Of course, Kasia’s post was the galley, though she was also a dab hand at gutting and salting the catch. So they had time to talk.
He was as subtle as he could be, light-hearted, and finding odd bits and pieces of humorous things to tell her, to dispel the sadness which still lurked. And of an evening, or sailing to another likely spot to fish, he would manage to place himself close to her while they helped pass the time by singing. He toned down his heavier baritone to blend with her light voice in duets or choruses. He also picked up a few local work-songs, favoured by the Tillek Fishmen.
The most vivid memory he had of that seven-day was the sight of ship fish who were in the habit, Captain Gostol said, of accompanying the fishing vessels.
“That’s old Scarface, that is,” the captain said, pointing to one whose bottle-nose was indeed scarred. “Got hisself caught somewhere.”
“Are they singing?” Robinton asked, hearing sounds when the leaping shipfish were airborne.
“New, just the sounds they make, shooting the air out of them blow holes,” Gostol said. “Though I’ve known instances when a man blown overboard’s been rescued by “em.” He paused and tilted his head mid-ships. “Storm was too fierce to save that “un’s man.
Shame, too. Good fisher. Nice girl. She shouldn’t pine too long, ya think?” And now he cocked his head at Robinton, a sly grin on his rugged, weather-worn face.
Robinton laughed. “Considering how many fellows come round to see her at Tillek Hold, it’s only a question of her pointing a willing finger.”
“So you say, do you?” Then Gostol pointed. “She’s got another young’un since last time I saw her. That one with the mottled rostrum. See her?”
The shipfish was in fact almost hovering in the air, squeaking,
crackling at the humans, who she knew were admiring her. Her baby, half her size, was doing its best to match her leap.
“Do the same ones swim in these waters all the time?”
“Think so. Recognize “em certainly.” The captain gave an uncharacteristic sigh. “Like watching them. Sometimes,” he said, leaning his forearms on the rail, “I think they sort of’ – he made a slanting motion with his thick-fingered tight hand – “ease us one way or t’other, and we follow, “cos they seem to know where the fish are schooling.”
“Really?” Robinton leaned his arms on the rail too, as if he could get closer to the leaping shipfish who were still clicking and squeaking at him, almost as if they were saying something he just couldn’t quite catch.
“They’re good luck, they are. No fishman ignores them. Always give “em something from each net.” The captain stood up, peering over the rail, his stance alert. “Watch! Yup! We’re sailing tight into a mess a’ bordos. Good eating, bordo. Good for saltin’.” And he started forward, shouting orders to the crew to be ready to drop the nets.
Robinton could actually see the school over the starboard side of the Northern Maid. The sleek thick bodies were grey-striped, as long as his forearm, with bulging eyes on either side of their blunt heads. He’d never seen such a concentration of fish. Oh, he’d fished as a child down at Pietie Hold but had never seen a multitude.
However did they wend their way without accident? Did they have a leader’ the way some of the herd-beasts did? Or an instinct similar to dragons, who never interfered with each other even when they came out of between in wing formation? He was fascinated.
When Gostol roared out the command to lower the nets, Robinton went forward to lend a hand.
That was actually the last fair day of the run, for the clouds closed in and they had to work in a driving rain, making a difficult job even more arduous. Robinton was exhausted, his muscles protesting their abuse and his hands raw. So, when they finally had time to relax over a late meal and he was asked to play, he brought out his faithful pipe as being the easiest for his sore fingers.
He could not help but be relieved when they sailed back into the deep natural harbour which made Tillek the best port on the long western coast. There were long rows of terraced cots carved out -or built out from – the several levels of cliff above the harbour.