It’s a short walk to the harbour, but folk have come back from wherever they’ve been staying to watch us, and it’s late afternoon when we arrive.

The shipsheds have been cleared and the storage rooms are secure and full. Over the last weeks Dada has managed to find enough undamaged pottery to start his trading season, some from the stores under our house, and much from Nunu’s sister-in-law’s workshop. Nunu loses her look of terror and almost bristles with pride when she recognises the men loading the precious cargo.

The ship is already at the top of the slipway. The rowers’ benches and high, curving bowsprit have been repaired but there was no time to repaint the swallows on the left side, where the shipshed’s roof beam landed. Dada’s high steering chair is in place at the stern, and the cabin awnings are rolled up so that I can see the chairs in place, and the bed for Mama. It does not look like a very big place to spend a long time.

Sailors, porters and workers bustle, stowing provisions and sorting cargo. It’s the first thing that’s been normal about this day – I could almost pretend that the sailing season has started, the fleet has been blessed and this ship is the last to leave before the foreign ships arrive with their own wares to trade.

Nunu’s sense of smell isn’t as good as mine. It takes her a minute before the stench overwhelms her smile. Mama, who’s slept on her stretcher since leaving town, coughs and sits up, waving the stink away with such a natural gesture that for an instant it seems a miracle.

‘Fish,’ she says petulantly, waving her hand again. ‘Fish.’

Which could almost be right, if the fish were long dead. It’s the purple-dyers, three men and a woman, laden with heavy bundles. They stand well back from us, but closer than I’ve ever seen them. They are small and wiry, their backs bent under the weight of their loads, hands stained purple and feet grimed and tough as goat hoofs. It seems a kind of blasphemy that although they barely look human, the men’s loincloths and the woman’s skirt are splashed with the sacred colour.

‘The goods have been properly aired?’ my father demands.

Their leader speaks, but is so nervous that I can’t understand his answer. My father nods and his men take the bundles, screwing their faces in disgust.

The packs my father opens to inspect are fine linen, shaded from the soft pink of sunrise to the deepest royal purple, dark as the sea at sunset. Only the faintest sea-scent lingers. I can feel Dada’s sigh of relief: this fabric is the highest quality, and will trade well. It’s a good omen for a desperately needed trading season.

He nods, and the dyers disappear quickly, carrying their stink with them.

We camp in the emptied storerooms, and are ready at dawn when the Lady, the chief and all the able-bodied Swallow Clan arrive at the harbour. Many of our entourage have sheltered with us overnight; now folk flock to the quay again – it’s crowded, lined with people back up the banks of the inlet almost to the town itself.

Up to our house, I think, and imagine the view in reverse, the way I’ve so often seen it from the windows of my father’s room.

The ship on the slipway seems taller now that I’m about to board. The different layers of my ceremonial shift and skirt should let me get on decorously, without showing my secret women’s parts – but I avoid looking at the boys of my clan behind their parents.

They might all have chosen, have been chosen, by the time I return and finish my Learning. All the rules have changed – so just for an instant, when Lius looks right at me, I look back.

Dada lays the lamb on the sacrificial stone at the top of the slipway. The chief cuts its throat with his sharp bronze knife, and the Lady catches the flowing blood. She lifts the bowl with a prayer to the sea gods, and pours the blood over the bow of the ship.

She is so completely the Lady that I don’t even think of her as Pellie’s mother. She’s wearing her own sacred skirt and shift, but the Lady’s necklace hung with dragonflies and ducks: sun-gold, moon-silver and the sky-blue of lapis lazuli. But it’s more than that – the goddess has visited her, invested her with power and mystery, inhabited her. Her voice is the Lady’s voice.

The goat’s lifeless body joins the lamb’s on the sacrificial rock; his blood splashes over the ship’s bow. The crowd stands silent, hands on hearts until the Lady’s prayer is finished. Don’t stop! I will her, because as long as she’s praying we don’t have to leave.

Pellie is standing behind her sister, the new Kora. Our eyes meet, and when the prayer finishes we rush to each other, hugging tight. The saffron around our eyes streams down our faces like blood.

‘I’ll be back,’ I whisper. ‘It’s just till the end of the sailing season.’

‘But your Learning!’ Pellie sobs, as if she’s the one being left out. ‘How can I finish mine without you here? How can I choose a boy without talking to you?’

I pull my favourite bracelet off my wrist and push it onto hers. ‘Let this talk to you from me.’

‘And this for you,’ she says, doing the same.

‘Loading!’ shouts Dada. In his captain’s voice, I think, and shudder, because I’m about to discover what being on a ship means.

Pellie and I hug as if we’ll never see each other again.

Dada straps Mama and her bedding into one of the leather slings used for hauling heavy cargo on board, and swings himself on deck to supervise. The men pull her up so gently – two guiding from the ship, leaning down till it seems only their toes are gripping the deck, two more on the ground fending off any bumps, and two hauling – that she doesn’t even brush against the ship’s hull before Dada is receiving her and carrying her to the cabin himself. Nunu is hauled up next – without any of the guidance or ceremony. Finally I’m lifted, with my puppy on my lap, dangling free for a moment like a happy child on a swing. It deposits me on the deck, and I scramble out as gracefully as I can without dropping Chance.

