by John Boyne
However, as it approached, the ship neither slowed down nor dropped anchor and it became clear that it was going to crash into the stone wall that divided the sea from the land. We ran back in fright as it collided, with a cacophonous breaking of wood and iron. When it was finally forced to a halt, no one moved and we simply stared at it, waiting for the crew to appear, but, no matter how long we stood there, not a single person made themselves known.
“This is a peculiar business,” said Oddleiv, scratching his beard and looking, like the rest of us, a little unsettled. “Should we go aboard, do you think?”
Rudiger cried out to the ship, hoping that someone on the deck might make themselves known, and when no one did, two of the men brought over a ladder and a half-dozen of us decided to make our way across. The deck, however, stood empty, without even a man to guide the helm, and we looked around us in bewilderment.
“A ghost ship?” asked Rudiger, shivering in fear, for superstitions like this were always rife in harbors and there was no one more superstitious than an old sailor. They spoke of the Daraman, which spent its nights sailing around the northern tip of Denmark, and the Laramie, which had washed up on the shores of Ireland without a soul to be found. They sang songs of spirits, banshees and poltergeists.
“There’s no such thing,” I said. “They’re just myths made up to frighten the nervous and the gullible.”
“Then where are all the men?” he asked. “It can’t have set sail on its own.”
It was a good question, but one that I could not answer. A moment later, a cry came from one of the hands who had made his way belowdecks and we moved to follow him. Before we could descend, however, he emerged from the cabins, running as fast as his legs could carry him toward the harbor, crying, “Scatter! Scatter if you value your lives!” We stared after him, one or two following him in fright, but the rest of us remained where we were out of pure fascination. It was all quiet now and a crowd had gathered on the harbor, for rumors had already spread that a ghost ship had docked in Bergen.
I stood at the door to the staircase that looked down into the darkness, considering my options. A foul stench rose from below, but name me a ship that did not stink in its nether regions and I’ll name one that has not yet spent a day at sea.
“Don’t!” cried Oddleiv, putting a hand on my arm to stay me, but I stepped forward, a fool to curiosity, and made my way down the steps, my hand pressing against the wall in search of candles. When I located one I reached into my pocket, struck a match against the woodwork and lit it, holding it out before me.
What I saw was a sight that I had never imagined in all my life. The hammocks were all in place but on each one lay a dead man, his arms or legs hanging over the side. I spoke some words aloud, hoping that one might wake and answer, but was met only with silence. Stepping carefully into the center of the boat, I lifted my candle and looked down at one of the bodies.
It was a horrific sight. The man’s face had been transformed by sores and blisters, his lips turned black, his hands and fingers charred as if they had been lost in the frosts of the Arctic regions. As my breath caught in my throat, I knew what I was looking at, for I had heard tell of a plague spreading across Europe, but had never thought it would reach this far north.
I turned on my heel and, like the man before me, ran back upstairs toward the deck.
“The Black Death!” I cried. “The men are dead of it!”
The dockers stared at me in horror and then, realizing the danger they were in, charged back to the ladder and to the shore as the crowd rushed about with cries of “The plague! The plague!” I, too, ran, desperate to get away from that cursed ship and back to our inn, where I threw myself in a bath of scalding water and scrubbed myself clean. Through the window, I could hear the sound of the ship burning and guessed that the townspeople had poured whale-oil across the deck and set it alight.
As I washed, I thought of the stories I had heard of this terrible disease. It had been brought from the Asian countries, we were told, by fleas that lived in the fur of diseased rats. As ships were notorious for being more populated by vermin than men, and the merchants refused to see their coffers diminish by docking their vessels until they were scoured clean, the boats made the perfect transport for the disease, becoming a plague on the people of Europe. Survivors were few and most who grew infected were dead within days.
Standing naked in my room, I examined my body from toes to head but could see no sign of any unusual markings, saying a silent prayer that I might be spared the fate that had befallen so many. And for a few days more, indeed, it seemed so. It was only as we reached Signe’s village that I had begun to feel ill, and by then I had already forgotten about the so-called ghost ship, assuming I had just eaten something that was past its best.
But clearly I had been wrong. The pestilence had infected my blood and I opened my eyes to see Signe sitting over me, a scarf wrapped around her face to prevent herself from inhaling any of my corrupted breath. I believed that my moment had finally come and that it would not be long before I stood before the face of God and admitted that yes, my last act on this Earth had been to participate in the murder of a man and his mother, two more souls added to the list of those whose deaths already weighed upon my conscience. When I reached out a hand, expecting her to pull back in fright, she took it in her own and I felt a burst of tenderness toward her that I had not experienced since before my wife’s death.
* * *
• • •
But somehow, I survived. And when I did, Signe was still there.
“How long have I been ill?” I asked, and she smiled, pressing a cold, damp cloth against my forehead.
“Almost three weeks,” she replied. “But you’re improving by the day. Most don’t. Your fever has broken, and the sores have begun to heal. You may have some scarring, but you can live with that.”
“And Beate?” I asked.
