Passage

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  The gathered boatmen laughed, and even Barr and Remo smiled. The tale finished, the group broke up to tend to the dinner preparation, including tapping a new keg set up on a nearby stump. Dag went off to see the fellow with the bad foot. Fawn caught Whit’s eye and scowled the grin right off his face.

  “What’s your trouble?” he whispered at her.

  “Those could’ve been Papa’s sheep,” she muttered back.

  His brow wrinkled. “I don’t think Papa would have been taken in by some smoky fiddle about the Graymouth murrain, Fawn. He knows his sheep better than that.”

  “That’s not the point. That farmer may not be as smart as Papa, but I’ll bet he works as hard. Tricking’s same as stealing, in my eyes. And it was cruel on him.”

  The smoke wafted their way, and Whit inhaled appreciatively. “Well, those sheep are beyond saving now, Fawn. Best anyone can do now is see they didn’t die in vain. Waste not, want not, as Mama herself says.”

  “Well, I’m not eating any!” she declared. “And you shouldn’t, either.”

  “Fawn!” he protested. “We can’t go complaining and being—being walking, talking blights and spoiling everybody’s party. These keeler men work hard; this is a pretty innocent pleasure, here. A picnic and a sing-song!”

  “That farmer worked hard, too. Harder than rivermen, or you wouldn’t be thinking of switching, now would you?”

  “That’s not why I—oh, crap anyways. Don’t eat that tasty-smellin’ mutton if that’s what pleases you, but don’t be ragging me.” He stalked off, to console himself pretty promptly with a tankard of the Turtle’s fresh Raintree beer.

  Fawn’s jaw set, but truly, what right had she to blight the party? Especially if it was, more or less, Wain’s apology to the Fetch and its boss about that sand bar. But she remained determined to touch no tricked-away mutton. Remo was now helping Dag with the fellow with the hurt foot; she withdrew quietly to the Fetch and watched the camp on shore from a perch on the edge of the cabin roof. The sun set, and the firelight blazed brighter and more invitingly.

  The noisiness of the boatmen grew more repellent. Bo was staggering already, grinning foolishly, though Hod seemed to be looking out for him. Hawthorn was showing off his raccoon kit’s tricks, such as they were, to an appreciative or at least tolerant audience. Barr and Remo were sitting together eating along with the man with the freshly bandaged foot, so even they weren’t being standoffish Lakewalkers. Wain, Saddler, and Whit were all grouped tightly around Berry. Fawn began to wonder what the point was of spurning the affair for principle’s sake if nobody was going to even take notice.

  At least one person noticed. Dag walked across the gangplank and lifted himself up to the roof to dangle his legs over beside hers. “What’s the trouble, Spark? You feeling all right? I thought your monthly was past.”

  “It is.” She shrugged. “I just keep thinking about that poor farmer that Wain robbed. Or tricked, whichever. It’s just not fair!” She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you going to eat that stolen mutton?”

  “Er…I’m afraid I already have.”

  “Well, don’t try and kiss me with those greasy lips,” she said grumpily.

  He cleared his throat. “I actually came aboard to find my tambourine and a couple of buckets for the boys to thump on. Berry’s about to tune up her fiddle, and she allowed as how she’d like some help.”

  “Oh, that’ll be good…” It had been ages since Dag had played music with anyone around a campfire, and she knew that had been one of his pleasures out on patrol. A tambourine was not much as a solo instrument. Blight that Boss Wain…

  Up the bank in the shadows, a dim, white shape uttered a mournful m-a-a-a. It occurred to Fawn that not all of that poor farmer’s sheep were beyond saving. And a faint thump against the side of the hull reminded her that the Fetch’s skiff was presently tied to the stern down in the water, rather than onto the side of the cabin where it often hung in rougher weather. She could never have launched it by herself. Could she row it by herself? Upstream?

  She eyed Dag sideways. Could he be roped into helping with her scheme? Maybe not. Sometimes, catfish notwithstanding, he could be a little too grown-up and responsible. That left Whit, maybe, but he seemed to have gone over to the other side. In any case, she now had good reason to cheer the party along merrily, with lots of food and beer all around. And any boatman or Lakewalker who was lagging—not that this seemed to be a problem—should certainly be encouraged to drink up. “I wouldn’t miss your music for all the mutton in the world.” She smiled at Dag, who looked heartened by her change of mood; she even let him kiss her brow with muttony lips as he swung her down from the roof.

