Liberty by Darcy Pattison Page A

from her voice, “From the yardarm, the horizon looked so wide.”
    â€œNo. You’re the cook’s assistant.”
    In the tight circle of sailors surrounding them, Penelope saw Santiago’s dark face grimace. Her lack of skills reflected on him, too. Of course, he understood her disappointment, but he had the perfect job: navigators seldom had to climb the rigging. It wasn’t fair!
    Penelope shook herself, and then wiped her nose on her foreleg. Captain Kingsley was right. Her hooves handicapped her, and she was dangerous to herself and the ship.
    An hour ago, she had still been blinded by her dreams; she would be an agile sailor, climbing through the rigging as nimbly as a monkey. Instead, she was betrayed by her body. She had a sailor’s heart trapped in a pig’s thick, clumsy torso; she was mocked by hooves instead of fingers. Bodies give creatures and humans certain possibilities and deny them others. A 300-pound gorilla couldn’t dance ballet. A heron couldn’t lift a 300-pound block of ice. But Penelope had never thought about her body this way. It hit her now with a heaviness in her muscles; on small sailboats, she and Santiago might manage, but not on larger ships where they had to climb rigging.
    But an assistant cook? It was almost more than she could bear. It was hard to give up a dream. She was a crewmember of a tall ship, one of the fastest ships ever made. And on the first day, she was demoted to assistant cook.
    Something else struck her, too. Captain Kingsley had known all along what would happen. He had known pigs couldn’t climb. He didn’t care if she was a sailor or an assistant cook, so long as he got Santiago to search for maps. This, she decided bitterly, was enough repayment for Captain Kingsley; to her, it would balance the scales of justice. She would serve willingly as assistant cook until they returned to Boston, but she owed him nothing else for saving her life. The only thing she would worry about now was the sea serpent question.
    In her cabin, Penelope pulled a dry set of clothes from her footlocker.
    Santiago came into the cabin, his face dark and worried. “When you fell overboard, I wanted to jump in after you. Frenchie wouldn’t let me.”
    Shaking her head, Penelope tried to button her clothes. Cricket had replaced many of the hard-to-use buttons with Chinese frog closures; even these were particularly hard today. “You can’t swim either. That would’ve been foolish.”
    â€œI know. But I wanted to do something. Captain Kingsley was harsh.”
    â€œNo, he’s right. I should never go aloft again.”
    Santiago’s shoulders sagged. “This isn’t how I wanted it to be.”
    Penelope shrugged. “There’s nothing you can do.” She pushed past him and reported to the cook. She knew she was being short with Santiago, but she needed time to adjust to this change.
    Cactus, the cook, was the same small but stalwart porcupine who had served stew for the iceman at Fresh Pond, the one who had wrapped hot water bottles around her as she lay in the sleigh after nearly drowning.
    â€œTough luck,” he said cheerfully. “But you’re still at sea. And we’ve got lots of work to do. Do you know anything about cooking?”
    â€œI’ve helped the cook at the Tea Party Inn.”
    Cactus tried to make her feel comfortable in the tiny galley, but it was laid out for his compact body and agile hands. Counters were low, and drawers were awkwardly spaced for her. He set her to work peeling potatoes, but she was clumsy with the knife. He set her to stirring the huge pot of stew, instead. Finally, he set her to washing dishes, which was easy since the plates were tin and unbreakable.
    That night, after their first full day of sailing, Penelope and Santiago were so tired they threw themselves into the small bunk they shared in the navigator’s quarters. At least Penelope