heard the waves round more rocks ahead as he said it. This time he did not hesitate to turn Wind’s Road as soon as he saw the light-haired figure pointing. He was pointing the other way almost at once. Waves crashed on both sides of Wind’s Road, and the white spray showed whitish yellow in the growing light. Mitt found he was following Old Ammet’s pointing arm through a maze of rocks it made him sweat just to think about. Once or twice, in spite of Old Ammet’s care, Wind’s Road’s deep keel grated, and she was snatched sideways in an under-tow. Then Mitt would feel Libby Beer’s strength on the tiller, pulling them to rights. Frightened as he was, Mitt smiled. The light was growing all the time. If this kept on, he was going to see them as they really were. Old Ammet looked more of a man every second. If Mitt pushed his eyes sideways, he had glimpses of a long white hand behind his on the tiller. It was worth the danger.
The last reef he saw clearly for himself. It was a welling and a milling of yellow water. It was nearly light. Then it was full day. The sun was up, making the sea look as if it was scattered with broken glass. The mainsail was cloth of gold; the island ahead was half golden, and the birds circling it were stabs of dazzling white; and the mist over to the right was a molten bank. The only sign of Old Ammet was a tuft of sunlit straw beyond the mast. Libby Beer was back to a colored knobby thing, tied with string. And Mitt was so disappointed that he could think of nothing else.
Then he came to his senses. He bent down and whispered into the cabin, “Island ahead! Come and look!”
PART FOUR
THE HOLY ISLANDS
17
There were sounds of heaving and stumbling inside. To Mitt’s disgust, it was Al who appeared, blinking and rubbing his bristly chin. Al glanced at the island. Then he calmly opened the locker and helped himself to the last hunk of cheesecake. Munching it, he surveyed the island again. Ynen and Hildy came out into the well. They looked first at the vanishing cheesecake, then at the island.
“That’s Tulfa Island,” Al said, with his mouth full.
“Are you sure?” asked Ynen. “I thought it was bigger than this.” The island was no more than a great rock, surrounded by drifting seabirds that kept up a long, melancholy crying.
“Positive,” said Al. “You want to turn into that mist there.”
“I’ll try,” Mitt said doubtfully. There was little wind now, and that fitful. He put the tiller over and hauled in the mainsail. Wind’s Road went dipping and swinging gently toward the mist that hid the land.
“Watch out!” said Ynen. “The land’s awfully close!”
It was, too, Mitt realized. It was a low green hump in the mist, only about a hundred yards off. He put the tiller hard over again. Wind’s Road turned elegantly and leaned along outside the mist. “This must be wrong!” Mitt said angrily to Al. “There’s no land this close to Tulfa. Do you know where we are or not?”
“I’ve a fair idea,” said Al. “Turn round again.”
To do that would mean tacking. Besides, Mitt did not trust Al in the least. He hesitated, and looked over his shoulder, beyond Libby Beer. And he saw a tall ship gliding out of the mist. The sun was just catching her topsails and the gold on her many pennants. Mitt turned back again. “What the—?”
The silence of Ynen and Hildy almost warned him. Al had Hobin’s gun in his hand again. Mitt found himself looking into its six deadly black little muzzles. “You do what I say,” said Al. He came a step closer. Mitt resigned himself to being shot. He felt, very fiercely, that it was a pity. He would never be able to sort himself out now. On the other hand, he supposed he deserved it. He was afraid it would hurt.
Then, most unexpectedly, Al hit him instead. A great blow caught Mitt hard in the stomach, and he sat down, hawking and gasping, hard on the lockers, feeling very angry, rather foolish, and quite helpless. Wind’s Road yawed about in the douce breeze. Ynen put his hand out for the tiller and took it back again when the fat little gun pointed his way. There was no danger. Wind’s Road simply swung and creaked and drooped, rather as Mitt was doing.