The Coming of the Whirlpool

by Andrew McGahan

  And Dow’s rage popped like a bubble, leaving him empty again, and wearily confused. Why had he been so angry? What did he care if Mother Gale was mocked? There was nothing he owed the old woman.

  He nodded wordlessly at Boiler, and left.

  The next day the sun continued to shine and Stromner continued to heal, but Dow sat all the while in Nathaniel’s shack and in Nathaniel’s chair and still did not know what to do with himself. That night Inga brought him food, as promised, but when Dow tried to pay for it from his few remaining coins, she only shook her head and said, ‘My father says we must not take money from a hero.’ And then she left him alone with the appalling word.

  Hero.

  He wrestled with it the night through. Was it true – not only what Inga had said, but what all the folk of Stromner were saying? Was it the act of a hero, the thing he had done? To not only pursue Nathaniel into the maelstrom once, but then, having escaped, to return? It certainly sounded heroic. And yet it hadn’t felt heroic. It had felt only that there was a responsibility he could not ignore, a burden that he could not put down, no matter how unwanted it was.

  Was that heroism? Dow knew many stories of heroes – so had they performed their brave deeds with the same reluctance? And later, had they found themselves equally as purposeless and lost? Had they also withdrawn to a dark room, unable to bear the company even of those they’d helped? If so, what a terrible thing bravery was. And what lonely people heroes must be.

  At noon on the fourth day since the maelstrom, a knocking came on Nathaniel’s door. Dow answered it, and found Boiler Swan there upon the step. ‘I have a message for you,’ said the innkeeper, ‘from Stone Port.’ And he shouldered his way, gently but firmly, past Dow and through into the shack.

  Dow followed after him, noticing belatedly how stale and stuffy the room smelt. He smelt no better himself. He had not washed or shaved his face since the storm. ‘A message?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said Boiler. He stood in a strangely formal pose, with his hands behind his back, waiting while Dow returned to Nathaniel’s chair.

  ‘Well?’ said Dow.

  ‘First I must say this; you think me a coward, perhaps, after what I said to you on the beach, the day of the whirlpool.’

  Dow only stared in puzzlement.

  The innkeeper went on stiffly. ‘I argued that you should not go after Nathaniel, and yet you went. I was right to dissuade you; nevertheless, it was a brave act, and I would not want you to think that I don’t admire it.’

  A weariness rose in Dow. Admiration? No . . . it was the last thing he wanted, especially from Boiler.

  But the innkeeper was studying him with a determined look. ‘Have you ever heard, Dow, how I burnt my face?’

  Surprised, Dow had to glance away from Boiler. He’d become so used to the innkeeper’s features that he’d quite forgotten how livid they were, like the severest sunburn. He shook his head.

  ‘It was a fire. More than twenty-five years ago now, before I became an innkeeper. I was a fisherman then, and Ingrid and I lived in a fine little house along the dunes a way. We had two children at the time. A girl, Inga, and a boy . . . my son. One winter’s night I woke to the sound of burning. I don’t know how it started – a candle left alight maybe – but the place was already well ablaze. I woke Ingrid and yelled at her to flee, then I went for Inga; she slept in a room of her own. I had to find my way through the smoke, but I got to her, and carried her out to safety. But outside, when I found my wife, we both realised . . .’

  Boiler faltered, then swallowed and went on.

  ‘You see, our son was only a baby, he still slept in a cot by the bed. I thought my wife had him, she was certain I had him, and all we’d done between us was leave him alone in there. The entire house was in flames by then, but of course I went back, knowing full well I’d be burnt. All that mattered was my boy. And I did find him, eventually, through the fire, when it was much too late.’

  The innkeeper had to pause again, and Dow glanced up. He knew he should be feeling something – pity, sadness, horror – but nothing seemed to come. Why was Boiler telling him this, and why now?

  ‘As you know,’ Boiler continued, his tone level once more, ‘we later had another child, my wife and I. Another daughter whom I love dearly. But I was never to have a son again. And as a permanent reminder of my failure to save my boy, I got this face of mine. Oh, to everyone else I was a hero for having at least tried. I’ve been admired in this village ever since that day. I am regarded all about as a brave man, and in many ways I know that I am. But listen to me, Dow. I know as well as you the emptiness of a brave act that ends in futility, and the deep unhappiness that it stirs within. So I say this to you now – beware.’

