Anton and Cecil (9 page)

Early in the afternoon, Cecil sat just inside a tipped-over crate near the port rail and pondered the state of things. There was the mystery of the captain's hidden stone, whatever it was, which gave Cecil an uncomfortable feeling as he had found that humans often fought over small, shiny objects. And what of the whale, whom he had not seen since the night of the storm? It had not returned either to rescue him or to finish the job of drowning him, and he didn't know if it wished him well or ill. Cecil felt restless on this immobile ship in the middle of this endless ocean, and he'd never find Anton on a ship that didn't move.

As he sat in the crate sifting through his problems, Cecil noticed small wisps of steam begin to rise up through the air over the water, vanishing in the sunlight.
Is it so hot that now the sea is boiling?
wondered Cecil. He roused himself, standing and stretching his back legs one by one, then stepped to the railing. Indeed the water, which had been dead calm since the storm, was simmering with tiny bubbles under the surface. Cecil glanced around to see if the men had noticed, but most of them were below decks taking a midday meal, and they could not man the crow's nest since the mast came down.

The bubbling waves began to make a faint hissing sound, and the steaming wisps became more densely packed, making the air hazy and vaporous.
That's actually kind of pretty,
Cecil thought,
and quite a bit cooler too
. One of the sailors awoke from a doze and looked around quizzically, then lumbered over to the below-decks door and called something down. Cecil doubled back and hopped up onto the crate for a better view. The haze steadily thickened, washing out the horizon line and muting the sunlight, and started to swirl, dancing in currents around the ship. Emerging from below decks, the captain and crew stood and stared. The haze condensed around the ship until it felt as if they were floating inside a cloud.

Abruptly, the younger sailors burst into laughter and slapped one another on the back. They waved their hands in the moist air and ran their fingers through their hair. Giggling, some romped about and held their mouths open as if to drink the air in, and Cecil noticed that he could not even see to the far end of the deck now through the thick haze. He watched the playful sailors, but he also saw the faces of the older crew, which were guarded and, Cecil thought, fearful.

Then an even stranger thing happened. The swirling mist developed long, thin tendrils that slipped through the air and began to wrap themselves around the arms and legs of the men, who pulled up short from their cavorting and glanced around nervously. Some of the men began backing away from the railings, watching the eddies with distrust, picking up their boots and trying to step gingerly out of the clouds. But the mist continued to thicken, and Cecil thought his eyes were playing tricks, for he imagined that he saw figures forming in the densest parts of the haze. The crew seemed to be having the same sorts of visions, whimpering softly and pointing at the empty air.

“What's this, then?” asked an older sailor, his voice high and thin. “Somebody there?”

Another swatted at the mist that drifted around his neck like a scarf. “
Somebodies,
more like,” he grumbled, turning round and round.

“Can't be,” snorted one of the younger fellows. “Just fog, mates.” All the same he edged away from the fingers of murk reaching around his belly.

Cecil crouched low on the crate as he observed the heightening tension among the men. Foggy swirls had infiltrated every part of the deck and there was no getting away from them now. The white air was clammy and teased Cecil's nose and ears. He began to feel light-headed and thought he'd better move around a bit, but when he looked at the deck next to his crate he stopped short. There in the mist was a shape that very much resembled a large loaf of bread. His mouth watered at the thought.
Well! Wouldn't that be nice?
But as he gazed at it, the loaf grew legs and changed into the figure of a cat. A cat!
That would be less nice, though less lonely,
thought Cecil.

The mist cat was completely colorless. It stretched up with its front paws along the crate toward Cecil. He leaned over the top, trying to prepare an adequate greeting for something he wasn't sure was really there, when the cat suddenly extended its misty claws and hissed violently at Cecil.

“Oh, is that how it is?” Cecil said out loud, his voice surprisingly muted in the haze. He flattened his ears, bared his teeth, and took a long, hard swipe down the side of the crate with his paw, only to feel it pass right through the cat figure's head with a wet breeze. He pulled back and the cat slid up to the top of the crate in a sinewy motion and sat hunched, eye to cloudy eye with Cecil.

“Okay,” Cecil said, assessing the situation. “Crate's all yours!” he called out, and bounded off the other side.

Plunging through the fog on deck, Cecil scampered through the door that led to the officers' quarters. The air was clear down below, and as Cecil strolled aimlessly about he noticed that the door to the captain's room stood ajar. He slipped in and leaped atop the chest. The whole surface was carved with pictures of fish, an entire school of them, and he was momentarily flustered. Which one was it? It was up in the corner, yes, but was it red or green or . . . ? Cecil could hear the crew crashing above, and he began frantically stepping on the fish with his paws, trying to push down just the way the captain had done. Press, press, press . . .
was it the yellow one?
Press,
click!
The chest popped open and flipped Cecil back onto the floor on his head. He quickly recovered to his feet, dashed around to the front, and pushed his nose through the opening. Snatching the little red bag with his teeth, he turned and bolted back up the stairs, a black streak with a prized possession.

On deck, the mist still swirled about the sailors, wrapping them in its tendrils and whispering in their ears. The crazed crew ran around batting the misty swirls, picking up hooks, hammers, and buoys from the deck and throwing them at the haze, knocking about other crewmen in the turmoil. Cecil quickly hid his treasure in a coil of rope near the mainsail mast. Ducking the flying objects and staggering crewmen, he looked for the captain and found the poor man rooted to one spot, struggling for control of both himself and his crew.

