The War of the Four Isles

by Andrew McGahan

  How wide was the channel? He couldn’t tell; the fading moonlight showed only blurs and shadows ahead. He forged on – and stepped over an edge of some kind. Suddenly he was plunged completely under, floundering blindly in the black water, before surfacing at last and finding his footing. It was only a hole; soon he was merely waist deep again, and then the edge of the channel was in sight. But when he emerged onto dry sand and took stock of himself, he found that the salt water had seeped into his bag and ruined the bread and the hard tack. It would be a hungry trek then, there and back, however things turned out.

  He stumbled on. The moon was setting now and the night was growing pale; dawn could not be far off. But Little Banishment remained stubbornly to his north, so he was not yet halfway. For a time he walked with his eyes to the ground, their lids heavy with mud and weariness. He was all but asleep. When he looked up blearily at last, daylight was upon him; through a break in a cloudbank to the east, the sun was lifting over the horizon.

  He studied the dawn in numb disappointment. A chill breeze had begun to blow across the sand, icy against his wet clothes, and it looked likely to be a grey day: the sheet of cloud in the east was rising, and already, after that one gleam, the sun had vanished behind it. How he’d been hoping for a blue sky, and the warmth of sunlight! But it was not to be.

  He stomped forward again, only to meet another mudflat: not as bad as the first, but bad enough, and it was an hour before he was through it. By then the day was full, though hard and cold, and only now did Dow judge that the stub of Little Banishment was directly to his east.

  Halfway. He should have felt some relief at that, but all he could think was that the ship was now fifteen miles behind him, and Banishment fifteen miles ahead, both far out of reach if the tide came back. This was the most vulnerable point of all. Little Banishment, of course, was closer – but even it looked seven or eight miles away, and in the wrong direction.

  Was there anyone else in all the world so alone at this moment as he was?

  But then Dow remembered the sailors who had been swept away from the Snout. By now they would be not merely ten or twenty miles from any help or fellowship, but hundreds of miles, delirious with thirst, and weakening hour by hour . . .

  He turned from the east, and strode north with the best pace he could muster.

  For a while he made good time. In the daylight he could see far ahead, and there seemed to be no mudflats or deep channels in his path. But the wind blew stronger and colder as the morning progressed, whistling in his ears, and the sky became uniformly leaden. The finger of Little Banishment slipped south along the horizon – but north, there was no sign yet of Banishment proper.

  Dow strove against a rising anxiety. Shouldn’t he be able to see it by now? Was he straying off course? Or was the rock they’d all assumed to be Little Banishment actually some other rock entirely, and was he nowhere near the prison isle, but merely striding forward into nothingness?

  He forced himself to think; he must still be a dozen miles at least from his goal. If Banishment was a flat isle of no hills or heights, it would not be visible until he was closer. He walked on, gaze fixed to the northern horizon, eager for any shadow there that might be land. His weary eyes watered and played tricks; shapes rose and receded cruelly until he wanted to weep with the frustration of it. But then, at long last, a profile rose on the horizon that did not sink again; a low outline of solid ground.

  The prison isle. Elation began to fill Dow. It was going to work. He was going to make it. Distances were hard to judge across the featureless sand, but he must be only a few hours away now.

  It was then that he thought to look behind him, for the first time in – how long had it been? He couldn’t recall. But it had been too long, and what he saw now made the hope in him turn to ash.

  The tide was coming.

  Behind him, where he had walked on dry sand no more than an hour ago, there was now only water. Water in a great grey sheet. It was no mere channel or trapped pond – it spread as far south as Dow could see. It was the ocean.

  He stared wildly about in every direction. Yes, to the south-east and south-west too the sea was returning, some miles away yet across the flats, but creeping up on him all unsuspected, while he’d been distracted by the shimmer of land. Now his retreat to the ship was blocked, and even Little Banishment – sunk low on the south-eastern edge of the world – looked cut off by the water.

