The Girl, the Cat and the Navigator Read online

  ‘This luminous tale of loss, love and finding family is threaded

  through with the power of storytelling and a touch of magic.”

  Kiran Millwood Hargrave, author of The Girl of Ink and Stars

  For Boots and Sally and Alice and Gandolf

  Four very adventurous cats

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  DEDICATION

  THE VILLAGE OF ONE THOUSAND SHIPS

  THE FORTUNE TELLER’S FIRST PREDICTION

  A PARTY AT THE SINKING EEL

  THE CAPTAIN’S SEVENTH DAUGHTER

  THE WRECKAGE

  THE STORY OF THE NARDOOS

  AN EARLY WINTER

  A LONG JOURNEY AHEAD

  THE STOWAWAY

  THE PLUCKY LEOPARD

  POTS AND PANS AND BROKEN BROOMS

  A MAP OF THE NORTH

  FISH BONES

  A DEATH IN THE SOUTH

  MAN OVERBOARD!

  A DREAM COME TRUE

  THE ICELANDS

  THE VERY GREEDY PRINCE

  OONA’S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE

  HAROYLD’S ISLAND

  THE NORTHERN WING

  “FORGET THE WHALE!”

  THE HUNT

  OONA’S CHANCE

  THE ICY RIVER

  FREYDIS’ FINAL PREDICTION

  “WHALE!”

  “ABANDON SHIP!”

  THE FLYING LEOPARD

  AN UNWANTED WEDDING GIFT

  OONA’S SHELL

  DON’T MISS

  THE COFFIN MAKER’S FIRST COFFIN

  COPYRIGHT

  THE VILLAGE OF ONE THOUSAND SHIPS

  In the wild and white North, there is a village that has two names. The first name is Nordlor and comes from the man who discovered it: Fredrick Nordlor, the great explorer who sailed further into the Northern Sea than any man before. And the second name – the name that has made it famous worldwide – is the Village of One Thousand Ships.

  Nordlor sits beside a long fjord that stretches all the way to the Great Northern Sea. When it was first settled no trees grew nearby, so when Fredrick Nordlor wanted to build the village’s first house he did not have many options. He built one with snow, but it melted when the spring thaw came. He weaved a house from grass, but it turned brittle and crumbled in the summer. He even built a home from seashells dredged out of the fjord, but when winter came there were so many gaps in the walls that it felt colder inside than out.

  In desperation, Fredrick Nordlor pulled apart his own ship and used the wood to build a house. It worked a lot better than the snow and the grass and the shells he had used before. But there was one peculiarity. Even in summer the house was cold and wet, and every night it rocked back and forth like the ship still sailed upon the sea instead of standing broken on land.

  Fredrick Nordlor thought this peculiarity was limited to the wood pulled from his own ship, but when another boat washed aground and was used to build the village hall, the same thing happened. It was like the wood from northern ships possessed a special power that made it hold on to the memories it made while still at sea.

  Fredrick Nordlor liked this trait in the wood – “It gives it a sense of northern character,” he would say – and so, even when trees were planted in the mountains around the village, it became tradition for all the buildings in Nordlor to be made from sunken ships.

  Over the years, whenever a whaler sank, or even just a small fishing boat, it was dredged into Nordlor Harbour, pulled apart and built back up into something new. And that is how the village of Nordlor grew. Houses went up, a dock was built and taverns lined the shore.

  As Nordlor itself grew, so too did its reputation. Soon, people all over the North and South spoke about the village built from sunken ships.

  “Fredrick Nordlor had the idea himself,” a man from Islo said. “He always was a smart one.”

  “I heard he got the idea from his wife,” whispered a woman in Iceblown Harbour. “Behind every great man is an even greater woman telling him what to do.”

  “Apparently,” swore a boy in Whitlock, “the village is made from exactly one thousand sunken ships and not a single one more.”

  Nordlor became so famous that a prince in the South spent two thousand golden crowns to have a replica built within the walls of his castle. Little Nordlor, it was called, and he refused to let any member of the public see it.

