The Whaler's Daughter

by Jerry Mikorenda

  Contents

  The Whaler’s Daughter

  Copyright © 2021 Jerry Mikoranda. All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  Part I

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  Part II

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  West Wind Redux

  The Whaler’s Daughter

  Jerry Mikoranda

  Fitzroy Books

  Copyright © 2021 Jerry Mikoranda. All rights reserved.

  Published by Fitzroy Books

  An imprint of

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  Raleigh, NC 27612

  All rights reserved

  https://fitzroybooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646030705

  ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646030958

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020941120

  All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

  Interior and cover design by Lafayette & Greene

  lafayetteandgreene.com

  Cover images © by ?????

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  https://regalhousepublishing.com

  The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my wife and to Mom,

  who began her final journey before seeing this

  Part I

  1.

  There were only two whaleboats on the bay. Neither one of them had room for me.

  I began my day as I always did, lugging those dreaded pots to the fire pit to make a bushman’s stew. Their big iron bellies slogged through the sand as if they were drunken sailors being dragged to Sunday service. I set them on the coals, dropping my gunnysack of victuals to climb the dunes looking out over the water.

  Low tide stretched the sandbars into the bay. I pulled my shawl tight against the breeze and removed my cooking bonnet. The wind lifted my hair across my face. I listened to the familiar sounds of oars locking, feet stomping, and wood slapping water. I gathered in my long billowing tresses from below my waist and held them like an infant in my arms. The crew rowed past without the slightest notion I was there cooking their meal. Lon stood in the nearest boat waving his oar like a cricket bat to belly laughs.

  My whole life, I had heard that the Dawson name meant something. That a Dawson’s word was trusted and their skills unquestioned.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled out at the boats, “Well, I’m a Dawson!” but the waves licked my words out of the air and everything went quiet.

  I glanced over to where the Echo River flowed into Reflect Bay. Dawson Station lay there like a rotting fish in the sand. On the far end sat the try works, with its caved-in brick furnace and rusty cauldrons that turned Bible-sized slabs of whale blubber to oil every autumn. The bunkhouses lay a quarter-mile away from our highland castle, Loch Bultarra—a name that made no sense and sounded more important than it was. Beyond the family graves, smoke from the village huts clung to the hills.

  It was all dying the slow, painful demise of neglect.

  I wasn’t sure if I was feeling the sun beating on my head and shoulders or if it was Papa’s glare. It was a fine thing for him to be spending his days guarding me as if I were in a jail yard. He stood watching from the widow’s walk atop Loch Bultarra. He liked to observe the crew from a distance, see their weaknesses. Staying in the shadows, I knew he saw everything from up there. The whole empty house sighed with regret whenever he took a step. But he never chose to go in the direction I wanted—we never visited the graves together to make our peace with what lies there.

  It had been eight years since my brothers, Eli and Asa, had perished in the bay and since the madness from it had driven Charlie Brennan from harpoons to soup ladles.

  “Been six weeks since ya kissed off to the Pelican House, Brennan,” I shouted, scattering my cats. “If I’d known you retiring meant me being cook, I would’ve staked you here by ya beard.”

  I pulled my hair back from my eyes and looked over at the iron pots. I was shackled to those two iron galoots staring at me with gaping mouths. I slide-stepped back down into the pit and opened the gunnysack filled with whatever fish, meat, or poultry ended up being caught, found, or plucked that day. That’s the delight of a bushman’s stew. You never know what the next mouthful will bring.

  Lugging the sack, I said to myself, Savannah, you’re twelve now, the same age your brothers were, what do you have to show for it?

  I pulled Brennan’s heavy cleaver from the wood block and took to hacking at a golden snapper. I threw the good parts to those who deserved them—my cats.

  “Of all the chowder-headed jobs,” I mumbled, thwacking the tail off. “I ain’t no Jack Nasty-Face to trifle with.”

  “All these gentlemen of three outs,” I hollered, tearing the leg of a skinned rabbit from its socket. “I’d like to knock every one of ’em in the head with last season’s ship biscuit.”

  The tails, fish heads, and guts went into those hungry pots for the crew. I did the same with the salt horse. I cut off the dried green parts of meat just like Brennan had showed me, but they were destined for the pots, not the pit. I hacked possum joints, a right large iguana, onions, and spuds into the mixture.

  Looking up from my bloody chopping stump, I saw the crew in the first boat catching crabs. Their oars cut too deep into the water and they didn’t keep time with the stroke. I laughed as the two guilty dags slipped off their seats onto the hull. Neither vessel had been left in the harbor slings long enough to swell up their planks proper. Those boats would leak before long. Listening to the lads singing agitated me even more. I ripped a still-wiggling eel out of the bag. Its long neck flopped up and down on the chopping block as the crew’s hoots and hollers bellowed across the water.

