Mitchell Smith: Moonrise

"You fucking seal-pup." Pruitt kicked the pouch a little way – but not out onto the ice. "I sell no boat to you at all!"

The young man shook his head. "Think again, sir." The sea wind blew his breath in frost. "I believe that pouch would buy you the building of even a better. And I do know boats; know them well. I've sailed and skated for years on Kingdom River."

"Then build your own." Captain Pruitt wished – oh, how he wished – that Priestess lay at Bay, or East Dock, where seamen, captains, and salters came and went, weighing fish and selling fish. There would be more than a hundred hard-handers there to see these people gone… Here, at Pier Point, there was no one else seen through the last, light, sun-filtering snow. Only his crew – and only one or two fighters among them. "… I sell you nothing."

The girl – fox-bits in there for sure – lisped in the young man's ear. He sighed like someone older, and said, "We haven't time for this, and allow Sylvia to change her mind to execution. Not the time, Captain – nor, frankly, the patience. Take this as the last unfairness of a war… and not that unfair after all." Another of those damned smiles. "Considering we might simply butcher you, leave you lying, then go send your crew ashore… I'll make a crew of my friends."

"And I say fuck you! I do not sell my -" Pruitt would have continued, but the Fox-girl had drawn a nasty curved sword.

"You are troubling my Baj," she said, "- who has had enough trouble." The girl's odd yellow eyes as disturbing as her blade.

Captain Pruitt noticed one of the Shrikes, apparently amused, smiling at him. The Shrike raised his javelin a little, so the steel head glinted.

"Well, Salt-Jesus drown you all…" Pruitt's heart was thumping. "You are pirates, and will have sinking luck on the ice and off it!" He went and stooped for the pouch of gold. "You come back to this harbor," he counted minted coins into a trembling palm, "and I'll gather men to stake you out for the crabs!"

"We won't be back," the young man said. "We skate and sail across the sea."

"And will never reach what's there – if there's anything at all." Pruitt finished his count.

"Build a lucky new boat, Captain," the young man said, hoisted his bundle, and led his odd company away down the dock to Priestess… then up her gangway.

Soon enough, her crew of seven came down confused, and over the dock to Pruitt with questions.

"Don't fucking ask me! Don't ask me about a robbery – which is what this is. I've been robbed here by armed trash from Boston's fighting, that paid me poorly for the best sloop on the coast!" Though he had good copybook English, Pruitt – now they were needed – could recall no sufficient ancient curses.

"Do we fight 'em, Cap'n?" This from a line-hauler who barely knew a hake from a cod.

"Why, yes, Freddy – we certainly fight a bad man, two bad Persons, and seven worse Shrikes. And you go first, you fool!"

And damned if the man didn't start, and had to be collared.

"Oh… stand still, all of you," Pruitt said, "and wish those thieves the worst of luck."

He and his fishers stayed put, and watched the lubbers – such a fine old word – wrestle lines free… then slowly pole Priestess out from the dock, shoving her sliding clear, skates scraping. None of that done as true sailors would have. All very unsteady.

Came time to raise her big mainsail for the wind – a little past time. Walter-bosun, seal-blooded, said "Slow…"

Sail shaking out, now. Better late than never. Setting the canvas… and, to Pruitt's satisfaction, clumsy getting it hauled taut. Moonrisers and tribesmen, just the seamanship you'd expect. A fine southern linen sail – and almost new! – gone. I'm a robbed man, and the gold makes no difference in it. They've taken my Priestess!

And though he hadn't meant to, Captain Pruitt ran to the dock edge and shouted after, shaking his fist. "Don't you wreck her, you young son of a bitch!"

"Poor Cap'n," Freddy said.

… Out in the offing under a gray-ribbed evening sky – mainsail slatting in offshore gusts, then firming as her jib came rising – Priestess swung hissing on her skates to a sea heading, a single gull gliding in company. Her starboard steering-blade raised a plume of powdered ice as she steadied, jolting a little over pressure creases where the frozen harbor had cracked and mended.

Then, going faster, she sailed away sweetly… running east by east, chasing her sunset shadow out onto the frozen ocean.