The ship takes me by surprise by shifting slightly as more cargo is slung up on the other side, and the puppy yelps. ‘Shush!’ I order him. His mother follows Dada like a shadow, but never makes a sound – I don’t want the sailors thinking Chance will be trouble.

Ibi’s family should be next, I think.

Then I see them. Ibi’s wife is leaning on his shoulder and sobbing; she’s wearing the loose gown of pregnancy, but even from here I can see her chest heaving. Her family surrounds her and though they have offerings of flowers and wine, there are no bags or chests of belongings. Ibi is holding his son so tightly the child is screaming; his wife’s mother is tugging at Ibi’s arm, trying to get him to let the baby go.

They’re not coming. He thought he’d talked her into it, but she’s changed her mind, or her mother’s changed it for her.

I don’t blame her! Only a fool would take a baby and a woman about to give birth on a voyage.

Or someone desperate. Someone who believes that his family’s fate will be worse if they stay.

A belch from the goddess, like a comment. We’re so used to it these days that no one seems to notice, but Ibi’s son coughs, a hiccupping cough that mixes with his screams, and turns him redder still. It breaks the spell on Ibi; he hands the baby back to his wife, farewells her as formally as a visiting dignitary, and strides back to the ship.

There is more going on than I’ve been told. Dada says that Mama and I are leaving because it’s Mama’s only chance to be healed, but I’m sure it’s not the only reason.

I’ve watched this ritual

every year of my childhood;

sailed on the flower-decked ship

in safe celebration around the cradled sea

with the other ships behind us.

But today has no flowers

or celebratory tours;

the sacrifices are real

but the ceremony a shadow –

a children’s game

played in deadly earnest –

the Lady not the Lady,

the chief still bearing scars of mourning,

subdued cheers of a bewildered people –

and the fleet not following,

for the other ships will wait

till repairs are finished

and the season right.

Sitting straight on my cabin chair,

serene as the Lady herself,

I sing sailors’ responses to the people’s farewell;

the ship glides on its rollers

down the slip to the sea,

and two by two the last sailors

swing themselves to the deck,

each to their place and paddle,

smooth as a dance –

and my light voice is lost

against their deep bass.

I seem to have shrunk

in this ship’s world of men

where my father is chief

and there is no Lady.

With a lift and a roll,

the ship slides free;

my father on his throne

shoves the steering oar

and the men’s paddles pull us

away from our land

till the wind god answers with his breath.

Now our square sail

pulls stronger than paddles

and the people’s song fades

like a sigh in the breeze.

I swear I won’t cry,

but as I wipe the sea spray from my eyes,

I stare at the sky –

I don’t want much,

just one swallow,

the first of its flock, returning for spring –

an omen that we

will also return.

But though gulls cry and wheel,

hoping for fish,

the sky is empty of what I want.

When our homeland disappears from sight, the world is empty too. The ship, which seemed so big on land, is small on this unending sea with its hidden monsters and angry gods. The fifty-two sailors, seated two by two on their benches, have lifted and stored their paddles; they sing, doze, and play knuckles as if they are relaxing in their own homes. I want them to be alert, to row and help the sail to get us to Tarmara as fast as we can. This is not like sailing around the cradled waters of home, with land in sight on every side. That was exciting; this is frightening.

Dada calls Ibi to take the steering paddle, and runs lightly down the centre walk-bridge to the cabin. Mama is sleeping, Nunu dozing at her feet. Chance has finally stopped whining and fallen asleep on my lap.

‘Is that dog not too big for laps?’ Dada asks.

‘I didn’t want him to wake Mama with his crying.’

‘Ah,’ says Dada. ‘I was confused – I didn’t realise it was the pup that needed comforting.’

My face burns, but Dada pretends not to notice.

He strokes Mama’s hair off her face; pulls the coverlet up over her shoulders. ‘Change into your travelling clothes,’ he says, ‘and come out on deck with me. Your mama will be safe here with Nunu.’

Dropping the awnings for privacy and shade, he turns his back to me, and continues gently stroking Mama’s forehead while I undo my wrapped skirt, exchange my embroidered red shift for a plain one, and pull a warm woollen tunic on top. The excitement of putting on my ceremonial maiden’s dress yesterday wore off long before we reached town; my season on the farm has taught me how much freer a tunic can be. And warmer.

‘Come,’ says Dada, and I follow him out of the cabin, duck under the square sail and past the rows of sailors, up the central bridge to the raised deck of the bow.

Dada’s eyes sweep the horizon. I think he’s going to show me something, but all he does is smile and say, ‘Breathe. Close your eyes, feel the wind and breathe.’

So I do. My bare feet grip the wooden deck, and now that I can’t see the great emptiness of sea and sky, I feel the breeze and salt spray fresh on my face like a gift. Its energy fills me and washes away the constant worries and fears. My body shifts with the rocking of the ship.

I open my eyes to see a parade of flying fish burst free from the waves, a family of dolphins close behind them. When the fish disappear, the dolphins return to the ship, leading us on our way.