The Coming of the Whirlpool (8 page)

‘And almost they made it. The Rip, at that early stage of the out-flowing, was naught but a confusion of currents going this way and that. It was by no means impassable. But when they were maybe two thirds of the way across, with the safety of the channel in sight . . . ah, how to describe it?

‘The change seemed to happen in an instant. One moment there was only disorder across the waters, the next the currents had aligned to one purpose, forming an enormous circle, a wheel that spanned the Rip from side to side. It spun only slowly at first, or so it appeared from our perch on East Head. But it grew faster soon enough, and white water foamed over the rocks and reefs, and a terrible roar began to fill the air. And caught on the outer edge of the wheel, their boat swept away and around, were Nathaniel's son and grandson.

‘They fought it. Desperately, they fought it. And perhaps if there had been a wind they might have won free. But the cruel air hung motionless, and so they could only labour with their oars – and what are the puny sinews of a man and a boy compared to the power of the sea? Over the roaring of the waters we cried out encouragements to them, but with every revolution they were pulled closer to the maelstrom's core. And at that core, the dreadful vortex had begun to form.

‘It was then that Nathaniel himself joined us atop East Head. Someone must have alerted him to events and he had come straight from his sick bed, still in his bedclothes and half mad with fever. He stared aghast at the sight below; his son and his grandson, held fast in the maelstrom's grip. Even as he watched, their final doom approached, for the great funnel had opened now at the maelstrom's heart. Fifty yards across that funnel was, or even a hundred, with walls as smooth as black glass; and the sound that came from within it was unspeakable.

‘
Help them!
Nathaniel shrieked, turning to the rest of us in his horror. From man to man he went, clutching at our shirtfronts.
Launch your boats. If we can sail to the edge of the whirlpool, we can throw them ropes and pull them free. Two boats should be enough. Three boats. We can save them. Which of you will help me? Which of you will go to their aid?

‘Not one of us stirred, not one of us ran to the beach to shove off. Not one of us brave fishermen. We might have been made of stone. Nathaniel clutched at us, weeping and pleading, and every time he glanced back down to the Rip, he saw that his son and grandson had spun nearer and nearer to their end.

‘He cursed us finally, cursed us for cowards and vile betrayers, cursed us to an eternity of misery and shame and loss. And off he ran. In his madness and despair he had resolved to launch a rescue on his own. None of us pursued him or sought to dissuade him. We were trapped there on the hilltop by the spectacle of the maelstrom and by the dreadful fate of the little boat.

‘Round and round it went, the man and the boy still struggling at their oars, though they must have known that it was useless. What it was they felt as that awful pit drew near, I can only hope that none of us here ever come to know. But they had a cruelly long time to consider their deaths. The maelstrom showed them not even the mercy of killing quickly. For all that they raced about that great circle, they crept inwards towards the centre only by agonising inches.

‘Indeed, they tarried just long enough for Nathaniel to arrive. He appeared at last around the foot of East Head, rowing all alone in a skiff, swept swiftly along by the current, but too late, much too late. He took a moment to stand up in the bow and stare in search over the waves. And for that he was rewarded with the sight of his loved ones caught on the funnel's very lip.

‘The man and the boy had surrendered their useless oars by then. Instead, as the little boat spun about the perilous rim, the father was using his last moments to lash his son to the mast. No doubt he hoped that even if the boat was devoured it would rise again eventually and carry his son with it.

‘The boy meanwhile must have spied Nathaniel across the waves, for he reached out an arm, beseeching, to his grandfather. In vain. Just then the boat slid beyond the lip and they spun down, pressed against those black whirling walls, until they were carried out of sight below.

‘We men on East Head cried out in our dismay, but Nathaniel fell to his oars and rowed like a man demented. And yet even as he approached the maelstrom's edge the great wheel began to slow and the roaring to ease. The funnel grew wider and its walls less steep, until it was no more than a shallow bowl, revolving, and then it was gone altogether, leaving but a spiral of foam at the centre of the Rip, surrounded by dying currents.

‘Nathaniel laboured on, but when he reached the spot where his son and grandson had descended, there was now only smooth water over the depths, and no sign even of wreckage. The ocean had swallowed them whole.

