Spindlefish and Stars

by Christiane M. Andrews

  “We are in a boat.”

  “Y-yes.” They were in their boat. Their barrow-box boat. They were huddled together on its wet floor. Cary’s wing, waterlogged, was beside them. Clo looked again into the darkness above them and at the stars, spiny and sharp in the cold breeze. Shivering, she leaned over the edge of the barrow box. Below, too, were stars, but faint, smeared, rising and falling and fading—below was only the reflection of stars in the water.

  “Cary,” Clo whispered, squeezing his arm. “We are in a boat.”

  “Yes…”

  “No, we are in a boat. We are not underwater. We made it through the waves. Cary, your flute, your song—it was enough. Oh, it’s nighttime, Cary.” Her voice rose. “It’s nighttime. It’s night!”

  “Night?” Cary said wonderingly. “I hardly remember…”

  “Night!” The word was full of joy. “Oh, it’s night!”

  They sat shivering in the darkness, leaning against each other for warmth and comfort, listening to the steady splash of water against the sides of their barrow box. Stars, the waves lisped against the metal. Stars.

  “I’m cold,” Cary said at last, quietly, happily, through his chattering teeth. “I can’t remember when I was ever cold before.”

  “Yes, I am, too.” Clo smiled. “But look…” She raised an arm. A thin line of gold—fine as gossamer thread—was just becoming visible in the distance, stretching across the expanse of sky and waves.

  “What’s that?” Cary’s voice was round with awe.

  “The sun rising.”

  As they watched, the gossamer line thickened and took on a rosier hue. The stars above grew dimmer, the sky paler—first violet, then gray, then nearly yellow, then a wash of peach, the faintest brush of blue. Finally, a sharp bright light cut the line of sea and sky.

  “Oh…” Cary squinted against the light blooming on the horizon. “The sun!”

  It rose steadily, becoming at last a full orb climbing the sky, its reflection marking a path across the waves. Clo felt her skin warm under its light; next to her, Cary, moony-cheeked, openmouthed, could not keep from staring at the colors of the water, at the colors of the sky.

  “Color,” he said. “So much color…” His skin was flushed with the pink suffusing the sky. “Clo, I had forgotten.”

  Your cheeks! Clo nearly exclaimed but caught herself. Ruddy, rising moons.

  She smiled, scanning the horizon. Now that the sun had risen, she could see they were in the middle of the ocean: no land was in sight. For a moment, she felt a flash of terror—Nothing! There was nothing to show them the way!—but then she settled herself into the bottom of their craft and began to work. Gathering Cary’s wing over her lap, she took her skein of yarn from her pocket. It was damp, and here, in the morning light, it looked simply gray—it had none of the shifting light and colors from when she had first unraveled it—not even the steady blue of the cloak. Gray fish-wool. Her eyes had changed, but she knew what the thread was, what it could hold.

  She began weaving the yarn through the gaps in the wing, the places where the feathers had come free. Slowly, slowly, she closed the spaces: the wing began to hold its shape again.

  Cary finally pulled his attention from the sky. “What are you doing?”

  “Here,” Clo said, lifting the wing. “Help me hold this.”

  Grasping the edges, Cary held the wing upright in the center of their barrow. Around his hands, feathers trembled in the breeze. “But what are you doing?”

  Kneeling, Clo continued looping the threads through the gaps, twisting and winding, patching the holes. “It will be our sail. It will bring us home.” As she wove the fabric patches, the wing caught more and more of the wind; soon, Cary had to brace himself to keep it from flying away.

  As the wing billowed and filled, the boat began to scud across the water. It splashed brightly over the waves, sunlight catching the water they tossed up in a spray all around them. They were sailing straight along the gleaming path the sun was still cutting in the water.

  Clo squinted at her weaving. Just gray. Fish-wool. She could see no images, no coughing boy, no man with sweating ox, no woman kneeling on the forest floor. But then—this, this bright splashing, this warm sunlight, this boy with plump cheeks struggling to keep a sail of feathers steady—this was all her own.

  The wing was repaired enough for now—it was catching enough wind to bring them… somewhere. Tucking the remaining skein of yarn carefully between the feathers, Clo stood next to Cary and took hold of one edge of the wing.

  “Can I help you hold it?”

  He nodded. “It feels… it feels almost like…” He was pale, but smiling. “Like flying.”