Holding his arms tightly around his chest, the captain jumped up onto a barrel and shouted, “ 'Tis but a fingerling mist I tell you! Stand still, men, or it will drive ye mad!”

This advice did little to comfort the distraught sailors. Two old fellows had straddled the ship's rail, as if to throw themselves into the sea to escape the invisible horrors, when the entire scene silently began to reverse course. The figures slowly faded from Cecil's view, the fingers of mist retreating back into the surrounding cloud. The men regained their footing and lurched together in a clump on the deck, clutching each other and glancing up and down warily. All was still, the haze settling in a ring over the waves surrounding the ship.

In the quiet, Cecil had an odd, prickly sensation in his whiskers. Something cast a faint glow of light over the spot where he stood, and he looked up. The foggy cloud was still thick over the tops of the masts, but directly above him Cecil saw a brighter patch forming, oblong, with a darker swath in the center.
Must be the sun,
he thought,
burning through the mist
. The pale light brightened further and he felt warmed by it, held in it somehow. A long moment passed, and then the light faded rapidly. Cecil felt chilled in its absence, and a little lonely. He looked back at the crew, but none of them were looking up where the light had been.
Strange
,
he thought.

Over the hissing of the haze came another sound of heavy, churning water. Cecil pressed himself against the mast and pricked up his ears.
Now what?
he wondered, trying to disguise his substantial girth as a bundle of sailcloth. The fog off the bow of the ship was changing, thinning and darkening. Turning toward this new unknown, the men as a group took a step back in hushed fear. The wall of mist continued to dissolve bit by bit, and the churning grew louder and more powerful, until at last the mist dropped away entirely to reveal an astounding sight.

Looming above them, only yards away, was a vast brigantine under full sail.

Cecil's knees collapsed under him and the crew gasped in one giant intake. Blood-red flags flew on every mast, and leaning against the brig's railing was a cohort of grinning buccaneers. They were remarkably ugly, with missing teeth and gashed faces. Cecil might have laughed at their comical enthusiasm as they strained to get close enough to jump the gap and board the clipper, were it not for the impressive object each pirate held menacingly above his head—a long and glinting sword.

The cormorant's words flashed in Cecil's mind: “Get off the ship.”
And here's
an opportunity!
Suddenly energized, Cecil quickly surveyed the brigantine. She looked strong and trim, with all her rigging intact, unlike his own ship. The leering crew was well-fed, judging from the size of their overhanging bellies, and Cecil caught the scent of smoked meats wafting over on the breeze.
A pirate's life for me is what I always say, no?
Cecil ducked out of sight and waited for his chance. The pirate crew now began climbing the ratlines up the mast poles to the overhanging spars, where long ropes were fastened and coiled. With wild abandon and whooping war cries, they gripped the rope ends, leaped off the spars, and swung in long semicircles over to Cecil's ship, landing more or less on their feet with swords brandished.
They've done this before,
thought Cecil with admiration.

This new development shocked the clipper crew out of their stupor, and having no swords themselves, they grabbed whatever was at hand to mount a defense. Working efficiently, the pirates overwhelmed and pinned the sailors to the deck, quickly searching their pockets for anything of value. Cecil saw a swordsman neatly slice away a leather pouch of coins stashed inside the shirt of a passing sailor and held around his neck by a cordon, leaving the sailor lying dazed and gasping for breath.
No time like the present,
thought Cecil, and headed for the ratlines, stopping briefly by the coil of rope to retrieve the small red bag hidden there.

The ropes leading up were tied in a lattice pattern to form a kind of ladder stretching from the deck up to the spars that held the sails above. Cecil balanced along the lines, trying to move speedily but carefully, clambering up to the nearest long spar and then out to its farthest tip in the direction of the pirate ship.
Too far to jump,
he figured, and looked around hurriedly for another way. The captain emerged from the below-decks doorway, cursing with rage, his black eyes finding Cecil, the red pouch dangling from his mouth, up on the spar.

“Blast you, you thieving blackguard!” he roared. “Give me back my pearl!” The captain began shoving crewmen out of his way, advancing toward the lines. A seemingly endless stream of pirates continued to swing across the breach between the ships.

Here we go!
Cecil thought merrily as a howling pirate soared through the air toward him. The pirate let go and landed on the deck, and as the rope swung on past, Cecil held his breath and jumped. He dug all four sets of claws into the rope and clung fiercely as he swung back toward the pirate ship, still holding the red bag between his clenched teeth. The sickening drop carried him over his own deck, past the ocean between the two ships, and up over the deck of the brigantine.

Dropping in! What's for supper?
He sheathed all his claws quickly. Sliding partway down the rope and free-falling through the air, Cecil crash-landed awkwardly on top of the captain's map room, then rolled off the roof and down to the deck with a thud.
Ooof!
He opened his eyes and looked for a place to hide the red bag, though his head was reeling from the fall. A knothole in one of the deck boards behind a post would have to do for a hiding spot. He pushed the bag down into the hole with his nose, then looked around to get his bearings.