  But for a village where everyone wanted to go, hardly anyone actually ever went there. The snow was too deep, the air was too cold and the days were too short and dark.

  It was so rare for people to come to Nordlor that when a new person arrived it always caused a stir. Like the time Lady Summer left the South and took up residence in Whalebone Lane. Or the time Mister Bjorkman fled Mournful Harbour and built a tower out of ship masts in the main square. But the one visitor who caused the greatest stir of all was the fortune teller, Freydis Spits.

  THE FORTUNE TELLER’S FIRST PREDICTION

  The fortune teller arrived in the middle of a deep winter night. She travelled by carriage: one of the grandest carriages the North had ever seen. It was encrusted with jewels, engraved with golden whales and, instead of being led by the traditional two horses, this carriage was led by four polar bears. To stop the bears from biting her, the fortune teller had locked them in golden chains and each wore a golden muzzle around its snout.

  The polar bears lumbered along the sea cobbles that lined the village, the chains that weighed them down clinking in the night. Despite looking grand, the bears were cumbersome and slow. The fortune teller pulled them to a stop beneath a green-and-silver sign that read: The Sinking Eel.

  The Sinking Eel was the most popular tavern in Nordlor. Before it was dredged out of the sea and hauled into the village it had been a grand ship called the Slippery Eel. But then it hit an iceberg and sank sixty miles north of Fisherman’s Hell. Yet despite this happening fifty years before, it appeared to still be in the throes of sinking. Icy ocean water dripped from the roof, waves smashed against the bar and, if it was very windy, you could just make out the screams of men as they scurried to stay above the rising water.

  “That’s me,” old man Eirik would say to anybody who would listen. “That’s me. The one screaming, ‘Oh, Lords and Ladies of the Sea. We’re going down!’”

  The fortune teller climbed off her carriage and knocked on the tavern door. When no one answered, she scowled and opened it herself.

  “Behold!” the fortune teller cried as she stepped into the tavern. The weather in the North was wild that night and rain, hail and sleet followed her inside. “It is I, Freydis Spits: the famed fortune teller of the North!” She threw her arms out wide and fifty seashells that hung from a golden staff over her shoulder rattled in applause. “There’s no reading tea leaves in a cup for me,” she said to the village folk who had gathered for a relaxing evening drink and were now glaring at her, annoyed at the interruption. “No. No. That type of fortune telling won’t do. And don’t you dare speak to me of lines on a palm. There’s no future in that. I only search for the future in one place: in the shells that wash ashore from the Great Northern Sea.”

  A curious hush fell over the gathered crowd. It was a well-known fact that the shells which washed ashore from the Great Northern Sea didn’t just capture the sounds of the ocean: of waves and seals and whales singing deep into the night. They also held whisperings – little tinklings – of things that had yet to come. Very few people could hear what these whisperings were. So those that could were held in high esteem.

  “These shells upon my back,” Freydis said, “have all whispered great secrets to me. This green one here” – she untied a piece of rope that held one o
f the shells to her golden staff – “foretold the sinking of the Great Red Fish twenty years before it was even built. And this one here” – she untied a shell that glinted faintly orange – “knew about the Great Fire of Mournful Harbour three nights before the spark was lit. And this one” – she pointed to a third shell – “told me that the great whaler Roe would sink to the bottom of the Icelands on its maiden voyage.”

  The curious hush that had fallen over the tavern when the fortune teller first arrived was broken by laughter.

  “The Roe didn’t sink, you fool!” one of the men yelled. “She docked in this very village not two weeks past.”

  “Exactly,” Freydis said. “I sold them that fortune, didn’t I? So, they changed their course and thirty men survived. It would have sunk if they hadn’t listened to me. And now,” Freydis said before anyone else could interrupt, “I have heard a whispering about a person in this very village: in the village of Nordlor.”

  The men in the tavern looked at one another. They wondered who the fortune was for. Before they could guess, Freydis pulled a purple shell from the depths of her elk-skin cloak and held it up for them to see.

