A Tear in the Ocean

1
 
PUTNAM. THE PRESENT: 1949.
 
Putnam watched a tattered girl about his own age at the edge of the bonfire. For the past hour, she’d hovered in the shadows just outside the glow of the flames. Her face would pop into the light briefly, then snuff itself out again, only to reappear several moments later, then disappear, like a candle being lit and immediately blown out.
 
She’d been circling the fire, when Putnam, looking for the best spot to listen and watch, noticed her. But she stopped moving about the same time he did, not quite across the fire from him. As he listened to Jupiter, the storyteller, entertain the people with a funny tale about the time long ago when they tried to grow mangoes on Raftworld (sadly, there was not enough dirt for the trees to root in), Putnam’s eyes flicked again and again to the spot where the girl’s face would suddenly jut out of the darkness and then fall back into it. She didn’t seem to realize she could be seen, and no one but Putnam noticed her.
 
Part of the reason she stood out to Putnam so much was her obvious wish not to be seen. Putnam understood that desire; he was trying to stay out of the light, too. Everyone expected so much of him—the Raft King’s son! the next king of Raftworld!— and sometimes he just needed to get away. Maybe this girl had some of the same feelings. Maybe her so-called friends were always following her around, too, hoping for favors and being nice to her because of who her dad was.
 
Or maybe not. Putnam squinted at the girl through the smoke. An Islander, she had the lighter brown skin and straight hair and stocky body that was the classic Tathenlander look. But unlike the other Islanders, she wasn’t spiffed up, wearing her best clothes for the party; she acted as if she wasn’t even supposed to be at the party.
 
She made Putnam think of the story the Island’s former storyteller (now dead) had told the last time Raftworld had visited the Islands, when he’d been only two—ten years ago. He didn’t remember the actual words the Island storyteller had used, of course, but Jupiter had retold the tale since then: a poor orphan girl who’d been forced to work for her rich, hateful stepmother and who, when the prince threw a party, snuck in and eventually captured the prince’s heart. Except—Putnam reminded himself—that girl had been given a ball gown and fragile gypsum slippers when she snuck into the ball, and this girl was here simply as herself. She wasn’t likely to win a prince’s heart the way she looked and acted.
 
He smiled at the next thought: technically, he supposed, he was the prince in the story. Though no one called him by that title, he was in fact the Raft King’s only child. So if he were to follow the story’s plot, he should chase this girl down and grab one of her shoes . . . if she had shoes . . .
 
The girl materialized one more time, the firelight playing on a set of bruises on one side of her face. Jupiter had moved on to a more serious story: how the Raftworlders’ ancestor Venus escaped from being enslaved. And this time, as Jupiter the storyteller explained the moment of decision, the choice Venus made, the tattered girl emerged and didn’t snuff right back into darkness. This time her face stayed in the light, entranced as she was by the story. And there was something in the fire’s glow that made her look—not pretty, no, nor healthy nor well cared for—but full of determination and spirit and energy. Just for that moment.
 
Jupiter’s story ended, and she vanished. Vivid in the fire’s flickering light one moment, gone the next.
 
A big hand descended on Putnam’s shoulder, and for one brief second he thought it was the girl, coming after him instead of waiting for him to chase her down and steal her shoe. But as soon as that thought flitted into his head, he knew it was wrong. First of all, the hand was too large and heavy.
 
“It’s time.” His father, of course—tall, thin, and a little stooped, in the dark red cloak he wore for official events, his graying beard closely trimmed.
 
Putnam nodded. He already stood in the back of the crowd; he didn’t even have to jostle anyone to leave. For a moment he wondered what it would be like to just vanish, like that girl.
 
“Are you coming?” asked his father. “Your first Session. Let’s not be late.”
 
Putnam nodded again and hurried after the old man.
 
THE TRADING SESSION—usually just called “the Session”—was the biggest meeting in the entire world, which wasn’t saying much, as the world was small, at least where people were concerned. The Session, which lasted for several days with long breaks for the delegates to attend parties and socialize, happened every decade or so, whenever the floating nation of Raftworld arrived in the course of its usual travels to the islands of Tathenland and the big island of Tathenn and its capital city of Baytown. Then the Raftworlders and Islanders got together for a week or more of parties and storytelling and singing . . . and trading. The Raft King and the Island’s governor—and other important people—attended meetings, exchanged important information, made deals. This year, the Raft King had said that now that he was twelve, Putnam was old enough to go to the meetings. As if that was a privilege. It was, but the other delegates were grown-ups. And the meeting was all talking.
 
Putnam sat in the back corner of the room next to a convenient tray of cookies, rather than at the delegates’ table, which was only big enough for the eight women and men—four from each country—who ran the Session. He was supposed to be listening and learning. He nibbled and made crumbs and tried—he really did—to pay attention.
 
But the day had been long, and his mind wandered, and after an hour or more of discussions of flour and wool and embroidered cloth and hydraulic engines and so many other things, his eyes drooped. Just before he slid into deep sleep, he remembered himself and snapped back, shifting suddenly in his chair and crumbling the cookie still clutched in his hand.
 
Eight heads rotated toward him, conversation stalling for a moment. “Sorry,” he muttered, feeling foolish, as they turned back to discussion. He knew he should be listening deeply at his first Session, maybe even saying something important—but barring that, at least he should look like he was listening. He pinched his leg, hard, and sat up straighter, shoving the broken cookie into his mouth and chewing vigorously.
 