‘Never did that boat rise again, nor any piece of wood from it. And the bodies of the man and the boy have never been found.'

Boiler Swan's voice had fallen to little more than a whisper. He paused and took a long swig from his mug. The other men stared fixedly at nothing, and outside the wind whooped and sighed; it seemed to Dow that he could hear the ocean too, crashing and booming far off. He glanced to the old woman, expecting somehow that she would now speak, but she was silent and unmoving, face to the floor, her iron-grey hair hanging down like a veil.

‘Nothing has been the same since,' Boiler resumed, wiping his mouth and grimacing as if the beer tasted bad. ‘Evil days have come to us all. In the months after the maelstrom it seemed that every time we ventured through the Rip, foul weather would strike, or we would ground upon the rocks, or our nets would come up empty. Men were lost, boats wrecked, families ruined. Soon enough we ceased to fish beyond the Rip at all. We confine ourselves to the Claw now, to the calm waters and shallows of the bay, and to whatever meagre catch we can win there.

‘But it's a poor life, and so we have dwindled. Year by year, for ten years now, people have been leaving Stromner to seek a new fortune, in Lonsmouth or in Stone Port or in the other villages along the coast. Our young folk most of all; almost none remain. They know, as do we all, that Nathaniel's curse still lies upon Stromner, and that nothing here will thrive until it is lifted.

‘Don't mistake me. No blame here is to be laid upon Nathaniel. He cursed us only in his fever and fear that evening upon East Head, and besides, he spoke truly, for cowards we were. And in any case, the curse lies most heavily upon Nathaniel himself. His life has been grim since that day, and solitary. His only son and grandson are taken. His son's wife, in her grief, soon went back to her people across the bay. And a year after the maelstrom, Nathaniel's own wife died. Of a broken heart it's said. Nathaniel has been alone ever since, the bitterness and despair growing in him season by season.

‘Oh, he has replaced the boat he lost, as you know, but he scarcely fishes any longer. He hunts the waters for a different quarry now. It is his lost family that he seeks, his son and grandson who the ocean stole. For in his madness – if madness it truly be – he believes that they are not dead. He believes that the maelstrom holds them yet alive in some secret cave or chamber below the ocean floor, and that one day they may be released. A desperate notion, no doubt, born of grief and longing. But then who really knows what lay at the bottom of that terrible funnel, or to where the whirlpool carried its trapped souls?

‘Not I. But it seems ill-omened to all of us here that Nathaniel has painted the maelstrom itself on the prow of his boat, and named the craft likewise, and goes hunting in the waters of the Rip, calling out to the whirlpool, demanding that it return and show him the way to his drowned loved ones. No good can come from such a summons. And so for some years now we men of Stromner have sat here in our empty inn and pondered what is to be done about Nathaniel, and about the curse that hangs so dolefully over all our heads. We found no answer.' But here Boiler's gaze focussed upon Dow. ‘Until, that is, we heard tell of
you
.'

All the men were watching Dow. He looked about, puzzled by their faces. These were folk hardened from long life, each of them by far his elder, and yet there was a peculiar deference now in their expressions.

Boiler nodded towards the door. ‘One day, messengers came to us here in this very bar, elders from the highlands who were going from fishing village to fishing village with a strange request. There was a lad, they said, and a family was wanted to take him as kin and raise him in the ways of the sea. And then the messengers grew hushed, revealing to us a great secret – this same lad was a direct descendant of no less than Admiral Honous Tombs.'

In her corner the old woman – Mother Gale – lifted her head at last to stare at Dow with her blind eyes.

‘Honous Tombs,' repeated Boiler, his chin rising. ‘Now that's a name to rouse the blood. The captain of the
Grey Sail
has not been forgotten among the folk of the Claw. Nevertheless, no village would take the boy for fear of the Ship Kings' displeasure should they ever learn of the secret. Stromner was the very last place to which the messengers came, and little did they expect from us, noting our poverty and our empty houses.

‘But we men here descried a special sign in their request. A sign and a hope. For it seemed to us that if Nathaniel could be made whole again and cured of his madness, then perhaps we all might be cured. But the only thing that might so heal Nathaniel was a family to replace – at least in part – the one he lost. A son to call his own again. And why, here was a lad needing a father.

