Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [126]
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.