The Keeper of the Octopus, page 6
‘It sounded awful, Uncle,’ said Pippy, venturing to say more. ‘It’s just that I’m not so sure the imbalance was all the sharks’ fault.’
‘How do we know what really happened, Pippy?’ said Uncle Isaac, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. ‘It was so long ago. I’m just repeating history as it were told to me by my granda. But you mark my words, Pippy, the old ways are always the best ways.’
Pippy wasn’t going to argue with Uncle Isaac, even though she didn’t think that the sharks were responsible for the imbalance of the sea in 1681. Her mama told her once that the unseasonal weather in 1681 had upset the feeding and breeding habits of many animals. That year the tuna didn’t run, the penguins didn’t come home and the shearwaters didn’t return from their migration. And, Papa had added, there was no bonney upwelling.
The bonney upwelling was an annual, seasonal phenomenon where strong southerly winds brought cold, nutrient rich waters to the surface of the sea. Algae and krill would bloom, providing food for all fish, including sharks, seals and blue whales.
But Pippy truly felt there was something else amiss that would have caused the sharks to attack the fishers in the river. There had to be a missing piece to the puzzle. She just couldn’t figure out what.
Turning her face into the wind, Pippy watched Uncle Isaac set their bearings. She noticed the wind was beginning to skiff and bluster, but thought nothing of it – they were in Skiffy Bay, after all.
‘Could be a storm abrewing, Pippy bairn,’ called Uncle Isaac. ‘But it’ll go south and miss us. We’ll just drop a few craypots in.’
Manning the sails, Pippy followed Uncle Isaac’s commands without a second thought. She could feel the wind bluster and strengthen even more, but if her uncle wasn’t concerned, neither was she.
For some reason, Fairweather kept squawking and swooping in different directions. He was so loud that Pippy paused to look up at him. What on earth is he carrying on about?
Then Pippy turned around and took in her surroundings. With a start, she realised they were no longer in Skiffy Bay. A shiver went up her spine as she scanned the horizon. There was not a sliver of land to be seen. Not north, not south, not east, not west. They never sailed out into the open ocean without land in their sights.
‘No!’ whispered Pippy, shaking her head as it began to rain sideways. Her palms went all clammy as black spots appeared in the corners of her eyes. Pippy breathed in and out three times, trying to calm herself. ‘Uncle Isaac, where are we?’ yelled Pippy. The wind snatched at her words, plastering strands of wet hair across her face.
‘Don’t fuss yourself now, bairn,’ said Uncle Isaac. ‘We’re sailing south-east like we always do.’ Her uncle held up the compass for her to see.
‘No, we’re not,’ yelled Pippy, pointing at the bezel settings. ‘We’re heading south.’
Uncle Isaac looked at Pippy in surprise. Then his face twisted into a dawning realisation with the horror that he’d misread their bearings – where on earth were they?
Pippy saw confusion clouding in Uncle Isaac’s eyes. His fingers fumbled as he tried to re-set their bearings on the compass, but there were no landmarks to bear upon.
‘Crusty craypots!’ said Uncle Isaac. ‘Me … me mind’s gone blank. I have no idea what to do … I’ve forgotten what to do!’
‘It’s all right,’ yelled Pippy, gripping his hands, which were trembling and frozen.
‘It’s happening again … I’m losing me words,’ wailed Uncle Isaac, and his face crumpled.
‘It’s all right,’ Pippy kept yelling over and over. But everything definitely was not all right, and as she glanced ahead, she discovered they were sailing into dark rolling clouds.
There was a storm approaching, and Pippy didn’t have a moment to lose to get them out of its path.
Unravelling the man overboard rope from the mainmast, Pippy hitched it around Uncle Isaac’s waist, making him sit down against the mainmast. He clung to it like a limpet to a rock and began to sob. It wounded Pippy to hear it. They were two fish in a craypot, yes, but it didn’t matter how much she wanted to deny it − Uncle Isaac had put them in serious danger.
The storm was coming on swiftly and Pippy needed to change direction to get them out of the way. Now!
But Pippy had never sailed the Flying Seahorse singlehandedly before. Her palms began to sweat and her insides began to jitter.
‘I can do this,’ whispered Pippy. Ignoring Uncle Isaac’s wailing, she instead imagined him shouting orders at her. She could do this. She’d been sailing since she was a wean. Uncle Isaac had told her once that a tiller never forgets a hand that steers it, so she had to trust it. She had to trust herself. She had to be brave.