  “I ain’t no cook. And what’s fair is fair!” I shouted, whacking the large round center of the eel and snapping it into a pot with my blade. “It’s my birthright to be part of the hunt as much as any of them.”

  I kicked a bag of duff into one pot and slammed the iron lid down onto the other. I salted the open pot, then plopped down on a dune.

  A glint of sun caught Brennan�
��s cleaver, winking at me where it was stuck upright in the chopping block. The boats were off in the distance, out of earshot now, and the curtains were drawn closed inside the widow’s walk.

  I walked over to the wooden stump and sank to my knees in front of it. I ran a finger along the edge of the cleaver. I brushed off what dried guts remained on the block and placed my face next to the blade. Brushing back my hair, I could see my reflection on the shiny flat steel. Papa had removed all the mirrors in the house years ago. The light shadows on the walls where they had once hung were the only footprints left that showed they’d ever existed.

  I studied the reflection of the scars on my right cheek. The deep, bumpy crevasses reminded me of gullies after a storm. I ran my finger down the terrain of my cheek and then along the razor-sharp edge of the blade. I flinched as my blood mixed with all that went into the pots. Then I pried the cleaver loose from the wood with the twisting sound of bone cracking and grabbed a fistful of my hair, laying it across the block.

  I lifted the blade as high as I could.

  And brought it down. Again and again the blade swung. Left, right, up, down.

  Large chunks of my hair fell next to me as I slashed and slashed again. When I couldn’t cut any more on the block, I stood and hacked as much as I could pull. It tangled in my hands as if trying to bind me, but I continued to slice and cut and rip until I grabbed for hair and there was nothing but air to hold.

  The breath rushed out of me as the cleaver fell to the sand. I felt the coolness of the offshore breeze on the back of my neck, tickling the jagged hay stalks of hair sticking out of my head. All at once I was frightened of what I had done—but free, too. If Papa needed a boy for the boats, I’d meet him halfway.

  2.

  The boats slowed and drifted as the sore shoulders of the lads gave way to fatigue. The whole group was flatter than week-old beer in an open barrel. Papa watched his crew limp in. He bit his lip, trying to swallow his agitation at their sloppy performance.

  I tied my cooking bonnet on out of habit and got to serving.

  I lifted the pots from the cinders, using a log to set the handles straight up, and dragged them about four feet apart. Next, I grabbed the old yoke Brennan had made with cut-out grooves on the arms for the pot handles to slide into. I squatted in a most unladylike fashion to get the handles aligned before pressing my weight upward. The wooden harness bit into my shoulders and bent to near cracking but held. I must have looked like an ox slowly trudging toward the table.

  The pots warbled and belched steam.

  My left knee buckled.

  I stiffened my right leg and shifted my weight to it, making sure both feet were far enough apart to keep me from toppling. I felt the steady flow of heat rocking on both sides of me as I took baby steps back toward the crew’s mess deck, which was never a deck if truth be told. The shortened steps gave me plenty of time between the balancing and shoulder pain to think of what I would say to Papa.

  It was a practical thing I did.

  Yes, it was, wasn’t it? Cutting my hair would make sense to an adult if I made it seem that I had a whole slew of reasons for doing it. At the right moment, I could mention how easy it would be for me to slip into one of the whaleboats with no girlish encumbrances.

  Papa was already waiting in the grove of trees near the tables. He had one foot on a stump. The wrinkles on his face drew sail taut as he puffed air out of his cheeks, mumbling to himself. Papa stared out at the bay, his head half-cocked to the left as if he were expecting it to answer him back. His long fingers snapped, pointing me to the big table.

  “Set ’em apart on either end so they won’t go picking through one pot and trying to grab something else from the other,” he barked, looking straight ahead.

  “Aye,” I mouthed, out of breath as the sand crunched beneath the pots.

  Papa continued watching the boats without giving the slightest glance toward me. I was a ghost to him as much as any hiding in the graves across the way.

  I wrapped my shawl around the handle of the farthest pot and hop-dragged it to the other end of the table. Still managed to burn my forearm and wrists, not that anyone cared. What was left of the bowls, spoons, and forks from last year sat waiting for the crew. There was hot water enough for them to dip-clean their dishes afterward. I started to angle for Papa’s line of sight when the first boat hit the float dock. The second one knocked the first away, followed by a stream of cussing that flowed faster than whale oil down a hot plank.

