‘And indeed, it was nigh upon a hundred years ago now that the Great War between New Island and the Ship Kings began. We were ourselves an ocean-faring people then, and we built our own tall ships from the timbers of our forests, and we shared the seas in peace with all others who sailed. But the Ship Kings grew hungry for dominance and battle was joined. After twenty long years of struggle, the fleets of New Island were defeated and the Ship Kings were victorious. In the years since they have ruled unchallenged over all the Four Isles, while we have been reduced under the Settlement to a subject, lesser people.’
He paused as if to reflect a moment upon this sad but familiar history, and the crowd reflected with him in solemn silence.
‘The oceans are closed to us now,’ the Scribe continued. ‘Under the rules of the Settlement, no New Islander may sail beyond sight of our own land. Our shipyards are idle, the arts of seamanship forgotten. But we once possessed the bravest seafarers the waters have known. Thus it was that even with fewer men and smaller fleets we yet matched the Ship Kings in battle and came close indeed to victory. And one captain, above all, rose to fame in that war. It is forbidden by the Settlement to talk of him and few now remember his name, but we Scribes have not forgotten, and tonight we will risk defying the law. The man of whom I speak was Admiral Honous Tombs, captain of the Grey Sail, and now eighty years dead.’
Watching his fellow villagers, Dow saw no recognition of the name on any younger faces – he himself did not know it – but here and there a few of the old folk nodded and smiled, a glint in their eyes.
‘Now is not the time to relate the entire history of the war, nor even to tell of Honous Tombs’ many triumphs at sea,’ said the Scribe. ‘But know this – his was a famous sea-faring family. For centuries the Tombs line provided our best sailors, who captained our best ships. Their blood, it was said, was of salt water. And it was blood that ran true, generation after generation.
‘Nevertheless, for all his bravery and skill, Admiral Tombs led his fleet to defeat in the final battle of the war, and was himself killed when the Grey Sail was stormed and captured. But so feared was he by the Ship Kings that even after his death they could not forgo their vengeance upon him. It was made a condition of the Settlement that his only son be executed, that the rest of his family be scattered, and that the Tombs name cease to exist.
‘And so it came to pass. Only his two daughters survived, and they were forced to marry into poor inland families, far from the sea, and to bear their children under new names. In the decades that have come and gone since then the bloodline has been forgotten by most, but we Scribes have remembered it, and kept watch. We know that there exist today across New Island, many descendants of those two Tombs daughters – and that Rose Amber here is such a one. Her parents may have been simple timber folk of the valley, known to you all, but through her mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before that, she is the great, great granddaughter of Honous Tombs himself.’
A mutter rose about the room. This was a revelation to be sure. And yet there was a confused tone to the murmurs. A questioning.
The Scribe nodded. ‘Indeed, what of that? As I said, there are many such descendants spread across New Island. Rose Amber is not unique. And truly, her heritage would have scant meaning now if it were not for one other remarkable fact that concerns not Rose herself, but her son. That fact is this – in all the years, through all the dozens of grandchildren and great grandchildren who have been born to the forbidden Tombs line, until Rose Amber’s son Dow arrived, not one of those children was a boy.’ The Scribe paused again, and turned to study Dow. ‘In this young man, you see before you the first male heir born to the Tombs family in the eighty years since Honous and his son were slain by the Ship Kings.’
And now a clamour of voices rose. If until that moment the story had been merely a curiosity to the assembly, the words ‘first male heir’ altered everything. Such implications! Dow stood at the centre of it all, as amazed as anyone, but aware mostly of his mother and the fear that brimmed in her eyes.
‘By law, thus,’ concluded the Scribe, ‘even though he comes only through the female line, Dow here, as the sole remaining male of the dynasty, is the legal inheritor of the Tombs name, and of the Tombs seafaring profession. He would, in days past, have been duly called to service in the fleets of New Island. And behold, judging by his own words it would seem that the sea longing of his forefathers runs true in him.’