Pippy grabbed the tiller and secured it with a latch. Buccaneer’s yellow eyes widened when he saw her at the helm. His whiskers twitched in the wind as he swayed and rolled with the boat.
‘Buccaneer! Go down the hatch. It’s too rough,’ cried Pippy. But the cat raised his head and yowled at the oncoming storm.
Pippy scrambled along the deck like a crab, talking out loud to herself. ‘Boom coming.’ And she swung it across. ‘Ready to jibe,’ she commanded, and she ducked beneath it as she unfurled the mainsail. She watched it fill, trimming it quickly, before dashing back to the tiller.
The boat slowed on the starboard side, then leaped forward again as the flapping sail filled as tight as a drum. She felt the bite of the rudder in the current and she leaned into it, gripping the tiller.
Pippy watched the darkening sky as the Flying Seahorse raced the storm. Waves churned black and menacing as the little boat bucked and kicked and bounced along. Clouds swirled and roiled above and the wind began to howl in earnest.
Crouched at the stern, Pippy fought to hold the tiller steady as they were pitched and tossed around. She heard a loud snap and a whirr as a halyard rope gave way on the mainsail.
‘Uncle Isaac?!’ Pippy called out, but her uncle was clinging on to the mainmast, wailing and completely unaware of what had just happened.
Pippy looked up to see the sail slacken and the boom swinging wildly back across the deck. Pippy ducked, but it took Buccaneer with it.
The cat flew through the air, yowling and somersaulting before plopping into the ocean. Of course, a ship’s cat knew how to swim, and Buccaneer’s little head bobbed up and down as he furiously paddled his legs, fighting to stay afloat.
Pippy dared not lose sight of Buccaneer. He was a tiny dot in the ocean as it chopped and churned. Never taking her eyes off the swimming cat, Pippy latched the tiller. She fumbled as she opened a cupboard beneath the seat at the stern and dragged out a cork life buoy. It was attached to the boat by a length of rope, always in readiness for a rescue.
As Pippy swung her arm back and forth, she felt the amulet growing warm against her chest. She tossed the life buoy to Buccaneer, but it was a poor throw, landing too far away for the cat to reach it.
Pippy watched as Buccaneer bravely tried to swim towards the life buoy. He was getting closer and closer, but his strokes were growing weary. A wave dunked him and his head began bobbing beneath the water.
‘Keep swimming!’ yelled Pippy. Just as Buccaneer’s little head sank again, his whole body suddenly rose above the waves. It was as if he was being held up by some great force. The amulet pulsed a vibrant purple against Pippy’s breastbone, and she realised Buccaneer was actually being held up by a great force. He was being held up by the great arms of Octavia! Pippy’s heart squeezed. Once again, Octavia had come to their rescue.
Pippy scrabbled to the gunwale to take Buccaneer from Octavia’s arms. Pippy bundled the half-drowned Buccaneer up inside her gansey. He was exhausted and shivering.
Then Octavia did something remarkable, and it happened so fast, Pippy couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. Octavia gripped onto the Flying Seahorse with five of her arms and pulled herself from the water. The boat tipped with her weight, and Pippy stood open-mouthed at the sight. Octavia lashed another two arms around the mainmast, and used her remaining arm to snatch the thrashing halyard rope. She reefed on it with her mighty power, then handed the rope to Pippy.
Holding grimly on, Pippy tugged the rope until the boom swung back into place. She hurriedly lashed it to a bow ring, securing it with the tightest knot she knew: a double clove hitch. The mainsail filled taut again and the boat leaped forward and away from the squalling storm.
‘Thank you, Octavia,’ yelled Pippy against the wind, and for a brief moment, they locked eyes. Octavia blinked and submerged into the deep, no doubt returning to the safety of her den.
Pippy sat herself at the stern to take control of the tiller. She hugged the wet lump in her gansey and felt Buccaneer curling himself against her.
The Flying Seahorse sailed on and on until at last the wind abated and the waves ceased, and they drifted into calmer waters. They were out of the path of the storm and Pippy watched the grey, rain-laden clouds rumble past them, rolling towards land far west of Portablow. Almost immediately, the sky began to clear and Fairweather reappeared.