  And as for fickle brothers, well, when you’d watched someone all his life while he hardly noticed you, you ended up knowing a lot more about him than he might credit. A lot more. She almost skipped across the gangplank after Dag.

  The moon rode high above the river valley, shedding silvery-blue light on the mist that wisped above the water. The night air was as silent as though some ancient sorcerer had cast a spell of enchantment. Clearly a midnight made for romance, although the chill suggested the kissing might better be conducted beneath a thick quilt. The one she’d left Dag snoring under would have suited Fawn fine. Instead, well…

  “Fawn, this is crazy,” Whit hissed at her.

  “Lift your end, Whit.”

  “Someone will hear us.”

  “Not if you shut up and lift. They’re all sodden-drunk over there, pretty much.”

  “Wain’ll be mad.”

  “I’m mad. Whit, if you don’t help me hoist this stupid sheep into this stupid skiff, not only will I tell Berry what you and the Roper boys did with Tansy Mayapple in Millerson’s loft, I’ll wake her up and tell her right now.”

  “M-a-a-a,” bleated the confused sheep, its hooves slipping and splashing in the mud and stones of the bank.

  “You shut up, too,” Fawn whispered fiercely. “Now, lift!”

  A grunt, a swing, and the last sheep was rocked over the thwart to join its two companions. Twelve cloven feet thumped and clattered, echoing on the planks of the boat’s bottom. Round yellow eyes rolled in long white faces. Fawn leaped to thrust back the front legs of one trying to struggle out again, soaking her shoes.

  “We better get in and start rowing,” she said. “You don’t think they’ll try and jump out when we’re out on the water, do you?”

  “They might. And probably get their fleece waterlogged and drown, to boot. Sheep are stupider than chickens.”

  “Whit, nothing’s stupider than chickens.”

  “Well, that’s true,” he conceded. “Almost as stupid as chickens, then.”

  Fawn scrambled aboard after Whit, to find that the boat’s end was now stuck in the mud from the added weight. She climbed back out and prepared to give it a push off the bank, only to freeze when a puzzled voice behind her spoke: “Why are you taking sheep for a boat ride?”

  She spun around to find Barr standing in the moon-striped shadows of the bare branches, scratching his head and peering blearily at them.

  “Why aren’t you asleep?” she hissed at him.

  “I was asleep. I got up to piss,” he replied. “Good beer those keeler boys had. What are you doing?”

  “None o’ your business. Go back to your bedroll.”

  Barr ran a hand over his jaw and squinted at them. “Does Dag know you two are out here?” The absent look of a groundsense consulted slipped over his face. “No, he’s asleep.”

  “Good. Don’t you dare wake him up. He needs his sleep.” Fawn stuck one already-wet shoe into the mud and gave them a hard shove off. The skiff slid away from shore.

  “If you don’t want Dag to know what you’re up to, then I’m definitely curious,” said Barr stubbornly, beginning to follow them up the bank.

  “We’re un-stealing sheep,” said Whit. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Won’t Boss Wain be mad?”


  “No,” said Fawn. “He’ll think they chewed through their ropes and ran off. I made sure to leave the ends ragged and all over sheep spit.” She rubbed her hands on her skirts and took up her oar. Unfortunately, Whit’s pull, once they got coordinated, was about twice as strong as hers, which resulted in the skiff turning toward shore unless he waited for her to stroke again. And in the pause the down-bound current pushed them back. Barr was having no trouble keeping up, even with the need to pick his way across the rocks and fallen logs.

  “You two are never going to make it upstream against this current,” he observed.

  “Well, we’re gonna try, so get out of our way.” Not that Barr was actually in the way, but he was being very annoying off to the side.

  Barr continued walking up the bank. Very slowly. A passenger said M-a-a-a.

  “You’re not making much progress,” he said again.

  “Let’s try farther out in the channel, Whit,” suggested Fawn.

  “That makes no sense,” said Whit. “Current’s stronger out there.”

