Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [329]
The folk bringing up their jars and buckets to be filled looked as though they felt even worse than he did; green-gilled as mushrooms, bruised from being pitched to and fro in the hold like billiard balls, reeking of renewed seasickness and overflowing chamber pots.
In marked contrast to the general air of pallid malaise, one of his old acquaintances was skipping in rings around him, singing in a monotonous chant that grated on his ears.
“Seven herrings are a salmon’s fill,
Seven salmon are a seal’s fill,
Seven seals are a whale’s fill,
And seven whales the fill of a Cirein Croin!”
Bubbling with the freedom of release from the hold, the little girl hopped around like a demented chickadee, making Roger smile in spite of his tiredness. She hopped to the rail, then stood on tiptoe, and peeked cautiously over.
“D’ye think ’twas a Cirein Croin caused the storming, Mr. MacKenzie? Grandda says it was, like enough. They lash their great huge tails about, ye ken,” she informed him. “That’s what makes the waves go sae big.”
“I shouldna be thinking such a thing, myself. Where’s your brothers, then, a leannan?”
“Fevered,” the girl answered, indifferently. It was nothing out of the way; half the emigrants in line were coughing and sneezing, three days in darkness and damp clothes having done nothing for their precarious state of health.
“Have ye seen a Cirein Croin, then?” she asked, leaning far over the rail, a hand shading her eyes. “Are they really big enough to swallow the boat?”
“Myself has not seen one.” Roger dropped his dipper and grabbed her by the apron sash, pulling her firmly off the rail. “Have a care, aye? It would take no more than a spratling to swallow you, lassie!”
“Look!” she shrieked, leaning farther over in spite of his grasp. “Look, it is, it is!”
Drawn as much by the terror in her voice as what she said, Roger leaned over the rail involuntarily. A dark shape hovered just below the surface, smooth and black, graceful as a bullet—and half the length of the ship. It kept pace for a few moments with the racing vessel, then was outdistanced and left behind.
“Shark,” Roger said, shaken in spite of himself. He gave the girl a small shake, to stop her steam-whistle screeches. “It’s no but a shark, hear? Ye ken what’s a shark, do ye not? We ate one, only last week!”
She had quit shrieking, but was still white-faced and wide-eyed, tender mouth quivering.
“You’re sure?” she said. “It—it wasna a Cirein Croin?”
“No,” Roger said gently, and gave her a dipper of water to drink, by herself. “Only a shark.” The biggest shark he had ever seen, with an air of blind ferocity that raised the hair on his forearms to see—but only a shark. They hung about the ship whenever her speed slowed, eager for the garbage and slops tossed overboard.
“Isobeàil!” An indignant cry summoned his erstwhile companion to come and lend a hand with the family chores. With dragging step and out-thrust lip, Isobeàil slouched off to help her mother with the water buckets, leaving Roger to finish his job without further distraction.
No further distraction than his thoughts, at least. For the most part, he succeeded in forgetting that the Gloriana had nothing below her save leagues of empty water; that the ship was not, in fact, the small and solid island that it seemed, but instead no more than a fragile shell, at the mercy of forces that could crush her in moments—and everyone aboard.
Had the Phillip Alonzo reached port in safety? he wondered. Ships did sink, and fairly often; he’d read enough accounts of it. Having lived through the last three days, he could only be amazed that more of them didn’t sink. Well, and there was precisely nothing he could do about that prospect, except pray.
For those in peril on the deep, Lord, have mercy.
With sudden vividness, he understood exactly what the maker of that line had meant.
Finished, he dropped the dipper into the