Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [42]
The blond woman—girl—rocked forward to eye Fawn more closely. “I hadn’t thought to. I’m doing a bit of trading down the river, plan a lot of stops. It’d be a slow ride.”
“That’s all right. We’re not in a hurry. How far down the river are you going?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Can I see inside your boat? I’ve never been on a flatboat.” Fawn smiled up hopefully. Not a request she’d have dared make of the lewd—well, would-be-lewd—Jos; she was in luck to find this woman.
The woman tilted her head, then nodded. She stuck her whittling knife in a sheath at her belt and dismounted from the roof of the cabin by simply jumping down the five feet, ignoring the crude ladder of nailed slats, landing with a thump and a spring of her knees. She grabbed a long board and ran it out to the bank. Fawn eyed the narrowness and flex of it dubiously, but held her breath and picked her way aboard without falling into the mud.
She hopped down onto the deck and straightened in exhilaration. “Hi, I’m Fawn Bluefield.”
The woman bobbed her head. She had wide cheekbones, but a pointed chin, lending an effect like a friendly ferret. She was taller than Fawn—as who was not?—and even a bit taller than Whit, likely. Her fine, fair skin was sunburned. “Berry Clearcreek. I’m boss of this boat.”
A boat boss was captain or owner or sometimes both; Fawn guessed both, and was impressed and heartened. Berry stuck out a welcoming hand, slim but even more work-roughened than Fawn’s. Fawn clasped and released it, smiling. “What lives in the pen?” she asked, nodding toward it, then spotted the droppings in the straw. “Oh, a goat.”
“Our nanny Daisy. My little brother took her ashore to graze.”
“So you have fresh milk. And eggs.” Already this boat seemed homey.
Berry nodded. “Some.”
“I grew up on a farm. Up by West Blue.” And at Berry’s puzzled look, added, “North of Lumpton Market.”
Berry still looked geographically uncertain, so Fawn added, “Lumpton’s way up the same river that comes out to the Grace near Silver Shoals.”
Berry’s face cleared. “Oh, the Stony Fork. Big sand bar, there. You know how to milk a goat, do you?”
“Sure.”
“Hm.” Berry hesitated. “You can cook, too, I guess. Good cook?”
“My husband says so.”
The boat boss regarded Fawn’s shortness, which, Fawn knew, made her look even younger than she was. “How long’ve you two been married?”
Fawn blushed. “About four months.” It seemed longer, with all that had happened.
Berry smiled a little. “Not sure whether to trust his judgment or not, then. Well, come see my boat!”
A small doorway or hatch in the front of the shack led down by a few crude plank steps into a dark interior. Even Fawn had to duck through; Dag would likely have to bend double, and be very careful when he straightened up. The front of the shelter was full of cargo: coils of hemp rope, rolls of woolen and linen cloth, stacks of hides, barrels and kegs. Fawn could smell apples, butter, lard, and what might be bear grease. One barrel was set up on sawhorses and had a spigot in the end. It hissed a little ominously as the apple cider within hardened, fermenting in the unseasonable warmth. There were sacks of nuts, and smoked meats hanging from the rafters. Tucked everywhere were bundles of barrel staves. All the local produce from up some tributary river or creek of the Grace. At one side was an array of what were obviously Tripoint steel and iron tools and metalwork, from shovel and axe heads, coulters, and kegs of nails, to needles and pins.
“Did you come all the way from Tripoint?” asked Fawn in awe, fingering a shiny new plow blade.
“No, only from about halfway. We pick up things in one place, sell them downstream in another, as chance offers.”
The back end of the shack was living quarters, lit by two little glazed windows and another door up to the back deck. Two narrow bunk beds with pallets stacked three-high along the walls had more cargo jammed underneath; one bunk had