After five days at sea Guliven and Sean could see black land on the horizon, and the dark spire of the Ballycotton lighthouse piercing the indigo night.
It had been an arduous journey, one of the toughest Guliven had ever known. A fierce wind had chastised them on the first night, a howling north-westerly gale that made a mockery of their advance.
Their arms mutinied, every muscle in their torsos rebelled, and their legs revolted to have been made to endure such strain for so many hours. It had lasted all night, and yet by the break of morning it had ascended as quickly as it had befallen them.
Sean had slept for two hours while Guliven had kept their course, and then he had slept, waking with cramp and a warm midday sun on his face.
His knuckles still bled from the beating he had given his son and the salt of the sea bit at the torn flesh each and every time it sprayed at him. Had he been a man of conscience he may have seen it as Karma for his actions, some will of God punishing him, though he was a stony man who believed in nothing but force and nature.
Sean had arrived on the morning of their departure as Guliven had grasped his boy, flinging him into the grass. Sean dropped the boxes in his arms and ran across the garden as Guliven beat his son and kicked him hard. Guliven had been drunk, he could smell it on him, on both of them. What a family, he had thought, tearing Guliven away as Semilion, bewilderingly, arrived from nowhere.
Guliven had broken away from both of them in his rage and kicked Boen so hard in the back that for a moment he and Semilion froze, thinking the boy’s spine had cracked, though he continued to writhe in the dirt, blood streaking his face.
They tore Guliven away finally and dragged him to the pier. Semilion had berated him with curses while Samantha and Arabella crowded over Boen, who lay limply in the grass. He rasped as he breathed - bubbles of blood on his lips.
Guliven sat watching his family darkly as Semilion prodded his shoulder and told him that he could have killed the boy. Sean would never pass comment on a man’s actions toward his family, but he didn’t agree with the way the new Runner treated his.
‘Do you want a salve on that?’ Semilion had said eventually with a sigh. Guliven looked down to his bloody knuckles and grunted refusal.
‘Right, well, listen here,’ he continued as the door to the house closed, the knocker clacking loudly as it did so. ‘Guliven? Gul, listen to me!’
Guliven looked up slowly, ‘Hmm?’ he said casually.
‘I’ve been up all night fretting about the last transmission sent by Camberwell.’
‘Why?’ Sean had asked, wrapping a length of rope in a hoop and flinging it in the pram they would fill with cargo on their return.
‘It just didn’t make sense,’ Semilion replied brusquely. ‘I need you to contact him.’
‘Will do.’ Guliven sighed, and Semilion produced a leather envelope that smelled of beeswax.
Guliven opened the envelope and read through the instructions, though Semilion paraphrased as though he couldn’t read.
‘Phone him on that number there, see it? You have to ask him to clarify what he means by a storm front. And more information about the threat that’s coming from the south-east.’
‘What threat?’ Sean asked.
‘I don’t know what threat, that’s why I need some bloody clarification!’ He leant back over the sheaf of papers in Guliven’s hand. ‘And tell him to send another transmission on this date, there... At that time, right?’
Guliven folded the sheaf and placed it back in the envelope. He rose and placed it in a heavy coat and pulled it on. ‘Got it. What if I can’t reach him?’
‘You must,’ Semilion said gravely, ‘For God’s sake Gul, you must.’
You must. The words stayed with Sean. As did talk of an unnamed threat in the south east. They were urgent words, and yet their progress was pitifully slow. It felt as though their homes were burning behind them because they had not the strength to row any faster.
The wind returned on the second night. Not as strong as before, though this time it remained, and stayed with them for another two days. Their sails were useless under such conditions, and the two of them rowed stoically, heaving slowly and repetitively whilst the pram they towed bobbed and rolled; their advance was minimal - maybe thirteen miles each day, and less than quarter that at night.
The fourth day was fine, and in the afternoon an easterly wind roused itself, and they spared no time in unfurling the sail. It ballooned and caught the wind before it had been fully rigged, and for several hours they skipped happily through the calm Irish Sea until dusk was nothing but a reminder of crimson on the horizon. Then the wind died, and they decided to use the lull to row long into the night unabated.
