Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  A teenage boy, only a little younger than Marten himself, tripped beside him but Marten did not help him up. He focussed on their destination, where the internal lights shone out.

  They broached the top and looked down into the chamber. There were steps and the deck was filling up with people as they flowed down into it. At floor level there were no entrances but, at regular intervals, ladders ran up to a metal gallery. At that level, there were doors to the interior and men with guns at each.

  Marten and Riette reached the bottom of the steps. Marten glanced back then moved forward quickly to make room for those coming down behind them. He led Riette across the deck into the far corner. He felt safer with two walls behind him and a view of the whole space. And sitting directly below the gallery, it would be less easy for one of the guards to shoot at them.

  People still poured in. He had not realised there were so many out there in the dark. Were all these people in search of a new home? Some were unkempt and poorly dressed; they were the ones who were alone, and were all men. Some whose clothes were of good quality, usually the older ones. Marten wondered what could have happened to them that they needed to change their life.

  The tide of people became a trickle and the last stragglers came over the top as an echoing metallic crash boomed through the hold, reverberating off the metal walls. The grinding of cogs and winches filled the air and he saw a cable, thicker than his arm, tighten between the hull of the vessel and the hatch. Effortlessly the huge door lifted upright and Marten’s last view of the African sky was as it was just turning blue from the black of the night. Then the world he knew was lost to him.

  Massive bolts slammed into position around the door and if they had had any doubts about their journey, there was no longer a choice.

  All about him he could hear people whispering to one another, some were crying, one voice lifted in hysterical laughter that made him shiver. Then it happened. It felt as if he no longer had any weight, as if his whole body had become as light as a dove. People screamed about him; there were shouts from the men. The crying became louder.

  He knew this was the science invented by the British that made things light so they could fly. It filled everything and emptied it of weight. It was the thing that had made the British victors across the world, and gave them the power in the Void beyond.

  But he was a farmer. He lived on the ground and his life was in the earth itself. It was an abomination against God, and yet it would carry them to their new world. He looked down at Riette, she glanced up with wide eyes; she was scared but she had not cried out. So he smiled down at her and squeezed her closer.

  iv

  The hold smelled of sweat from the two hundred people spread out across the floor. Riette had dozed, on and off. She could not see the sun so there was no way to tell the passage of time, or whether they were even moving. Marten still held her but he too slept because there was nothing else to do.

  He had not let go of her since they had reached the gate. She was grateful. She craved the comfort of his touch. He had reassured her when they became light. It was magic. Like being drunk. Like the Chinese dream smoke.

  There was a couple sitting not far from them—who were not much older than Marten and Riette—their clothes had once been of good quality but were now threadbare. The man had a pocket watch and declared the time to be eight o’clock. Riette moved from the crook of Marten’s arm. He twitched and held her tighter then loosened his grip. Riette unwound herself, looked in his bag and found some bread and cheese.

  It was better food than she had seen in the week since she had last seen him, when he had bought her a pie from a street seller. She chewed on the bread and looked around. Others were eating here and there. One or two did not seem to have brought anything and stared with longing at those who had.

  Marten had called the man who had told him about the vessel a pirate. She knew what pirates were. There were stories that went among the street people, places to stay away from, people to avoid. The docks could be rich pickings for street people because that was where crews from the bigger ships would spend their coin and sometimes give it away to those in need. Maybe they felt they needed a balance to ensure their entry into heaven. Even if they weren’t giving it away, most were easy to fleece.

  But there were the rougher parts of town, just a little further out from the docks, where the less savoury went. Those were the places the crushers did not patrol so frequently and the Excise men stayed away from. There were men who claimed to be pirates there. And her sense of who were the bad ones was triggered by every face.

  Like the ones she’d seen as they were coming aboard. They were ones she would never offer a look or feel, because it would lead somewhere very bad. And she was not her mother.

  Marten leaned up on his elbow. She passed him the rest of the bread; she realised she’d eaten half the loaf already. Perhaps he saw the worry pass through her, because he smiled. It always made her feel strong when he smiled: knowing there was someone who liked her for herself, not for what she could offer, whether it was her skill at stealing or her body.

  Then he leaned over and brought his face close to hers. His breath was not fresh but she didn’t mind. He pressed his lips against hers and, for a moment, she just felt the dreamy lightness and his closeness. Then she remembered they were in public and pulled back. She glanced nervously around. The couple near them were looking at them. The man was frowning, but the woman smiled.

  Marten never opened his mouth when he kissed her. Now they were as good as married, she would be able to practise those skills she had been told about by the street girls on the game.

  There had been no sight of any of the ship’s crew since the great door had swung shut, hours before. As the time passed a murmuring built up in the human cargo. Finally a practical soul organised an area as a latrine on the far side of the deck from where she and Marten sat. They strung up a couple of blankets and acquired buckets from those who’d had the forethought to bring them.

