Rankly stated the obvious. “Looks like your dad’s in one of his moods.”
Elgarth shuddered. He and Silo shared two things—a mutual hatred and the gift of the seeing—but there the resemblance ended. Silo longed above all things to see his father; Elgarth, at that moment in time, would have given almost anything to see his magically transported to some place far, far distant—to the Us of Ay or beyond.
—
The Sea Pig was making ready to sail. The preparations to evacuate the secret base would be almost complete by now, and Valeria was eager to rejoin her fleet. Silo was leaving the Island again, and the contrast between this and his last departure was overwhelming. This time the entire population had come to see him off, and he looked across at a sea of smiling faces. Except one. Boris Bean was scowling at him from the fringes of the crowd, and Silo felt perversely cheered. Old Elijah was among the well-wishers on the quay, for Black Tom had finally realized his wish and gotten rid of his malodorous shipmate. Ben had persuaded him to stay on at the Island as the new schoolteacher. He was, as he had told them back on the Gutfleet Sound, an old, old man who’d seen and heard much, and learned many strange things in his long years on Earth. Now he could impart these strange things to a new generation and also, by force of negative example, teach them the importance of good personal hygiene.
Ruby was unfurling the sails up aloft, and she swung through the rigging with the easy grace of a gibbon. She seemed to have taken naturally to the seafaring life. Orlando, who had not, lay dozing in a hammock on the foredeck amid the bustle of departure.
Ben scooped up a wandering Maximillian and lifted him aboard the Sea Pig. “Yours, I believe.” He smiled at Silo. “Well, I wish you a safe journey. I hope things go well for you—and remember: the Island will always be your home. There’s always a welcome waiting for you here.”
Now Black Tom stood ready at the helm and his crew was casting off fore and aft. The Sea Pig was drifting out into Goose Creek, turning with the tide.
“Good-bye, Silo!” cried the Islanders. “Good luck!”
They were waving to him, and then suddenly they were singing to him:
Silo Zyco is a seer, the Island is his home!
He left it for adventure, the Kingdom Isles to roam!
Don’t make of him an enemy, for though he’s only young
He’ll pay you back with an attack that buries you in—
Silo was astonished. “How do they know that song?”
Orlando stirred in his hammock and grinned at him. “It seems to have caught on—Lily and Lula said some eel traders from the Uplands were singing it. You’re getting to be quite famous, you know.”
And Silo had a sudden vision. A little dark-haired man was pausing midstride in the streets of a sunlit seaport, standing stock-still for a moment, his ears straining to catch the words of a distant song—and then he smiled and his eyes, as blue and intense as Silo’s own, flashed with pride. The thought of it made Silo almost dizzy with joy.
His hair is black, he wears a sack, some say he is a psycho,
But if you care for freedom, give three cheers for Silo Zyco!
And the Islanders did—three cheers so loud that they startled the geese into flight, sending them wheeling and honking over the marsh with a great clamor of wings. Silo smiled a rare smile as he waved farewell, watching as the Sea Pig’s shimmering wake lengthened between him and his childhood home. He would return someday, that much he knew, but when and in what circumstances he could not say. Seer he might be, but the seeing was, as ever, a mysterious and imperfect gift.
Beside him, Maximillian heaved a great sigh. “I hate sailing, Silo. I think I might be sick.”
“No!” Silo desperately cast around for something that might take Maximillian’s mind off his stomach. “Tell me about the rampaging warthog.”
Thus did he sail forth to fulfill his destiny: Silo Zyco, also known as Zyco the Psycho, son of Zenda, son of Aquinus the Accursed, Seer, Sole Survivor, Coffee-Maker, Raft-Taker, Sewage-Shaker, Enemy of Elgarth, Victor by Vomit, Beater of Bucket Heads, and the last of the Zycos—for the time being, at least.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Veronica Peyton was raised in an obscure British village and moved to London as soon as was possible. She was a graphic designer for a while, then taught English in a variety of unglamorous foreign locations, mostly in Asia. She turned to writing after a five-year stint in Holloway Prison (as a librarian, not an inmate).
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