your face.”
Margaret felt her face become warm with embarrassment, and she turned back to look across the water again. “I’m–I’m sorry,” she forced out. “I didn’t mean to stare–to be rude.”
“You were not being rude, Margaret Laxton. Just open.”
“Janett–and Mother–would call that being rude,” Margaret said. “And you can call me Margaret. Just Margaret.”
Chal nodded again. “I am pleased that you like the waters, Margaret. We will ride the waters much over the next few days. Lakes and rivers, and the ponds and slow streams of the bayuk.”
“Are you from the bayuk?” Margaret asked.
Chal looked at her.
“I mean, is that your home? Where you were born? I’ve never met a native before,” she added. She felt her face go red again as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Both Mother and Janett had tried to teach her to be less direct. She only seemed to remember their admonishments, though, after she opened her big mouth. She had heard that the natives were a proud race, and easily offended. She hoped she had not offended Chal.
Chal’s laugh, this one like a small waterfall, did not sound offended. Margaret risked a look, and found Chal’s eyes waiting for hers.
“You have not offended me, Margaret,” Chal said, leaning on the rail so she could face Margaret. Then she looked past Margaret, looked across the water of the lake, in a direction not quite perpendicular to their travel, and it seemed to Margaret as if the brown eyes were focused hundreds or thousands of miles away. “I am at home in the bayuk, as I am at home wherever the waters take me, but I was born far from here. In the south.”
“Do you miss your home?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, I do.” Chal sighed. Margaret felt a slight breeze brush across her face, even over the wind of their progress, as if the air of the lake sighed with Chal. “It has been a long time since the waters brought me north.”
“Why don’t you go home then?”
Chal’s smile looked rueful to Margaret, but still lit up her face. “Because there is still too much of the world I have not seen.”
“Chal.” Miss Rose’s gruff voice called from behind them.
Chal turned around, facing aft. Margaret did not turn around. She was not sure she could face Miss Rose’s impassive gaze again. Not just yet. Chal nodded to something Margaret did not hear, then she placed a hand on Margaret’s arm. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Margaret, but I have been told I am talking too much.”
Now Margaret turned to give a quick glare at Miss Rose. Then she turned around again. “Janett tells me the same thing,” she said.
As Chal walked away, her laughter faded into the soft pattering of the spray from Puncher’s wake.
* * *
Margaret eyed the narrow, flat-bottomed boat warily. Though the bow was up on dry land, where Major Haley waited for her to step into the boat, the stern was in the water. One of the soldiers, wearing his red uniform, sat in the stern, his oar held across his knees.
“Just step in, Miss,” the man said. “I’ll keep her steady for you.”
“Between Corporal Higgs and myself,” Major Haley said, “it will be like entering a carriage.” Margaret’s expression must have betrayed her thoughts on that comparison. “I thought you liked rowboats,” he added.
“This isn’t a rowboat,” Margaret said.
“That’s right,” Mr. Thomas said from where he stood nearby, overseeing the loading of the other boats. “It’s a pirogue. Even better than a canoe, I have been told, for the waters of this swamp.”
Pirogue or canoe or misshapen rowboat, Margaret thought it looked too overloaded to safely accommodate herself, Janett, Corporal Higgs and Major Haley. And the bench she would be sharing with Janett made the cramped cabin of the Maryanna Rose look palatial by comparison.
“I would feel safer, I think,” Margaret said, “if Janett were to be in a different boat. Pirogue.”
“The two of you girls hardly
Margaret felt her face become warm with embarrassment, and she turned back to look across the water again. “I’m–I’m sorry,” she forced out. “I didn’t mean to stare–to be rude.”
“You were not being rude, Margaret Laxton. Just open.”
“Janett–and Mother–would call that being rude,” Margaret said. “And you can call me Margaret. Just Margaret.”
Chal nodded again. “I am pleased that you like the waters, Margaret. We will ride the waters much over the next few days. Lakes and rivers, and the ponds and slow streams of the bayuk.”
“Are you from the bayuk?” Margaret asked.
Chal looked at her.
“I mean, is that your home? Where you were born? I’ve never met a native before,” she added. She felt her face go red again as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Both Mother and Janett had tried to teach her to be less direct. She only seemed to remember their admonishments, though, after she opened her big mouth. She had heard that the natives were a proud race, and easily offended. She hoped she had not offended Chal.
Chal’s laugh, this one like a small waterfall, did not sound offended. Margaret risked a look, and found Chal’s eyes waiting for hers.
“You have not offended me, Margaret,” Chal said, leaning on the rail so she could face Margaret. Then she looked past Margaret, looked across the water of the lake, in a direction not quite perpendicular to their travel, and it seemed to Margaret as if the brown eyes were focused hundreds or thousands of miles away. “I am at home in the bayuk, as I am at home wherever the waters take me, but I was born far from here. In the south.”
“Do you miss your home?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, I do.” Chal sighed. Margaret felt a slight breeze brush across her face, even over the wind of their progress, as if the air of the lake sighed with Chal. “It has been a long time since the waters brought me north.”
“Why don’t you go home then?”
Chal’s smile looked rueful to Margaret, but still lit up her face. “Because there is still too much of the world I have not seen.”
“Chal.” Miss Rose’s gruff voice called from behind them.
Chal turned around, facing aft. Margaret did not turn around. She was not sure she could face Miss Rose’s impassive gaze again. Not just yet. Chal nodded to something Margaret did not hear, then she placed a hand on Margaret’s arm. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Margaret, but I have been told I am talking too much.”
Now Margaret turned to give a quick glare at Miss Rose. Then she turned around again. “Janett tells me the same thing,” she said.
As Chal walked away, her laughter faded into the soft pattering of the spray from Puncher’s wake.
* * *
Margaret eyed the narrow, flat-bottomed boat warily. Though the bow was up on dry land, where Major Haley waited for her to step into the boat, the stern was in the water. One of the soldiers, wearing his red uniform, sat in the stern, his oar held across his knees.
“Just step in, Miss,” the man said. “I’ll keep her steady for you.”
“Between Corporal Higgs and myself,” Major Haley said, “it will be like entering a carriage.” Margaret’s expression must have betrayed her thoughts on that comparison. “I thought you liked rowboats,” he added.
“This isn’t a rowboat,” Margaret said.
“That’s right,” Mr. Thomas said from where he stood nearby, overseeing the loading of the other boats. “It’s a pirogue. Even better than a canoe, I have been told, for the waters of this swamp.”
Pirogue or canoe or misshapen rowboat, Margaret thought it looked too overloaded to safely accommodate herself, Janett, Corporal Higgs and Major Haley. And the bench she would be sharing with Janett made the cramped cabin of the Maryanna Rose look palatial by comparison.
“I would feel safer, I think,” Margaret said, “if Janett were to be in a different boat. Pirogue.”
“The two of you girls hardly
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