Fenn Halflin and the Seaborn

by Francesca Armour-Chelu

  Fenn felt like time had suddenly slowed right down and he leant on the side of the cabin, feeling sure he was going to throw up for real this time. Viktor cocked him a warning eyebrow. “Down there,” he snapped, jerking his head towards the stern. “Don’t you puke on my deck.”

  Fenn stumbled to the back of the tug and gripped the spindly rail, letting the cold steel pinch his mind into focus. He wasn’t going to waste time being sick. He considered jumping overboard and swimming to the Warspite, but she was just a speck out at sea, and if the tide was against him, he’d never make it in time. He had to make Viktor take him and he ran back inside.

  “Please, Viktor. I’m begging you. You have to help me.”

  Viktor ignored him, letting the wheel glide lazily through his hands. “Please,” Fenn begged. “The boy Chilstone’s got? He’s my friend. I have to save him!”

  Viktor pretended he couldn’t hear, staring ahead at a flock of wild ducks that were startled by the tug, swooping up from the reeds to fly inland. Seeing he wasn’t listening, Fenn grabbed Viktor’s arm but Viktor brushed him off, his face hard as a hatchet. Fenn grabbed him again and this time Viktor whipped around. His eyes glinted with contempt.

  “I’ve given everything to you and your family!” he spat, shoving Fenn in the chest with the flats of his hands.

  “Halflin saved your wife and child!” Fenn shouted back.

  Viktor took a single step and grabbed Fenn by the scruff of his jacket, yanking him up so they were nose to nose. Gripping Fenn’s collar with one white-knuckled fist, he pointed at the scar down his cheek. Fenn winced to see it up close; the flesh seemed to bubble, and looked painful and raw.

  “You never stop to wonder why Chilstone came after my wife and little ’uns in the first place? Or how I got my very own Demari key?” he asked bitterly, his breath hot on Fenn’s face. “Not so pretty as the golden trinket you managed to lose, eh?” Viktor dropped Fenn back down, and stood trembling in his fury. He rubbed his hands over the scabbed stubble of his scalp. “I paid an ugly price.”

  In that second, Fenn understood. Ever since he’d met Viktor, he had thought the F had been made by a TF branding iron being pressed into the flesh. But now he saw it properly, it wasn’t an F but the crude shape of a key; only the shank and the two pins. Chilstone had used the Demari symbol of hope to brand all members of the Resistance, as Viktor had once been. That way he’d always know who his enemies were.

  “It was only these that kept me alive,” Viktor said, thumping his strong hands on the ship’s wheel. “As long as the Terra Firma need captains who understand this stretch of pani, I’m safer than the rest. I got to keep my life. I can’t ask for more.”

  With that, he hunched back over the wheel and returned his gaze to the river. The Sastimos was only a few hundred yards away now.

  “I’m sorry,” Fenn said. “Halflin didn’t say.”

  “He was too busy staying alive. That’s how he survived; clanked down with you, keeping schtum.” Viktor shrugged, not even bothering to look at Fenn. “Anyway, all that’s done now. You take the wheel. Cut the engine and punt us in. I need to signal; let them know it’s us.” His eyes were empty and dark. Fenn realised there would be no persuading Viktor; his mind was set.

  Viktor took the lamp and left Fenn in the shadows. Fenn watched as he leant over the starboard rail, held the lamp high, then quickly covered the glass with a black cloth three times, letting the light shine brightly for just a few seconds – a signal to the crew on the Sastimos that a friend was approaching. With Fenn now at the wheel, they continued to chug up the river, slowly curving back into the marsh. Ahead, Fenn spotted the jetty he and his friends had seen just before they found Hill Farm, except it was nearly under water now.

  When they were near enough, Fenn cut the engine and stepped out onto the deck. The sun had almost gone, and just the tip of it showed, as if it were drowning in the sea. Fenn hitched down one of the heavy wooden poles and pushed it down into the water, gently punting the tug between the darkening reeds. As he did so, he glanced upriver, frowning as a heron swooped towards them. At the last minute it swerved and followed the V-shaped flight of ducks they’d seen earlier, flying inland. It was an ill-omen for a heron to pass over a boat, so Viktor grinned at their good fortune, then signalled to the Sastimos once more, holding the lamp even higher and craning his neck as he scanned for a response from the other boat.

