Page 102 of Dark Tides
Feeling the reproof, Ned followed exactly in his tracks through the deep snow, around trees, through clearings, crossing frozen swamp smoothed white under the drifts of snow until they came to a clearing in the forest and a small frozen lake.
“This is a good fishing lake,” Wussausmon told him.
“I come here in summer,” Ned said uneasily, thinking how deep and still the waters were, even in the heat of summertime.
“So in winter the fish are still here, under the ice.”
Ned nodded. “I suppose so. I never thought.”
“Of course. So watch: this is how we catch them.”
Ned stood back as Wussausmon dropped his fishing pack, a buckskin bag, onto the snowy ice. He selected a tool like a long-handled hoe, showed Ned the bone blade on the end, and then scraped and stabbed. Ned flinched at the first blows, anxiously listening for a warning crack below his feet, but the ice was thick and silent, and as Wussausmon wore a hole through the ice he saw, disbelievingly,the black water slop into the hole inches below. The sides of the ice hole were clear and thick, little pieces of ice broke off and puddled in the bottom. Kneeling on his bag Wussausmon picked them out with a ladle.
“Pass me the decoy,” he said over his shoulder, and Ned rooted in the open end of the bag till he found a piece of wood with twine twisted all around it and a little mock fish made of shells, wonderfully jointed so that it moved tail and fin. He handed it to Wussausmon who unwound the twine.
“Spear,” he demanded.
Ned drew out a three-pronged spear, on a long pole, and put it into Wussausmon’s hand.
“First you look,” Wussausmon instructed, rising to his feet and stepping back so Ned could take his place, kneeling on the kit bag, peering into the wet darkness of the hole. He could see nothing; he felt the icy breath of the water frosting his hair, and blinked against the cold in his face. Then slowly, as his eyes made sense of shadows in darkness, he could see the outline of sleeping fish at the bottom of the lake, the pale flank of one, the outline of another. There was something extraordinarily beautiful in the silent sleep of the dormant creatures.
“There are fish!” he whispered, lifting his face to Wussausmon. “I see them.”
“Indeed,” the man confirmed with a smile. “Now, I am going to catch one, and then you are.”
He took up his place leaning over the hole and released the decoy fish into the water, tweaking the twine up and down to make the fish move in the water as if it were swimming. Within moments the big fish had risen up from the depths, Wussausmon had the spear ready and in complete silence, barely even breathing, he made a steady thrust and plunged the spear into the water, brought it back, pulled it out, and laid it on the ice at Ned’s feet, a fat writhing large-mouthed bass, speared through the middle.
“Give thanks and kill,” he said shortly.
Ned, at a loss for an impromptu prayer, just said: “Thank you, fish, thank you, lake, thank you, Wussausmon,” and feeling like a fool clubbed it on the head so it lay still.
“There,” Wussausmon said smiling. “You have your first fish of winter. Now you can catch your own,” and he stood up from the bag, gestured that Ned should kneel down, and waited, unmoving for a good hour, while Ned jiggled the decoy, speared into the darkness, cursed, got his hands wet, and tried all over again.
NOVEMBER 1670, AT SEA
Sarah had feared she would be seasick, and homesick, but she found that the movement of the boat lulled her to sleep and so the first night was quickly behind her, and when she woke in the morning she could walk easily on the moving deck, and she found the creak of the sails and the constant roll of the waves under the keel were exhilarating. Captain Shore allowed her to sit at the prow of the ship, as long as she did not distract the sailors from their work, and she spent days leaning over the side and watching the waves slide under the keel.
They ate well. Sarah was allowed to put out a line to fish. There were no vegetables or fruit after the first few days, but they took on extra stores in Lisbon. The seas were rough in the Atlantic and a buffeting wind drove the galleon through the water, making the sails strain and the sheets crack, but when they turned into the Mediterranean it grew calmer and even though it was winter in faraway England there were bright sunny days, and Sarah borrowed Captain Shore’s big tropical hat when she leaned on the edge of the boat to see dolphin playing in the bow waves. She hardly thought what lay ahead of her, she avoided thinking about it. The enormity of the lie to her mother, the secret voyage, and the task ahead of her, was too much for her to imagine. Sarah let herself revel in the time at sea and not worry about the destination.
DECEMBER 1670, LONDON
Johnnie, coming out of his master’s counting house with half a dozen other clerks for his weekly evening off, was astounded to find Livia waiting, the long-suffering Carlotta behind her, at the merchant’s door.
“Aunt Livia!” he exclaimed.
“Ooo-er,” shouted one of the clerks. “That’s not like any aunt of mine.”
Johnnie flushed to the roots of his fair hair but Livia laughed at the impertinence. For one horrified moment Johnnie thought she might shout back.
“Ignore them!” he said quickly. “Is Grandma ill? My mother?”
He could think of no reason that his exotic kinswoman should penetrate Bishopsgate, except to take him home for an emergency. “Have you heard from Sarah?” he demanded, suddenly fearful for his twin, so far away at sea.
“No.” She laughed happily. “Would I have come across London to a street like this, filled with these dreadful young men, to carry a message from your sister? No, everything is well at home. Nothing has happened. Indeed, I believe that nothing ever happens at home but the turning of the smallest of pennies. I left them playing with Matteo. I came for you. I have a surprise for you.”
“What is it?”
Confidently she took his arm and led him down the dark and dirty street, Carlotta trailing unhappily behind them. “Where are we going?”