Morning found them both asleep. Guliven had taken first watch, though he had succumbed to fatigue not long after Sean had closed his eyes. They had drifted for several hours, though thankfully not far, and it hadn’t taken them long to reposition themselves on their original course, a new north-westerly growing at their bow.
By mid-afternoon they saw the haze of land beyond the horizon, the subtle change in the tone of blue in the distant sky that spoke of change in that which was below. They pushed forward, hoping to reach Ballycotton before night proper, though the persistent wind capsized their optimism, and they resigned themselves to another night at sea, the slowly encroaching land black and cold on the horizon.
The dark clouds had been thunderous and low throughout the day, scudding across the sky as though hauling a veil of rain behind them. By early evening they were replaced by a bank of grey that seemed like some vast and impassable mountain range before a field of cream. The rays of a golden dusk danced behind it and the wind lessened. They decided to spend their last evening at rest, and took it in turns to sleep, before pushing forward, the last leg of their journey taken under the cover of darkness.
They slipped quietly beyond the small, dark, nameless island that preceded the town, the towering lighthouse upon it blind in the starry night. It was still in use, unlike the one in Mortehoe, though was only ever used if the community were expecting a ship to be passing their way.
‘Eh,’ Sean said with a devilish gesture to the lighthouse, ‘what would you give for that to be swinging between your legs?’ He was too tired to say anything witty, and yet his tiredness had lent him a humour he hadn’t experienced in years. It was such a relief to be at their journeys end.
Guliven looked up wearily, not understanding the question. His eyes fell on the lighthouse. His hard face broke into a smirk and he began to chuckle. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘I’d give my wife her marching orders?’ They laughed like schoolboys tittering about breasts, their hoots and the clang of restless buoys the only sound in the still air.
Lights shined from the town and in the hills, sparkling like the sun shattering on dawn waters. It was a magnificent sight, both Guliven and Sean thought, turning to it constantly as they rowed peaceably into harbour - their oars grating wetly in rusting oarlocks.
Ireland had been spared the brunt of the first onslaught of plague. They had closed their borders early and operated marshal law at their boundaries. Illegal immigrants were ubiquitous, however, and no amount of patrolling coastlines could guard every shore. The plague found its way in, and yet was checked by swift quarantines and rounds of copper shells. From the outset news correspondents unveiled the severe treatment of those afflicted, and the unofficial quarantine camps of Craigue West and Bellacorick, but after the world around them began to turn to ash, after the last broadcasts of yellow powders filling streets and the tormented wails of dogs none cared what happened in the camps. None cared of the treatment of those afflicted. Just as long as the advance of the plague were halted.
Less than four thousand people succumbed to the S4K18 virus in Ireland, an almost unnoticeable fraction compared to other countries in the west, and that result had meant that business continued with relative normality.
Electricity flowed, bulbs burned, cars and buses chugg
ed along maintained roads, even funds for a new monorail branching the entire country had been found. Whilst the rest of the world had been dragged back into darkness, Ireland had retained a semblance of civilisation. Limited natural resources saw the regression and abandonment of several areas, and the greatest financial crisis the economy had ever known hadn’t spared them, hadn’t even been merciful to them, yet they trudged ever forward like the walking wounded.
The country was closed, and became a locked down state. They effectively enforced an international trade embargo and passed laws that made entering or leaving the country punishable by death.
It was that notion that stilled the men’s laughter, both hearing a splash to their port. They watched the darkness for a time, before continuing more cautiously.
Close to the harbour they heard a bell ring twice, and knew that they had been spotted. It was either Brian or Tom, Guliven thought, the two watchmen who guarded the harbour for interlopers. Another bell rang in the distance, a response to the first, it sounded lazy, like the half-hearted ringing of a buoy’s bell.
The harbour was full of skiffs, catamarans, drifters, row-boats, dinghies, tugs and trawlers. Sail, steam and motor boats alike, they all bobbed calmly in the harbour before a small town of pastel buildings. The wind roused the flags atop their masts and lines, filling the air with the sound of fluttering.
Guliven liked it here; it made him think this must be what Mortehoe would have been like in the past. Electricity burning, lights brightening the night, the vibrancy emanating from the public houses, with little care for who might hear.