‘Land ahoy,’ called Pippy, as a sliver of land appeared to the north-east. As she swung the bow into the wind, Uncle Isaac untied himself and staggered over to sit beside her.
‘Crusty … doodads,’ said Uncle Isaac, rubbing his face.
Pippy clasped one of his ropey old hands in hers. They were comforting hands, hands she’d known and loved all her life. But Uncle Isaac looked down at her now as if she were a complete stranger.
‘Who might you be?’ asked Uncle Isaac, looking at Pippy. ‘And what am I doing out here?’
‘It’s me. Pippy,’ she whispered, her stomach dropping like an anchor.
Uncle Isaac’s eyes were glazed and blank. Pippy placed his hand on the tiller so he could feel the grab and pull of the current, in the hope that something familiar might bring him back to her.
‘Argh. God of … whatsit? … argh, help me,’ muttered Uncle Isaac. ‘I’m lost to meself.’
‘No, you’re not, Uncle Isaac,’ said Pippy, trying to sound convincing. Trying to sound reassuring. ‘Your words will come back to you, they always do.’
‘Don’t whatchmacallit … leave me, bairn,’ said Uncle Isaac, sniffling.
‘I won’t leave you,’ said Pippy, and she meant it with all her heart. She linked an arm tightly though his. ‘You’re not alone,’ she whispered to him. They were the same words Octavia had chanted to her in the deep, words that had comforted her at a time when she needed it, as she hoped they would Uncle Isaac.
The Flying Seahorse bucked on the waves as Fairweather flew ahead of them, squawking as he led the way. The little boat sailed along strong and true, taking them closer and closer to home.
Somehow, Pippy managed to get Uncle Isaac off the Flying Seahorse and onto the wharf. Luckily, Wally was just leaving the fishmongers when he saw her from the doorway.
‘What’s happened, Pippy?’ asked Wally, hobbling towards them. But he could tell from Uncle Isaac’s wild mutterings, all was not well.
Mr and Mrs Wheaton appeared and they sat Uncle Isaac down upon a stack of craypots.
‘I’ll get Bill the Carrier to take him home,’ said Mr Wheaton, hurrying away, his brow creased. Mrs Wheaton produced a blanket and wrapped it around Uncle Isaac’s shoulders. She then wordlessly produced two knitted caps from her apron. One, she shoved onto Pippy’s head, over her ears; the other she jammed onto Wally’s wild head of hair.
Bill and his little grey pony carted them back to Bittern Cottage, where Wally and Mr Wheaton helped Uncle Isaac inside and upstairs to his bedroom.
Pippy felt heavy with sadness. Uncle Isaac’s memory was getting worse. He’d just put both their lives in terrible danger. It was as if his brain was erasing everything he’d ever known, including her, and that was what hurt the most. She had to do more to help him, more to look after him, but she wasn’t sure how much more she could do unless she was with him for every minute of every day.
Pippy was so full of worry about Uncle Isaac she forgot that someone else needed her care, too: she hadn’t fed Octavia!
The night was windless as Pippy swam on an ebb tide. She glided swiftly through the water, heading in a south-easterly direction, past the sheltered shallow cove and into Skiffy Bay. Hugging the shoreline, Pippy felt like she was on her way somewhere, to see something special. Her skin prickled with anticipation.
Arriving at Skiffy Beach, Pippy was surprised to discover that there was no swell. The surf had lulled into a rare silence. She’d never seen it like this, and marvelled at it.
Pippy floated in the calm sea, suspended. She occasionally sculled with her hands, kicking her feet to keep herself buoyant. After a while a funny feeling washed over her as she felt the creeping movement of company. She rolled over and floated on her stomach. Staring in wide-eyed wonder, she saw the shimmering patterns of thousands upon thousands of orange starfish below her, inching along the sandy bottom of Skiffy Bay.
Pippy bobbed and floated, lifting her head every now and then to take a breath of air, before continuing to watch the starfish on the move. She felt as if the world had been turned upside down, that the stars were now below and no longer above. But when she rolled over onto her back again, she was greeted by a star-filled night sky.
Eventually, an urge to swim home came upon Pippy. She began to paddle, but she couldn’t see her arms. She could feel them; they were still there, still attached to her body, but when she looked for them, what she saw made her gasp. They weren’t her arms at all − they were tentacles. Octavia’s arms!