  “Here, within this shell,” she said, “are whispers of something that has yet to come. Something that will change the life of a man called Captain Britt.”

  All eyes turned to one man sitting alone at the back of the tavern.

  “You have a future for me?” the man said softly. Even though he was seated, he towered above those around him. He had a black beard and a face weathered by the wind and spray of the Northern Sea.

  “If you are Captain Britt, then, aye, it is for you,” Freydis replied.

  “What is it?” the man said. “What does it say?”

  Freydis cackled with delight. “A fortune teller has to make her own fortune somehow. I’m not going to tell you the fortune, not until you pay for it.”

  “How much?” the man said.

  Freydis thought about this for some time. Normally she charged two silvers for a fortune of this kind. But she knew the man before her was very wealthy; after all, he was the captain and owner of the largest whaling ship in Nordlor. So, she decided to charge him more. “It will cost you a golden crown.”

  This time it was Captain Britt who laughed. “Not a chance,” he said and turned back to his drink.

  “Are you sure?” Freydis asked. She moved closer. “I’m certain it is a future you would very much like to hear.”

  Perhaps because he was a gambling man, or perhaps because he feared his ship might be the next one to sink, Captain Britt reconsidered her offer.

  “Five silvers,” he said. “And not a copper more.”

  “Done!” Freydis snatched the offered coins and buried them deep in the folds of her cloak. Then, she raised the purple shell to her ear and listened once more to the future inside. When she had the words just right, she repeated them for all the men in the tavern to hear:

  AFTER THE BIRTH OF SIX DISAPPOINTING

  DAUGHTERS, CAPTAIN BRITT OF THE PLUCKY

  LEOPARD WILL FINALLY BECOME THE PROUD

  FATHER OF A BOLD AND BRAVE SON.

  A PARTY AT THE SINKING EEL

  Nine Months Later

  “Drinks on me!” Captain Britt yelled as more and more people streamed into the Sinking Eel. Nine months had passed since he purchased the fortune teller’s prediction, and now he had invited the whole village to celebrate the birth of his son.

  “No. You haven’t missed it,” he said as another person entered the tavern. He wondered if he should have chosen a different setting for the celebration. It might be bad luck to have it inside a sinking ship. But it was too late now. His son was almost here.

  “Come on, woman,” the captain growled under his breath. “Get a move on.” The bill at the bar was growing by the minute. Perhaps it had been a mistake to invite the whole village. At least he hadn’t opened any of the expensive bottles of wine. He was saving them for when his son arrived: he was going to cut them open with his whalebone knife and spray the whole crowd.

  The captain’s wife wailed and screamed for another two hours. Her cries were so loud they carried all the way from her home to the inn. The beer flowed. The crowd grew. The music played. The barman even gave a few nips of spirits to the children, and now the captain’s daughters were stumbling about like six bowling pins about to topple down. Then, a new cry rattled the tavern windows. It was the cry of the birthing lady.

  All sounds of celebration stopped. Silence fell upon the inn. It was broken five minutes later when a very nervous looking woman entered the room. She held a small bundle in her arms.

  “What is it?” the captain said, hurrying towards her. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to my son? Oh, Lords and Ladies of the Sea,” he wailed. “He isn’t dead, is he?”

  The birthing lady shook her head. “No. It’s not that Captain. It’s just…”

  “Yes?” The captain stepped closer. “Go on. What are you waiting for, woman? Tell me the good news.”

  “Well, um…” The birthing lady stared at the floor. “Your wife has given birth to a girl.”

  “Girl?” The captain’s face fell. “No.” He shook his head. “That can’t be right. I’ve already got six of them. Check again.”

  Though she doubted anything had changed, the birthing lady glanced down at the child in her arms. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can assure you, Captain, it is a girl. A beautiful, healthy baby girl.”

  “But…” The captain looked from the child to the woman holding it. “I’m meant to have a son. I only want a son.” He reached for his whalebone knife. “Where is she?” he growled. “Where is that bloody fortune teller?”