  She felt the wind pulling at the feathers and her weaving as they skimmed across the water. They bounced lightly along the waves, the boat splashing somewhere, somewhere, somewhere as they crossed the expanse. Watching the waves ripple and curl around them, blue and green and gold, Clo breathed deeply: the air smelled of salt. And fish. And open sky. And damp feathers. And… something else. She closed her eyes, inhaling, considering.

  Pine.

  The air smelled of pine. Just a hint, the faintest whiff. But there it was. Pine.

  She scanned the horizon.

  It seemed little more than a shadow, so at first she said nothing; she simply watched the shadow as they sailed. But the shadow grew larger… and wider… and its edges became raggedy and sharp. Sharp as stones. Sharp as houses. As boats. As trees.

  “Is that…,” Cary whispered.

  “Yes.” It was.

  Home.

  EPILOGUE

  NI HCIHW EHT DLO NAMOW, OHW SI LLA ENOLA, SKAEPS OT EHT TAC, SA SI REH TNOW

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Thread.

  Thread.

  Thread.

  Thread.

  Tap.

  Thread.

  “Do you miss her, Mischief?”

  Tap.

  “You must.”

  Tap.

  “How much fish she gave you.”

  Thread.

  “How quiet it is without her. How much noise she brought.”

  Tap.

  “She brought so much of the world with her. Too much.”

  Tap.

  “Oh, my eyes are not so good, Mischief. But see… see here.”

  Tap.

  “Yes, there she is. Our Clothilde.”

  Thread.

  “Yes, and the boy, too.”

  Tap.

  “Well, perhaps a boy. Perhaps a girl. They’re nearly grown. They grow in the world, Mischief. They have days and months and years, and they change. But she’s still Clothilde. You needn’t worry. She keeps her hair shorn tight as a lamb’s in spring. She wears a boy’s dirty leggings. Boots. They live in the last of the crumbling homes. No, it’s not fine, not at all. There are no beds stuffed with wool. There’s a dirt floor and rats and they sleep on pallets of straw. They have a garden with some… turnips, I think. Some potatoes. Weeds… no, herbs. So many herbs. She’s always poking in the dirt. Every morning in her garden. But…”

  Tap.

  “… No, Mischief. She doesn’t sell them. She… oh, even you can see this. Look how the threads glow here, where you’ve been scratching. That’s our Clothilde. Yes. Mixing salves and balms and tonics. She’s sitting here in a neighbor’s house tending to a little one’s fever and spots. Look at her, all night, holding cool cloths against the child. Spooning medicine. So much care, Mischief. She stopped even your claws here.”

  Tap.

  “I don’t know if she thinks of you then, Mischief. She must. I imagine she must.”

  Thread.

  “No, the boy, he’s a… fisherman. Of course he is. Look here. He’s very good with a net and pole. See how he fills the boat… the other fishermen, they are astonished by his skill. Yes, our fishermen would be pleased to know this. Perhaps I’ll tell them.”

  Tap.

  “Are they content?
”

  Thread.

  “Not in the way we are content, Mischief. They are happy sometimes. They are sad sometimes. Sometimes… see here. Here they are full of sorrow. Look. This tiny woman with a crooked back and a jangling laugh has died. Yes. Her thread was all unwound. She was their neighbor. Friend. Clothilde and the boy lit her fire and brought her dinner when she could not help herself. They are mourning her.”

  Tap.

  “But here, they are full of joy.”

  Tap.

  “No, it’s a small moment, Mischief. It’s nothing large. Joy in the world… it doesn’t have to come from something large.”

  Thread.

  “Well, they’ve carried a basket of turnips and fish to the painter’s house. Yes, that painter, Mischief. No… They don’t really know who he is: he is just the painter who lives outside the town in a small house beneath a tall pine. Perhaps they feel they may have met before? A little? But he is their friend. See here? His thread? The bubbles? The gossamer strands? Oh, he is always reshaping my fabric.”

  Tap.

  “Yes… here, they’ve just come for dinner. They’ve set the fish to cook on the coals, and the painter has put out some bread and cheese. No, he did not steal it, Mischief. He is showing them his work.”

  Thread.

  “What has he painted? Oh, Mischief. Such trouble this painter causes me. And Clothilde! Look at her mischief here. She’s been telling him of a weaver with… apple cheeks who sits in front of a loom all day. She’s been telling him of a great monster of a cat. And look, he has painted it! Can you imagine, Mischief!”

  Tap.