And the pinching and chewing helped. He felt less tired, at least for the moment.
 
Until he realized what the Session leaders were talking about now: the ocean. A cloud of gloom settled over the room, and Putnam could tell that, long before the topic was introduced, everyone had been thinking about the water. It had been turning salty—slowly, steadily—for some time. But no matter how often Raftworld advisors told the king, he brushed off the problem. Even when his own son brought it up, the king refused to discuss it. It was in their imaginations, he said. It would get better on its own, he said. It was a normal fluctuation, he said.
 
In his corner, Putnam sat up straighter. Maybe now his father would be forced to listen.
 
“There’s no doubt at all in our minds,” one of the Islanders said stubbornly to Putnam’s father. “You don’t see it as much because you’re always moving around.”
 
“You make it sound like moving around is a bad thing. What are you trying to say about us?” asked a Raftworlder, one of his father’s advisors.
 
“Now, that isn’t what’s meant at all,” said the governor in a soothing voice. She was much younger than Putnam’s father, who’d been old already when Putnam was born. Tiny compared to Putnam’s father, she sat straight in her seat, as if trying to look taller. Her dark braids wrapped around her head like a crown and shone in the light.
 
She continued. “We’re only saying that we see the changes more, situated as we are in one location. In the past few years, the fish have been leaving us, heading north. The algae is dying. We know that our capital is better off than other places on Tathenn—it’s much worse on the southern shores. We can’t ask the fish like you can”—she paused as if waiting for the king to say something, but he didn’t speak—“but even so, we can read the water pretty well. The changes aren’t good.”
 
She waited again, then said, “What did the fish say?”
 
“They didn’t answer any questions.”
 
The young governor’s face fell.
 
“The water’s going bad. You can taste that yourself,” added one of the governor’s advisors, folding his arms over his chest and nodding at the pitcher on the table.
 
Several Raftworlders leaned forward to add their thoughts. One said, “It does seem worse the farther south we get. When we were north earlier this year, remember how fresh—”
 
Putnam’s father held up his long, thin hand, and everyone stopped for the Raft King to speak. “The water here has changed, it’s true. I can tell from our last visit that it’s different. Kind of salty, yes?” The governor’s advisor nodded, as did the other Islanders in the room. “But what you have to ask yourself is this: is it maybe just a natural swing in the order of things? Or maybe because of something you’ve done here on the Islands?”
 
“And it’s affected the entire ocean?” asked the governor. “Your advisor just said the water is different the world over.”
 
The king shrugged, his face blank of expression. “He said it seemed that way. And other times it seems fine. We need to study it more to be sure. That’s my suggestion: that we form committees. Maybe you Islanders can take samples and track any changes over time—compare data for a few years and see if it’s really getting salty and, if so, how bad it is. And when Raftworld travels, we’ll take samples at key locations as well, so that the next time we stop at those places, we can also compare.”
 
“The next time? You mean ten years from now, when you circle back?”
 
“It’s not always ten years. There are some places we visit every five or six years. It really depends.”
 
“But the water’s gone from good to bad in just a few years. And you’re arguing for a decade of testing,” said one of the Islanders, a gray-haired woman who looked about as old as the king. “Before we even do anything.”
 
The Raft King paused as if thinking about his answer, and then nodded. “Raftworld moves, but we move slowly. It’s what has kept us safe all these years. We don’t rush.”
 
Putnam, sitting off to the side with the cookies, could see the looks on the Islanders’ faces and in their stiff shoulders and bodies: frustration and worry. He could see, more faintly, similar looks in the Raftworlders’ faces—everyone’s but his father’s. This idea of moving slowly was . . . too slow. Obviously something needed to be done, and everyone but the Raft King was ready to do it.
 
“If we don’t take action . . . ,” said the young governor of the Islands. She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. They all depended on the ocean—Raftworld and Tathenland—for food, for water. For everything.
 
One of the Raft King’s advisors broke the silence. “Well, this is a topic we should return to. Tomorrow morning?” She stood, stretching her lower back and smiling a little too big. “There is, after all, a party tonight to attend.”
 
Others stood, too, but not the governor, who spread her hands on the table, palms down, almost as if the table were trying to fly off. She didn’t smile, either. “We’re not done here.”
 
“We’ll talk about it again.” One of the governor’s own advisors, an elderly man who wore the old-fashioned Island clothing even down to the luck pouch around his neck, patted her shoulder. “Tomorrow, when we’re fresh.”
 
Everyone filed out of the room except the governor and her elderly advisor, his hand still on her shoulder. Putnam, following the others out, turned in time to see the governor look up at the old man, her face strained.
 
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said.
 
“And then do something,” her advisor said.
 
“Sure,” she said, unconvinced. “If we stall long enough, pretending nothing is horribly wrong and forming committees”—she said the word as if it tasted bitter—“it will be just as bad as if we ignore it altogether. The sea is dying. And then we die, too.”
 
The old Island man’s hand flexed in a tight grip, then loosened. He smoothed her hair down, as if he were her father and she a young child. It occurred to Putnam that maybe he was her father. “I know,” he said in a low voice. “If Raftworld ignores the problem, we’ll have to figure it out on our own.”
 
“The problem is coming from the south. We need explorers, scientists, people—to sail south, find out what’s causing this. Fix it.”
 
The old man nodded.
 
“But without ocean boats or seafaring folks—”
 
“I know.”
 
“We needed Raftworld.
 
They were our best hope, and they’re saying no.”