North Star

         Cain sighted Polaris along the line of the quadrant and grew dismayed at how little the angle of the star had changed. He checked the plumb line, knowing it would be fruitless, but feeling the need to do something useful. It was dark and cold. His mother moaned in the bottom of the small boat, a triangle of damp cloth on her fevered brow.
         He had to make it to shore. The doctors would be able to save her, even if the boy had to sell everything the family owned to pay them, he knew they could help. But it was taking so long. Their small island was several miles from the nearest town, and with Pa out fishing on the big ship, Cain had only the light craft to steer across the bay. They had been sailing for hours. Tears sprang to his eyes from exhaustion and fear, but he quenched them in the knowledge that he was the man of the house. He had to make it to port.
         He took a few bites of bread to ease his unsettled stomach, offered some to his mother, but she refused. Sweat glistened on her skin and she mumbled about things Cain didn't understand. She was delirious. The boy grabbed hold of the oars once more and rowed, his small muscles straining. He had to make it to the shore.
         He rowed until his arms would no longer work. Panting, he stopped to check on his mother again. She seemed peaceful. Her moaning had stopped and her skin was cooling. Even her chest was still. The tears that had come to him readily before were now absent. Resolutely, he continued toward the town, but there was no hurry. She was beyond the help of doctors.