Forged in Blood Page 19

  ‘He has gone off somewhere to cool his heels,’ replies the big Erse-man. ‘He was mad as hell with your father last night after their quarrel. It could be days before he is back. If we had sailed first thing without him, as we should have, we wouldn’t be heading out on this evening tide.’

  Clithna turns from her husband. ‘Skipper Hakon, you haven’t answered my question. Are we not too late to sail?’

  ‘Not too late,’ replies Hakon from the stern; ‘although it is true that we have no chance of making it to the tide-head before nightfall. The sun will have set long before we branch off on an-Uir.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’ asks Lodin’s daughter.

  Her husband interrupts. ‘Enough of this foolish teasing, Clithna. It is distracting for Hakon and his crew. Leave it to them. We are in good hands.’

  Hrut has mistaken the young woman’s banter for real concern. He must think that, like him, she is uneasy about sailing in the dark. He looks up from coiling a rope — a third attempt under the watchful eye of Kru. ‘Sail in darkness, Skip?’ says Thrandt’s son. ‘How will you know where to steer? We may run aground.’

  Hakon smiles at him impatiently. ‘After dark, we will lose sight of moorlands and hills. Everything distant on land will be in darkness — but not the water under us. On a fine evening like this, the river will show up bright as silver under the moon.’

  Fjak mumbles, but loud enough for Hrut to hear. ‘More silver than you are likely to see this summer.’

  The lad ignores him and returns to coiling the rope.

  *

  Dantzk roars out in coarse Ostman’s speech.

  ‘Wud ye look at them shad-fish run!’ Our jib-man scratches his head in awe and points into the sunlit water under our steer-board beam. There — from bank to bank, across the ship’s path and all around — the rising river teems with summer-breeding fish; masses of silver-backs, milling upstream, shad-fish catching the flood tide. The rush of evening sea carries them inland from the estuary. The silvery host chases at our beams as we move north on an-Bharu. On a straight stretch of water as we are on now, the fish swim more swiftly than us and overtake the Meuris — that’s what made Dantzk roar at the sight of them; but on bends the river-wind is at our backs, or at our beam, and strong canvas gives us the edge over them.

  Hakon approaches each bend sailing tight to the bank. He cuts so fine that he disturbs moor-hens and grey herons among the reeds.

  To Skip’s call, the crew spring into action: — an extra shout so that Hrut can digest the full import of the order, a hand-sign, a gesture, and a tap on the elbow for Kru, who looks, waiting for the signs, ever vigilant towards aft.

  Baldr and I haul to larboard brace, Kru with us, releasing or tightening the ropes. Dantzk and Halp have the steer-board brace, Fjak backing them up. Hrut has been too slow on the ropes. For his safety, he has been kept stern-side under Skip’s nose. The lad’s job, not without a helping hand from Skip, is to work the sheets aft. We move our sail from beam to beam, steer-board to larboard, and reverse, to catch the wind out of the bend. We do it as if we were tacking at sea.

  Hakon has the ‘skeelie’ nose of a skipper. He can sniff the slightest change of air off land when a breeze blows unexpectedly off the hills, or when the river-wind veers off its brisk south-westerly. He has seen me watching him, as I try to figure out his manoeuvres on the river.

  ‘What a sight, eh, Thralson?’ cries Baldr, as Skip cuts to mid-river after the bend.

  ‘Another kingfisher?’ says Clithna in wonder. ‘I saw one dart in the water and grab a fish. Beauties, aren’t they, in flight?’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ returns Baldr. ‘But, no, look! I meant shad-fish — all around us. I’ve never seen them in such numbers.’ He strokes the plaited tail of hair at the back of his head. ‘It is a miracle!’

  ‘Not for the otters it isn’t,’ says Dantzk. ‘It’s just another meal for them.’

  ‘I thought that shad-herring were saltwater fish,’ says Fjak. ‘What are they doing so far upriver?’

  Hrut is quick to reply. ‘True, the shad live for most of their life in the sea. But at this time of year, they swarm on the rivers, running upstream to spawn their eggs in fresh water. We set fish-traps for them near the shipyard.’

  Fjak is not pleased to have instruction from Hrut. He spits over the gunnels to show his disgust, and refuses to look again at the fish.