  Finally, Fenn noticed a tiny flicker glimmering like a glow-worm in the reeds as the Sastimos signalled back to them, and at that exact moment, Viktor felt the full force of Fenn’s hands whack into his back. Viktor was already leaning out far enough for it to need only one thrust upwards to tip him over the edge of the rail, lamp and all.

  It was just a five-feet drop into the weedy water and Fenn was already running back along the narrow side deck when he heard the splash and Viktor’s yell. He grabbed the never-used lifebuoy, now lichen green, and flung it in Viktor’s direction, then raced back into the cabin. He twisted the key and started the engine again, and the little tug coughed back into life. By the time Viktor surfaced, spluttering threats at Fenn and trying to swim back, the tug was already ploughing back down the river.

  “Come back!” Viktor hollered, but Fenn never even heard it over the tug’s engines. All that mattered was saving Fathom. He whistled to Tikki, who scampered up onto his shoulders.

  “Let’s go,” he said, steering the tug back towards the open sea and the Warspite.

  19

  Fenn was so attuned to the inky-blackness of the marsh that he could see nearly as well at night as in the daytime. As soon as he left the river, he draped sailcloth over anything that glinted – the way Magpie had done the first night aboard the Panimengro, when they hadn’t wanted to be spotted. The Crescent was small and easy to steer, and he took it out to sea, before looping back to approach the Warspite from the port side, where he would be hidden from a sighting from the shore. At the Warspite’s bow, Fenn discovered four more tugs already in position, waiting to tow the great ship to dock in the shallow channels at daybreak, but was relieved to see they were all dark, their crews asleep. He dropped the Crescent’s anchor a few yards from the Warspite’s massive anchor chain; so enormous, seagulls perched inside its iron links.

  He slipped on the spare boiler suit, tucking the overlong trousers into his boots. His reflection in the black windows showed that only his hair stood out. He found Viktor’s balaclava on a bent nail, yanked it over the Sargasson braids and rolled the edges up tightly. He ran outside and, spotting a grappling iron, grabbed it and swung it over towards the Warspite, where it hooked it in the anchor chain. Then he went back inside and lifted Tikki gently onto the table, pushing a few scraps of rice bread his way.

  “You stay put. I’ve got to get over there.” Fenn jerked his head through the cabin window where the Warspite loomed up out of the sea.

  Tikki twitched his nose at him quizzically, sitting up on his hind legs and tapping his paw on Fenn’s hand. Fenn gave him a kiss and checking he still had his knife, gently closed the door, ran across the deck and stepped up onto the rail. He was just about to swing his leg over when he heard scratching behind him. It was Tikki, standing on his hind legs on the rail.

  “How did you get out?” Fenn scolded.

  He scooped up Tikki – he didn’t have time for games of hide-and-seek – and ran back to the cabin, scanning for ways Tikki had got out. It was a mystery; all the windows were closed, but then the grille in the cabin door caught his eye. The slats didn’t look big enough for Tikki to squirm through, yet that must have been what he’d done. Fenn smiled at Tikki’s smartness; he must have remembered he could squeeze through a grille from when Fenn pushed him to safety on the sinking drifter. He grabbed some rags and stuffed them into the slats. He kissed Tikki goodbye a second time and carefully closed the door.

  He was already half way over the rail when another bout of furious chattering came from behind him. This time Tikki actually hissed at Fe
nn for his betrayal.

  “How did you get out?” Fenn hissed back.

  He only just managed to grab Tikki this time before he scampered off, and Fenn stomped back into the cabin and settled Tikki on the table. Thinking he’d won, and Fenn was going to stay now, Tikki began rubbing his head into Fenn’s hand to get a stroke and a cuddle. Fenn cupped his hands around his furry head, trying to will Tikki to understand what had to be done.

  “I’ve got to get Fathom, and I’ve got to do it on my own. It’s too dangerous for you. Don’t follow!” He finished with a harshness in his voice that Tikki had never heard before.