  Panic threatened, and he turned north again. That was the only path left – on, to Banishment, before the tide caught him. He strode off, fighting the urge to break into a mad run. He would never make it at a sprint, he knew; it was eight or nine miles at least. He would collapse first. He needed restrained speed, a pace he could maintain for maybe two hours . . .

  The wind whistled bleakly about him, but the clouds above seemed fixed, and time unmoving, measured only by his ragged breathing. Why now? Why was the tide returning now, when he was so close? But he knew he would never be able to answer that, any more than he could hope to explain why the tide had gone out in the first place. The great rhythms of the Banks were unfathomable.

  All the while his gaze flicked to his left and right, or in urgent glimpses over his shoulder. The tide was gaining on him, there was no mistaking it. When he’d first looked back the water had been too far away to define an edge to it; now he could see that edge clearly, a mile behind at most. And it wasn’t merely lapping higher inch by inch, like a tide rising in a calm bay; it was running quickly over the sand – shallow at its front, only a thin line of foam rolling forward, but with the weight of the entire ocean coming on behind. The prospect was the same to the east and west. He was being pursued by a monster twenty miles broad, and there was no escape but to outrun it northwards.

  He swallowed down his terror and strode on. Far ahead, Banishment rose steadily like a paradise, tantalisingly beyond reach. He could see no sign of any prison buildings or other habitation, it was just a long, low, rocky bluff against the sky. But that didn’t matter. It was dry land. It was life.

  He forced himself to walk for a time without looking back, to focus purely on speed, but at length he couldn’t resist, and glancing over his shoulder saw that the reality was as bad as his fears. The tide was gaining on him still, a mere quarter mile back, and flooding over his own line of footsteps. There was a terrible hunger to the way it rolled across the sand. Tides could not be hungry, Dow knew in the rational part of his mind. But a deeper animal part of him knew better. The tide was ravenous for him.

  And he could it hear it now, even over the rattle of the wind; faint still, but coming from behind and from either side, the whisper and rush and chuckle of flowing water, vast and cunning.

  Reason gave out then.

  He began to run.

  Or to jog, at least; having just the wit left to restrain himself that much. If he went careering madly over the sand now, then he would drop all too soon and the water would catch him. But a jog . . . maybe he could maintain that for long enough . . .

  Breath rasped in his throat, and a stitch began to dig into his side, but he pounded on, hearing louder every moment the water’s insidious laughter. If he could only match its pace. He need not escape it, only stay ahead of it by a few yards . . .

  He glanced round again. Awful. The water was a muddy black carpet unrolling itself a mere fifty yards behind. It was all he could do to tear his eyes from the sight, so direfully fascinating was it, oozing so quickly across the flat. Further back the surface had the pale sheen of very shallow water, rippling only inches above the sand, but further back still the water was darker, and towards the horizon it looked as grey and deep as any ocean, white-capped with small waves whipped up by the wind.

  On Dow ran, despairing.

  Suddenly his feet were splashing. He had known it was coming, but staring down he watched in horror as the tide swirled about his feet, keeping pace with him for a few strides, and then rolling on ahead of him, faster than he could ever hope to run,
other than in a crazed, fatal dash. On either side, vast wings of water were likewise overtaking him.

  But still he ran on. His only hope now was to get as close as he might to Banishment before he was forced to begin swimming. He studied the island ahead. It hardly seemed any closer, but an hour must have passed since he first spied the tide, and at a jog he would’ve covered four miles at least in that time . . . leaving maybe another four to go. Could he swim that far?

  He didn’t know. And already the water was nearly ankle deep, its leading edge slipping far ahead of him. How heavy his sodden feet felt, splashing with every step. And how hopeless it all was. The tide rose remorselessly, first up to his shins, and then to his knees. Eventually he couldn’t lift his feet clear anymore; he was no longer running, he was wading, shambling forward in the flood.

  And now another horror of his predicament was revealed. The water was not merely rising, it was also flowing! There was a distinct current westwards, strong enough to tug him from his straight path. Just as the tide had withdrawn to the east two days ago, now it was flowing back from the east. Dow’s dwindling hopes sank even further. He would never be able to swim to Banishment against a cross-current; he would be swept away west long before he could gain the island.

