clacks once decisively, and Jeryon would swear itâs pointing its skinny claw at him. A chorus of clicks erupts from the neck, followed by dozens of the huge blue crabs, which charge across the hollow, claws raised.
Jeryon slides down the rise and flees downstream.
The crabs spread across the water and the banks. They leap from tree trunk to tree trunk. A few get into the canopy and leap along the branches like spiders until they dive at him, but miss and crack open on the rocks in the stream.
He counts the blazes. When he gets to the grassland, he thinks heâll be able to lose them in the brush. This is their island, though, and as he veers into the underbrush it trips him up. Ship life makes for strong bodies, but not fleet runners. He returns to the stream and hurtles downhill.
His salvation is the pond, where the fat black frogs prove a more tempting meal than the bounding brown man. The frogs dive deep, the crabs plunge in, the frogs hop out, and soon his pursuers are scattering through the forest while he races past the shega tree. Thatâs enough exploring for one day.
For the rest of the afternoon he weaves bamboo and vines into a lean-to, periodically feasting on the increasingly fatalistic white crabs. He also makes himself three spears, a bamboo handle for his blade,and a set of cups to replace the one he left at the dragon hollow. He sets the lean-to against a spur of cliff at the edge of the beach and puts the spears inside. Then he makes a bow drill out of vine and bamboo, gathers firewood, scrapes himself a pile of tinder, and gets a blaze going in pits on either side of the lean-to. If a ship sees his fire, if the poth sees its smoke, so be it. Theyâre meant to keep the white crabs at bay. The spears are for the blue ones, although he doubts they stray far from the dragon.
A few more crab claws and legs grilled on bamboo skewers, several more cups of water, and the shega, then Jeryon lets himself fall asleep long before star-rise.
Nevertheless he bolts up in the middle of the night. The pits glow red. Shadows seethe in the lean-to. The sand is skillet hard. The sea will not stop sizzling on the beach. Knowing that no one can hear him, that no one might ever hear him again, Jeryon screams and screams and sobs and screams.
3
----
Four days later, Jeryon jiggles a blue crabâs shell above a fire, using two wet palm leaves folded into squares as pot holders. The crabâs body meat falls off skewers too easily, so he begins frying a mix of blue and white with the paste of crushed olives. The bitterness is worth the oil. With his other hand he pours water from a broad bamboo culm into a cup. As someone who lives from berth to berth, port to port, he knows that wherever your plate and cup are, thatâs your home.
Having a detailed schedule is as good as having oars tick his way through the day, so he plans his next assault on the blue crabs. His system is simple: get them to chase him, run to the frog pond, and once they scatter spear them one by one.
With a bamboo spatula he transfers the cooked meat to anotherblue crab shell, his plate. He wishes he had a pot to make soup. His sister made an excellent one, but after she left, Jeryon couldnât stomach crab for a long time. Then he ate it to remind himself of her. At some point it lost the quality of remembrance and became just another bland seafood. His taste for it is returning, heâs surprised to find.
He banks the fire, no longer trying to maintain a steady stream of smoke to attract ships or the poth. It breaks up too quickly in the ever-present breeze, barely reaching the tops of the trees, let alone the tops of the adjoining cliffs. As for the light attracting ships, thereâs little point in bothering. His second night on the island he built a cross-staff to confirm what he already suspected from the starâs positions: the island is deep in the ocean, well south of any route a ship from the League might take
Jeryon slides down the rise and flees downstream.
The crabs spread across the water and the banks. They leap from tree trunk to tree trunk. A few get into the canopy and leap along the branches like spiders until they dive at him, but miss and crack open on the rocks in the stream.
He counts the blazes. When he gets to the grassland, he thinks heâll be able to lose them in the brush. This is their island, though, and as he veers into the underbrush it trips him up. Ship life makes for strong bodies, but not fleet runners. He returns to the stream and hurtles downhill.
His salvation is the pond, where the fat black frogs prove a more tempting meal than the bounding brown man. The frogs dive deep, the crabs plunge in, the frogs hop out, and soon his pursuers are scattering through the forest while he races past the shega tree. Thatâs enough exploring for one day.
For the rest of the afternoon he weaves bamboo and vines into a lean-to, periodically feasting on the increasingly fatalistic white crabs. He also makes himself three spears, a bamboo handle for his blade,and a set of cups to replace the one he left at the dragon hollow. He sets the lean-to against a spur of cliff at the edge of the beach and puts the spears inside. Then he makes a bow drill out of vine and bamboo, gathers firewood, scrapes himself a pile of tinder, and gets a blaze going in pits on either side of the lean-to. If a ship sees his fire, if the poth sees its smoke, so be it. Theyâre meant to keep the white crabs at bay. The spears are for the blue ones, although he doubts they stray far from the dragon.
A few more crab claws and legs grilled on bamboo skewers, several more cups of water, and the shega, then Jeryon lets himself fall asleep long before star-rise.
Nevertheless he bolts up in the middle of the night. The pits glow red. Shadows seethe in the lean-to. The sand is skillet hard. The sea will not stop sizzling on the beach. Knowing that no one can hear him, that no one might ever hear him again, Jeryon screams and screams and sobs and screams.
3
----
Four days later, Jeryon jiggles a blue crabâs shell above a fire, using two wet palm leaves folded into squares as pot holders. The crabâs body meat falls off skewers too easily, so he begins frying a mix of blue and white with the paste of crushed olives. The bitterness is worth the oil. With his other hand he pours water from a broad bamboo culm into a cup. As someone who lives from berth to berth, port to port, he knows that wherever your plate and cup are, thatâs your home.
Having a detailed schedule is as good as having oars tick his way through the day, so he plans his next assault on the blue crabs. His system is simple: get them to chase him, run to the frog pond, and once they scatter spear them one by one.
With a bamboo spatula he transfers the cooked meat to anotherblue crab shell, his plate. He wishes he had a pot to make soup. His sister made an excellent one, but after she left, Jeryon couldnât stomach crab for a long time. Then he ate it to remind himself of her. At some point it lost the quality of remembrance and became just another bland seafood. His taste for it is returning, heâs surprised to find.
He banks the fire, no longer trying to maintain a steady stream of smoke to attract ships or the poth. It breaks up too quickly in the ever-present breeze, barely reaching the tops of the trees, let alone the tops of the adjoining cliffs. As for the light attracting ships, thereâs little point in bothering. His second night on the island he built a cross-staff to confirm what he already suspected from the starâs positions: the island is deep in the ocean, well south of any route a ship from the League might take
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