  *

  Shoals of shad-fish swell alongside the Meuris — two dense gatherings to larboard, another to steer-board; the biggest shoal follows at our backs. Smaller clusters of fish, moving more swiftly than the shoal, break off to cross our wake. They dart under the stern and escape ahead of us at the bows. Some fish become separated from a cluster. These silver-backs swim alone, or in pairs and threes. They make easy prey for diving otters, for swooping kingfishers and herons. They twist to and fro in desperate patterns to avoid the hunters. Their swift dartings in sunlight through the water, in and out across each other’s paths, leave tracks behind, fleeting and soon gone, like tangled silvery thread. Shoals are safe from otters and birds. The fish swim gill to tail, a single, solid, flashing shield, close and dense, that cannot be pierced or broken; each shoal a silvery assault, unstoppable, racing north.

  Halpin stares at the shad-fish and ponders. He begins whistling the snappy melody of an old sea shanty. He repeats a string of notes, a cadence that takes his fancy, and then bursts into a hearty song. Our tall, gangly midshipman admires a play on words — and the sound of his own voice.

  ‘From silver coins are fish-scales made, spilled treasure of the sea.

  ‘From drowned men’s bones are skippers paid, from the flesh of you and me!’

  *

  Dusk.

  The Meuris makes good passage upriver on an-Bharu.

  Deasún and his wife have turned to face the prow. We are relieved that the young woman’s searching eyes are no longer on the crew. Lodin’s daughter has pulled a shawl over her shoulders against the evening dew. She leans close to her husband for warmth. He has his hand resting on her shoulder. We flip canvas for the third time on this stretch of water. The hull makes a movement to larboard. Skip turns sharply into mid-river off the bend. We hear otters chirpling among the reeds, hear, from the other bank, a flurry of wings — the short clucking flight of a startled moor-hen.

  Clithna’s head sinks as she falls asleep on her husband’s arm.

  *

  Mist descends over woodlands west of the river. Feathery tree-tops of birch shine in evening dew. Beyond the woodlands, heath and highland are shrouded in haze, hidden in glowing hues of reflected sun. To our right, the sky is darkening in the east. Slieve Coillte stands above a frothy evening haze, its rounded peak robbed of sun, colourless and rugged, a black island amidst a sea of grey mist.

  *

  A wind blows along the river, keeping its waters clear of mist. The river-wind brushes mist aside, and heaps it like clouds of dust upon the river-banks, as if it were the brisk sweeping of a broom in the hands of a sturdy woman. Hakon has us luffing and lagging to capture every scrap of air and drive our passage upriver. For the Meuris, northbound on an-Bharu, the path of the snaking waterway is untouched by mist, but for a thin, smoky vapour that lingers among drooping willows, their branches inundated by tide flooding off the estuary.

  We are at mid-tide. Waters swallow the river-banks. Our hull is lifted by the swell.

  An otter shrieks somewhere in the dark.

  *

  The moon has risen through the mist and suddenly appeared over Slieve Coillte. It hangs sharp and bright above the haze. Stars are out, the North-star our guide. Moonlight plays on the ruffled surface of an-Bharu. Where no shadows fall, from willows or reeds or from the ship’s hull and sail, glittering moonbeams reach searchingly under water. Shoals of shad are still with us. They can be sighted in our moonlit wake and off steer-board beam — the beam that faces the moon. We had forgotten the fish during the lingering twilight between sunset and m
oonrise, when river-bank and river, canvas and deck dulled over. In the river twilight even our ship-mates’ faces were difficult to discern in the dusk.

  ‘How can Skip see to steer?’ Hrut asks incredulously. ‘It is a wonder he doesn’t run us aground!’

  ‘Hakon has the eyes of an owl,’ replied Baldr. ‘He can see better at night than by daylight.’

  ‘Thralson!’ Hakon’s voice echoes over the evening river. ‘Stand by to take the helm!’

  ‘Aye-aye, Skip, but…,’

  ‘Take the helm, man. Do I have to give you hand-signs for an order — like I do for Kru and Hrut?’

  ‘Course not, Skip, but on a river — and in this poor light — how can I be trusted on the tiller?’

  ‘I have seen you watching me, Thralson, since we left “the bluffs”. You have figured out how I take the river-bends. No great secret to it! You know what I am about. You will have seen on some tight bends I take them wide instead of cutting close to the bank.’

  ‘I was curious to see how you did it, Skip, that’s all!’

  ‘Well, now here is a chance to try for yourself. Don’t think too deeply. It will come right for you, you will see. Not much can go wrong on a river, with an incoming tide at your back.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Skip,’ I reply, ‘but keep an eye on me. I don’t want to scuttle your ship.’