Was that what it was, Dow wondered? When he had first seen the ocean and then first seen the ships, was it something in his blood, something inherited from this far ancestor, that had awoken in him?
But the elders were frowning still. ‘Maybe this is so,’ one said to the Scribe. ‘But why speak of a dynasty, when by the Settlement that dynasty has ceased to exist? What do you expect us to make of it?’
‘We expect nothing,’ answered the Scribe. ‘We merely draw the council’s attention to the circumstance – as his mother asked.’
The elder regarded Rose Amber angrily. ‘Have you always known of this?’
‘I have. But I hoped that my son would never learn of it.’
‘And why is that?’
‘I fear for him, should he go to sea.’
‘Rightly so, woman.’
Another of the elders interjected. ‘Even if we accept the boy’s history, what does it matter? The Tombs estate was broken up long ago. There is no inheritance and no ships for him to sail in. New Island has no fleets anymore. We are not allowed any fleets, under pain of death.’
Now it was Dow’s father who stood forth. ‘My friends, we do not ask the impossible. We do not ask that Dow be allowed to voyage across the oceans. But there are still fishing boats that work along our coasts. Perhaps a way could be found to gain him employment upon such a craft.’
Dow’s mother glanced apologetically to her son before addressing the elders again. ‘It’s not the life he dreams of, we know. But it’s the best that lies within our power, or within your power, to grant.’
The elders considered each other a moment.
Then one said, ‘We will confer.’
The old men withdrew to the rear of the dais and bent their heads together while a hubbub of conversation grew throughout the hall.
In a daze, Dow turned to his parents. ‘You knew. All along.’
‘My family has never forgotten where we came from,’ his mother agreed. ‘But don’t be mistaken, Dow. We’ve been poor timber folk for many years now, and cherish no dreams of anything grander.’
‘Nor should you,’ his father added. ‘The most to be looked for is a job hauling nets on a small vessel that never leaves sight of land.’
And even amid his newfound hope a terrible image came to Dow, a vision of the great ships he had seen. They were disappearing away over the horizon, out of reach and without him. A sadness rose like pain. But he looked at his parents’ faces and saw their own suffering written there, and was ashamed.
‘A fisherman I shall be then,’ he said.
The elders returned to the front of the dais, and one raised his hand for silence. ‘We have decided,’ he announced. ‘It seems to us that there is little to be done about the injustices of history by folk such as ourselves. We desire no revenge for old wrongs, nor seek to start any new wars. Nevertheless, we acknowledge the claim that Dow Amber has to seafaring, distant though it may be. We acknowledge too that his father has no objection, and has another son who can follow in his trade, as is proper. Therefore, we grant Dow permission to leave the timber life and to go from this village to wherever he will. So it is judged.’
He clapped his hands once. The council was over. The men stormed to the whisky kegs, and the hall dissolved into an uproar of amazed conversation and argument. An event so momentous and controversial hadn’t occurred in Yellow Bank for years. Did it bring scandal and shame to the village? Or was it the fitting thing to do? No one could say for sure. The whisky flowed, the debates grew fierce, and meanwhile th
e younger folk gathered around this old soul or that, eager for stories of the Great War and of the famous Admiral Tombs.
The council elders however consulted dourly with the Scribes, and it was arranged that an embassy would be sent to the fishing villages down upon the coastlands to see if any boat there was in need of an extra hand. It was an unheard-of request, no doubt, but there was also no doubt that the name of Honous Tombs would be remembered fondly by the fishing folk, and no doubt either that a descendant of his would be looked upon with a certain favour, although it was agreed by all that Dow’s heritage must be kept as secret as possible.
But the subject of all this contention was no longer in the Barrel House. Dow and his family had escaped the hall as soon as they were able. (Although not soon enough for Dow to avoid the searing look on Clara’s face as he passed her by.) Back in their cottage Dow and his parents sat up late into the night, talking of many things, for the three of them realised now that in a matter of weeks or months they would be separated. And Dow felt an awful guilt creeping up in his throat – even worse than when he thought about Clara – for no matter what the Scribes might say about dynasties and ancient history, he was his parents’ eldest son and it was his duty to support his mother and father, not abandon them.