Pippy woke up in the dark, gulping for air. She flexed her hands and squeezed her arms, making sure they were still there. And they were. Then she touched her hair, checking to see if it was wet. It wasn’t. But her dream had felt so real.
She sat up to find Ferg at the foot of her bed, picking at his toenails. They were yellow and thick and curling upwards.
‘Is it real, Ferg? Are my dreams real?’ whispered Pippy.
‘It’s not for me to say what’s real and what’s not, Pippy Cocklebiddy, daughter of Claudine,’ said Ferg, scraping at something green and foul smelling from beneath his toenail. ‘Your mama had the sight, so your dreams could be real.’
Pippy sat up straight against her pillow. ‘You think I’m like my mama?’
She remembered her mama used to see things in her dreams. She would dream about the blue whales arriving, and then the next day they’d be seen in Skiffy Bay. She had dreams about babies before they were born, always asking the prospective parents if they wanted to know if it was a boy or a girl. Mama also knew where the best fishing spots were, and where they should drop their pots to catch crays.
‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ said Ferg, smiling as he began picking at another toenail. ‘My advice is to listen to your dreams, Pippy Cocklebiddy. Don’t be afraid of them.’
Pippy had been enjoying the fact that her nightmares had been replaced by pleasant dreams. But now she felt a little worried. What did her dreams mean? Was there a message in them for her? Was she missing something?
From the moment Pippy opened her eyes in bed that morning, she felt guilt-ridden about forgetting to feed Octavia. What sort of Keeper am I? She threw on her clothes before taking the stairs two steps at a time up to Uncle Isaac’s bedroom. Ferg was sitting by his bedside, watching him. Even in his sleep, Uncle Isaac’s face wore a pinched, anxious expression.
‘How is he?’ Pippy whispered to Ferg. She felt torn; she didn’t want to leave Uncle Isaac, but had to go and feed Octavia.
‘He’s comfortable enough, Pippy Cocklebiddy, daughter of Claudine, niece of the great fisher Isaac Marguettes. He needs rest is all,’ said Ferg. ‘You’d better go and feed the giant cephalopod. I’ll look after the old galoot.’
‘How did you know I’d forgotten?’ asked Pippy.
‘I know lots of things,’ said Ferg, cocking his head at her. ‘Don’t fuss nowt. Claudine forgot, once or twice.’
Pippy smiled at Ferg gratefully and kissed her uncle on the forehead. She watched Ferg tuck another blanket in around Uncle Isaac before she hurried downstairs, out of the cottage and down to the wharf, Fairweather taking off with a whoosh behind her.
Mr Wheaton lumbered out from the bakery eating a warm bun for breakfast, and he held one out for Pippy as she streaked by.
‘How’s Isaac, bairn?’ called Mr Wheaton, his brow crinkled.
‘He’s … he’s asleep. Thank you, Mr Wheaton,’ said Pippy, not really knowing how to answer as she pushed the bun deep into her pocket for later.
‘A scarf! You need a scarf!’ yelled Mrs Wheaton from deep inside the shop as she stoked the ovens.
Pippy hurried on before Mrs Wheaton could wrap her in bundles of wool, arriving at the wharf where Stinger Ray had just moored his boat.
‘Here you go, bairn,’ said Stinger, handing Pippy a bucket of fish. ‘It feels like history repeating itself here. I used to hand the very same bucket of fish to your mama.’
Pippy smiled at Stinger as she took the bucket from him.
‘I never knew what Claudine wanted ’em for,’ Stinger said softly. ‘I never asked, but I knew it was important. I been getting fish for Isaac for months now, and I never asked him – and I won’t question you either. But if you ever need my help, Pippy, you only have to ask.’
‘Thank you, Stinger,’ whispered Pippy, his kindness making her feel all warm inside. Uncle Isaac told her that for generations, Stinger Ray’s family had caught fish for the Keeper of the Octopus. And Pippy did feel like she could ask almost anything of Stinger and he would help her.
‘How is Isaac, bairn?’ asked Stinger, lines etched across his craggy face.
‘Uncle Isaac’s a little shaken up, but he’s all right,’ said Pippy.
She thanked Stinger before taking off over the footbridge, swinging her bucket of fish in time with her stride. She started towards the river mouth, but unusually, Fairweather swooped low and veered off the path, away from the river to the east. Never one to doubt him, Pippy followed, taking the narrow sandy track that was a shortcut through the forest onto Skiffy Beach.
