Liberty by Darcy Pattison

she be allowed aloft today?
    Penelope was an awkward climber, and she knew it; she had tried many methods, but without hands and fingers, she had few choices of climbing techniques. She had done chin ups and lifted weights, so she was confident her upper body strength was good enough to haul herself upward by wrapping a line around her foreleg and hooking it into the cleft of her hoof.
    Still, she worried. She could brag about her abilities to furl and unfurl, but in reality, her skills aloft were untested.
    She pulled up another boring bucket of water and looked longingly at the ropes above her.
    â€œOdd, Beefie, Penelope. Tighten the mainsail.” Frenchie’s shiny beak jabbed upward.
    Finally. She was going to do the work of a sailor. She was going to be a sailor.
    She dumped out the bucket over the rail and eagerly started climbing the rigging along with the other two sailors, the only experienced sailors on their watch. Above her, moaning in the breeze, were acres of canvas.
    She was glad her first orders were to take care of the mainsail, and she didn’t have to climb far. She climbed with determination—awkward, but making steady progress. But when she was only halfway up, the others had already reached the top of the mainsail. They balanced on the yard, the horizontal wooden crosspiece, and sang a shanty while they pulled on lines. Odd—an odd name for a sailor—was the shanty man; he was skinny, with frizzy, wind-blown hair. It was a shanty Penelope recognized, and she joined in, singing happily as she climbed.
    Aloft, it was windier, with a brisk breeze that cooled her brow. By the time she reached the mainsail’s yard, though, the job was done, and the other sailors were descending.
    Her heart dropped. After two years of dreaming of this moment, she was slow and clumsy. She stood on the mast’s yardarm; her hooves couldn’t grip the wood like men’s toes or a polar bear’s paws. Carefully, she balanced and wrapped a line around one foreleg.
    The sky, the water, the wind—she soaked in the glorious moment. It smelled wet and salty and sweet. Around her, the sails were alive and crooning. Joy filled her like the wind filled the sails: this is what it was like to be a sailor.
    A sudden gust caught her, and her hooves slipped on the smooth wood, plunging her downward. She dangled by her foreleg. Desperately, she swung her hind legs toward the yard, but she was hanging too far away. Then the wind twisted the ropes. No! It wasn’t fair! Then, just like that—she was falling.
    As she fell, she heard a cry: “Man overboard!”
    Penelope fell and fell. She plunged past the warm upper layer into cold water. Panicked, she kicked hard. Kick, kick. Kick, kick. And finally, she bobbed to the surface. She gulped air. The surface was warm and glittery with sunlight. The dunking actually made her queasy stomach feel better. But she couldn’t swim. She went down again.
    Angrily, she kicked all four legs. It was awkward and tiring, but she found she could keep her head above water. Barely. She didn’t make forward progress, but she didn’t sink, either.
    The ship had raced forward, but she could see it was starting to turn and come around to pick her up. Despair flooded through her. She had only been on the mainsail, and it was a clear day with a gentle breeze.
    When she stood dripping before Captain Kingsley, the polar bear drummed his hairy paws on the rails.  “Foolish pig! What would you do if I send you aloft on a stormy day?”
    She didn’t have an answer. “I stood on the yardarm. The sails were singing for me.”
    â€œNo.” Captain Kingsley towered over her. “I should’ve known better. Hoofed creatures, intelligent or not, are a danger to our ship when they go aloft. You’re grounded.”
    A great sadness filled her chest. She wanted to be competent aloft; she had tried to be. It was hard to keep the longing