It was a damp, chilly sort of morning. Inclement, with only the bright, utterly sodden dampness that a tropical monsoon can bring with it; that of soaked, cold, good-natured misery. No one stirred unless they had to. Those required to still be about scuttled about meekly like insects, huddled defensively under their oilskins. No one mentioned rain when they described the West Indies.

Therefore only lunatics or children would be actually… out, in this weather. Perhaps the two who were (the companions, if not the heroes of our story) could fall into both categories.

A small, hunched bundle of greying kersey was hunched up like an oversized mushroom on the very edge of the taffrail. You might have been forgiven for thinking it was in actual fact a mushroom; save for a very small pair of legs dangling easily over the side. One stocking was rumpled, if you looked closely – that, and what appeared to be a miniscule pink nose poking out of the top, confirmed it was a doll-sized child, contemplatively biting its nails with an anxious air.

The other was a wizened, weather-beaten creature with a good-humoured face and an air of permanent amiability; a man who never lost his head, because he took things as they came, or went, never mind what it was. It must have taken a huge feat of patience – or perhaps a little weakness in the brain, to be so permanently benign and easy, but Arthur Wrevelyen, Able Seaman of the Dunfermline seemed to be possessed of a surfeit of optimism. No one ever used his first name, by the bye – he was a Cornishman born and bred, but because the last name clicked awkwardly on the English tongue, it had been slurred gradually, from Wrevelyan to Wyvern, and it stuck to him like tar ever after. No one could tell if he minded or not. He was not a very demonstrative sort of man.

Currently he was peering interestedly downwards, at the grey ripples of the ceaseless rain. He was bare-headed; his feathery, somewhat grizzled hair was plastered to his head with the weight of the water, and he was soaked to the skin. But still as absurdly good-natured as ever.

'No offence, lad,' he said easily, peering at the water, 'But I don't think the fish are bitin' today. Not in weather like this. Best wait, eh? There'll be other days…'

The mushroom turned a little, somewhat wetly, to reveal a pair of truculent blue eyes that did not admit of defeat. Two small, starfish-pink hands clutched a piece of stick and a length of string; a pathetic attempt at a fishing rod. It was doubtful if even seaweed would fall for that trick.

'Nae fishy?' he said mournfully, waving the piece of twig hopefully. The accent could have been spread on bread. It was so thick it dripped off syllables like melted wax and scrambled over sentences, clouding everything in a shrill Scotch dialect. 'Want fishy!'

Wyvern hoped the poor thing would grow out of it amongst honest Englishmen. He was a sweet, piping little thing; powder monkeys were generally sharp-faced guttersnipes with wizened, cunning little faces. Not poppets who still discreetly sucked their thumb when no-one was looking….

'No fishy,' Wyvern agreed, tactfully trying to take the 'rod' away. He had been attempting to coax him off the taffrail for near an hour now, without any success. 'But maybe if we comes back tomorrow? And… maybe tomorrow we'll put something on the end o' the line, hmm? A bit of bacon, or something…' Wyvern gave up on reason with a sigh. 'Look, for God's sake, Davy… you're wet as a rag. Come on now – you won't catch anything. Dark as muck the water is here.'

'But the fishies eat string!' The voice was a positive wail. Davy, if that was his name, seemed to be on the verge of disappointed tears, the blue eyes wobbling underneath the grey kersey hood in a very sniffly sort of way. 'Squint-eyed Joshy told me that the fishies only eat string, an'-'

'Joshy is an evil wretch of a snotty midshipman, and he'll come to a bad end one day,' Wyvern said firmly, scowling at the absent Joshua. 'Fish don't eat string. No, nor flying birds either.'

The hood turned upwards, disbelievingly. 'Ye mean he wasnae telling the truth?' he said, wonderingly.

'No.' Wyvern said shortly. 'He wasn't. You shouldn't believe a word of the gaff he spouts, boy. But the more shame to him for playing tricks. Ain't fair at all.'