‘How do we know what really happened, Pippy?’ said Uncle Isaac, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. ‘It was so long ago. I’m just repeating history as it were told to me by my granda. But you mark my words, Pippy, the old ways are always the best ways.’
Pippy wasn’t going to argue with Uncle Isaac, even though she didn’t think that the sharks were responsible for the imbalance of the sea in 1681. Her mama told her once that the unseasonal weather in 1681 had upset the feeding and breeding habits of many animals. That year the tuna didn’t run, the penguins didn’t come home and the shearwaters didn’t return from their migration. And, Papa had added, there was no bonney upwelling.
The bonney upwelling was an annual, seasonal phenomenon where strong southerly winds brought cold, nutrient rich waters to the surface of the sea. Algae and krill would bloom, providing food for all fish, including sharks, seals and blue whales.
But Pippy truly felt there was something else amiss that would have caused the sharks to attack the fishers in the river. There had to be a missing piece to the puzzle. She just couldn’t figure out what.
Turning her face into the wind, Pippy watched Uncle Isaac set their bearings. She noticed the wind was beginning to skiff and bluster, but thought nothing of it – they were in Skiffy Bay, after all.
‘Could be a storm abrewing, Pippy bairn,’ called Uncle Isaac. ‘But it’ll go south and miss us. We’ll just drop a few craypots in.’
Manning the sails, Pippy followed Uncle Isaac’s commands without a second thought. She could feel the wind bluster and strengthen even more, but if her uncle wasn’t concerned, neither was she.
For some reason, Fairweather kept squawking and swooping in different directions. He was so loud that Pippy paused to look up at him. What on earth is he carrying on about?
Then Pippy turned around and took in her surroundings. With a start, she realised they were no longer in Skiffy Bay. A shiver went up her spine as she scanned the horizon. There was not a sliver of land to be seen. Not north, not south, not east, not west. They never sailed out into the open ocean without land in their sights.
‘No!’ whispered Pippy, shaking her head as it began to rain sideways. Her palms went all clammy as black spots appeared in the corners of her eyes. Pippy breathed in and out three times, trying to calm herself. ‘Uncle Isaac, where are we?’ yelled Pippy. The wind snatched at her words, plastering strands of wet hair across her face.
‘Don’t fuss yourself now, bairn,’ said Uncle Isaac. ‘We’re sailing south-east like we always do.’ Her uncle held up the compass for her to see.
‘No, we’re not,’ yelled Pippy, pointing at the bezel settings. ‘We’re heading south.’
Uncle Isaac looked at Pippy in surprise. Then his face twisted into a dawning realisation with the horror that he’d misread their bearings – where on earth were they?
Pippy saw confusion clouding in Uncle Isaac’s eyes. His fingers fumbled as he tried to re-set their bearings on the compass, but there were no landmarks to bear upon.
‘Crusty craypots!’ said Uncle Isaac. ‘Me … me mind’s gone blank. I have no idea what to do … I’ve forgotten what to do!’
‘It’s all right,’ yelled Pippy, gripping his hands, which were trembling and frozen.
‘It’s happening again … I’m losing me words,’ wailed Uncle Isaac, and his face crumpled.
‘It’s all right,’ Pippy kept yelling over and over. But everything definitely was not all right, and as she glanced ahead, she discovered they were sailing into dark rolling clouds.
There was a storm approaching, and Pippy didn’t have a moment to lose to get them out of its path.
Unravelling the man overboard rope from the mainmast, Pippy hitched it around Uncle Isaac’s waist, making him sit down against the mainmast. He clung to it like a limpet to a rock and began to sob. It wounded Pippy to hear it. They were two fish in a craypot, yes, but it didn’t matter how much she wanted to deny it − Uncle Isaac had put them in serious danger.
The storm was coming on swiftly and Pippy needed to change direction to get them out of the way. Now!
But Pippy had never sailed the Flying Seahorse singlehandedly before. Her palms began to sweat and her insides began to jitter.
‘I can do this,’ whispered Pippy. Ignoring Uncle Isaac’s wailing, she instead imagined him shouting orders at her. She could do this. She’d been sailing since she was a wean. Uncle Isaac had told her once that a tiller never forgets a hand that steers it, so she had to trust it. She had to trust herself. She had to be brave.