  Hakon smiles as he hands me the tiller. ‘A fork in the river soon,’ he adds, in a low voice, ‘we turn off to an-Uir. There will be cross-currents at this stage of the tide. I will go amidships. I will call ‘turn’ or ‘half-turn’ on the tiller — ‘in’ or ‘out’, eh? For larboard or steer-board — but only if you need correction, otherwise I will leave it to you.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Skip.’ I am not greatly reassured, but I make a firm ‘aye-aye’ to please him.

  ‘Stand by, all crew,’ shouts Hakon, abruptly turning his back on me. ‘Stand by, every man, I say! All posts on deck. All posts to change!’

  Clithna awakes. The crew jump to Hakon’s orders, but not Fjak, who has just woken up.

  ‘Hrut,’ says Fjak mischievously. ‘Take a cess-pail for the lady. When she’s done, empty it astern. You are sheet-man — that’s your job.’

  ‘Thank you for your attentions, Fjak,’ says Hakon, ‘but you are not skipper yet. Didn’t you hear my orders? From now on — until we ground at Inis-tioc — Hrut has new duties amidships under Halp, and you are now sheet-man. Jump to it before I lose patience!’

  *

  ‘What do you say, Halp?’ Dantzk slurps from the tub-ladle and throws the remaining half-ladle of drinking-water in his friend’s face. ‘I have heard the vixens up-country are a ready lot — ripe and ready for us, eh, with a bit of silver in our purse? I was getting bored by those lasses in Vadrar-fiord. Weren’t you?’

  Halp beams from ear to ear. ‘Well, old sod, for someone so easily bored, how come you spent half your divvy on them curly-heads in the haven?’ In the next breath he bursts into a brew-house song. When it comes to the lewd refrain — with Clithna within hearing — our midshipman hums instead of singing the words, less out of respect for Deasún’s wife than to tease Skip.

  Dantzk grasps the joke at once. He joins in, not humming, but miming the foul words with an exaggerated shaping of his lips. To cap it off, he adds an elaborate tipping of the elbow — mimicking Skip — as if these signs are done for the benefit of Kru. No one is left in any doubt of the meaning.

  ‘Give over, lubbers,’ says Hakon. ‘We have Lodin’s daughter on board. Have some respect.’

  ‘Don’t be so fussy, Skipper Hakon,’ says Clithna. ‘D’you think I’ve been locked up all my life? I know how that old rhyme goes — and what it means; I heard my brother sing it often enough.’

  ‘I will vouch for that,’ says her husband, idly stretching his arms to relax.

  ‘Stand by,’ shouts Hakon. He brushes past Deasún’s outstretched arms and rushes to the prow. ‘The bend ahead is a tricky one even in daylight — but we have moon and stars on the river and shad-fish to guide us.’

  *

  ‘See how Skip panders to young Hrut.’ Fjak mutters in my ear. He jerks the sheet-rope tight, showing his annoyance at being sent aft. ‘It is all being done for his friend the shipwright. He and Thrandt are thick as thieves.’

  ‘Don’t distract me,’ I reply. ‘Do you want me to run aground? It’s hard enough to steer in the dark without you pissing in my ear.’

  ‘But, Thralson, you are no fool. You can see that Thrandt’s lad will never make it as a lubber.’

  ‘Hakon gives every man a fair crack,’ I return, ‘including you! Only that you don’t appreciate it. But why are you sore about it? What has Hrut done to harm you? — I’d lay off the lad, if I were you.’

  Fjak insists on having the last word. ‘Don’t you see, Thralson? Skip wants rid of me. I bet it is all settled with Thrandt for next season. Hrut has been brought in to fill my boots.’

  *

  ‘Stand by at the helm,’ shouts Hakon. ‘An-Bharu rushes in sharp and noisy from steer-board. And his quiet little sister — an-Uir — slides in softly from the west. We take the quiet one, Thralson. Turn to larboard upriver into an-Uir.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Skip,’ I reply breathlessly. ‘Can’t see much to steer-board, Skip. Can’t see an-Bhearu!’

  ‘Nor can I,’ returns Hakon from the prow. ‘But we will hear rough water soon. It chokes through the gorge. There is a knoll between us and the river: it is all in mist tonight — that’s why we have no sight of it.’

  ‘I hear it,’ yells Clithna. ‘Listen!’

  ‘So can I!’ echoes Deasún.

  ‘No sail-work, lads,’ shouts Hakon. ‘Hear me! No sail work till we pass the joining of the rivers.’

  Four aye-ayes all amidships — from Halp, from Dantzk, from Baldr and Hrut. Fjak’s aye-aye, and mine a moment later, hailed from aft.