  And yet still he laboured forward, for to stop was to admit the finality of his situation, and his mind simply refused to do that. Now the water was up to his thighs, but for a time it rose no higher – or perhaps the land was rising under him – and so he splashed doggedly on. Surely the island could be no more than three miles ahead. Less. He could see a drab coat of scrub across its back now. If only the water would hold off . . .

  He was sinking suddenly, the sand turning to mud beneath his feet. No! Not more mud! That was too much to ask! He couldn’t fight both mud and the tide. He struggled on, cursing breathlessly into the cruel wind, but his feet sank only deeper. Tears of despair were in his eyes, blurring the world. Small waves lapped high around his waist. It was time to forget about running; better that he draw his feet up from the mud and begin to swim, as useless as that would be; the current pulled so strongly he could barely stay upright as it was.

  And yet when he went to tug his feet free, he found to his shock and alarm that he couldn’t. Both legs were buried more than knee deep, stuck fast, and the water was up to his armpits.

  Utter panic came now. He swore and struggled in a frenzy of terror, digging at the mud around his legs and heaving with all his strength, and none of it did any good. The mud held him, and the ocean was running and rising all about. Eventually he was spent from his efforts. He paused to gulp in air, and even standing as straight as he could, the water lapped at his shoulders.

  For a moment he was calm. So this then was going to be his death. Not swept away to expire from exposure and thirst out upon the open sea; no, it would be far quicker than that. He would be drowned, when inevitably the tide rose above his mouth and nose . . .

  Then bitterness came. This wasn’t right. He’d always accepted that he might die in the course of this war, but to die like this – not in battle, but cut down by something as commonplace as the tide! And while trying to do something good! While Nell was only a last few miles away, not even knowing how close he had come!

  It wasn’t fair.

  Dow struggled again, maddened and frenzied and weeping with anger, and again failed. Now the water was up to his chin, and he knew it was over. A great sense of irony and bafflement swept over him.

  Had it all been merely for this? His leaving of home, his riding of the maelstrom, his travels with the Chloe, his service with the Snout, the war, and Nell – he could remember the first time he’d glimpsed her through a cabin window, knowing even then somehow that they would be linked, and if she was truly drowned as Cassandra had said, maybe they were linked even now in death – everything he’d ever done and felt, all of it guided seemingly by some great and secret purpose? The entirety of all that was just to bring him to this futile end?

  Water tickled at his lips and he spat it out, tasting salt. Then the sea was itching in his nostrils, and he could breathe only by stretching to his utmost, gasping between the ripples. His body fought desperately for life still, every joint straining, but a curious peace was settling over his mind; it was as if his thoughts were withdrawing to a safe distance, to watch his body die from there.

  He couldn’t get his mouth or nose above the surface anymore. At some point, without even noticing it, he had taken his last breath. All he could do was hold it now. That was all the life that was left to him, the length of a single lungful of air.

  Ah, but who was to say he couldn’t hold his breath forever? His mind felt piercingly clear, as if a lifetime of thought could pass through it before he’d need to expel that final precious breath.

  But no . . . an ache was growing now in his chest. Soon, he knew, it would be a burning, and at some point it would pass beyond a matter of choice. His body would try to breathe regardless of his will.

  He stared up through the mere inches of water that separated him from the air. The grey sky was distorted and remote, the last sight he would ever know. The sea darkened around him, and he could feel the urge building, not so much to breathe now as to laugh; to open his mouth and let a gale pour forth at the foolishness of life, at the whole pointless struggle that was existence.

  The urge grew and grew and something broke inside him; his chest was heaving before he knew it and water was awful in his throat, his body arched in paroxysms of agony, not laughter. But it was all far away and meaningless. He let it go – how easy it was to do – and let sleep come nearer, the final sleep from which he need not ever wake . . .

