A Crack in the Sea

by H. M. Bouwman

  Too bright. She tilted her head the other way. A dresser, bare but for a slip of old-fashioned birch-bark paper lying importantly in the center. She squinted, but couldn’t see what it said from her angle—and didn’t feel like getting up yet. Between the dresser and the door, on the floor, lay a bulging burlap sack, securely tied at the top with boating rope. Her own shoes hung above the sack on a wall hook. She lifted one heavy foot toward the ceiling and stared at it, feeling stupid because she couldn’t figure anything out. Her foot was bare. And somewhat dirty.

  Yes, dirty. She searched her memory, foggy, for a clue. Her feet were dirty because she’d been gathering the goats and milking them, and she’d been barefoot, and then she’d shoved on her shoes and gone to find Pip—

  Pip.

  She flipped her head around the room again, grimacing at the sudden, sharp headache.

  Pip was not there.

  Everything flashed back to her, Pip at the pond and the tea afterward, and she sat up, head spinning. Had she fallen asleep? No, she must have gotten sick. The last thing she remembered was the tea. The Raft King’s tea, whose bitterness still rested on her tongue.

  The paper on the dresser was a note; she could see that now. She’d have to stand to reach it. Slowly she slid her legs to the side of the bed. She had to walk only a few steps to the dresser, but she didn’t know if she could make it.

  Of course she could. Taking a deep breath, she lunged for the dresser. She didn’t walk so much as she fell with forward motion, grabbing the note on her way to the floor.

  At first the letters on the page didn’t look like anything, just scrawls that kept going in and out of focus. She breathed deeply, wiped her sweaty forehead, and gazed around the room, letting her head clear as much as it could. The bag on the floor was even bigger now that she sat across from it— almost the same size as she was.

  Kinchen studied the paper again and was relieved to find that she could remember how to read. The scrawls shaped themselves into letters and the letters into words. But the words didn’t make sense.

  Dear Kinchen,

  You’ve been here all night, sleeping off your sudden illness. I hope you will feel better upon waking.

  Meanwhile, your guardian, Mr. Ren, has not even bothered to come to town to look for you and your brother. It is clear to me that neither you nor Pippin are well-cared-for children, and I am now convinced that Pippin at least would be better off where he can learn a trade and be taken care of. The Raft King has offered to adopt him—even after learning about his limitations in interacting with others. This is the best offer he might ever receive—a life fit for a prince, really. I know that you will not want to hold him back from such a wonderful opportunity. I know that you will want the best for your brother.

  You may, if you wish, continue to live with Mr. Ren. You are old enough to make that decision for yourself. If you feel, as I now do, however, that he is not a competent caregiver, I will be happy to find you acceptable housing in town. You’ll be able to attend school. (It’s yet another example of your guardian’s thoughtlessness that he has never sent you.)

  Do let me know your thoughts on your future housing. Meanwhile, please try to be happy for your brother’s good fortune.

  The Raft King has left you a gift. He wouldn’t say what it was, just that it would amply compensate your grandfather for any lost help around the house or fields. It’s in the sack.

  With respect,

  Clarissa Flans-Daughter,

  Governor

  • • •

  IT FELT like hours, but was probably only minutes, that Kinchen sat with the note in her hand, trying to take it in. Then she crumpled the paper into a ball and dropped it on the floor between her feet. Her heart raced and the bitter tea rose in her throat and tried to come back up. She swallowed hard.

  She hadn’t gotten sick, that much was clear. She’d been poisoned—she and probably Pip, too—by the Raft King. All to steal Pip away from her. To take him somewhere where she couldn’t protect him.

  Well, she’d only been knocked out one night. Pip was probably lodged on the giant raft by now, but Raftworld was still sitting just outside the harbor. Kinchen could borrow a rowboat (with or without permission; right now she didn’t care) and get out there easily in an hour or two. Blast—she would swim there if she needed to. Raftworld wasn’t slated to leave for several days yet. There was time to get Pip back, to rescue him.

