Hoist the sail, men, hoist it high, and onward hard alee

Brackish, brackish, brackish

Will our journey surely be

But, oh! The water’s churning

Men, watch out, for do you see?

The hungry waves are reaching out

And they are calling me

Remember me, don’t weep for me, I was but one of ye

Brackish, brackish, brackish, boys

My grave is now to be

But on the shore a woman waits

She holds a child of three

Inside of her, in brackish swell

There rests a babe to be

She waits, while in her heart she knows her love she’ll never see

Brackish, brackish, brackish

Are my lover’s tears for me

Brackish, brackish, brackish

Are my lover’s tears for me.

There was noise in the camp when she finished, the same murmurs, the strum of strings, the clank and clang of tin plates and earthenware mugs. She must have imagined, then, the quiet that came over her while she sang. Imagined the low swell of waves, or perhaps her mother shushing her, shush, shush, then an ebbing, silent like sleep. Imagined—invented—the tenderness of hands on her skin, smoothing down her hair and kissing her eyelids. That couldn’t be real. Her mother would never treat, had never treated, her so sweetly, with such care. But why then did she see in her mind’s eye the flickering of a low tallow candle, the wooden walls of her childhood home? Why did she hear her mother singing? Or—oh, gods, had she confused her own voice for her mother’s? If she hadn’t felt sick already, that certainly did the trick.

“Temperance, I’m going to take a quick trip to the woods. I’ll be right back.”

Temperance nodded sagely. “Remember, ‘Leaves of two, you’ll scream when you poo.’”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

She walked toward the tree line, not looking around, just putting one foot in front of the other. She was dizzy and unnerved, like she had just been transported somewhere else. The return trip had felt like falling off a speeding horse. She was fine, she was fine; she just needed a moment to breathe. A moment away from frizzy-haired Lakes girls and Brella’s false gods and Lollie’s cold, inscrutable eyes. A moment to collect her wits.

She found a leaf-free tree on which to rest her head. The damp, earthen smell of the forest filled her nose and throat, raw and fecund. She missed her world with walls, where she woke early and gave orders and served a king she could trust. The forest was too old to respect order. It was not built for her, nor she for it. She was built for lakes apparently, their songs imbedded in her bones.