  “Ah. It is a good likeness. Look at you, Mischief. Why, you are almost piggish here. He has painted you with a great round tum and a mouthful of fish.”

  Tap.

  “No, that is not the joy. That is pleasant; they are pleased, but that is not the joy.”

  Thread.

  “The joy is nothing, really. Nothing particular. It is evening. They are sitting at the table. The fire is warm, the candles bright. The fish is well cooked, the turnips soft. They have eaten, and their bellies are full. ‘If I had a daughter…,’ the painter is saying. He raises his glass. ‘If I had a son…’”

  Tap.

  “No, Mischief. That is not the joy. Not yet. For a moment, they are all missing something they cannot remember. For a moment, they are all quiet, trying to remember.”

  Tap.

  “But now the boy has taken up his flute.… No, this one is not broken, not cracked. It is new. He carved it himself. He is playing a jig, and the painter has bowed to Clothilde and invited her to dance. And they are dancing, and the boy is playing, and the room is too small for their jig—too small for their stomping and spinning. Chairs are tumbling over, cups and spoons are rattling on the table, and their faces are bright with laughter.”

  Tap.

  “And now the painter has taken the boy’s flute… and he cannot play, Mischief, oh, he cannot play at all… but he is piping something, noise, just notes, and Clothilde and the boy have linked arms and are whirling about the room. And the painter is skipping and piping, and Clothilde and the boy are galloping and spinning, and the dishes and cups are clattering, and they are all laughing so that they cannot cach their breath. They fall into their chairs, still laughing.”

  Thread.

  “The room is quiet now. They sit about the table in the quiet, warm and breathless from their dancing.”

  Tap.

  “Their faces are shining in the candlelight. The shadows of the room are soft around them. Outside, dark is settling over the hills and fields. Dark, Mischief. Dark. Imagine. Like your fur… like your fur settling over the sky. But the stars are coming out… one by one… one by one, like silver fish… and the nightjar is churring in the distance. The air carries the scent of dew and pine.”

  Tap.

  “They are together.”

  Tap.

  “That is their joy, Mischief.”

  Tap.

  Tap.

  “You will have to imagine it.”

  Thread.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WHILE THE OLD WOMAN WEAVES ALL ALONE, THANKFULLY authors have an entire tapestry of people supporting them: I am profoundly grateful to my agent, Sara Crowe, for her invaluable guidance and her enthusiastic championing of this work; to Pam Gruber and Deirdre Jones, editors extraordinaire, for understanding and believing in the manuscript and for shepherding it through its revisions with wisdom and insight (how many loose threads they helped me find and tie down!); to Karina Granda, for her artful book design, and Yuta Onoda, for bringing the design to life with inspired illustrations; to Barbara Perris and Annie McDonnell, for sharp-eyed copy and production editing; to Hannah Milton, Hallie Tibbetts, Megan Tingley, Jackie Engel, Alvina Ling, Patricia Alvarado, Victoria Stapleton, Stefanie Hoffman, Natali Cavanagh, Siena Koncsol, Janelle DeLuise, and everyone at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers for standing behind this book and working so diligently to bring it into the world; to the whole team at Pippin Properties—Holly McGhee, Elena Giovinazzo, Ashley Valentine, and Cameron Chase—for their passionate devotion to children’s literature; to the communities of the Upper Valley and Kearsarge-Ragged region—especially friends, neighbors, teachers—for countless acts of kindness and goodwill; to this family of friends—Sally, Peter, Bruce, Mary Jane, George, Amy, and Carol—for being the first to celebrate; to my parents, Rolande and Donald, for everything, really, but especially for a lifetime of love and encouragement and a childhood filled with books and changing landscapes (and for—once upon a time—carding and spinning and weaving wool); to my sister, Sara, for her enduring friendship and her sage advice and artistry… and for showing how much bravery is needed to risk one’s memories; to my husband, Dean, for traveling with me through every page of every draft—I could not ask for anyone more perceptive or supportive by my side—and for braving even the darkest seas with me; and, lastly, to Oliver, who read it first, for being the brightest strand, for sharing music and stories and imagination, and, above everything else, for inspiring it all.

  Little, Brown Books for Young Readers began publishing books in 1926.

  Keep reading with us.

  LittleBrownYoungReaders.com

  Twitter.com/LittleBrownYR

  Instagram.com/LittleBrownYoungReaders

  Facebook.com/LittleBrownYoungReaders