  No time to waste, though. Pip would wake soon, and he’d be scared. He wouldn’t recognize anyone, and he’d act weird, and everyone would think he was an idiot and then, as usual, he’d stop talking and confirm their conclusions. And they’d treat him like he was not normal and he’d feel terrible. She needed to find him.

  Just then the door opened. The governor poked her head in, saw Kinchen on the floor, and stopped short. Her thick black hair, barely streaked with gray, was pulled back in a tight knot, as always—very professional and governor-like—but her face didn’t look like the face of someone in charge. It looked fallen in, like a landslide, and she seemed much older than usual.

  “You jerk,” said Kinchen.

  The governor sighed. “You have no idea how much of a jerk,” she said, and she eased into the room and sat on the floor across from Kinchen. “You read my note.”

  Kinchen kicked the crumpled paper toward the governor.

  “I thought you’d see reason in the morning—but if you didn’t, you’d have time to go out to Raftworld and retrieve Pippin.”

  “Pip.”

  “Yes. Pip.” She lowered her head and twisted her hands together. “But I’ve been bamboozled. And I’ve bamboozled you, too. You have to believe that I didn’t intend to. I thought—still think—that I was doing the best for Pip. Giving him an opportunity to shine. But I also thought you’d have a say in the matter when you woke up, and if, after reading my letter, you still felt he should live with you”—Kinchen glared, and the governor faltered, then continued—“you could make that choice. I didn’t mean for him to be stolen away.”

  Stolen away? “What do you mean?” Kinchen felt almost like she couldn’t breathe. Stolen away?

  “Raftworld is—gone.”

  Kinchen stared at the governor. Nothing made sense. “They’re not supposed to leave until next week.”

  “I know! But they left sometime during the night. Without the fourteen volunteers. Without finishing the trading deals. Without the big send-off party. They just left. We went out to the harbor this morning, and they were gone. The Raft King swindled me—swindled us. And I think he did it so that he could take Pippin—Pip—with him.”

  The governor’s words were sharp and clear, like a shard of good gypsum stone. No: like a skinning knife. Every word cut into Kinchen. She wasn’t sure she was breathing.

  The governor continued. “I meant what I said about your guardian, about Old Ren, and I’m concerned—”

  “He’s sick. He couldn’t get out of bed.”

  The governor blinked.

  “That’s why he didn’t come looking for us. He’s the best grandfather ever. He loves me—and he loves Pip.”

  The older woman blinked again. Then, in a low voice: “I’m sorry, Kinchen.”

  Kinchen did not answer. She was concentrating on not crying—or exploding. She needed to focus, to find something to do to fix all this. “Send out a ship to find them.”

  “You know we can’t do that,” the governor said gently. “We don’t have seafaring ships, only fishing boats. Raftworld is far out of our waters by now, and we don’t know the world out there. All our seafaring folk . . .”

  “Have joined Raftworld.”

  “Yes. Over the years. It’s—it was—a good system.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll call together some of the former Raftworlders—the ones who joined us last time.”

  “Almost ten years ago.” Kinchen
couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice. As if they could help.

  “They knew the Raft King—long before he became king. They at least can tell us something of his personality, his desires.”

  “From ten years ago.”

  She sighed. “Yes. But it’s the best I can do right now. Kinchen, I’m sure Raftworld will return. After Pip is done—with whatever it is they want him to do. They’ll bring him back.”

  Kinchen refused to nod, refused to let this woman off the hook. “Just go. Please.”

  The governor sat for a minute, then rose gracefully— despite her age—and brushed off her long tunic. “I’ll keep in touch. Don’t forget your sack.” Then she stepped out through the door and was gone.

  Kinchen sat for a few minutes more. She felt frozen. But she had to move. She had to get back to Old Ren, who must be worried. And he was sick—what if he needed something? She stood up and reached for her shoes, then sat back down to put them on. She shook her head to test it. The fuzzy sheep’s wool feeling still lingered in her mouth, but her head felt much clearer. Okay. Go back to Old Ren and then figure out how to rescue Pip. What else?