  With that, he gave Tikki a last kiss, ran out and closed the door. He was about to run down the deck again when he had second thoughts. He needed to see how Tikki was getting out or they’d be here all night. He crept back to the cabin and peeped over the ledge.

  Fenn watched as Tikki took a run up and hurled himself heroically at the door. He heard a thump, as if Tikki had fallen. Immediately Tikki was up on the table again, throwing himself at the cabin door a second time. This time Fenn heard a click as the handle went down, and the cabin door swung slowly open, revealing Tikki dangling from the handle. He had realised he could use his body weight to pull the handle down.

  As the door swung forwards, Tikki saw that Fenn had been spying on him. He let out a ferocious shriek and dropped to the deck to escape, but Fenn caught him before he even landed.

  Fenn put him back in the cabin, gave him another last kiss, and this time wedged a deck-broom under the door handle. Then he climbed over the Crescent’s rail a final time and shimmied across to the anchor chain. He’d been so distracted by Tikki, he hadn’t had time to think about being scared. He started the hard climb up the anchor chain towards the hawsepipe, that glinted in the side of the bow halfway up the Warspite’s hull.

  It was a good fifty feet higher from where he was and the further he climbed, the harder the wind blew. Although each link of the anchor chain was as thick as a tree trunk, they were slippery with seaweed. Halfway up, he paused for breath, hooking his leg through the chain and giving each arm a rest. He stuffed his frozen fingers into his mouth and puffed some life into them. Straightening his legs out hard against the hull, he looked along the side of the Warspite to check where the goods winch was. If he got Fathom out, the winch could provide an escape route.

  A few feet above the hawsepipe he could see the steel boarding ladder. He steadied himself, then leapt, only just grasping the last freezing steel rung, rubbed satin-smooth by the countless Terras tramping up and down it over the years. He hung for a second before clawing up and peering over the deck rail. It was deserted; the only sound came from the Scragnet creaking. He tumbled over the rail, searching for some way to get below deck. In the shadows between the gun turrets, he spied a door and hurried towards it. He was halfway along the deck, keeping to the shadows, when it suddenly swung open and the first of a troop of Terras marched through, a lone figure in their midst. Fenn’s heart skipped a beat. He knew who it was, catching the metal glinting in the moonlight: Chilstone.

  By the side of the turrets, a deckhand had left their mop and pail, and Fenn grabbed them, as if he’d just finished swabbing down the deck himself. He walked on towards the door but as he passed Chilstone and his men, he couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Chilstone’s left hand. It was gloved and there was nothing to see, but as Fenn walked on he sensed a movement from Chilstone, and knew it had been a mistake to look. His heart was thumping as he passed the Scragnet, only vaguely aware of the pull of the metal pail towards the vast magnet, and then he was at the door. He’d made it! The door banged shut behind him and he leant against it panting. Then he scrambled down the steel stairs, three steps at a time, praying the prison-brig in the Warspite was in the guts of the ship, the same as it was in the Brimstone. If the layout was identical and Fathom was down there, Fenn would have to think of how to get out. He remembered the shaft that Halflin had used to get him off the Brimstone. He hoped all Fearzeros had them: they could escape that way.

  Inside the Warspite, it was a maze of corridors and passages, with nothing to mark one from the other and Fenn had no sense of where he was; he only knew he always needed to head down. After dropping through layer after layer of the Warspite’s decks, he finally reached the bottom and found a short passage, so narrow and pokey he could have touched each side just by bringing his elbows up. It stank; the air was murky grey with the fumes from diesel and the kerosene lamps that lit the windowless interiors. He remembered Halflin comparing Fearzeros to sharks, always swimming in order to stay alive. Even when at a standstill, the Warspite’s propellers still turned to keep the tonnage of iron from sinking.

  Fenn ran to the end of the passage and turned left then right, before realising he was no nearer to finding the brig. He turned back and retraced his steps, trying to find the passageway he came in by, when suddenly a siren blared out of the speakers on every wall. A door opened and a Terra ran out, pulling on his boots, hammering on every door he passed.

  “All hands on deck. We’re off to the Brimstone boys!” Taking Fenn for just another lowly deckhand, he thumped him on the chest and gave a cheery thumbs up. It was like they were going on an outing.

