Opening Atlantis Read Free Page A

into the sea off the port bow. “Something funny floating there,” he called.
    â€œThanks, Will,” Radcliffe answered, and steered towards it. “Grab a dip net and see if you can snag it.”
    â€œI’ll do that,” Will said, and he did. When the St. George came up alongside of whatever it was, he thrust the pole-handled net into the sea. Grunting with effort, he pulled it in again. Another fisherman hung on to him to keep him from going over the rail. He thrust a fist in the air in triumph. “Got it, skipper—damned if I don’t.”
    â€œGood for you!” Edward said, and then, to Henry, “Take the tiller for a bit, will you, lad? I want to see what he’s brought in.”
    â€œWhatever it is, it won’t be worth the third part of our catch—silver doesn’t float,” his son said. But he took his father’s place at the stern.
    Edward went forward, his gait automatically compensating for the cog’s roll and pitch. Had he thought about how he was doing that, he probably couldn’t have done it. “Well, Will, what have you got?”
    â€œIt’s a leaf, like. Off a tree or a bush?” Will didn’t sound sure. When Edward Radcliffe got a good look at the thing, he decided he couldn’t blame the other fisherman. It was undoubtedly a leaf. But it was like none he’d ever seen before. It was bigger than a leaf had any business being. For a couple of heartbeats, he wondered if it was something on the order of a pine branch. That didn’t look like a pine branch, though—it looked like a stem. And it didn’t have needles growing from it. Those couldn’t be anything but leaves, even if they were frondlike, almost feathery.
    He scratched his head. “Pretty peculiar, all right. I wonder if the Bretons know what the devil it is.”
    Another fisherman came up beside them. “You know what it reminds me of?” he said.
    â€œI don’t, Ned, but I hope you’ll tell me,” Edward answered.
    â€œIt reminds me of the leaves on a palm tree,” Ned said. “A real palm tree, I should say—we mostly use yew branches on Palm Sunday, on account of real palm trees won’t grow in England. But I saw ’em once in Cádiz, when I sailed down there on a trading run with a Dutchman.”
    â€œA palm tree,” Radcliffe echoed. Ned nodded. The skipper rubbed his chin. His beard was coming in thick now. Nobody shaved at sea; you were asking to cut your own throat if you tried. “We’re a mighty long way from Cádiz—farther off than we were at Le Croisic. How in blazes would a palm leaf drift all the way out here?”
    Ned spread his hands, which were as callused and battered as the skipper’s. “ I don’t know. It’s not just like a palm leaf, either. More like one than anything else I know of, though.”
    â€œMaybe it says Kersauzon wasn’t—isn’t—lying after all,” Radcliffe said. “We can hope so, anyway.”
    â€œWe’d better hope so,” Ned said, which also wasn’t wrong. He went on, “And Cádiz may be a long way off, but that there leaf says some kind of land isn’t. It’s pretty fresh—anybody can see that.”
    â€œI was thinking the same thing,” Radcliffe said. “I—”
    He broke off then. A bird flew up to the St. George out of nowhere—which is to say, he didn’t notice it till it landed on the rail not a long spit from him. Its shape and size put him in mind of a good English blackbird. So did its yellow beak. And, when it opened that beak, so did its song.
    But it was no blackbird, nor any other thrush he’d ever seen before. Yes, its back was dark brown, but it had a brick-red breast and belly, not quite so bright as a redbreast’s but close.
    It let out a few more bars of sweet music. Then, as Radcliffe took a step towards it, it sprang into the