'Boys whae tell lies go to a bad place,' Davy said piously, by way of personal consolation. 'Mammy said.'

'I'm sure she did, Jonesy. I'm sure she did.' Wyvern lifted the boy with a faint grunt of effort off the rail. He was light – a mere hanging sack of empty weight, but Wyvern was not as hale as he used to be, and a twinge of rheumatism plagued him now in damp weather.

It was an odd friendship, made out of mutual loneliness. Wyvern did not care very much for where he was, or who he served with; one ship is very like another. And little Jonesy, poor thing, was kicked about like a child-shaped football by the wizened powder-monkeys and the idle young dogs who hung about the midshipman's mess. Although he need not have been quite as isolated as he was - a temper like an infuriated mule tempered with a pride a Rear-Admiral might have baulked at does not make for an easy life aboard a rough-and-tumble merchant ship.

For instance, in the normal course of the day's business, a battle-hardened cynic of nine, Know-All Ned (no self-respecting powder monkey had such a thing as normal names, it went against nature), cheerfully threw a bucket at Davy's small, dark head and told him to be 'quick with it, Scotch Jock!'

Now, a normal boy might have grimaced and taken the jibe in good part. Most. In this case, it took three twelve-year olds and repeated elbows in the stomach to prevent 'Scotch Jock' from beating Ned's brains out against the gun-deck, as a matter of national pride. No-one should have quite that much vitriol at four. That spoke an unhappy history for itself. But he was such a little slip of a thing… Wyvern knew for a fact that Jonesy kept a battered worsted rabbit under his pillow with only one button eye, and guarded it jealously.

The reader may well ask: what on earth had an arthritic old swab and a half-crazed child in common?

The answer would have to be: mutual understanding. Or rather, amused tolerance and vague affection on Wyvern's part, and a sort of bewildered, grateful acceptance on young Davy's part, as though he could not but wonder… why. But Wyvern had got him out of enough scrapes as it was – and his alliance was a good thing aboard the Dunfermline; the ship was Scottish only in name and certainly not in nature. And the troubled politics of the time boded ill for anyone unlucky enough to come from the Borders.

Jones wriggled determinedly out of Wyvern's grip once he was down, dropping his useless toy of a fishing rod. But he still poked his nose hopefully over the side, standing on tiptoe with a faintly hopeful look.

'Look, there's no fishy!' Wyvern said impatiently. 'Unless you're planning to sing to 'em, and even then I wouldn't -'

Jones looked awkwardly up at him, his face a little pink. 'Wyvern…' he said cautiously, blinking raindrops out of his eyes. 'Do boys whae tell lies really go tae a bad place? Really? Like Mammy said?'

Ah. Wyvern sensed complicated ground here. He changed tack. 'Depends, Jonesy.' He said mildly. 'Depends what sort of lie it is.'

'Oh.' Davy stared at the deck, tracing a pattern with the toe of his shoe. 'If… if I really knew fishies didnae eat string?' he asked forlornly. 'Am I still going tae a bad place? Only I swore nae tae tell anyone, ever, an' it's really secret, an'-'

'Secret, eh?' Wyvern said, frowning. 'How secret, Jonesy? This isn't any of Know All Ned's tricks, is it? If it's some daft wager-'

Poor child. He suddenly looked agonised, as if caught in a frightful position. 'I cannae tell anyone,' he said uneasily, still trailing his shoe. 'Only Pretty Lady said dinnae say, and I'm no' a tell-tale.'

Pretty Lady? Probably an invisible friend, Wyvern decided, with relief. Some pretend mother he'd made up for himself after – after whatever had happened to Jonesy's real mother. He never did find out. At least he wasn't about to fall off the taffrail and drown.

It is a pity Wyvern did not quiz Jonesy more on the 'Pretty Lady.' If he had known what he learnt later, he would never have forgiven himself for leaving the poor thing alone. But he merely grinned, pulled the damp kersey a little more closely about the small, nodding little head, and took himself off for a quiet drink below, in the warm.