‘That you, Kelly?’ Tom said, climbing down a ladder to take their rope.
‘Guliven,’ he replied quietly.
‘Ah, Gully, how’ve ye been?’ He reached out to take the rope Guliven offered and tied it to a large ring on the harbour wall.
‘Apart from my wind-burnt face? Well... Tom, this is Sean Colt, he’ll be helping me from now on. I’m the new Runner, see?’
‘We bored ol’ Kelly, did we?’ Tom said with a laugh and returned to the top of the ladder. ‘Or is it that he couldn’t handle the drinking that goes on after hours?’
‘If that’s the answer then it was a severe course he took in avoiding it. He died near three weeks ago.’
‘No,’ Tom said, surprised. ‘Kelly? Dead? I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true,’ Guliven continued, ‘as true as my face and arse are raw. Heart attack. Out like a light.’
‘A shame... A real shame. We all knew Kelly. Liked him, too. Told him he was more a Ballycotton man than whatever you call yourselves in that... Kibbutz of yours. Well, it happens, I suppose. Ned Blarney dropped down dead only two months ago, though he was in his sixties... Kelly were a young man, in his prime. And fit too...’
Guliven had ascended the ladder, and saw Tom better for the lights dotted along the harbour. He was in his late forties, with a wild shock of grey hair tied in a ponytail with a shoelace, and a nose that had been on the receiving end of too many knuckles. He wore a grey jumper two sizes too large for him, quarter-length trousers and sandals, and he bobbed from foot to foot as though readying himself to spar.
They clasped hands and greeted each other warmly, before he introduced Sean properly and spoke a little of the journey they had endured.
‘We were expecting you last night,’ Tom said, nodding, ‘though it was no surprise when you didn’t show. Will you be taking the usual or is there anything else you need?’
‘Just the usual, though I did promise my wife some sugar.’
‘One of the perks, eh?’ He nudged Guliven in the arm and led him to a cargo crate secreted behind several abandoned skiffs. He opened the crate, which screamed as metal rubbed metal, then flicked a switch as he entered, dousing a large stock of crates in cream light.
‘It’s all there, as usual. You can either go through it now or have a drink and do it in the morning, it’s all the same to me.’
‘Sean?’ Guliven said, eyeing the boxes. He didn’t much fancy checking the pile now.
‘To be honest, I just want to have a whiskey and get myself laid. Does that girl with the red hair still serve at the Blackbird?’
‘Jesus, you’ll have to be more specific, man.’
‘We’ll stay the night,’ Guliven said, and the three retreated back outside, the door scraping loudly and reverberating in the quiet. Guliven looked over the harbour and the scores of vessels swaying gently, their flags rustling and the water lapping against their hulls. There was one amid them that caught his notice, a rusting tug with a deep orange bow. He’d seen it before, though he couldn’t place where.
‘Let’s be off then,’ Tom said, distracting him. He’d probably seen the vessel on a visit here in the past, though why it would stand out to him now he didn’t know.
They stepped back up to the main walkway of the harbour and made their way into the town when Guliven realised from where he recognised the tug. The thought hadn’t finished forming in his mind when two large men barred their way. They were between the reach of street lamps, and all of them were doused in shadow.
‘Who’s that?’ One of them asked. Guliven recognised his voice. It wasn’t Irish, but had the drawl of a Lundian.
‘Kenan?’
There was a moment’s hesitation before the man replied, ‘Guliven?’ He almost groaned. ‘Jesus Christ, man, why’d it have to be you who took Kelly’s place?’
The second man moved swiftly, or Guliven was too slow to react; a fist landed hard and squarely on the ridge of his nose. Blood gushed over his face and tears blinded him and he staggered. He thought for a moment of Sean though it seemed as though he had already been incapacitated by Kenan, and Tom had disappeared from the scene altogether.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Guliven cried, covering his nose, but heavy hands had grasped his collar and were dragging him along roughly.
He heard an engine and was bundled into the back of a rusting car. The smell of mildew hit him as he was forced into the seat. He heard Sean protest as he was tossed into the boot, and then Kenan was beside him as Gorran, his brother, slumped into the driver’s seat and pulled away on to the high street.
