Sect Year 3 · tenth month · night of day 29 · the thirty-second life: the stern of a fishing boat, his eighth year
The rope had taken the skin off both palms some time ago, and Dessin had stopped being surprised by it. He held on anyway. The wet hemp ran through his fingers and bit wherever it caught, and each bite was new. Each wave that came over the stern was new as well, cold enough to stop his breath for the length of a count.
He had turned eight in the last watch of the night. Nobody on the boat had noticed, least of all him. A birthday on a fishing boat was one more day on the stern bench, and this one had not finished yet. The light was grey and was getting no brighter.
The squall had come up out of the south before the sun was properly awake, black along the water like spilt ink, and it had been on them since. It pushed the bow down and lifted it, pushing and lifted, so that the whole boat moved like a thing breathing too fast.
At home his mother mended nets on the shingle, and his little brother was too young yet to be trusted with a line. Dessin had been promised a bench of his own on the sea boat when he was big enough. He had thought about that bench a great deal over the winter. He had pictured the sun on…