  Dow spoke at last. ‘Beware of what?’

  ‘Of despair. Of contempt for others, of a coldness in your thoughts. Call it what you will, but know this – it’s a trap for the broken heart. It will soothe you for a while, or at least it will numb you, but in the end it will only banish you to long loneliness. And that need not be. Do not despise the folk of this village just because they admire you for daring the whirlpool.’

  Dow blinked at tears that were suddenly in his eyes, his numbness pierced at last. A wild sorrow filled him, and shame.

  ‘They will offer you a home here,’ Boiler added, ‘in their gratitude. Even without Nathaniel. If you want it.’

  And that, Dow admitted, his head falling low, was the question he’d been so unable to face. What was he to do with his life now? Did he want to stay in Stromner? Or did he want to go home to Yellow Bank, to his old life, and to his family?

  But now Boiler drew up an empty crate and sat close in front of Dow. ‘But before you think on any of this, you have business more pressing. I bear a message, as I said. Two marines arrived at my inn an hour ago. They announced that they had come to issue an invitation to one Dow Amber, he that rode the maelstrom. His attendance, they said, is requested at a grand feast to be held aboard the battleship Chloe, this very night. Indeed, he is invited by the Governor of New Island himself, who wishes to honour this same Dow Amber for the bravery he recently displayed upon the sea, and in front of so many witnesses.’

  Dow sat up, wiping his eyes dry, for this was indeed strange news. The Ship Kings, the enemies of all New Islanders, wanted to honour a New Islander? And after Dow had caused so much trouble by trespassing upon the Chloe, he was to be invited back aboard as a guest?

  Boiler smiled at Dow’s doubtful look. ‘Aye. For all its fair words, this invitation disturbs me. The marines who brought it were fully armed and prepared to wait to accompany you back to Stone Port – accompany they said, but I think escort is more likely. I told them you were out fishing with the other Stromner men and would not return until late, but that I would give you the message and that you would surely be eager to attend. They were not happy about your absence, but even so they took me at my word. They left but a short while ago.’

  ‘Should I attend?’ Dow asked, too amazed still to know what to think.

  The innkeeper considered. ‘The invitation might be no more than it seems. You rode the whirlpool, did you not? The Ship Kings witnessed it from the Stone Port walls, and they esteem nothing so much as a brave feat of sailing. Perhaps their regard is authentic. But I doubt it. That a New Islander conquered the maelstrom, and not a Ship Kings mariner, I do not think will sit well with such a proud folk. And I’ve heard that admiring stories about you are being told upon the streets of Stone Port, which will please the Ship Kings even less.’

  Dow nodded. He already knew what the displeasure of the Ship Kings was like. But if the invitation was in any way genuine . . .

  He was struck suddenly by a vision of what might be. He saw himself seated in honour and respect among the lords and ladies at the Ship Kings’ feast. Captain Vincente was there, addressing the assembly, and he was declaring that Dow, having ridden the whirlpool, had proven himself a worthy seafarer; worthy indeed of serving aboard the Ship
Kings fleet. Why, of serving aboard the Chloe itself. And there at Vincente’s side, nodding approval as her eyes shone, was the girl . . .

  No, that was going too far. Of course it could never be like that. And yet Dow’s sea longing – dormant since the maelstrom – had blazed back into life at the prospect. To set sail upon one of the great ships! And was it so impossible? Moments before he’d been faced with only two choices, neither of which he wanted; to remain in Stromner as a fisherman, or to return to the life of a timber cutter. But now he was being given the chance to stand before the finest mariners in the world, with his own seamanship acknowledged. Who knew where that might lead, or if such a chance would ever come again? If there was a hope, any hope, that this might enable him to voyage upon the wide ocean – then he must take it.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

  Boiler’s agreement was grave. ‘You’ve little enough choice, I think. They would only pursue you, should you refuse. For good or ill, the Ship Kings are not to be denied. Very well. I will come too.’