‘What do you want?’ Guliven said angrily, spitting blood over Kenan. ‘Last time we spoke it was as friends, man!’
Kenan looked away from him. They rarely saw each other, though whenever Guliven had stopped on Lundy they always spared time to drink with one another.
‘We didn’t know it’d be you.’
‘Were you expecting Kelly? He’s dead, you know?’
‘I know...’ The words were quiet, almost guilty. They checked Guliven.
‘What do you mean you know. How?’
Kenan didn’t answer, but the journey had only been a short one. They stopped outside an old garage, and Gorran pulled Guliven from the car, thrusting him inside. Kenan remained outside, hauling Sean from the boot of the car and beating him until his shouting stopped. Guliven couldn’t tell if he had ceased of his own accord or whether he had been knocked unconscious. Either way, he was quiet... And safe for a time.
The garage was crammed with obscure shadows cast by engine parts and hanging chains. A single strip light hummed, hurting Guliven’s eyes and casting a sickly yellow glare about the room.
Gorran shoved him once more until he was in the centre of the garage, and it was then that he saw the giant form of Red Sawbone stepping from the shadows. He swallowed.
Red was more ancient than he could remember anyone ever looking, his face little more than a yellowed skull atop a neck of exposed tendons, bone and sinew. A thick beard clung to him, more cream in colour than grey, and he walked with a stiff leg which betrayed some former injury that had never fully healed.
Well into his seventies, he was the mere memory of his former self, the broad and strong giant that Guliven remembered, and yet his vengeance-black eyes radiated with all the strength of a blacksmith’s hammer.
He bypassed all pleasant
ries, saying, ‘You know me?’
‘I do. Kenan and me... We drink sometimes when I visit Lundy.’
Red ignored this. ‘And you know of the things that happen in Mortehoe?’
‘As well as any other?’
‘Then tell me why Richard Kelly was killed.’
Guliven cleared his throat. ‘He died of a...’
‘Bollocks,’ Red growled. ‘Don’t try me, Mr. Waeshenbach. Don’t test me as a fool. He’s cold and dead at the hands of a man. Both you and I know it.’
‘If that’s true then I don’t know the reason of it.’
‘You know as much as any other, so you say.’ Red drew closer, the cream light turning his eyes the colour of thunderclouds.
‘In as much as what goes on in Mortehoe and... And in Woolacombe. In respect to our daily lives, not as for murder.’
Red took Guliven’s chin in his bony fingers, squeezing it tightly. He looked at him for long moments, reading the silent words in Guliven’s eyes.
‘My mother called me a spider...’ Red whispered. ‘Because I liked to gossip as a boy. She meant it as a curse on me, the old bitch, but I was never happier than when she said it. A little web spinner, I was. Stirring up trouble with my words and laying threads for others to follow. It became...’ He hesitated, evaluating his words. ‘It became my thing, my trait... My virtue. No one spins threads other than me, Mr. Waeshenbach. Not on Lundy, and not in Mortehoe either. It was the agreement that was made when last I set foot there, and now!’ He roared the last words, Guliven’s heart near exploded in his chest. Red thrust him backwards; his head striking a car exhaust hanging from the wall. ‘And now I discovered that so many webs have been spun that you choke on them!’ He kicked Guliven in the hip, and although one of his legs was almost useless there was enough force behind the blow to fracture bone.
Guliven screamed, grabbing his thigh, his face buried in the dust. Both Gorran and Kenan were in the garage, each holding Sean’s arms high above his back, keeping him immobile, doubled up, and gasping in pain.
‘My boys and I, here, we’re great lovers of travel... Isn’t that right, Gorran?’
‘It is, da,’ Gorran replied, his voice thick with satisfaction.
‘Came here right from Iceland, we did. What’s it been, Kenan? Seven days at sea?’