  From every direction Fenn heard doors clanking open as the Terras worked their way up the stairs at either end of the tight passageway. Fenn ducked into a gloomy side passage as the corridor swarmed with Terras jostling along, swearing at being called to deck in their downtime.

  “So Chilstone’s crack unit can’t handle a few sparky Seaborns,” one of them crowed as he ran by.

  “We’ll show ’em how it’s done,” his friend replied, laughing.

  Once the corridor cleared, Fenn ran in the opposite direction, until he spotted the steel door of the prison-brig. He took a deep breath and stepped through; this was going to be the hard bit.

  It was a low, small room, lined with cells either side, just like the Brimstone’s sick-house except in place of the pot-bellied stove, sat a pot-bellied Terra, filling in paperwork at a tiny desk. The pink tab of his tongue stuck out on his lip as he concentrated on writing in a ledger with the last stub of a pencil.

  “They want the Demari boy up on deck,” Fenn said.

  “What, now?” the guard mumbled, without bothering to look up.

  “You heard the siren. I’m late already!”

  “That’s what the siren was for?” he grumbled as he got up and ambled towards another door into a corridor. Fenn followed a pace behind. “Not s’posed to release prisoners without two guards,” he muttered.

  “Tell Chilstone – he’s already been waiting five minutes,” Fenn snapped, trying to sound as gruff and old as possible.

  At Chilstone’s name, the guard moved quickly, unlocking a door into a long room. In a cell at the far end, by a goods lift, Fenn could see Fathom, lying on the floor, face to the wall. The guard fumbled with the keys and twisted one in the cell lock. Hearing the key in the door, Fathom woke up. As he sat up and faced them, Fenn put his fingers to his lips.

  “He’ll have to be cuffed,” the guard said. Fenn leant in close and softly unclipped the guard’s key chain, keeping hold of the end.

  “Out!” the guard grunted at Fathom, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  As the cell door swung open, Fenn suddenly barrelled against the guard’s bulky side with all the force he could muster, pitching him into the cell. The guard staggered forward and Fathom bunched into a low ball, so that the guard toppled over him, hitting his head on the wall and crashing to the floor, where he lay stunned. Fathom was out in a flash, slamming the door shut as Fenn turned the key in the lock. They hugged quickly but Fenn was already dragging Fathom towards the lift.

  “How did you get here?” Fathom asked.

  “No time now,” Fenn said, as he began cranking the lift handle. A loud rumble sounded as the crate trundled down.

  “What’s the plan?” Fathom asked.

  “Get in this lift to the
top deck, then climb down the anchor chain. Got a tug waiting: the Crescent. Tikki’s locked in the cabin,” Fenn gasped.

  “Thought I was meant to be saving you!” Fathom said. With a final turn of the handle, the crate appeared in the opening that was cut into the shaft.

  “You go first!” Fenn said, but Fathom didn’t move.

  “Why can’t we both go?”

  “Cos we can’t winch it up from inside. Once you’ve got to the top, I’ll jerk the rope to let you know I’m ready and you winch me up,” Fenn explained, pushing Fathom into the crate.

  Before he could argue, Fenn started winching the crate back up. “If something goes wrong,” he yelled up the shaft, “don’t wait! You have to get back to the Brimstone to help the others! Tell them to keep fighting!”

  It was hard work, but finally Fenn felt the pulley ropes tighten – the lift had reached the top deck. Fenn waited impatiently as Fathom began cranking the crate back down. At last it arrived and he clambered inside and took the rope. But before he could give Fathom the signal, a pair of gloved-fists had grabbed him.

  “Gotcha!” the Terra smirked. “Let’s get him up on deck boys. Double rations for us tonight!” He ran a wet tongue over his lips.

  Two other Terras gripped Fenn’s arms, and before he knew what was happening, he was being hauled up the steps, so rough and fast that the tops of his boots strummed the treads. The door to the top deck opened and a blast of wet, salty air slapped his face.

  “Considering you’re not even Sargasson, you’re very slippery, Fenn Demari. I was starting to doubt we’d ever meet again.” Chilstone had his back to Fenn as he looked out over the coastline.