  “Yes, but it’ll be more private.”

  M-a-a-a. M-a-a-a.

  “Dag’d flay me if I let you two babies go drown yourselves in the Grace,” Barr complained.

  “So don’t tell him,” said Fawn through her teeth. Her hands were beginning to ache.

  After a few more minutes, Barr said, “I can’t stand this. Give over. Come inshore and I’ll take Fawn’s oar.”

  “We don’t need your help,” said Fawn.

  “Yes, we do,” said Whit, and rowed harder. Fawn splashed madly, but was unable to keep the skiff from turning in.

  “No, the stupid sheep’ll try and jump out!”

  “Well, go nab ’em. You herd sheep, Barr and I will row.”

  Fawn gave up. Barr edged past, and he and Whit pushed the boat out into the river once more. Fawn settled irately on the next seat and shoved a sheep face out of her lap. But she slowly grew consoled as their upriver progress became more visible. Whit’s muscles were on the whippy side, but a farmer son’s life had left them harder than they looked, and he kept up with Barr’s broader shoulders well enough.

  The sheep dropped dung, trampled it around the bottom of the boat, and bleated. One attempted suicide by leaping into the river, but Fawn lunged and pulled it back with her hands dug into its greasy fleece. Another tried to follow the first’s example.

  “Can’t you settle these sheep down with your groundsense?” Fawn asked Barr. “I bet Dag could.”

  “I don’t do sheep,” said Barr distantly.

  “No, only boat bosses,” said Whit, which resulted in a chilly silence for a time. The moonlit woods slid slowly past, silvered and remarkably featureless.

  “I’m getting blisters,” Whit complained. “How much farther?”

  “Well, we’re looking for a sheep pasture that comes right down to the water,” said Fawn.

  “What if the sheep are in the fold for the night?” said Whit. “There are lots of pastures that come down to the water. We’ve been passing ’em for days.”

  Fawn was quiet.

  “Do you even know which one we’re looking for?” asked Barr.

  “Er…well…not really.”

  “Fawn!” protested Whit. “It could have been any farm for the last twenty miles—or more! Likely more—stands to reason Wain wouldn’t stop too close, in case that farmer figured out he’d been diddled and came after ’em.”

  “I’m not rowing any twenty miles!” said Barr.

  The mutiny was unanimous. The skiff put in at the first likely-looking pasture it came to, and Barr and Whit united to heave the bleating cargo overboard. The sheep cantered off a few paces and clustered to glower ungratefully back at their rescuers. Whit yanked Fawn back into the boat and turned it downstream.

  “I sure hope they find a smarter owner,” she muttered.

  “Yeah, sheep, don’t bother thanking us for saving your lives or anything,” Whit called sarcastically, turning and waving.

  “Whit, they’re sheep,” said Fawn. “You can’t expect gratitude. You just…know you did the right thing, is all.”

  “Just like f—” Barr began, and abruptly shut up. Fawn shot him a suspicious look. After a moment, he said instead, “They sure did stink. Who’s cleaning up this boat?”

  “Not me,” said Whit.

  “Somebody’ll have to,” said Barr. “I mean…evidence.”

  “I will take care of it,” said Fawn through her teeth.

  Lovely moonlight and less lovely silence fell. They came in sight of the Fetch in about a third of the time it had taken them to labor upstream.

  “Thank you both,” said Fawn gruffly. “Even if I couldn’t make it right, it seems less wrong now. I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Whit.

  “Don’t you two un-sheep-stealers go congratulating each other too soon,” said Barr, with a nod toward the Fetch. Fawn followed his glance and went still to see Dag sitting cross-legged on the roof in the moonlight, gazing upstream.

  “Crap,” said Whit.

  “Though I’m suddenly glad you’re here, Whit,” muttered Barr. “To prevent misunderstandings and all.” He glanced circumspectly at Fawn.

  Fawn thought the greater fear might be perfectly correct understandings, actually. As the skiff eased alongside the flatboat, Dag dropped down to the back deck to catch the painter-rope Fawn tossed up to him.

  He sniffed, and inquired dryly, “Nice boat ride?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Fawn, staring up in defiance.