But his father was resolute. ‘You have made your choice and now you must live with it.’ Then he softened. ‘Besides, as was said in the judgement, your mother and I have another son. Edmund will be of age before the next winter. I’ll train him in the timber life, and he’ll watch over us when we’re old. All will be well.’
‘But you’ll be scorned,’ said Dow.
‘By some, maybe. But we’ve committed no crime. You’ve been fairly and legally freed. Go and seek your fate with our blessing.’
But his mother could not hide her grief, and finally she fled out into the night, and his father expelled a weary breath and stared at the fire.
‘There’s no help for it,’ he said to Dow. ‘She won’t stop you going, but her terror remains for what the sea will bring you.’
And while Dow understood her sorrow, he did not understand her fear. ‘If I’m only to serve on a small boat, she need not worry so.’ For a moment the disappointment welled up in him. ‘I’m not likely to drown while fishing in the shallow waters near the shore.’
His father was silent a long time. Then he too rose and went to the door. ‘It’s not drowning your mother fears – at least, not most of all. What she truly dreads is that if you go to sea then you will come to the attention of the Ship Kings. And that if they discover who you are, they will kill you.’
And then he was gone into the night, after his wife.
It was spring before all was made ready. Three of the village elders had travelled with the winter traders all the way down to the lowlands, and when they returned at last, with the thaw set in and the river rising with snowmelt, they announced that a place for Dow had been found among the fisher-folk. There was an old man in a sea village whose son and grandson had died untimely, and who had no one to help crew his boat or to inherit his trade. He had agreed to take Dow on.
Dow did think it strange that the old man in question had been unable to find an apprentice among his own people – families always had younger sons in need of a profession – but eagerness overrode his doubts. It was really going to happen! His impossible wish was going to be granted, even if only in the humble form of a fishing boat. From that moment on he watched the river, waiting for the thaw floods to pass and for the waters to become safe again, for it had been arranged that he would depart upon the first of the timber barges.
So it was that on a grey misty morning in late spring Dow stood on the dock and made his farewells to his family. There was no sign of Clara; she had not spoken to him since the Winter Council. In a bag swung over his shoulder were all his possessions: some clothes (including two new shirts his mother had made), some food, and (a precious parting gift from his father) a very little money. His tent Dow had given to his younger brother, but he had kept his heavy jacket, for he fancied that fishermen too might feel the cold. And that was all that he would carry with him to his new life, other than memories.
The family did not linger over the goodbyes, for they had long known the moment was coming, and the barge- men were impatient to be away. Dow shook his father’s hand and hugged his mother and cuffed his brother and sisters over the ear. And then, knowing that he might not see any of them for many years, and with his heart too full to speak, he turned away and stepped onto the barge, even as the last rope was thrown clear. Nor did he look back until the barge was mid-river and moving with the steady current, and by then the village was halfway around a bend and his family were already lost from view.
Tears sprang into Dow’s eyes, stung there by a sudden and shocking loneliness. He blinked them away in case anyone should see, but in fact the four bargemen were ignoring him for the moment, shouting back and forth to each other amiably as they worked the big oars.
Dow looked about for a place to sit. The barge itself was made up of three parts. At either end was a large flat punt, and between the punts was the cargo, a long raft fashioned out of the stripped and squared logs from the Yellow Bank timber yard, bound by many ropes. The bargemen were positioned two in the forward punt (where Dow rode) and two in the rear, and each man stood upright to handle a great oar that ran through a raised rowlock.
At length Dow found a pile of canvas that was safely out of everyone’s way, and there he perched, staring ahead as the riverbanks rolled by. At first all was mist, but over several hours the mists dispersed, the sun shone clear, and the day became warm and blue. Dow’s loneliness was replaced by a slow exaltation. The great adventure had begun at last. The familiar walls of the valley towered up on either side, but already, barely half a morning after getting underway, the barge was nearing the limit of his known world.