  A nervous hush fell over the gathered crowd. Everywhere heads turned, searching for a woman dressed in elk skin and clutching a staff full of shells. But out of everyone who lived in the village, the fortune teller was one of only a handful who weren’t there.

  “Get out of my way,” the captain growled as he pushed a path towards the door. “I’m going to wring her neck!” he cried. “I’m going to gut her like a dead fish. I’m going to cut her up like whale blubber. She’s dead, you hear me? The woman is dead!”

  And with that, the captain left his new daughter and stormed off into the night.

  Two lanes away from the Sinking Eel, in a small cottage hewn from the bow of a boat called the Little Skipper, another child was being born.

  “You’re doing splendidly, Mathilde,” a man said to his wife. “Absolutely splendid.” The man was smoking an old pipe engraved with whales and fish, but it kept falling out of his mouth. He was nervous. He had never helped deliver a child before. But the town’s only birthing lady was at the captain’s house, so it was all up to him. “You’re almost there,” he said to his wife with a warm smile.

  The man’s wife smiled back. They had wanted a child for over twenty years, and now their dream was coming true. Unlike Captain Britt, they did not care if it was a boy or a girl, only that it was healthy and happy and loved by the two of them.

  Two more hours passed. Mathilde grew tired and weak, but with her husband’s encouragement she kept on trying. Finally, after a third hour went by, she gave birth. A silence fell upon the home.

  “Haroyld,” she said. “Is it a he or a she?”

  “A she,” Haroyld said sadly.

  Mathilde laughed. “You said you didn’t mind which it was. But I knew you wanted a son. Men always want sons.”

  “It’s not that,” Haroyld said. “It’s…” Slowly, he held the baby up. She was not moving.

  “Oh, Haroyld.” Mathilde gasped. “Please no.”

  “I am so sorry, Mathilde.” Haroyld wrapped the baby in a yellow blanket and walked over to his wife.

  “She’s beautiful,” Mathilde said.

  “As beautiful as the Northern Lights,” Haroyld agreed. He stroked the baby’s cold cheek with his thumb and rocked her gently. Even though she was already gone, he did not want to let his only daught
er go.

  THE CAPTAIN’S SEVENTH DAUGHTER

  Ten Years Later

  “Ah-ha!” Oona Britt said. “Here it is. My whalebone knife.” She leant down and picked a large stick off the ground. Every great captain in the North owned a whalebone knife. That’s what her father said. He wore his knife tied with a rope around his waist, and only ever took it off when he was about to make a kill.

  “Now, where has my ship gone?” Oona looked up and down the harbour. She could just make out the silhouette of the Plucky Leopard bobbing in the water. The ship belonged to her father, but today she would pretend it was hers. “Come on, Gillbert,” she said to a toy cat balancing on her shoulder. “Time to get on board. We’ll be late for the Great Hunt.”

  Oona did not move closer to the ship. Instead, she pretended to board it from where she stood. She climbed an invisible plank and looked out across the water. She imagined she was just like her father when he went on the Great Hunt.

  During the Great Hunt one ship from every northern village set sail for the Icelands: a place so cold that if you stayed there long enough the sea would freeze around you and you could walk to the top of the world. Each crew would hunt for a whale. If they caught one, they’d cut it up and bring it back to the village where it was used to make all sorts of things. Meat and blubber were used for food: in winter one bowl of blubber soup could keep a man full for a whole week. Whale oil and whale wax were used for lamps and candles that burned safely and brightly all through the night. And whalebones were shipped south and used to make corsets and parasols for all the southern ladies.

  The Great Hunt was very dangerous; one in ten ships sunk during each hunt and only half were lucky enough to catch a whale. But despite the dire odds, Oona’s father had caught a whale every single year. It was a record that had never been broken.

  “Ahoy, Gillbert,” Oona cried to her knitted cat. In the North, every ship had a cat. No one really knew for sure where they came from. But at some point between the plans being drawn up and the rudder being put in, a cat would inevitably appear on the deck. For as long as the ship sailed the cat would sail with it.