Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 339
wet sand. My hair tugged, refusing to be freed from its
entanglement in the earth. It was woven with seaweed and
knotted terribly. I took the knife and cut it short then stood
gingerly. I was not hurt; I had swum strongly and quickly to
shore, but could find no way to climb from this sandy reach up
to the land above. I now looked closely for such a way and
finally spying it, dragged myself up to a grassy area fronting
deep forest.
It soon became evident I was not to be alone with the
wrack.
Sallow men emerged from the forest, and I, backed to the
edge of the low cliff, had no escape. They had been attracted
by the sight of the wreck and proceeded to loot it, while I, tied
to a log and guarded by an old man, watched.
These men were dressed in an odd parody of my
homeland's style. They wore breeches, but they were put
together with many small skins; evidently there were no cattle
on this island. Their shirts were of similar make, with a kind of
armor made with cane woven through them. They seemed to
lack metal. They certainly lacked refinement.
After enthusiastically diving and swimming about the
wreck, and fighting on the shore over what they found, they
pulled me to my feet and marched off along a slight path that
led through the woods. They were comparing their prizes: one
had a fish gaff, another a belaying pin, while a third had
somehow prised loose the ship's wheel and lugged it over his
shoulder. They had puzzled over my instruments and finally
kept them only because they were metal and light enough to
carry. They spoke this language, albeit roughly and with a
truly criminal accent. I took them to be shipwrecked pirates or
the descendants of same, while they took me to be a boy.
I might have thought my virtue, if not my life, to be safe