  There had been an argument close to them, as a bucket-owner was persuaded to let it be used by the community. Their argument about ownership was easily overridden by the suggestion of piss and shit seeping across the deck.

  Riette had never had more than a hole in the ground, and many times just the street. But she knew people like Marten had little sheds in their yards. She had even heard that rich people had special rooms inside their houses, which was disgusting.

  Nobody looked at you when you lived on the streets. It was like being invisible, unless it was the crushers because they were always looking. You could piss on the main street and no one would look. Not that she did that; she always used an alley, but there was no way to be alone. You did it when you had to and no one would look. Except the old man who paid to watch, but one day he wanted a feel when she did it. She avoided him after that.

  But now she had to use the bucket. Others had already picked their way across to the blankets, and she’d seen how people watched, though they pretended not to. She was doing it herself.

  Marten had already been. He’d given her arm a squeeze and stood up, nodding in the direction of the blankets. She sat back against the wall and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs. She watched him as he went away from her, making her feel empty and alone in this space full of people.

  She looked away when he disappeared behind the curtain. He did not take long and was soon heading back.

  “You best go soon,” he said as he sat down. “Be careful, it’s hard to walk with no weight, and—” his voice trailed off as he tried to find the words, his face turning red “—water moves slow as well.”

  She frowned not understanding his words. He saw her confusion and worked up some spit in his mouth. He stuck out his tongue and let the spit roll off it. It was unreal the way it slithered down to the tip of his tongue and made a big droplet on the end eventually pulling itself free and descending slowly to the floor.

  The realisation of what he w
as describing dawned on her, and explained some of the cries from folks who had gone behind the curtain earlier. She nodded. And climbed to her feet, and straightened her kanga. Every other woman was wearing Western clothes, but she was proud of Marten’s gift.

  She took small steps at the start as she got used to the way she bounced across the floor. It would not do to take a tumble: The kanga and scarf were the only clothes she possessed. She felt the eyes on her but she knew everyone who had braved the walk had suffered the same, even if they weren’t her colour. It was because someone moving across the deck was the most interesting thing happening on the journey.

  She managed the buckets easily enough—Marten was right they were nearly full—and the stink was terrible. It crossed her mind she probably had it easier than the other women; she did not have to fight her way through all those layers of skirts and petticoats.

  The walk back did not seem to take as long and she was soon nestling into Marten’s strong arm.

  Time wore on. Someone sang hymns in Afrikaans, and many people joined in around the space. Riette did not know them, though she had heard hymns when she was in her hideaway below the church. They finished the last of Marten’s food and water then dozed again. The day passed into night according to the man with the pocket watch but the electric light never changed.

  Riette felt she might need to brave the buckets again when the vessel bumped as if it had bounced on something and, shortly after, their normal weight returned.

  v

  With metallic crashes that split the air, the bolts holding the great door shut slammed back. The grinding winches started up and Riette saw a crack of darkness appear around the edge of the door. It was blacker outside than it had been when it had been closed. They had departed at night, travelled through the day and arrived at night once more.

  But the dark was nothing compared to what came next. The door had been lowered only a short distance when an icy wind ripped through. It cleared away the stench of human waste in seconds, but replaced it with air so cold and damp it sliced through Riette’s kanga. It was worse than the coldest part of the night on the coldest night of the year, and mixed with a rain so fine it hung suspended in the air, soaking everything it touched.

  Across the floor people rushed to put on the coats they had been told to bring, if they had one. Others, like Riette herself, had none and did the best they could. She pulled the scarf closer around her shoulders and over her head. Her body’s reaction scared her; tiny bumps raised across her skin and she shook with shivers she had only experienced when she had been ill. Marten took off his coat and wrapped it about her.

  It did not warm her, but kept the wind from her skin.

  The door hit the ground outside with a boom that shook the whole vessel. The wind howled as it tore around and through the ship. It was as if they had arrived in the blackest pit of Hell.

  Dressed in shiny stiff cloaks and hats that seemed to repel the elements, guards appeared from outside with their guns at the ready, and the exodus began. As they were the furthest from the exit, Marten and Riette were the last to climb the steep steps and face the full onslaught of the knife-sharp wind and freezing rain. Electric lamps shone down from sturdy gantries, lighting a path from the base of the ramp along a muddy path toward some shadowy buildings in the distance.

  The metal of the ramp was cold and slick with rain. Riette slipped and cried out as her bare foot hit a sharp edge of metal. Marten reacted instantly and swept her off her feet, holding her tight to him. He stumbled down the rest of the ramp and bore her off along the trail following the rest. She buried her face in his shoulder, her face against his soaking shirt and shivering in the cold.

  Trailing behind all the others, they arrived at a set of low brick buildings. Marten climbed the half-dozen steps and pushed inside through a wooden door. Riette felt the warmth of the interior flow across her dripping limbs.

  “I don’t like Australia,” she said.

  * * *

  Riette woke and opened her eyes. Weak sunlight filtered through a window. She had slept indoors when she lived with her mother but there had been no glass in the windows of their shack. And that had been a very long time ago.