Leaving a very small boy alone in the rain, with only the water for company. Or perhaps…

Not quite just the water. The minute Wyvern was gone, his moppet of a friend tottered over to the taffrail again as though drawn on an invisible thread, looking apprehensively over the wooden ledge. Admittedly with some fright; the waters were very black and very deep, and Davy had the sort of fantastical imagination that terrifies its owner; the thought of an unknown something lurking out there that wasn't the Pretty Lady was nearly enough to send him shivering back into the galley. But he peeked over the edge with a frightened dauntlessness that seemed older than his years. What four meagre years there were.

'Lo?' he said, in a whisper. 'Pretty Lady?'

Silence, apart from the slapping of the waves against the hull, and the dripping of the ceaseless rain. Jonesy wiped his nose on his sleeve, blinked wetly (possibly with a little more salty tears than he would ever have admitted to) and tried again. 'Pretty Lady?'

'You'se know,' a voice said conversationally, seemingly out of the raindrops, 'Dat a very silly name for me, boy chi'le. I'se no a princess, you'se know dat. And I'se certainly not a lady.' The voice emphasised the word with a sort of bubbling amusement that said ladies, as far as they were concerned, could go hang themselves.

Jonesy let out a half-strangled squeal , nearly falling from his precarious post in a tumble of sodden hood and very wet stockings. He righted himself, with a water-drenched squelch, and sniffled hopefully in the direction of the voice. A pair of cool amber eyes stared back from a great distance, it seemed – although the rain made everything indistinct and faded. And he was a very, very small boy, after all.

'You came!'

'Told you'se, boy chi'le. My, what a li'l thing you'se are! You'se not grown yet? You'se still mouse-sized, poor l'il piccaninny…'

'I'm growin', Missy Lady.' Jones said stoutly, bashfully tracing a pattern with the tip of his shoe again. 'Wyvern says I'll be a wee bit bigger than Know-All Ned when I grow, anyway, an' then I can bash his heid n'-'he glowered at the floor.

'Dey's not kind to my boy chi'le?'

To be fair, Davy hesitated here. You didn't tell tales, and besides, it made him seem… small. So he shook his head by way of evasive answer.

'M'alright, Missy Lady,' he muttered awkwardly.

'Ahhh, li'l liar!' But it was spoken kindly. 'You'se no tale bearer, dat it?'

A moment's pause. A nod this time.

'Good. Dat's all for de better. But you'se lonely?'

Another, miniscule nod, coupled by a slight hitch of the shoulders, and followed by a very wet and miserable sneeze.

'Not so good for my boy chi'le, I'se see. Well, I'se not keep you'se long…'

'No!' Another wail from Jonesy, who jumped from his sentinel's post with imploring eyes. 'P'ease… I've nae seen you in ever 'n ever!'

'D'ere's a good reason for dat, piccaninny. When you'se older. But I came like I promised to my sweet l'il boy chi'le, hmm? Didn't I?'

A hand gently chucked Jonesy under the chin, as though he was in truth the almost-baby he really was. He let loose a gurgle of little-boy laughter like a drain.

'D'ere. All better now? Now. I'se tak' care of you'se, boy ch'ile. You'se mine. But you fetch me a slop jar. An' some seawater, an'… we'se see what we'se can do about de loneliness.'

Something in Davy's rather small memory flicked a card about pumpkins and lizards, so he nodded, eyes wide, and toddled giddily over the deck until he found the slop jar – an empty relic of the current captain's fondness for stewed prunes. He was not in truth very sure what the pretty Missy Lady what. She had been a cinnamon-scented presence in his life for 'ever an' ever', to be sure, but since Jones' mind was as tangled and confused as a ball of string with cold and childishness, he half thought she was, perhaps, a fairy godmother. Or a mammy. Something in between the two.