  Don’t forget your sack.

  The sack. Her prize for losing her brother.

  She stared at it, only a few feet away from where she sat. Big, lumpy thing. The Raft King had said it was something to help around the house or barn, did he? It was probably a clockwork of some kind; the Raftworlders were known for them. A floor cleaner or timekeeper or something. Like that would make up for the loss of a brother.

  She was tempted to give the bag a big kick and leave it there for the governor to deal with. Yes, that seemed about right.

  She stood up, steadying herself, not sure she could kick something right now without toppling but determined to try. Angry.

  She pulled back her foot.

  The bag sighed.

  7

  AFTER IT sighed, the bag trembled.

  Kinchen reached into her vest and pulled out her knife. What kind of clockwork had the Raft King left her?

  There. The bundle twitched again. She took a step toward it.

  The sack froze. Then it shuddered another shudder, almost as if something inside were waking up.

  Something. But what?

  Kinchen’s heart thrummed inside her throat; she could feel it knocking like it wanted to leap out of her mouth. She shook herself. Not me, she told herself. I’m never scared.

  No, she was definitely scared.

  Whatever it was, she couldn’t leave now, not knowing. Kinchen took a deep breath. With her knife, she cut the rope that bound the bag shut, yanked the top open, and peered inside.

  It was—

  A boy. Or maybe a girl—hard to tell in the dim interior of the bag. Smaller than Kinchen. Dark-skinned, like Raftworld people tended to be. More than that she couldn’t see. Whoever it was, he or she lay on its side, bound and gagged, peering up at her, huge brown eyes blinking rapidly in the sudden light.

  The Raft King’s clockwork trade was a person.

  8

  KINCHEN’S MIND raced. Not only was the clockwork in the sack a person, but it was a person who probably hadn’t volunteered to be traded. Maybe, thought Kinchen, it was a person who could explain what was going on. Maybe a person who could help her find Pip.

  The person shifted and stared up at Kinchen; realizing that she’d been pointing her knife into the sack, Kinchen slipped it back in her vest. Then she opened the sack all the way and eased it down.

  The person was a girl—at least, if the braids were anything to go by. Dozens of long black braids. A little girl? Younger than Kinchen, anyway. Thin face.

  She was probably hungry, thirsty. Maybe hurt.

  “I’m going to cut the cords off you. Hold still.”

  The girl nodded and waited until Kinchen had cut all the rope and loosened the gag before she sat up and rubbed her wrists and ankles. She swallowed several times.

  “Well,” she said. Her voice cracked like she hadn’t used it in a while, but it cleared as she kept talking. “He gave me a sleeping draught. I didn’t expect that.” She swallowed again. “Jumping jellyfish, my mouth tastes like a sour desert.”

  Kinchen nodded. “I don’t have any water, but we can get some downstairs. Do you know where you are?”

  “Generally speaking. On the big Island, yes? That’s what I asked for, anyway.” The girl looked unconcerned, even chipper. “But I have to say, I think it was a little unfair to drug me to sleep. I wasn’t going to put up a fuss.” Then she grinned. “I’m Caesar. Are you Kinchen? He said you’d be my adopted sister.”

  “Who said?” But Kinchen already knew the answer.

  “The Raft King, silly. I’m the volunteer.” She paused. “You were expecting me, right? In exchange for your volunteer?”

  “There wasn’t any volunteer.”

  “Sure there was! I was traded for someone.” She stood up shakily. “Can we get that water you promised and then talk about it? I’m about dead of thirst.”

  Kinchen stood, too, blocking the door. They’d talk about this now. “There wasn’t any trade. Your Raft King stole my brother. My little brother.”

  “A kid?” She shook her head, eyes big. “Nah.”

  “You think I’m lying to you? Pip’s only eleven—he needs me to take care of him. He’s not old enough to be a volunteer. And anyway, he didn’t volunteer. The Raft King drugged him and me—and stole him. Your Raft King,” she added spitefully.

