THE RAIN HITS before we seal all the windows. It comes down in a torrent that blinds us as we latch the shutters in the church. It’s whipped along by a wind so powerful it sweeps Pip, who weighs no more than a barncat, off his feet and sends him tumbling through the headstones in the churchyard. It is not necessarily a bad thing in his case, as Pip is always filthy. He refuses to bathe. The best any of us can manage is to toss a penny into the surf and make him fetch it.

We are all drenched and steaming and very tired when we go up to bed. Father has the only proper bedroom in the house. It has a window that looks out onto the sea. The three of us share the rest of the space with cots lined up against the trunks and crates. Bryndis has fashioned a screen over her corner to provide a little privacy.

Father snores the loudest, great thunder strokes cracking behind the bedroom door. My sister sounds like a cat. Pip sings in his sleep. Mostly sea shanties, the vulgar kind that the fishermen sing when deep in their cups.

We peel out of our steaming clothes and hang them to dry on the railing. We say our prayers in the light of the candle. It is Pip’s turn to lead the prayer, and he prattles on, thanking the Almighty for our home and our food and each other. Then he goes on, grateful for stray kittens and seashells, termite hills and starfish. When he mentions toadstools and earwax, Bryndis interrupts.

“That’s enough. Just say Amen.”

“But I haven’t mentioned the sea monster’s bones.”

“God knows you’re grateful for that. Into bed.”

The wind whips at the house, tearing at the roof and rattling the doors. There aren’t enough pots to catch the rainwater leaking from the rafters. My brother thrusts out his tongue to catch the raindrops until our sisters tells him to stop.

“I want a story.”

“Not tonight, Pip,” Bryndis says. She looks tired.

“Just one. The one about the pirates.”

I push his head to the pillow. “Listen to your sister.”

He frowns. “I can’t remember how mother told it. Was it pirates or lepers? The ones on the bottom of the sea? You remember.”

Some of Mother’s bedtime stories took strange turns. This particular one was a favorite of Pip’s, an odd fable about the fate of pirates and how they are condemned to walk the floor of the sea to atone for their sins. They march in a never-ending parade until their feet are ground away by the sand, and they marched onward on bony stumps. Was it the fate of pirates or cruel men? I can’t remember. Is there a difference?

I pat my brother’s bulbous head. “Go to sleep now.”