Death of a Whaler (32 page)

Flinch leans against the base of the lighthouse. Cool, pristine white, solid against his back. Eleanor pours them a cup of tea each and they sit and watch as the sun flickers a small arc above the horizon.

‘To Nate,' says Flinch, raising his cup.

‘To a new day,' says Eleanor.

The ocean has depth and colour that Flinch has not previously noticed. Ripples mauve and gold. Chameleon colour changes that flash brilliant, almost blinding, as the sun hovers on the horizon. Clear of its watery birth, the new sun brightens white and Flinch can no longer look at it. The ocean settles into its varying shades of blue. Seagulls take flight overhead, wheel out over the cliffs in search of their first meal of the day.

‘We had a saying at the festival,' Eleanor says. ‘Kind of like a benediction. We said, “May the long time the sun shine upon you. ”When you see it like this, you realise why that's such a generous blessing.'

She puts her arm around Flinch's shoulder. There is a calm, a stillness, around the lighthouse that settles upon Flinch like a warm blanket.

‘Come on,' she says. ‘Let's go back down for a swim.'

‘Wait,' says Flinch. ‘There's something I want to see.'

He walks around to the door of the lighthouse. He tries the handle. The door is locked.

He feels a strange sense of disappointment. The disappointment of the lighthouse keeper, who struggled through his dreams to bang his fist upon this door.

‘Hey,' says Eleanor, behind him. ‘I've never really looked at that properly before.'

‘What?'

‘That. The etching on the glass there.'

Flinch looks closely. It is difficult to make out in the shadow, the new dawn still brilliant on the opposite side of the lighthouse. He sees some kind of flower. A lion. A banner, depicted as if caught in a breeze. The words etched across it make no sense to him.

‘
Olim Periculum, Nunc Salus
,' reads Eleanor.

‘What does it mean?' asks Flinch.

‘It's Latin,' she says. ‘I took Latin for a semester at university, though that was a few years ago now.'

‘Can you read it?'

‘Yeah, hang on a sec.
Olim Periculum. Periculum
. Okay. Um. Yes. Yes, that makes sense.'

‘What does it mean?' Flinch feels anxious all of a sudden. Thinks he catches a waft of pipe smoke on the sea breeze.

‘It means “Once Perilous, Now Safe”. Referring to the ocean and the ships when the lighthouse was erected, I guess.' She picks up her pack and starts making her way down the hill. ‘I'm too hot now, I need a swim,' she calls over her shoulder. ‘I'll meet you down there.'

Flinch, standing alone, stares fixated at the door. Understands what the lighthouse keeper was trying to point out. Not the staircase, or the brilliance of the lighthouse bulb, or the exposure and freedom of the view from the top, but this message etched so delicately in glass.

And Flinch, since childhood cast adrift, sailing towards his destiny on a turbulent sea of emotion, realises the truth. That understanding and forgiveness and friendship and love can smooth the roughest waters. That the ocean that is in his blood, the ocean upon which he has claimed his destiny, once perilous, is now safe.

NATE

This is where the wind blows me.

It sweeps over the red and brown plains of my childhood.

Like some phantom through a wall I pass through my
mother and father, see in intimate and brilliant detail into
their individual lives and loves and losses. I understand,
I whisper into their ears. All is forgiven. My mother pulls her
dressing gown tighter around her throat with a shaking hand.
My father awakens from some afternoon half-dream with my
voice in his ear. He rolls over and goes back to sleep, his mind
a fog. I wonder if he will remember later.

It propels me towards Eleanor, through her blood and
bone, through her pulsing, living heart and its fear and confusion
and glory and wonder. I float over her as she runs down
the steps to the lantana and stands staring at its secret entrance.

It dusts me over Flinch, here with me. I settle over his
shoulders hunched and shaking with his grief and I wonder
if it will scatter me further but I stick to him like glitter.
Don't grieve
, I tell him. He stops crying.

He has taken comfort in my voice, but he is still staring
at the lips on my body and I fear he has not heeded what I
have said.

Revelation has been described as a dawning. But that is
not the case with me. On me it lands solid, with a thud, like
an anchor. It is grey and blue, the colour of a bruise, the
twilight, the moon, and as tall and wide as a wall.

I feel trapped by it at first but then it lifts, and it takes
me with it. Slowly. Slowly. Into the blue sky. Heavenward.
I cling to the sea breeze with a desperation that only the dying
understand.

From high above, I am a spectator watching from the
sidelines that complicated game of my life.

Run faster
, I holler at my young self.

Stay, steady on
, I tell my older self.

Hang on, please Nate, please
, says Flinch.

A watch ticks. A soaring kestrel flaps its wings. A boat
on the ocean crashes against the bulk of a freak wave.

A whale breaches. A car collides with a street sign. A page of
a book is turned. A young girl sighs. A jellyfish is washed
ashore. The tide turns. A heart beats and slows.

Ah. So. This is how long it takes for a man to die.

Long enough to regret.

Long enough to reconcile.

Long enough for revelation.

Long enough to be … reborn.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For assistance with the research for this novel, I thank passionate whale lovers Rae Gill and Annah Evington, and the wonderful Aquarians, Graeme Dunstan and Paul Joseph. For first readings and advice, gratitude to Jen McKee, Nicole Carrington and Lyndal Vermette. For editorial support, thanks to Annette Barlow, Christa Munns, and for her insightful words, Ali Lavau. Mum, Dad, Glenn and Lyndal, thanks, as always, for the constant flow of love and encouragement. Thanks also, with all my heart, to my husband, Miles Gillham, for his love and unfailing belief in me — without his support these stories would remain lodged in my imagination.

Thank you to Northwestern University Press for the permission to reprint extracts from
Moby-Dick, or, The whale
by Herman Melville, Penguin Books, New York, USA, 2003 edition. And thank you for permission to reproduce lyrics from ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight' on p. 121 by Luigi Creatore, Hugo Peretti and George D. Weiss © 1961. Renewed 1989 and Assigned to Abilene Music administered by Memory Lane Music Ltd. Reprinted with permission. All Rights Reserved.