  Lon strutted through the dune grass followed by Warrain, Abe Hobson, and Ned Hanlon. Some of the seasonal blokes had already straggled into camp. The Gretch brothers came up from Victoria; Uri the Mad Russian worked his way down on a steamer from Sydney. Every year, the Arab Bashir appeared as a blur dancing out from the conical wind of a willy-willy before quietly taking his place.

  I remained away from the table as they pawed and grumbled over the victuals. I was as invisible as the forks and spoons banging the table. They each got their bit of duff and passed it to the next, complaining all the while that there were no rations of beer with their meal. Papa said the beer would flow when the oil did. He filled a bowl and sat next to Abe, stealing some of his duff to dunk into the gravy. Nodding his approval, Papa looked about. That’s when I stepped up and removed my cook’s bonnet and stood there with my hands folded as if waiting for Holy Communion.

  The crew kept grunting and snorting, tossing fins, fish heads, or bones on the sand or at one another. When I could no longer take the yapping, the farting, the belching, and the laughing—

  “I’m here!” I yelled, stomping my feet. “I do exist.”

  Abe dropped his spoon and looked the part of a boy hearing his mother calling. Lon’s jaw dropped the way a man’s does when his birthright gets yanked out from under him. The rest of them froze in silence as we all waited for the one man whose opinion mattered to say something.

  My arms stretched out to him as he dug deeper into his bowl without looking up.

  “Papa,” I said softly.

  His nose lifted slowly from the bowl as he continued chewing.

  “Something wrong with yer head?” he asked.

  The unexpected lift in his voice made the whole table laugh. I realized the long shadows of the demons dogging me were, to the crew, just sand gnats brushed away by these lugs. Papa pushed his face back into the bowl.

  I started to stomp back toward Loch Bultarra when one of them yelled, “Rapunzel, now you’ll never leave your widow’s walk,” to laughter and whistles. Well, I turned around and gave one of them pots the flat end of my boot sending all those steaming parts flying at the table.

  “I can always jump,” I said under my breath.

  

  The next morning, I awoke just before dawn even though I wanted to sleep forever or hide under my pillows with my cats without speaking to anyone again. Ever.

  Usually I’d stay up late reading or playing tricks on the blokes in the bunkhouses, but no amount of fun could sway my mood. I was alone and that’s all there was to it. Still, I snapped straight up in bed. It was as though the demons from the cook’s pit chose that moment to pound my brains back to life.

  I shooed meowing Descartes and Humphrey off my bed and tiptoed downstairs. I scanned the purple-shrouded water. They called it Reflect Bay because one-half of it looked the same as the other. The only difference was no one ever said they came from the Doddstown side where we lived. Everyone wished they were in Paradise, even if they had no business being there. The just-lit lamps of Paradise twinkled across the water, wrapping the town in anticipation.

  I perched quietly on the front porch railing, longing for the waning stars. This was my wondering time when I imagined what the night sky must look like from Canada, South America, and hundreds of other places I would never see.

  In their dying glow, I saw my family whole again, with Mum
alive and my brothers Eli and Asa back from the sea that had swallowed them. I pictured us putting out for a hunt. Me pulling the bow oar in front with my brothers rowing behind me. Papa stood in the back, tall as a mast, steering the whaleboat. In just that moment, we caught a perfect glimpse of one another. All of us waved to Mum, who yelled from the shore for us to—

  “You’re up early for such a cool night,” I heard Papa rasp from inside the screen door.

  I turned, startled from my vivid imaginings to see his gray shadow in the darkened doorway. Pulling my knees to my chest, I covered my arms so he couldn’t see my burns.

  “I come down here sometimes when it’s quiet,” I said.

  He walked stiffly toward the porch steps and sat down. Papa lit his pipe and crossed his legs. He brought a heaviness to the air. The longer he sat there the more his pipe smoke smothered my dreams. We stayed that way for a long time, as if we were both alone watching the quarter-slice of moon dissolve into blue ink. I didn’t mention that I was thinking about our family and he never asked, either.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked, motioning his free hand around his head. “Ya caused quite a commotion.”

  “Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “I figured it was time for a change, considering the future and all. The calamity wasn’t all on me.”

  “The lads,” he said and nodded. “You know there are professionals that do that sort of thing. Frieda barbers a lot of the crew; maybe she can even it out a bit.”

  I wanted to jump up and say, “I’m part of the danged crew!” but I knew that would make Papa nastier than a cornered wombat. No captain wants his authority questioned. Soon enough, he’d see my deed and sacrifice for what it was.