and that seemed to be enough for her. Just as the spring water was all she needed to sip, so short naps seemed all she needed to rest.
But some days a strange restlessness filled her. Thoughts of a tall young man with flame colored hair would plunge her into a deep melancholy. She could no longer recall his name. Her own name too sometimes eluded her. Had she ever had a family or lived anywhere else? She didn't recall, or when she did, the memories were misty and indistinct.
The rain fell, the moon rose, and in the unicorn clearing, a carpet of bluebells echoed the sky.
* * * *
In the ship's hold, the noise of cannons firing was deafening. Renaldo, assistant cook, had also been recruited into the artillery unit on the battleship. So far, they'd been in six skirmishes, and each one had ended with them victorious. This was the seventh, and things weren't faring as well.
Renaldo grabbed a barrel of gunpowder and lugged it up the narrow ladder to the mid-deck, where the cannons were. Heat shimmered off the iron, and smoke obscured the view. The ceiling was so low he had to stoop, the stench of burning gunpowder, hair, and skin stung his nose and throat. Renaldo shouldered his way past sweating artillery soldiers to his cannon. He set the powder down and wrenched the lid off, cutting his thumb on the sharp copper ring holding the lid down.
Cursing, he lifted out the paper package holding the dose of gunpowder for the cannon. Each barrel of powder held fifteen doses. This was his second barrel.
He shoved the packet into the cannon mouth and packed the powder. He'd had a second to help him, but early in the battle a stray bullet had felled him, and now he worked his cannon by himself. He packed the powder as tightly as possible. Leaning down, he opened the case containing the cannon balls. They were heavy, and his hands were slick with blood and sweat. Carefully he lifted one and let it roll into the cannon's mouth. It hit the packed powder with a thud.
Renaldo didn't stop to admire his work or check out what his neighboring artillery soldiers were doing. Load, fire, load, fire. That was all he did. He didn't even aim. It was useless to think of aiming. The cannons were lashed tightly to their moorings, their snouts facing out a square window.
He raised his arm and the igniter came running, carrying an iron rod heated white-hot. Renaldo stepped out of the way, and the igniter shoved the rod down the hole in the back of the cannon. The deafening explosion as the gun fired merged with the other cannons spitting their ammunition toward the enemy ship.
Renaldo didn't stop to watch the cannon balls skipping across the water to smash or miss the other ship. He grabbed another packet of gunpowder.
At that moment, a cannon ball hit his ship. There had been other hits. Many, in fact; and the worst damage came not from the hurtling iron or stone balls, but from the wood that splintered and flew like daggers. This cannon ball hit the ship and a shower of sharp splinters exploded. Renaldo threw himself flat, thus saving his hide. His head ringing from the noise, a trickle of blood running from his ear, Renaldo managed to open his eyes and take stock of the damage. He'd survived, but others around him were less lucky. The igniter stood, eyes blank with shock, as his shirt turned crimson.
Before Renaldo could get to his feet and catch him, the poor igniter, still clutching his metal rod, toppled to the floor. Fire bloomed from the tip, sizzling along a path of powder someone had dribbled upon the floor. The powder led to a keg, and before Renaldo's stunned mind could order his legs to run, the keg burst with a noise like a thunderclap, and three cannons and Renaldo were blown out to sea.
He never lost consciousness. He managed to grasp a floating spar, and he watched, his face wet with salt spray and tears, as the boat he'd been on heeled violently over and sank in a frothing swirl of smoke, flapping sails, and splintering masts. Three
But some days a strange restlessness filled her. Thoughts of a tall young man with flame colored hair would plunge her into a deep melancholy. She could no longer recall his name. Her own name too sometimes eluded her. Had she ever had a family or lived anywhere else? She didn't recall, or when she did, the memories were misty and indistinct.
The rain fell, the moon rose, and in the unicorn clearing, a carpet of bluebells echoed the sky.
* * * *
In the ship's hold, the noise of cannons firing was deafening. Renaldo, assistant cook, had also been recruited into the artillery unit on the battleship. So far, they'd been in six skirmishes, and each one had ended with them victorious. This was the seventh, and things weren't faring as well.
Renaldo grabbed a barrel of gunpowder and lugged it up the narrow ladder to the mid-deck, where the cannons were. Heat shimmered off the iron, and smoke obscured the view. The ceiling was so low he had to stoop, the stench of burning gunpowder, hair, and skin stung his nose and throat. Renaldo shouldered his way past sweating artillery soldiers to his cannon. He set the powder down and wrenched the lid off, cutting his thumb on the sharp copper ring holding the lid down.
Cursing, he lifted out the paper package holding the dose of gunpowder for the cannon. Each barrel of powder held fifteen doses. This was his second barrel.
He shoved the packet into the cannon mouth and packed the powder. He'd had a second to help him, but early in the battle a stray bullet had felled him, and now he worked his cannon by himself. He packed the powder as tightly as possible. Leaning down, he opened the case containing the cannon balls. They were heavy, and his hands were slick with blood and sweat. Carefully he lifted one and let it roll into the cannon's mouth. It hit the packed powder with a thud.
Renaldo didn't stop to admire his work or check out what his neighboring artillery soldiers were doing. Load, fire, load, fire. That was all he did. He didn't even aim. It was useless to think of aiming. The cannons were lashed tightly to their moorings, their snouts facing out a square window.
He raised his arm and the igniter came running, carrying an iron rod heated white-hot. Renaldo stepped out of the way, and the igniter shoved the rod down the hole in the back of the cannon. The deafening explosion as the gun fired merged with the other cannons spitting their ammunition toward the enemy ship.
Renaldo didn't stop to watch the cannon balls skipping across the water to smash or miss the other ship. He grabbed another packet of gunpowder.
At that moment, a cannon ball hit his ship. There had been other hits. Many, in fact; and the worst damage came not from the hurtling iron or stone balls, but from the wood that splintered and flew like daggers. This cannon ball hit the ship and a shower of sharp splinters exploded. Renaldo threw himself flat, thus saving his hide. His head ringing from the noise, a trickle of blood running from his ear, Renaldo managed to open his eyes and take stock of the damage. He'd survived, but others around him were less lucky. The igniter stood, eyes blank with shock, as his shirt turned crimson.
Before Renaldo could get to his feet and catch him, the poor igniter, still clutching his metal rod, toppled to the floor. Fire bloomed from the tip, sizzling along a path of powder someone had dribbled upon the floor. The powder led to a keg, and before Renaldo's stunned mind could order his legs to run, the keg burst with a noise like a thunderclap, and three cannons and Renaldo were blown out to sea.
He never lost consciousness. He managed to grasp a floating spar, and he watched, his face wet with salt spray and tears, as the boat he'd been on heeled violently over and sank in a frothing swirl of smoke, flapping sails, and splintering masts. Three
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