‘But not just any lad. This boy was the heir of Honous Tombs himself – not only the greatest sea captain New Island has ever known, but also a native inhabitant of these very headlands. To be sure, Honous was not born or raised in Stromner, but rather in Stone Port close across the channel, nevertheless he surely must have tread the streets of this village during his lifetime. And it is beyond question that when the Great War came many men from Stromner embarked to sail and fight with him. Nathaniel's own father not least among them!

‘Aye, the name of Tombs was a weighty token to us. Dimly though we might grasp the pattern of it, surely fate was weaving a web of purpose here. And so we told the messengers, send the lad if you will.

‘And so you came . . .'

But at that Boiler trailed off, as if no longer certain of his tale, and a silence settled, the wind and rain outside in momentary lull.

Mother Gale rapped her stick. ‘Aye, and so he came, ten years to the day, and what has it led to but the near death of them both?'

Boiler heaved a great sigh and shook his head. ‘Aye, ten years to the day. It wasn't by chance, we can be sure of that. Fate is casting its net still, my friends, and we're all of us entangled.' His glance went to the man sitting closest to the door. ‘Ethan – now is the time.'

The man nodded, stood, and went out into the night. As he departed, the storm rose again and wind whistled tunelessly at the doors.

Dow shivered: despite the warmth of the fire he felt a cold bewilderment. It had seeped into him as he'd listened to the story of Nathaniel and the maelstrom. He'd had no conception that such grim events were responsible for his coming to Stromner, or that such a weight of expectation had been laid on his shoulders. It didn't seem fair. He had wanted to go to sea, that was all. The death of Nathaniel's kin, and the ill fortune of the fishing village ever since – none of it was any of his doing. So how could it be up to
him
to now set things right?

Boiler was studying him. ‘It's a lot to take in lad, I know. We should have told you all this earlier. But we weren't to know you would come on the day that you did, and that Nathaniel would take it so hard . . .'

Dow's mouth was dry. ‘He doesn't want me.'

And that was all that really mattered. The hope that these men had placed in him, fair or unfair, had already come to nothing. Nathaniel wanted no new son. And if that was so, then of what use was Dow to Stromner? No use at all. Perhaps now they would simply send him back to the highlands. Dow felt a sharp stab of homesickness, and for an instant would have actually welcomed the excuse to leave and go home to his family.

But Boiler only shrugged. ‘Well now, he didn't want you last night. He was far gone to drink and sadness and even further from his right mind than usual. But he remains a man of this village all the same. And in Stromner, what the village decides upon, everyone obeys. We're like the crew of a ship at sea – no one man can go against all the others. Even Nathaniel does not dare.'

Realisation dawned upon Dow. ‘You're going to make me go back to him? After he tried to drown me?'

Boiler shifted uncomfortably. ‘Make you? No, lad. We're going to
ask
you. Although it's true to say that if you refuse, then I don't see how you would be able to stay here and learn the ways of the sea, for no other fisherman in this village needs a son. We believe still that fate has decreed it is Nathaniel who must take you, in the place of the family he lost. We have talked with him at length this very afternoon, now that his drunken- ness has past. He has declared himself willing to bow to our command and accept you into his home. Grudgingly perhaps, but with promise that he will not seek to harm you again, and that he will teach you the skills of fishing. Ethan has gone to fetch him now, so that you may be reconciled in our presence. Nevertheless, the final choice in this is yours.'

Dow stared around at the men in growing disbelief. Could they be serious?

‘Ha!' Mother Gale was licking her lips, her white eyes rolling. ‘It's a fine choice you're giving him. To crawl back to his home in defeat, or to put his life in the hands of a madman. What fair and just men you are.'

Dow almost nodded in agreement. What kind of folk were they indeed, these fishermen? How could they ask such a thing? How could they load all their old guilt and shame upon a stranger in this way? When Dow had first spied the great ships sailing from the headland, he had imagined the sailors on board as the boldest of men, fearless in the face of wind and wave. He had expected even these humble fishermen to be the same. But the men of Stromner were all looking away from him now, studying their drinks, or the walls, as if the anger of a mere youth was more than they could bear. Only Boiler, sad and silent, held his gaze.