  The Raftworld girl tensed, hand at throat. Small and thin, she looked like she was made of wire; and she vibrated like a strung bow. Her braids angled crookedly down her back, and some of the shorter hairs had worked their way out of the braids and fanned out from her head in a fuzzy halo—reminiscent of Pip’s own thatch of hair. Against the light, it was hard to make out her features.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t. Or I would never have agreed.”

  Kinchen snorted.

  “I didn’t know.”

  Maybe that was true—she was stuffed in a sack, after all. “Let’s get some water. Then we’ll go home to my grandfather and make sure he’s okay. Then you’ll tell me how to find Raftworld.”

  The girl, Caesar, nodded slowly. “And maybe some food, too?”

  • • •

  AS THE GIRL drank from the kitchen faucet, Kinchen asked, just to see if she’d heard right, “Your name is . . . Caesar?”

  “Yup.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smacked her lips. “That was perfect. Amazing.”

  “Caesar is a boy’s name,” said Kinchen. Immediately she was embarrassed—maybe this person was a boy. Maybe braids were what boys on Raftworld wore—how would she know what crazy things they did there? “. . . Are you a boy?”

  She giggled. “I’m a girl. My name is Caesar. For real.”

  “A boy’s name.”

  “Says who? If a girl has it, it’s a girl name.” She tipped her head to the side. “Is Kinchen a made-up name?”

  “It’s just old,” Kinchen said defensively.

  “Old-fashioned is nice. It’s a fantastic name.” Then: “What’s your age?”

  “Twelve. You?”

  The girl flashed a grin. “Twelve.” Kinchen must have looked doubting, because Caesar said, “Am too. I’m just short for my age.”

  “Why—why did you volunteer? I thought only adults could do that.”

  She grinned and gestured to the sink. Kinchen was glad to bend and drink; maybe she could wash the drug’s bad taste away.

  “I’m an exception. The Raft King wanted to get rid of me.”

  Kinchen brought her head up, mouth dripping. “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t help him.” She shrugged. “He wanted me to go walking out into storms and look for something in the water—a doorway or something.” She
said doorway like it was a question. “He said it was for the good of Raftworld. But it’s not for the good of Raftworld to go chasing storms—we sail away from storms. The Raft King and I had a big fight about that, and then he said I could either help him or I could go. So I went. I mean, it’s not like there was any good reason to stay—” She broke off. “I just didn’t think he’d drug me first. I kind of thought I’d be part of the ceremony—you know, part of the exchange of volunteers. And there would be a party and food and all that. How many volunteers were there, anyway? Besides your brother, I mean,” she added.

  “None.” Kinchen wiped her mouth off. She’d had enough. “There were supposed to be fourteen. But Raftworld left without them. What do you mean, walk into storms and look for a doorway?”

  “We were kind of yelling at each other by that point. Well, I was yelling. So the king didn’t spell everything out exactly, but I have a theory about the doorway. And going out into storms . . . I have a gift with the sea.” Then, seeing Kinchen’s expression, she said, with a sudden flash of light across her own face, “Your brother does, too, doesn’t he?” She pursed her lips. “Maybe that’s why the king took him.”

  Caesar and Pip had similar talents, that much was clear. And maybe Kinchen could get more information out of Caesar—to save Pip from whatever the Raft King planned. But first: Ren. “Let’s get going.”

  Caesar grinned. “Yes, let’s.”

  They left town and walked along the path toward the cliffs—the same path Kinchen had run down only the day before. The thin, underused trail led only to Old Ren and Kinchen and Pip’s house. Once in a while the town’s schoolteacher visited (and made sure Kinchen and Pip were learning), and a few times a year someone else would venture out to see them, but other than that: nothing. So the path was barely visible, appearing and disappearing into the undergrowth as you followed it.

  When they reached the jagged, low cliffs that led toward the big bay, Kinchen slowed down to give Caesar a sense of the land. “The bay out there—it’s known for having strange fish.” Then she stopped. Pip had spent a lot of time at the bay, but he didn’t often tell her about it; some things he kept to himself. “Is your gift to talk . . . with . . . ?”