  “Whit, Barr…you look a mite sheepish, one could say.”

  “No, we only smell it,” muttered Whit.

  “It wasn’t my doing!” Barr blurted.

  Dag’s lips twisted up. “This time, Barr, I believe you.”

  He leaned down to give them each a hand up in turn, and oversee the skiff properly tied.

  Whit said uneasily, “Are you going to turn us in?”

  “Who to? They weren’t my sheep.” He added after a moment, “Or yours.”

  Barr breathed stealthy relief, and Dag shepherded Fawn firmly to bed.

  He actually kept his face straight until he had a pillow stuffed over it. The chortles that then leaked through had Fawn poking him. “Stop that!”

  It took a while till he quieted down.

  The Fetch left its mooring soon after dawn, when the Snapping Turtle’s bleary crew were just beginning to search the nearby woods for their escaped mutton. The sweep-men draped on their oars maintained just enough motion to give steering way to the rudder, and sometimes not even that. Even Berry seemed content to drift at the river’s pace. Despite being as cotton-headed from lack of sleep as everyone else was from other excesses, Fawn kept strong tea coming, and as the morning wore on folks slowly recovered.

  The river’s pace picked up abruptly around noon, when a great brown flood swept in from the right, and the current grew rolling.

  “That’s not the Gray already, is it?” Fawn asked Berry, startled, when she looked out her moving kitchen window to find the shore grown alarmingly distant.

  “Nope,” said Berry, in a tone of satisfaction, and took another swig of tea. “That’s the Beargrass River. It swings up through Raintree to Farmer’s Flats. We’re three-fourths of the way from Tripoint to the Confluence now! They must have had heavy storms in Raintree this past week—I haven’t often seen the Beargrass this high.”

  “Do boats go on it?” Fawn peered some more.

  “Sure. All the way to Farmer’s Flats, which is the head of navigation, pretty much. Which is why the town is where it is, I ’spect. The Beargrass is almost as busy as the Grace.”

  Blighted Greenspring had lain on one of the Beargrass’s upper tributaries, as Fawn recalled soberly. Bonemarsh Camp, too. Last summer’s grim campaign against the malice had all played out north of the big town of Farmer’s Flats; the disruption hadn’t reached down here. Dag might thank the absent gods, b
ut Fawn thought the thanks were better due to Dag.

  With the addition of the Beargrass, the Grace nearly topped its banks, and in some places overflowed them. Some of the lower-lying islands were drowned already, bare trees sticking up from the water as if growing out of a lake, except that the lake was moving sideways at a fair clip. Fawn sometimes saw animals trapped up the island trees; possums and raccoons, of course, a couple of black bears, and once, excitingly, a catamount, quite close. They passed a wild pig swimming strongly in the current, and the men aboard were barely restrained from trying to hunt it from the boat. Floating wrack either lodged on or broke loose dangerously from towheads, those accumulations of trees and logs at the top ends of the islands that from a distance resembled, the boatmen said, the unruly locks of a fair-haired boy, hence the name Beargrass.

  Toward evening, Berry put two men on each sweep to fight the unwieldy Fetch in to shore. As they were tying up in the lee of a bend, a peculiar arrangement floated past in the dusk: two flatboats lashed together side by side. The crew apparently struggled in vain to steer this lumbering rig, because it was slowly spinning in the current.

  Out on the back deck, Bo called across the water for them to break up and tie to shore before dark, but the men on the double-boat either didn’t hear or didn’t understand; their return cries were unintelligible.

  “Why’d they fix their boats together like that?” asked Fawn curiously, coming out to look.

  “I expect because they’re fool Raintree boys who don’t know a thing about the river and have got no business being on it,” said Bo, and spat over the side for emphasis.

  “For company, maybe, or not to lose each other in the dark. It likely made ’em feel safer, out on this big river,” said Whit slowly. “Even the Fetch is starting to look pretty small.”

  “Do you see why it don’t make ’em safer?” said Berry.

  “Oh, I do!” said Fawn excitedly, staring after the receding Raintree flatties.

  Berry grinned. “I bet you do. Now wait for Whit.”

  Whit squinted into the dusk and said slowly, “They’re trying to move twice the weight with half the oars.”