Pippy grabbed the tiller and secured it with a latch. Buccaneer’s yellow eyes widened when he saw her at the helm. His whiskers twitched in the wind as he swayed and rolled with the boat.
‘Buccaneer! Go down the hatch. It’s too rough,’ cried Pippy. But the cat raised his head and yowled at the oncoming storm.
Pippy scrambled along the deck like a crab, talking out loud to herself. ‘Boom coming.’ And she swung it across. ‘Ready to jibe,’ she commanded, and she ducked beneath it as she unfurled the mainsail. She watched it fill, trimming it quickly, before dashing back to the tiller.
The boat slowed on the starboard side, then leaped forward again as the flapping sail filled as tight as a drum. She felt the bite of the rudder in the current and she leaned into it, gripping the tiller.
Pippy watched the darkening sky as the Flying Seahorse raced the storm. Waves churned black and menacing as the little boat bucked and kicked and bounced along. Clouds swirled and roiled above and the wind began to howl in earnest.
Crouched at the stern, Pippy fought to hold the tiller steady as they were pitched and tossed around. She heard a loud snap and a whirr as a halyard rope gave way on the mainsail.
‘Uncle Isaac?!’ Pippy called out, but her uncle was clinging on to the mainmast, wailing and completely unaware of what had just happened.
Pippy looked up to see the sail slacken and the boom swinging wildly back across the deck. Pippy ducked, but it took Buccaneer with it.
The cat flew through the air, yowling and somersaulting before plopping into the ocean. Of course, a ship’s cat knew how to swim, and Buccaneer’s little head bobbed up and down as he furiously paddled his legs, fighting to stay afloat.
Pippy dared not lose sight of Buccaneer. He was a tiny dot in the ocean as it chopped and churned. Never taking her eyes off the swimming cat, Pippy latched the tiller. She fumbled as she opened a cupboard beneath the seat at the stern and dragged out a cork life buoy. It was attached to the boat by a length of rope, always in readiness for a rescue.
As Pippy swung her arm back and forth, she felt the amulet growing warm against her chest. She tossed the life buoy to Buccaneer, but it was a poor throw, landing too far away for the cat to reach it.
Pippy watched as Buccaneer bravely tried to swim towards the life buoy. He was getting closer and closer, but his strokes were growing weary. A wave dunked him and his head began bobbing beneath the water.
‘Keep swimming!’ yelled Pippy. Just as Buccaneer’s little head sank again, his whole body suddenly rose above the waves. It was as if he was being held up by some great force. The amulet pulsed a vibrant purple against Pippy’s breastbone, and she realised Buccaneer was actually being held up by a great force. He was being held up by the great arms of Octavia! Pippy’s heart squeezed. Once again, Octavia had come to their rescue.
Pippy scrabbled to the gunwale to take Buccaneer from Octavia’s arms. Pippy bundled the half-drowned Buccaneer up inside her gansey. He was exhausted and shivering.
Then Octavia did something remarkable, and it happened so fast, Pippy couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. Octavia gripped onto the Flying Seahorse with five of her arms and pulled herself from the water. The boat tipped with her weight, and Pippy stood open-mouthed at the sight. Octavia lashed another two arms around the mainmast, and used her remaining arm to snatch the thrashing halyard rope. She reefed on it with her mighty power, then handed the rope to Pippy.
Holding grimly on, Pippy tugged the rope until the boom swung back into place. She hurriedly lashed it to a bow ring, securing it with the tightest knot she knew: a double clove hitch. The mainsail filled taut again and the boat leaped forward and away from the squalling storm.
‘Thank you, Octavia,’ yelled Pippy against the wind, and for a brief moment, they locked eyes. Octavia blinked and submerged into the deep, no doubt returning to the safety of her den.
Pippy sat herself at the stern to take control of the tiller. She hugged the wet lump in her gansey and felt Buccaneer curling himself against her.
The Flying Seahorse sailed on and on until at last the wind abated and the waves ceased, and they drifted into calmer waters. They were out of the path of the storm and Pippy watched the grey, rain-laden clouds rumble past them, rolling towards land far west of Portablow. Almost immediately, the sky began to clear and Fairweather reappeared.
‘Land ahoy,’ called Pippy, as a sliver of land appeared to the north-east. As she swung the bow into the wind, Uncle Isaac untied himself and staggered over to sit beside her.