  Dow shook his head. ‘If it is for ill, then best it be so only for me.’

  ‘You can’t go alone!’

  ‘Please, Boiler. Whatever the Ship Kings mean to happen will happen whether I’m alone or not. Even if you were there, you couldn’t prevent them, you’d only be placing yourself in the same hazard. I’ll go on my own. But be sure of this, they’ll not learn from me anything of my true heritage, or of why I was brought here. I won’t let any harm come to Stromner for my sake.’

  The innkeeper glared unhappily a moment, then gave a reluctant bow of his head. ‘Aye, little though I like it, I feel the truth of what you say. Go then, with my best wishes, and hopes for your safe return. The marines said that you are to report at the Chloe’s gangway at sundown. Take the Maelstrom. After the riding of the whirlpool, the craft is yours if it is anyone’s.’

  Dow nodded, and Boiler stood as if to go. But then he hesitated, and gave Dow a wry look. ‘Did you know that Mother Gale rose from her sick bed last night, and returned to her place in the bar?’

  ‘No,’ said Dow.

  ‘If she has indeed been sick, I saw no sign of it. The old creature was as hale as ever. And she had only the direst warnings for us all. She said that just because the maelstrom has come and gone does not mean that the danger has departed. Nathaniel’s death has not relieved us of our burden, she declared. There is still a price to be paid by Stromner, and soon, she thinks. People laughed, and normally so would have I. But I wonder, Dow. I wonder . . .’

  ‘Did she mention me?’ Dow asked.

  Boiler was at the door. ‘She did. She claims that everything she has said of you has indeed come to pass, but that from this point on your future is beyond her telling, for in her reckoning your time in Stromner draws now to its close, and your fate and ours are sundered.’ The innkeeper gave a last shrug and lifted a hand. ‘Make of that what you will, Dow Amber. Farewell.’

  And he was gone.

  The afternoon was lengthening into evening by the time Dow – scrubbed and shaved, and as presentable as he was ever likely to be – left the shack and made his way to the beach. The Maelstrom was still waiting there for him, drawn up neatly on the sand, with nothing about its appearance to tell of the wonders and terrors of its most recent voyage. Dow felt a surprising rush of affection for the craft. Maybe Boiler was right, and it was his now. He slid the boat slowly down to the water, climbed in, lowered the centreboard, raised the sail, and set off.

  Before him spread the Claw, golden in the evening light, with a warm breeze blowing from the east. For a few moments Dow let the task of trimming the boat occupy him, but then something made him look back to Stromner. The village, sprawled across its dunes, seemed for once to be basking at peace in the mellow sunshine, but he realised even so that it would never be a place he could love. Nor would he be saddened if he was never to see it again.

  But did he really believe that was likely? Was he convinced all over again by Mother Gale’s foretelling? He couldn’t say, and nor somehow could he care. He felt both expectant and strangely calm; let things fall as they may. He’d left nothing of value behind – his timberman’s jacket was wrapped in a ball at his feet – and would miss no one except for Boiler. Dow turned his face away at last and rounded the point to enter the channel.

  It was the slack between tides, and an easy crossing of the Rip, the Maelstrom riding lightly in the breeze. In no time at all Dow came to the Stone Port gate. He passed through, noting the flood marks high on the great wooden posts. Across the harbour he could see too the shambles the flood had made of the docks. Nevertheless, the water was busy with barges and boats, even in the last hour of the day. Dow furled his sail and rowed his way over to the fishing wharf, where he made the boat fast – and where his serenity was abruptly dashed.

  For a crowd soon gathered. Fishermen and merchants and passers-by all ceased their business and chatter and came to watch as he tied up, having recognised both the boat and the boy who piloted it. Embarrassed, Dow climbed onto the dock. He should have been prepared for this, but he wasn’t, and now in his self-consciousness did not know how to behave. The crowd studied him silently, and in their faces Dow read the same awe and admiration that he’d seen on the faces of the Stromner folk. Only here the faces belonged to strangers, folk quite unknown to him; and here there were not merely dozens of admirers, but hundreds.