‘Near as like, da,’
‘Seven days, in that little tug of ours, just to get here. We don’t like to come to Mortehoe since all the troubles, see... But I keep an eye on the place. A close eye. I’ve always a man posted there, see? He sends a broadcast of his own and keeps me abreast of all that happens should I need to revisit. He tells me of hatred toward the old-world that rarely touches the thoughts of men on Lundy, they tell of your defences, your fears... And while we were at anchor in Iceland I heard of Richard Kelly’s murder.’ His eyes grew dark as he loomed over Guliven. ‘Murder. I thought I made it clear that no more would die at the hands of Tuppers. With the blood of his grandfather I thought I made it so clear that you would need be a fucking retard with the brains of a drowned rat to misconstrue it...’ He inhaled deeply, and then stepped around Guliven until he was facing him. Guliven looked up, blood on his chin and sweat beading his brow. He sensed another beating was to follow, Red’s hands seemed to twitch with the excitement of it, and he braced himself for another onslaught.
‘I don’t know anything about Kelly. If it was murder then Semilion didn’t tell me. I’m not on his council.’
Red drew a yellow hand across his mouth, pondering Guliven’s words. He might be telling the truth, and yet he sensed he knew more than he said.
‘And Dr. John Camberwell?’ He asked.
‘John? I know him well. He lives in Mortehoe for part of the year, and then returns to Dublin University for the rest of it.’
‘I know all that,’ Red responded. He took a length of metal from the wall and prod Guliven sharply with it. ‘We’ve been to see him, you see. Recently. My boys and I.’
Guliven looked up. The speculation in his eyes betrayed he knew more than nothing. Red saw it, drank it up, and smiled as one who has drawn out a long held confession.
‘We visited him on the night of his last transmission, the shipping forecast he sends to Semilion each month. We asked him of Kelly, the same questions I’m asking of you now.’
‘Camberwell wouldn’t know anything.’ Guliven spat.
‘Oh but he did,’ Red smiled. ‘He knew more than Semilion thought he knew. He was another web-spinner, he was.’ He turned to his sons and gave a subtle nod, the gesture a substitute of drawing his finger across his throat.
Gorran took a knife from his pocket, unsheathed it, and peeled it across Sean’s trachea.
Sean gasped, though the brothers held his arms behind his back. He resisted, drawing his head as far back as he could, but it only aided the thin blade in slicing the taut flesh. His neck burst with bright, fresh blood.
‘God, no!’ Guliven lurched forward as Red thrust the rod in his chest and forced him back.
Gorran sawed at Sean’s neck, nearly hacking his head off completely. Sean struggled desperately at first, and Gorran clamped his large hand across his mouth. Blood flowed between his fingers, and Sean struck at him wildly, his eyes wide and searching until he lost consciousness.
‘That’s enough,’ Red said without turning to his boys. Sean was dead, or near enough to be of no threat or use, and he was thrust to the cement floor, dust wafting around him. A crimson pool grew rapidly at his head.
‘What do you know?’ Red asked ponderously, crouching with discomfort. ‘Camberwell told us of Semilion’s plans...’
‘Camberwell is on the council.’ Tears streamed down Guliven’s cheek. He was cold and thick-skinned, but he didn’t want to die, and few would relish the sight of a friend’s neck being hacked open by a blade as they writhed beneath it. ‘He would know things like that...’ He hesitated, his eyes turning hard as the steel on his chest. He turned to Red, his voice hardened to a growl, ‘I don’t know a thing!’
Red smirked, though it contained all the mirth of war on the horizon. ‘I tell you now, Mr. Waeshenbach. Your life is done. Here, tonight. It is over. You have the choice though, of going quickly or...’ He let Guliven finish the sentence for himself.
Guliven held Red’s gaze. Sean’s blood had spread out in a wide circle and was touching his heel.
‘He made us do it.’ He conceded, and then thought better of saying any more. Red wanting to know was good enough reason to stay quiet. Especially if the bastard was going to kill him regardless.
‘Who? Semilion?’ Red barked, impatient. Surely he meant Semilion. Unless it was Kelly who had forced their hand.
Guliven felt blood soaking into his breeches. He cast a glance to Sean, his skin was already grey, drained within moments.
He felt no love toward Semilion, and yet he would say no more if he could go to death knowing he had hindered his murderer.
‘Fuck you.’ He said dispassionately, and spat at the blade in Goran’s hand.
Chapter Thirteen.
South-easterly wind.
Thirteen knots.
Elysium Part Two. In A Landscape Page 2