  The gorge ahead echoes our voices back at us.

  ‘Thralson,’ shouts Hakon.

  ‘Aye-aye, Skip.’

  ‘Can you see the shad-fish?’

  ‘I see them, Skip.’

  ‘Follow the shad-fish — follow them into an-Uir. Keep the prow tight as you like to near bank. Do it, Thralson! Hold your nerve! Cross-current will tow us back to mid-stream.’

  ‘Will do, Skip.’

  Trusting Hakon’s judgement, following the shad-fish, I start the manoeuvre at the helm.

  Hull slows, stutters; spurts to larboard. Sail tightens, scroud rigging shakes amidships; mast creaks in its footings; sheet-ropes strain aft on their cleats. The nose of the ship nudges the near shore, touches the willows; glides through smoky mist above the drooping branches. Above the prow stands Hakon, feet on the gunnels, hand on luff edge of the sail. The river-bank looms dangerously close, but Skip is not looking at the bank. His head is down, his eyes fixed. He is staring into the river below.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ shouts Fjak. ‘I see them — the shad-fish!’

  A shoal of moonlit shad flashes past the Meuris, moves along near bank, crosses our bows; heads upstream towards an-Uir. An endless body of fish squeezes past our steer-board beam; squeezes through the gap between ship and shore. The fish swim across our bows in one length of wriggling light — swift and silvery through moonbeams in the water.

  ‘Stand by, amidships. Stand by, aft. More sail-work, lads! On my call — not yet —wait for it — when I give the call, haul sharp to steer-board.’

  *

  As soon as we are past the junction of the two sister rivers, an-Uir widens out in the moonlight. As we sail upriver, the waters expand and rise more calmly against the river-banks. My hand is steady on the tiller. Beside me, our sheet-man Fjak has gone silent. He is in a doze, standing with one foot wedged against the block — catching a catnap. Skip is at the prow, chatting quietly with Clithna and Deasún. I can’t hear what they are saying.

  Our crew, all five men amidships, are taking a well-earned rest from sail-work. They are stretched out between thwarts on bales
of wool: gifts of friendship from Vadrar-fiord sent by Lodin for his hoped-for ally Tioc.

  The Meuris ploughs it course on an-Uir. Soft mist hugs the river-banks on both sides of the ship. Above, the night sky is clear, starry-blue and moonlit. Running reflections from sky, moon and stars are woven on the river. Over the mast-head, the North-star veers a little to larboard. Other stars follow in the heavens and upon the waters below. The moon climbs to a quarter of its path. In the wake of the ship, and off steer-board beam, in silent, silvery shoals, the shad-fish shudder swiftly past us in the water.

  *

  Moon and stars light our path on the water. We are on a straight stretch of an-Uir, wide and safe enough for our passage. The wind has dropped. Silence amidships: Dantzk and Halp have heads down on their bed of wool. They have shut their eyes for a spell asleep.

  Baldr and Kru are alert. They are engaged in lively hand-signs, each sharing the other’s thoughts. On Baldr’s shoulder the pigtail swings from side to side. His signs are rapid, friendly, full of animation, almost urgent — but he has his back to me, and I cannot discern his side of the story. Kru sits facing me under the mast. I am able to grasp some of his signs. Baldr holds up the silver cross that he wears on a chain about his neck. He kisses the cross and offers it for Kru’s lips also. For a moment the chain snags on Baldr’s pigtail, preventing him from taking the cross off his neck. Kru bows his head and waits, eyes closed. Baldr untangles the chain and hangs his cross on our deaf-mute’s chest. Kru opens his eyes, looks to see if anyone is watching, and quickly tucks the amulet under his serk.

  I can’t help smiling at Kru and his antics. My leather belt and sheath are already his. And now under his serk he wears Baldr’s prized Christian cross. I wonder what our friend will be after next. My hand goes to my chest. I feel under my serk for a shell-shaped bulge — for the cockle-shell gifted to me by the dying priest-man. I don’t take out the shell and kiss it for luck, as I often do; I feel to check that it is still there. It strikes me how small possessions and kindnesses are passed from hand to hand, from neck to neck.

  Hrut is awake. He stands with feet apart, adopting the stance of a seafarer. Thrandt’s son leans over steer-board gunnels, staring at shad-fish. At times, he lifts his head and listens, with ears cocked, when the hunting cry of an owl echoes through the misty woodlands beyond the river-bank. When the owl’s cry falls distant and fades into night, Hrut returns to watching the moonlit sheen of shad-fish, as they overtake the slowing passage of the ship.