'I-is it goin' tae be a coach?' he asked timidly (with real fear just in case prancing stallions did appear on the deck of the Dumfernline; Jones was aware that that would take more than a little explaining if it really happened). 'Only-'

'Pshaw! I'se not give you'se dat. What use is dat to you'se? No, I gi'e you somet'ing much better. Dey's rare, and ve'y loyal if you'se treat dem right.'

Something slithered, along with the seawater, into the slop jar. Davy heard it slide with a buttery squelch, a sort of unpleasantly 'squellopy sound', as he afterwards described it. He could not see it in the darkness. He could scarcely see his own hand in front of his face, let alone more than the liquid, eloquent eyes of Missy Lady or the… the thing in the jar.

'Wha- whae is it?'

'Dat's for you'se to work out, boy chi'le. Look after her; de females precious rare, and dey much more active than… some. Do dat for me, and you'se see me 'gain very soon.'

'Promise?' Jonesy said doubtfully. He did not want to take care of the thing in the jar; much less find out what it actually was- but he'd have braved most things for a chance to see Missy Lady, the maybe-fairy godmother who talked to him like a mama would, but was far nicer than a mama...

A sudden cessation of movement, and the disappearance of the amber eyes, alarmed Jonesy so much that she was going again that he ran after her, slamming into the rail. 'Wait! Missy Lady!'

No reply. She'd gone again. And she hadn't said when she was coming back.

The thing in the jar squeaked. Jones looked forlornly into it, with an air of abandonment, and then felt his way towards the tiny sliver of heat and light that led downwards to the galley.

Wyvern peered at it owlishly. 'Caught it, you say?' he said suspiciously. 'With your fishing line?' He tapped on the glass of the slop jar. 'Well, mostly I'd say that's an octopus, Jonesy. Squid, or somethin' like that. Nice if you boil 'em in a stew, but a bit rubbery otherwise-'

'Are octopussies rare?' Jonesy said thoughtfully, splashing a pink hand into the jar. It was an ugly thing; all long trailing strands of rubbery pale pink legs like strips of blancmange and complicated mouth; an unusually wide mouth, too. Octopi are docile creatures, with their blinking little blue-black eyes and shy habits. Nothing like this specimen, unless nature had gone very astray. It had beady and unusually human brown eyes that took in the weird world outside the jar with an air of preternatural cunning.

'Them's probably suckers,' Wyvern said sharply. 'I wouldn't do that, 'less you want to lose a hand, Jonesy. Not particularly rare, octopussies. They're everywhere – what the hell are you doing? Jonesy!'

To his evident horror, Davy had put his hand in the jar and attempted to scratch the creature's stomach as though it were a small puppy. It made a complicated keening noise like the cry of a curlew.

'I allus wanted a dog,' Davy said happily, watching it. 'Mammy ne'er let me hae one, though. Said it'd get fleas. An' boys whae get puppies wi'out askin' go tae a bad place.'

'You're going to keep it?' Wyvern said doubtfully. 'Ain't you goin' to eat it?' Although he wouldn't answer for the taste of the thing. 'S'ppose it's not different to them daft birds… I s'ppose.' He looked down dubiously at the jar. The… thing was making a hopeful attempt to digest Jonesy's fingers, although the lack of teeth rendered it somewhat difficult. It was merely ineffectually licking them. Wyvern shuddered. 'What the hell are you going to call it?'

'I thought o' Jenny,' Davy said vaguely, putting one electric blue eye to the jar so it was magnified a million time into fantastic shapes. 'Like pretty Jenny, in the song, whae sits a-weeping, 'cause she makes that funny greetin' noise all the time…'

And thus pretty Jenny, as she was christened, came into his possession. Wyvern never found out how he knew she was a girl; as far as he knew, the thing looked an unpleasant piece of prehistoric something dredged from the abysmal deeps and Jonesy was as daft as a twopenny brush.

Which was broadly true, in a way.