  He edged forward, and the crowd shifted apart so that he could make his way along the wharf. They remained silent at first, but then the whispering came, a murmured wave that rose and fell and rose again, as Dow passed by. He caught only occasional words out loud, but they were enough – words like maelstrom and survived and victory. And his name. They all knew his name. And Dow noted one other thing. There were no Ship Kings sailors mingling in the crowd, or visible anywhere about the docks. The throng surrounding him consisted of New Islanders, and New Islanders alone.

  He came to the main wharf. The Ship Kings fleet rode there at anchor, the fourteen vessels having, by the look, escaped any harm from the flood. The wharf itself, and the buildings behind, had not been so fortunate – wreckage was still littered about, and spoiled goods lay heaped outside warehouse doors, the smell of rot pungent. But where there should have been workmen busy at rebuilding, there was no one. The wharf was deserted; other than the Ship Kings marines standing guard over the frigate Conquest, the first ship in the line.

  The crowd hung back at the sight of them, and the murmurs around Dow rose in concern; someone at the rear actually shouted his name, though in warning, or in mere encouragement, Dow couldn’t tell. Silence returned, and he walked alone past the Conquest, under both the hopeful eyes of the crowd behind him and the wary stares of the marines by the gangway.

  It was a long trek from there to the Chloe, past ship after ship, each with its own guard of watchful marines, and despite himself Dow wished he had Boiler for company. But finally the battleship reared up at the end of the line. Four marines stood at attention there. At first Dow saw no signs of any feast, and his anxiety hitched higher, but just as he drew near a party of finely dressed Ship Kings folk emerged from the street that led away to the Stone Port fortress. They trooped past the guards and up the gangway, laughing among themselves, and Dow relaxed a little. The feast, it seemed, was at least real.

  He presented himself to the marines. Their eyes lit coldly when he gave his name, and they looked him up and down, dubious, as if measuring him unfavourably against reports they’d received – or so Dow felt; he may have been imagining it, for their words were polite enough. Yes, they said, he was expected. Indeed, two of them would escort him aboard right now.

  These two ushered him up onto the main deck. Dow went uneasily, for he had not forgotten the events that had transpired here only ten days before, or the sight of Nathaniel’s blood on the timbers. But in fact the main deck looked quite different from then. A red carpet had been laid, leading from the gangway to the stairs of the stern castle. C
oloured lanterns were strung in the rigging, just beginning to shine out in the early evening; every inch of wood was polished to a gleam; and here and there marines stood at attention, muskets at the ready. The Chloe had been made resplendent for its guests. And from the high deck came the sound of convivial conversation and laughter; a party, just beginning.

  But Dow was not taken along the red carpet or up to the high deck. His escorts led him to one side and through a door below the stairs, then down a passage to a small room – a storeroom it seemed, for there were kegs and casks of many sizes stacked there, and racks that held hundreds of dusty bottles.

  ‘You will wait here until summoned,’ one of the marines said, and made off. The other remained on watch at the door.

  Dow sat cautiously on a keg. Was he now a prisoner then? This was not the brig – as he knew all too well from previous experience – but nor was this the treatment of an honoured guest.

  He waited, and his guard waited too. A slow time passed. Crewmen came and went from the room, collecting glasses and bottles. Some gave Dow curious stares, but most ignored him. In the passage outside, others passed by carrying great silver platters laden with food, and from the decks above came the sounds of a gathering that only grew in size and in merriment.

  Many of those same platters and bottles had returned empty, and two hours at least had elapsed, before the other marine reappeared and announced that Dow’s presence was finally required. Flanked once again by his two guards, he was led up a flight of stairs. Then a great set of doors was flung open, and Dow was pushed forward into a rush of warmth and light and noise.

  He had to squint to see, dazzled by the glare of more lamps and candles than he’d ever beheld in one place. He’d been brought to a grand banqueting room, it seemed, high in the Chloe’s stern; dark windows lined the rear wall. It felt an impossibly vast and ornate space for a cabin upon a ship, but at the same time it was altogether too hot and airless, for it was packed with people, a crowd of men and women, some seated at tables, and others standing about: the Ship Kings lords and ladies at their feast. The smell of roasted meats assailed Dow; and even more overpowering came the sweet scents of perfumes.