“I didn’t let her in here,” she said, shaking her head. “Her physical health is fine. She wasn’t affected by the plague.”
“And outside of that?”
“I’m not sure. She’s not quite as I remember her, but perhaps that’s no surprise. It will take time for her to recover. But she is young, and the young are resilient. As, it seems, are you. No matter how close you were to death, you kept pulling back. Although you said the strangest things in your sleep.”
“Such as?” I asked, hoping not to have uttered anything too vulgar or lurid.
“Where are the Temples of the Sun and the Moon?” she asked, and I frowned, for I had never heard of any such places.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Did I talk of them?”
“Yes, and the Avenue of the Dead.”
“The delusions of a man under a fever,” I told her. “And your husband and his mother?”
“Beate and I rolled the boulder back above the well. They will be paying for their crimes in the next world by now.”
I nodded, feeling no sympathy for them.
“Thank you for staying by my side,” I said, reaching for her hand. “I daresay that I would be dead now if it weren’t for you.”
“And I would not have my daughter with me if it were not for you.”
The door opened behind Signe and I glanced over her shoulder. Beate was standing there, looking in at us, but the sun was shining on her in such a way that I could not read the expression on her face. And yet, for some reason, I sensed that she was not smiling.
INDIA
A.D. 1385
TIME PASSED, my health recovered, and events of a personal nature overtook my desire for revenge. When Shanthi and I married, I said a prayer to Brahma, pleading that as long as they should live, no harm would come to my third wife or any children we might have. Not a hair on their heads should be pulled without permission. Not a scratch should disfigure their perfect skin.
I tried my best to be a father to Shanthi’s daughter, Bhavna, but it was a task that was proving more difficult than anticipated. Bhavna was now fourteen years old and a quiet girl, prone to introspection, which was not surprising, considering the many tortures she had endured at the hands of her cruel father. Sometimes I would discover her hidden away in the corners of our home, tears falling down her cheeks, which she tried to hide from me, for she did not like to be seen as weak. She would frequently fly into an extraordinary rage under little provocation, behaving so badly that I grew concerned for the well-being of her mind. And while she seemed to like me well enough, I knew that she was uncomfortable with any attempts on my part to offer physical comfort, so I showed my affection toward her only through words. Her relationship with her mother, on the other hand, was even more difficult, and it bothered me how little she seemed to trust Shanthi, departing rooms whenever her mother entered, or remaining but staring at her with an expression of controlled fury on her face. Although I never voiced my concern aloud, I worried what the future might bring for them both.
Our marriage, however, was a day of great festivity, and when Shanthi and I promised our lives to each other, I was happier than I had been in many years. The ceremony was brief and the celebration even more so, for we had few friends in this part of India. At one point, we even considered venturing toward the ancient lands of the Persian Empire, but neither of us had ever left our country and felt no urge to do so now.
Ravi was conceived on the night of our wedding and Shanthi’s pregnancy was an uncomplicated one, the boy coming into the world with the minimum of pain and providing joy from the moment he appeared. He ate when he should eat, slept when he should sleep, and was apparently content to sit and watch us during his waking hours, attuning himself to this remarkable universe of which he was now a part.
The decision to postpone my search for my cousin, however, was a difficult one, but I did so at the request of my wife, who made it clear that she did not want me abandoning her on what might prove a fruitless quest when we had a new baby to care for. Anxious to make our marriage a success, I agreed to her terms but knew that I would look for him again in the future, when time proved more providential. Still, this temporary abandonment of my mission weighed heavily on my conscience, for I owed a debt of justice to those whose deaths he had caused, and I was not ready to insult their memory by forgetting this.
And so, for now, I established a workshop in Jahanpanah, returning to labor on the terra-cotta pots that I had always enjoyed crafting in my youth. Arriving early most mornings, I worked all day, singing songs to myself as I created my designs and, when I had built up a good supply of pots, Shanthi took them to the marketplace, where she quickly attracted buyers. Within months I found that I had to commit to long hours in order to keep up with the demand. My youth had been built around my great desire to be an artist and it was a joy to be at this work once again. Looking around me at the life I had built, I reveled in that rarest of sensations: contentment.
* * *
• • •
Here, in the refuge of the world, we were surrounded by thirteen fortified gates, each designed to ward off invaders, and it was through the largest of these that I wandered one warm afternoon, having grown weary of sitting alone in my workshop. Making my way into the marketplace, I carried Ravi in my arms and when he saw his mother seated on a mat, my pots laid out before her, he struggled to be allowed down. I placed him next to her and his hands reached out for the vessels, although they were far too heavy for him to lift. We watched him, smiling at his Herculean efforts, and she told me that she had already sold seven pots that day, a number that astonished me, for we rarely sold more than four.
“You may have to think about taking on an apprentice,” she said, an idea that did not fill me with delight, for I had allowed novices into my life before, with unhappy results.
“Or I could simply continue production at my current rate,” I suggested. “And if demand continues, we can increase our prices. After all, my work will be more valuable if it is harder to obtain.”