‘Crusty … doodads,’ said Uncle Isaac, rubbing his face.
Pippy clasped one of his ropey old hands in hers. They were comforting hands, hands she’d known and loved all her life. But Uncle Isaac looked down at her now as if she were a complete stranger.
‘Who might you be?’ asked Uncle Isaac, looking at Pippy. ‘And what am I doing out here?’
‘It’s me. Pippy,’ she whispered, her stomach dropping like an anchor.
Uncle Isaac’s eyes were glazed and blank. Pippy placed his hand on the tiller so he could feel the grab and pull of the current, in the hope that something familiar might bring him back to her.
‘Argh. God of … whatsit? … argh, help me,’ muttered Uncle Isaac. ‘I’m lost to meself.’
‘No, you’re not, Uncle Isaac,’ said Pippy, trying to sound convincing. Trying to sound reassuring. ‘Your words will come back to you, they always do.’
‘Don’t whatchmacallit … leave me, bairn,’ said Uncle Isaac, sniffling.
‘I won’t leave you,’ said Pippy, and she meant it with all her heart. She linked an arm tightly though his. ‘You’re not alone,’ she whispered to him. They were the same words Octavia had chanted to her in the deep, words that had comforted her at a time when she needed it, as she hoped they would Uncle Isaac.
The Flying Seahorse bucked on the waves as Fairweather flew ahead of them, squawking as he led the way. The little boat sailed along strong and true, taking them closer and closer to home.
Somehow, Pippy managed to get Uncle Isaac off the Flying Seahorse and onto the wharf. Luckily, Wally was just leaving the fishmongers when he saw her from the doorway.
‘What’s happened, Pippy?’ asked Wally, hobbling towards them. But he could tell from Uncle Isaac’s wild mutterings, all was not well.
Mr and Mrs Wheaton appeared and they sat Uncle Isaac down upon a stack of craypots.
‘I’ll get Bill the Carrier to take him home,’ said Mr Wheaton, hurrying away, his brow creased. Mrs Wheaton produced a blanket and wrapped it around Uncle Isaac’s shoulders. She then wordlessly produced two knitted caps from her apron. One, she shoved onto Pippy’s head, over her ears; the other she jammed onto Wally’s wild head of hair.
Bill and his little grey pony carted them back to Bittern Cottage, where Wally and Mr Wheaton helped Uncle Isaac inside and upstairs to his bedroom.
Pippy felt heavy with sadness. Uncle Isaac’s memory was getting worse. He’d just put both their lives in terrible danger. It was as if his brain was erasing everything he’d ever known, including her, and that was what hurt the most. She had to do more to help him, more to look after him, but she wasn’t sure how much more she could do unless she was with him for every minute of every day.
Pippy was so full of worry about Uncle Isaac she forgot that someone else needed her care, too: she hadn’t fed Octavia!
The night was windless as Pippy swam on an ebb tide. She glided swiftly through the water, heading in a south-easterly direction, past the sheltered shallow cove and into Skiffy Bay. Hugging the shoreline, Pippy felt like she was on her way somewhere, to see something special. Her skin prickled with anticipation.
Arriving at Skiffy Beach, Pippy was surprised to discover that there was no swell. The surf had lulled into a rare silence. She’d never seen it like this, and marvelled at it.
Pippy floated in the calm sea, suspended. She occasionally sculled with her hands, kicking her feet to keep herself buoyant. After a while a funny feeling washed over her as she felt the creeping movement of company. She rolled over and floated on her stomach. Staring in wide-eyed wonder, she saw the shimmering patterns of thousands upon thousands of orange starfish below her, inching along the sandy bottom of Skiffy Bay.
Pippy bobbed and floated, lifting her head every now and then to take a breath of air, before continuing to watch the starfish on the move. She felt as if the world had been turned upside down, that the stars were now below and no longer above. But when she rolled over onto her back again, she was greeted by a star-filled night sky.
Eventually, an urge to swim home came upon Pippy. She began to paddle, but she couldn’t see her arms. She could feel them; they were still there, still attached to her body, but when she looked for them, what she saw made her gasp. They weren’t her arms at all − they were tentacles. Octavia’s arms!
Pippy woke up in the dark, gulping for air. She flexed her hands and squeezed her arms, making sure they were still there. And they were. Then she touched her hair, checking to see if it was wet. It wasn’t. But her dream had felt so real.
