Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [178]
The corners of Dag’s mouth tucked up. He murmured, “Ah, you never met my Luthlian tent-brothers. Those Wolverine boys trained me out of that right quick.”
The boat bore left at the next split in the channel, and in a half-hour more, a line of dun-colored sand dunes rippled across the flat horizon. The ascending sun began to draw up the mist, so that the far distance seemed to be veiled by a gilded gauze curtain shifting in a gentle draft. The boat scrunched bow-first into the sandy shore just behind the dunes, and the fellows jumped out, took the baskets, carried Fawn, Hawthorn, and Berry dry-shod across the last stretch of water, and united to help give the sailboat a good shove back out into the channel.
Fawn watched it drift away. So, if the boat sank out there on the big sea, would they ever be able to get back to Graymouth? Far up the channel, a faded red sail loomed, so perhaps they would be able to hail another fisherman, and not be stranded. On that reassuring thought, she took Dag’s proffered hand, warm in the cool light, and scrambled up the dune, sand shifting under her sliding feet, which made her laugh breathlessly. Dag watched her profile anxiously as she pressed to the crest, and the world’s rim opened before her astonished eyes.
The vast expanse of water gleamed like steel, blending in a muted, distant, silvery-gold line with the equally vast, lavender-edged sky. It was like being inside a great bowl of liquid light. On the strand, stretching away like wool rolled for spinning, waves broke and murmured. The damp, strange-smelling air caressed Fawn’s flushed cheeks as she stared and stared. The smell seemed to be some stronger cousin to that of a riverbank or creek bed, but with a tang all its own like nothing she’d smelled before. She took in a huge breath of it. “Oh. My.”
Hawthorn whooped and ran down the sand dune; Berry, laughing, called him to slow down and slid after, Whit on her heels. Remo and Barr, with a wild look at each other, followed.
Dag scanned the horizon, brows pinched. “It was all warm and blue, first time I was down here,” he muttered. “Which was fifty or a hundred miles west of here, though.”
“That was late spring, too, you said. ’Course it was warmer,” said Fawn.
He cast her a grave look, and swallowed. “This isn’t…this wasn’t the wedding trip I’d promised you, I’m afraid.”
“You promised to show me the sea. That there is it, isn’t it?” Most amazingly the sea. Fawn tossed her head.
“I didn’t anticipate Crane, nor river bandits, nor exposing you to all those horrors.” With a hesitant finger, he traced her neck where Crane’s knife had lain. He added after a moment, “Nor making you cook for a boatload of folks the whole way.”
Blight Crane. “I don’t think we anticipated the Fetch at all, nor Berry, nor Bo and Hawthorn and Chicory and Wain and all those others, but I’m glad to have met them. Even Remo and Barr turned out pretty good, in the end. I’ve learned so many new things I’ve lost count, which I wouldn’t want to give back nohow.” She hesitated, searching for the right words to ease his misplaced fear of disappointing her, without pretending that the cave hadn’t mattered. “Mama used to say to me, when I was young and pining for my birthday or some other treat to come quick, right now, Don’t go wishing your life away.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “Don’t you go wishing my life away, either.”
He smiled a little, although she was afraid it was half for amusement at that when I was young part. “There’s a point, Spark.”
“You’d best believe it.” Firmly, she pulled him down the slope.
Hawthorn already had his shoes and socks stripped off and trouser legs rolled up, and was prancing about in the foam that bubbled and hissed around his feet. Barr and Remo watched him rather enviously. They set down their baskets beside a likely-looking mess of driftwood and all walked up the beach together. Everyone including Dag bent to collect seashells and marvel at the strange shapes and colors.