Cover

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Jennifer Flannery,
my agent of thirty years. She has been, more than once,
the what, where, when, and how of my work.

The Saga of Sea Child

AND IT CAME TO PASS HE WAS BORNE OF

A WOMAN OF THE SEA,

BORNE OF A SEA WOMAN, WITH A BLOOD

CLOT HELD TIGHTLY

IN HIS TINY FIST.

Å SIGN.

A SIGN TO TELL, TO TELL OF HARDSHIP AND

DANGER IN THE LIFE TO COME,

TO COME, FROM THE TINY FIST AND CLOT.

AND THE MOTHER, OF NO REMEMBERED

NAME, DID DIE BIRTHING THE BOY

AND THE FATHER, ALSO OF NO

REMEMBERED NAME,

HAD PASSED TO VALHALLA FIGHTING A

WHALE.

AND AS THERE WAS NO OTHER NAMED FAMILY

THE BOY WAS BORN AN ORPHAN.

ALONE.

TO LIVE ALONE ON THE DOCKS, A DOCK

BOY, A WHARF BOY, NURSED BY SUCKING

RAGS DIPPED IN SOUR GOAT’S MILK AND

FISH OIL,

FED ON SCRAPS OTHERS WOULD CHEW TO

SOFTEN,

DRESSED IN YET MORE RAGS WITH

CRUDELY CARVED WOODEN SHOES,

ALWAYS HALF NAKED.

HE WAS THAT BOY.

THAT BOY.

AND THEY CALLED HIM THE WHARF RAT AND

NAMED HIM LEIF

FOR NO OTHER PERSON ON THOSE DOCKS

HAD THAT NAME.

AND WHEN HE WAS OLD ENOUGH TO WALK

THEY TOOK HIM ON THE BOATS.

FOR ALL HIS YOUNG LIFE HE WAS PASSED

FROM ONE BOAT TO THE NEXT, TO THE NEXT,

TO THE NEXT.

NO LONGER THE WHARF RAT NAMED LEIF BUT

A BOAT RAT NAMED LEIF.

AND WHEN HE COULD USE HIS HANDS THEY

SET HIM TO REPAIRING NETS,

SEWING RIPPED NETS, TORN CLOTHING, AND

SHARPENING THE SEAL-KILLING HARPOONS,

BEATING HIM WITH WOODEN RODS IF HE

DID THEM WRONG.

AND THEY MADE HIM COOK GREASY EEL MEAT

THAT THE SAILORS WOULD EAT,

CLAIMING IT WAS SOFT AND WOULD BE

EASY TO PUKE WHEN THEY BECAME SEASICK.

ACROSS ONE OCEAN, INTO ANOTHER OCEAN,

THEN NORTH LOOKING NOT FOR WHALES –

WHICH WERE TOO HARD TO KILL – BUT FOR

SEALS, FOR THEIR GREASE-MEAT AND FURS.

ALWAYS AFTER FURS.

FOR SEAL FURS SHINED LIKE GOLD PIECES.

ALWAYS NORTH, WHERE THE SEAL FUR WAS

THICKEST AND MADE FOR BETTER WARMTH.

AND THE BOY GREW AND WAS FIVE SUMMERS,

THEN SIX, THEN EIGHT, AND TEN,

AND TWELVE SUMMERS, TAKEN ON ONE

BOAT, THEN ANOTHER AND ANOTHER,

UNTIL WHEN HE SLEPT IN HIS DREAM

STORY IT SEEMED LIKE ALL ONE OCEAN,

AND WHEN HE CAME AWAKE IT STILL

SEEMED LIKE ONE OCEAN JUST AS ALL

BOATS SEEMED LIKE ONE BOAT AND ALL

EEL MEAT – WHICH HE LEARNED TO PUKE –

SEEMED LIKE ONE MEA TAND ALL PUKE

SEEMED LIKE ONE PUKE

AND ALL BEATINGS SEEMED LIKE ONE

BEATING.

AND WINTERS.

THE BOY HAD WINTERS WHERE THE FREEZING

SEA BOILED IN BLOWN RAGE AND WAS

SOMETIMES SO COLD,

MEN’S FINGERS WOULD FREEZE BLACK AND

HAVE TO BE CUT OFF,

AND THE BOY WOULD RUB OIL ON THEM

TO TOUGHEN THE STUBS,

AMAZED THAT MEN COULD STILL WORK

WITH ALMOST NO FINGERS.

NORTH.