A great commotion sounded from the stalls nearby and a boy charged past me, his arms filled with stolen fruit that tumbled onto the street as he fled his pursuers. Two burly men ran after him. “Have we lost anything in this way?” I asked Shanthi, and she shook her head.
“Fruit is a lot easier to steal than terra-cotta pots,” she said. “Also, you can eat it.”
I glanced around at the market traders, who had gone back about their business after the moment’s excitement. I noticed a crowd gathering in the distance, close to the mosque. Another boy, aged no more than ten or eleven years old, was seated on the ground next to an older man who was summoning an audience to witness what he called a most extraordinary performance. Upon the ground, between man and boy, stood a wicker basket filled with rope. Intrigued, I joined the group of bystanders and watched as the man raised his hands, which were covered with sores and blisters, and called for silence. We stilled our conversation as he reached into the basket, taking the end of the thick rope in one hand while, with his eyes closed, he muttered incantations over it. When his prayer came to an end, he threw the rope in the air and, to no one’s surprise, it fell back down, landing on the ground at his feet. Some of the men jeered but, as anyone who has ever witnessed a street show knows, this was only a prologue to the main entertainment. He asked for silence once again, repeating his earlier mantra, but once again the rope fell, this time landing around his head. More laughter from the crowd, and I wondered whether I was wasting my time on such folly but decided to give him one more chance to prove his skill, and this time, to my astonishment, when he threw the rope up, it remained aloft, pointing into the sky.
There was a gasp from the crowd and some applause before he reached into the basket to pull out another length of the sisal, feeding it upward until it was difficult to see where the rope ended and the sky began. He took a bow, clapped his hands, and the boy, who had been seated all this time in the lotus position with his eyes closed, praying quietly to himself, stood up and marched toward it. He was short for his age but handsome, with clear skin and bright blue eyes, and wore a vivid yellow dhoti with a green belt holding it in place around his waist. On each of his fingers he wore a different-colored ring and on each of his toes he had tied a multicolored string. Approaching the rope, he glanced back toward his ustad for a moment and then the man clapped again, the sharp strikes indicating that the performance should begin.
Taking the rope in both hands, the boy pulled at it a little and it appeared to be solidly locked into the sky. Leaping from the ground, he ascended four or five feet in the air, holding it tightly between his hands, his legs wrapped around the base. The crowd cheered in delight, as did I, for I had heard of such tricks, of course, but never witnessed one myself. The ustad pointed toward the heavens and the boy, the jamoora, shook his head with a fearful expression that was so poorly acted it was difficult not to laugh. Reaching into a bag, the ustad then withdrew a large Talwar sword, a beautiful foil with a star-shaped emerald as its centerpiece, and waved it in a threatening manner in the direction of the jamoora. To even more laughter, the boy began to scurry up the rope like a squirrel escaping the attention of a hungry dog. We watched as he ascended higher and higher until, finally, he rose so high that he seemed to disappear into the sky itself.
The entire crowd broke into applause and the ustad bowed, accepting the tributes of the audience, before clapping once again and, looking up, we all expected the boy to reappear. But no one came. He clapped again and, this time, with a performance almost as poor as the boy’s earlier, he shook his head, returned his sword to its scabbard and began to ascend the rope, too. Soon, we could hear raised voices from the skies and then, astonishingly, something fell from above. It was an arm, each of the fingers wearing a ring, and then another arm, followed by a pair of legs, a torso, a head. Each fell quickly and cleanly into the
basket and no one dared approach it until the man descended the rope, the cord unrolling itself behind him so that at last, when he was standing on the ground once again, it lay on the ground beside him. He stared into the basket and reared back, feigning disgust, before lifting the lid and placing it on top. Then, turning the basket around in a full circle, he removed the lid and the boy jumped out, fully intact and healthy, and grinning from ear to ear.
The crowd cheered as the boy took a pan and wandered among us, accepting the coins we offered for the entertainment. When he reached me, I patted his head as I threw my offering in on top of the others.
“What’s your name anyway?” I asked, and he bowed deeply at the waist.
“Deepak,” he said. “The Amazing, Incredible, Astounding, Fantastic Deepak.”
I smiled at his superlatives and, as the crowd began to disperse, felt pleased to have witnessed the trick. Returning to Shanthi, I described to her what I had witnessed.
“Magic?” she said, shaking her head, for she was a superstitious sort and did not like meddling with matters that seemed contrary to nature. “That is best avoided, Husband. It is the work of the devil.”
* * *
• • •
The following morning, when I arrived at my workshop, I was surprised to discover the door slightly ajar. I was prone to forgetting to lock it at night but, as yet, no one had ever bothered to steal anything from within. Opening the door cautiously, I glanced inside, but it was still dark and so I reached for a candle, striking a flame for the wick. I could hear the sounds of shuffling toward the rear of the room and cursed under my breath, for I thought that rats had broken in through the night. Stamping my sandals upon the floor, I hoped that this would scare them into fleeing, but the expected rush of tiny feet did not appear.