She sat up to find Ferg at the foot of her bed, picking at his toenails. They were yellow and thick and curling upwards.
‘Is it real, Ferg? Are my dreams real?’ whispered Pippy.
‘It’s not for me to say what’s real and what’s not, Pippy Cocklebiddy, daughter of Claudine,’ said Ferg, scraping at something green and foul smelling from beneath his toenail. ‘Your mama had the sight, so your dreams could be real.’
Pippy sat up straight against her pillow. ‘You think I’m like my mama?’
She remembered her mama used to see things in her dreams. She would dream about the blue whales arriving, and then the next day they’d be seen in Skiffy Bay. She had dreams about babies before they were born, always asking the prospective parents if they wanted to know if it was a boy or a girl. Mama also knew where the best fishing spots were, and where they should drop their pots to catch crays.
‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ said Ferg, smiling as he began picking at another toenail. ‘My advice is to listen to your dreams, Pippy Cocklebiddy. Don’t be afraid of them.’
Pippy had been enjoying the fact that her nightmares had been replaced by pleasant dreams. But now she felt a little worried. What did her dreams mean? Was there a message in them for her? Was she missing something?
From the moment Pippy opened her eyes in bed that morning, she felt guilt-ridden about forgetting to feed Octavia. What sort of Keeper am I? She threw on her clothes before taking the stairs two steps at a time up to Uncle Isaac’s bedroom. Ferg was sitting by his bedside, watching him. Even in his sleep, Uncle Isaac’s face wore a pinched, anxious expression.
‘How is he?’ Pippy whispered to Ferg. She felt torn; she didn’t want to leave Uncle Isaac, but had to go and feed Octavia.
‘He’s comfortable enough, Pippy Cocklebiddy, daughter of Claudine, niece of the great fisher Isaac Marguettes. He needs rest is all,’ said Ferg. ‘You’d better go and feed the giant cephalopod. I’ll look after the old galoot.’
‘How did you know I’d forgotten?’ asked Pippy.
‘I know lots of things,’ said Ferg, cocking his head at her. ‘Don’t fuss nowt. Claudine forgot, once or twice.’
Pippy smiled at Ferg gratefully and kissed her uncle on the forehead. She watched Ferg tuck another blanket in around Uncle Isaac before she hurried downstairs, out of the cottage and down to the wharf, Fairweather taking off with a whoosh behind her.
Mr Wheaton lumbered out from the bakery eating a warm bun for breakfast, and he held one out for Pippy as she streaked by.
‘How’s Isaac, bairn?’ called Mr Wheaton, his brow crinkled.
‘He’s … he’s asleep. Thank you, Mr Wheaton,’ said Pippy, not really knowing how to answer as she pushed the bun deep into her pocket for later.
‘A scarf! You need a scarf!’ yelled Mrs Wheaton from deep inside the shop as she stoked the ovens.
Pippy hurried on before Mrs Wheaton could wrap her in bundles of wool, arriving at the wharf where Stinger Ray had just moored his boat.
‘Here you go, bairn,’ said Stinger, handing Pippy a bucket of fish. ‘It feels like history repeating itself here. I used to hand the very same bucket of fish to your mama.’
Pippy smiled at Stinger as she took the bucket from him.
‘I never knew what Claudine wanted ’em for,’ Stinger said softly. ‘I never asked, but I knew it was important. I been getting fish for Isaac for months now, and I never asked him – and I won’t question you either. But if you ever need my help, Pippy, you only have to ask.’
‘Thank you, Stinger,’ whispered Pippy, his kindness making her feel all warm inside. Uncle Isaac told her that for generations, Stinger Ray’s family had caught fish for the Keeper of the Octopus. And Pippy did feel like she could ask almost anything of Stinger and he would help her.
‘How is Isaac, bairn?’ asked Stinger, lines etched across his craggy face.
‘Uncle Isaac’s a little shaken up, but he’s all right,’ said Pippy.
She thanked Stinger before taking off over the footbridge, swinging her bucket of fish in time with her stride. She started towards the river mouth, but unusually, Fairweather swooped low and veered off the path, away from the river to the east. Never one to doubt him, Pippy followed, taking the narrow sandy track that was a shortcut through the forest onto Skiffy Beach.