  She rolled on to her back, the wooden slats of the bunk creaked and moved under the thin pallet under her. The ceiling consisted of neatly nailed wooden planks. She was more used to stone that was so close she could reach up and run her fingers across its rough surface. Those nights and mornings in her stone cave, she had wondered whether, if she rubbed it for long enough, the rough slabs would become as smooth and worn as the steps of the church.

  She lifted her arm and reached for the ceiling. It was too far away.

  “You’re awake.”

  She turned again and found herself face-to-face with Marten. He leaned one arm against the bunk on which she lay. She reached across and stroked his cheek, rough and unshaven.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Hungry.”

  He lifted his other arm and presented her with a hunk of bread. “It’s not the best, but there’s plenty.”

  She sat up and adjusted her kanga. She took the bread, and tore off a chunk with her teeth. She looked around as she chewed it. Luggage was piled in uneven clumps near each set of beds. But there was no sign of the occupants.

  “Everyone’s been called out to be registered,” he said to her unspoken question. “I said you were not well and they let me sign for you.” Marten glanced down and then back at her, with a slight look of concern on his face. “I said you were my wife.”

  She kissed him. “We’ll be proper married soon enough. Let them think it true.”

  He handed her an apple. It was wrinkled but clean of mould. She took a bite, it wasn’t too dry. “What does Australia look like?”

  He smiled. “We’re not there yet, this is a staging post. We travel on again later today. Not everyone goes to the same place so they split us up.”

  “They won’t split us up?”

  “No, of course not, they want couples.”

  The door at the far end of the dormitory banged open and some of their fellow travellers entered; they moved to their bunks. Some sat and others lay down. One of the older men stared at them with a grim dark face like a thundercloud.

  Riette held his eye for a moment then looked away. She knew that look, the ones with so much hate for themselves it overflowed into despite for anyone different. Especially the blacks.

  Over the next hour everyone returned and collected their belongings in readiness for the word to move. The younger children whined and cried; the ones that were a little older invented their own games and ran between the beds and the adults until they were shushed.

  Food was brought, more bread and dried fruit, and Riette made sure Marten stocked up. He was not used to going hungry, and did not understand the need to keep a supply in reserve for those times when you couldn’t steal what you needed.

  For a while Riette stood by the window. She rubbed some of the dirt from it. Not far away was a wide grey expanse of water under the grey sky, always moving, with enormous waves crashing endlessly on a stony beach. She had never seen the sea but she knew what it was. Between the beach and the buildings was a whole rolling field of grass and stubby bushes filled with birds—and not a gap between them, so many of the creatures they could not be counted. And when the inconstant wind changed direction the air became filled with their raucous cries.

  It was mid-afternoon when the doors at each end opened and the men with guns entered. A voice from the other end commanded them to board for the next part of their journey.

  vi

  Marten put on his coat and gathered up his gear, weighed down with the food she’d insisted he keep. Riette watched him, her arms wrapped around herself. She was scared again, as he was. But she was the bravest person he knew. She had survived the city streets and, despite the horrors around her, she had not lost the blessed goodness God had given her.

  He knew she wa
sn’t pure in body, how could she be? She was the daughter of a prostitute, but her heart was true, and what was God’s love if not forgiving?

  He wondered if his father would ever forgive him. He’d left a note on the kitchen table, explaining that he was eloping with Riette. He did not say who Riette was, just that he had met her in the city, that he loved her and they would make a life for themselves in Australia. It was not that he was ashamed of Riette—he loved her with all his heart—but his father’s mind was closed. If he knew Riette’s nature he would see Marten’s actions as sin, and would take it as his own. A sin he would never be able to expurgate.

  They found themselves once more at the back of the travellers as they filed out into the unremitting wind. He wrapped Riette in his coat as they descended the wooden flight of stairs on to the muddy trail. At least it was no longer raining, though the clouds scudding across the sky looked as if they could provide more at the merest tempting of fate.

  The wind changed direction and the air was once more filled with the dismal cries of the nesting birds. It was like a choir of mourners.

  The line of travellers snaked along the track towards the landing field. They passed a gate where two armed guards lounged in their oiled coats and heavy woollen shirts. They barely glanced at the people trudging past. But as Marten passed by, holding Riette close to him, the one nearest looked at Riette’s ankles and feet, then looked up at them both with a frown creasing his forehead.

  The wantonness of Riette’s bare legs had shocked Marten too when he first met her. In his world such a display of naked flesh in a woman was a sign of lasciviousness and sin, or so he was taught. Yet she was more like a child, and no one cared how much skin they put on show. And the rules were different for the blacks.

  Marten dismissed the guard’s glance as he rejected all those who thought her lewd. It was true she had offered herself to him in gratitude for rescuing her from the crusher, but she had been grateful when he had refused. When they were alone together in Australia, when they were in their own place, he would not refuse her offer.