  Dreamlike, a shadow was above him, sharp and pointed. Whatever could that be? And then shapes were plunging into the water all about. They clutched at him with icy fingers. Sleep withdrew and terror returned. Were these some demons of the sea, come to drag him away to the deep? He had heard of such nightmare creatures, but only in children’s tales. And yet they seemed intent on hurting him. Talons ripped at his arms, and dug into his legs, and pulled as if to tear him limb from limb. He would have cried out if he’d been able.

  Then suddenly he was rising, and air dashed against his face as surprising as flame. He gasped with the shock of it, vomited up water, then gasped again. Hands still had him, and the wind was full of shouted words he couldn’t understand. Amazingly, he was pulled clear of the water altogether, and thrown onto a surface hard and curved; a boat, he was on the floor of a boat. But that couldn’t be, it must be some last fantasy of his dying mind, there were no boats anywhere near.

  A fist was pounding on his back, and he was vomiting helplessly again. A voice said, ‘That’s it, fellow, get it all out. I swear, you’re the luckiest fool in all the wide world. What on earth are you doing out here? Where did you come from?’

  Dow retched and gasped, and the truth seeped back into him along with the air in his lungs. This was no drowning vision: this was real. He was in a real boat, with real people. He wiped the last of the vomit away from his lips, and raised his head. Faces stared back at him, men he did not know. Except, wait . . . one was familiar from somewhere, a large man, older than the others, but Dow couldn’t place him immediately, the features were so unexpected.

  At the same time, the man seemed to recognise Dow, and wonder grew in his eyes.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ the man said.

  Benito, Dow remembered dully; the man’s name was Benito. But who was that? Where did he know anyone named Benito from?

  ‘Dow Amber!’ the man declared. ‘Is it really you? How can that be?’

  King Benito, Dow thought half-wittedly. It was King Benito. But that was—

  ‘Dow?’ exclaimed another voice, disbelieving. Hands were on his shoulder, spinning him around, and he was too weak to resist. A new face loomed close to his, a face he didn’t know at all – which was the supreme irony. For so long he’d tried so hard to remember every detail of it, hair and eyes and no
se and neck, and look – he’d got them all wrong! It was only the scars that gave her away.

  ‘Dow?’ she repeated.

  ‘Hello, Nell,’ he said in casual reply, and laughed. Then he was pitching forward into her arms, and blackness claimed him at last.

  10. AN INTERLUDE

  Later, he would almost wonder if the events he woke to were only a dream . . .

  For when Dow opened his eyes, he lay not on the hard floor of some cold forbidding prison cell, but rather in a comfortable bed in a room that, while plain, was pleasantly warm and dry. There was even a window, not barred, but wide open; and beyond, rain was falling through the cool darkness of night, whispering gently but steadily, and lit by the glow of a lamp that sat on the sill.

  Rain, Dow marvelled. How long was it since he had seen or heard real rain?

  But no, more important than that . . . he was alive. He had been dead, now he lived. A deep lethargy was in him, an aftertaste of the drowning, and he felt much too weak yet to rise, but for a moment he stretched minimally, savouring the sheer pleasure of the bed beneath him and the sheets against his skin – and the life flowing in his limbs.

  Then, turning his head, he saw Nell sitting in a chair beside the bed. He blinked at her. She seemed – in his dreamlike state – to be both close and far away. Could it be her? Really her?

  Seeing him awake, she frowned; and it was her disapproving expression as much as anything else, so unforgiving, so familiar, that reached through Dow’s personal haze. It was Nell alright.

  ‘Can you understand me?’ she asked sternly. ‘Are you yourself yet?’ He gave no response – speech seemed to be beyond him – but she appeared satisfied even so that he heard. ‘Then you can answer me a question. What in pity’s sake are you doing here?’

  She did not sound pleased to seem him. Why was that? Dow had thought she would be glad. Stretching again, he let his gaze drift to the window and the rain-streaked darkness. It had been day when he drowned. Now it was night. Was it the same night? No matter . . . he was just happy to listen to the rain falling. It was like home, like the wet valleys of New Island over the sea.