That limit was marked by the timber village of Pond Bend – the birthplace indeed of Dow’s mother. It was coming into view now around a bend in the river, a little settlement almost identical to Yellow Bank in size and appearance. Here also timber barges were being made ready to sail, and Dow’s bargemen called out greetings to their fellows; but they didn’t slow or stop. In a few moments more Pond Bend too fell behind, and with it went the last of any landscape that Dow knew.
He sat up straighter. For a time the scenery remained much as before, but after another hour perhaps the country began to change. The valley walls retreated slowly upon either hand, leaving narrow flatlands alongside the river, and the high rim of the plateau dropped further and further back, until it was lost from sight. The bare heath of the upper highlands gave way to green-brown grasses, and here and there Dow saw cattle grazing on the slopes. The river widened and the water slowed. The sun swung towards midday and the air grew hot.
They passed another village. It was as humble as Yellow Bank but the houses were strange – they had flatter roofs, and bigger windows – and there was no timber yard. Instead there were fences and pens by the dock, and it was cattle and sheep that were being loaded onto barges, not logs.
‘Aye,’ said a voice at Dow’s ear, catching him by surprise. ‘We’re well out of the timber country now, lad.’
Dow turned; the barge captain was settling down at his side on the canvas heap. He was a small, leathery figure with a stubble of white hair on his head, and he wore a sleeveless shirt that freed his wiry arms, for he worked the oars just the same as his crew. Dropping a satchel between his feet, he dug into it and withdrew a bottle of beer and some chunks of bread and sausage.
‘Thirty miles and more we’ve come since dawn,’ he told Dow, taking a swig of the beer and squinting forward over the bow at the waters ahead. ‘There’s an easy stretch now of a few miles, wide and straight, before we hit the canals and Long Lake. Then there’s hard work to be done.’
Two of the crew were lunching as well, leaving only a single man on duty at one of the stern oars to steer the barge.
/> ‘You been as far as the lake before?’ the captain enquired.
Dow shook his head. His stomach rumbled at the sight of food, but even though he had supplies in his own bag, he didn’t reach for them. The crew might have earned their lunch, but he hadn’t.
‘No wind today,’ the captain observed, chewing bread. ‘And it’s a long way across the lake by oar.’
‘Can I help?’ Dow asked. ‘I’ve never rowed before, but . . .’
‘It’s a simple enough trick. Steering along the river, that’s a skill, but rowing across open water, that’s just a muscle thing. And you got shoulders on you, boy.’ The captain nodded at the logs that made up the raft. ‘From taking an axe to all these trees, no doubt.’
Dow shrugged. ‘It’s boats I need to learn about now.’
The captain gave him a measuring look. ‘Aye. So I’m told. And why that should be, I’m aground if I know. What’s a lad from the high valley doing heading for the Claw and the fishing fleet, I wonder?’
Dow shifted uncomfortably under the stare. But if his famous ancestry and the decision of the Winter Council had not been explained to the barge crew, he didn’t think it was up to him to mention it either.
The captain shook his head and took a mouthful of sausage. ‘Then again, I suppose you Yellow Bank folk must know at least a little of boats and such. After all, you fashioned these spars we’re toting.’
Dow tilted his head. ‘Spars?’
‘The logs, boy. You know what they’re used for, don’t you?’
Dow stared in confusion. Used for? Well, they were used for . . . that is, Dow had always assumed that the timber was destined for houses and the like down in the big towns – and yet, now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall ever being told precisely what happened to the logs after they were floated down the river. But if they were not meant for building houses, then what?
‘Ships, lad!’ The captain was studying him in amusement. ‘Every one of these logs here will be made into masts and spars for ships. And I don’t mean our own little fishing boats – I mean the great battleships and frigates of the Ship Kings themselves. New Island Pine makes for the best masts in all the Four Isles, everyone knows that. That’s why the Ship Kings won’t let anyone else use it. Every single tree you highland folk cut down goes straight to their shipyards.’
The Coming of the Whirlpool Page 3
