The Voyage of the Morning Light

by Marina Endicott

  Pilot nosed at the cabin door, and she let him in. The boy put down his fingers for him to smell, and the pup jumped up onto the bunk, circled as he always did and settled into the blankets. Thea need not know.

  Kay sat on the end of the bunk. This had been Mr. Brimner’s sanctum, his own place, but now it was all right for her to go in. She was the elder sister now.

  “I will tell you a story,” she said. “Then you will be quieter and go to sleep.”

  The boy sat up against the headboard with his thin legs hugged into his arms and watched her face, sometimes her mouth as she spoke, sometimes glancing up into her eyes and then letting his gaze slide away again.

  She told him about Odysseus, the man of many ways, who was beleaguered and travelled about the seas, but at last, after ten years’ wandering, wound his way home again—

  At least, she began to tell the story, but the sound of her own voice spouting an incomprehensible mix of English and Greek (when she could think of the words) dampened her spirits. It made her see how little she knew, or ever would know now, without Mr. Brimner to teach her, and how impossible it would be for Aren to learn English and speak with them, and then she thought of how Annie had not been able to speak in her own language, the muting of that . . . Soon Kay was too sad to speak at all.

  When he put a hand on her knee to urge her to go on, she told him instead something soft and ordinary, one of the first things she remembered: once, when she was very little and went running after Mary into the cow byre early in the morning in new spring snow, to see a newborn calf there, its crooked, woolly legs struggling to get up and stand, its large, wet nose nudging at her chest by mistake, and Mary’s soft face laughing and dimpled as she showed Kay how to push the calf toward its mother. The soft warmth and dampness of that woolly fur, the warm closeness of the mother and the byre, and the soft woodsmoke smell of Mary.

  Sometime while she spoke, the boy turned back into the pillow and went to sleep. Pilot made a nest for himself between their legs and they were warm and safe, and the ship sailed on through the night without hurry or haste, through safe old dreams that nobody would tell you not to say.

  But next morning there was trouble. Down in Thea’s cabin, drinking morning tea with her before Jiacheng had brought their porridge, Kay heard a commotion of running feet above. She ran to check while Thea was still pulling on her linen shirtwaist and tucking it into her skirt, but the boy was still sound asleep in his bunk. Aren, his name was. Curled tight as a fiddlehead, fingers in his mouth, and so still that Thea, coming after, was worried and felt for the rise and fall of his chest. She sat on the edge of the bunk and said, “No, no, it’s all right,” when the boy woke, startled.

  Something up on deck, then. Kay sped up the companionway, and as her head rose over the ledge, she heard Francis shouting to “Stay back from the rail, in case they have projectiles of any kind.”

  Who did he mean by they—and did he mean blow darts, or harpoons? Now she saw the boats, heading out from an island not far off. Many, many canoes. Perhaps they were coming for the boy, to buy him back or take him. She was afraid to ask it out loud. She slid into the shadow of Seaton’s lifeboat and stood mute, not wanting to be sent away.

  Mr. Best told Francis they’d made forty miles from Anna Island overnight, and this ahead was Sonsorol. These islands were so small and poor, Mr. Wright had not thought them inhabited at all anymore. Francis put down the spyglass, not needing it anymore because the canoes were so close. Kay saw that the ship had already turned, and sail was being raised to put away at speed, but even so, they were soon surrounded by canoes, skimming over the water as if in a race, going a good lick—six knots, perhaps. Kay counted fifteen canoes, with ten or twelve men in each.

  Sailors stood stationed along the deck, armed with sticks and staves, one or two with knives out. Jacky Judge was twisting his in the sun to make it glint. Arthur Wetmore stood in line too, sturdy as could be, though looking a good deal concerned.

  Mr. Wright shouted to them to look alive for boarders, and then his shouts were drowned by the men from the canoes, all crying at once, “Tobac! Tobac!”

  They were bound to come on board. From the lifeboat’s shadow, Kay saw their skinny arms reaching for the ropes as the canoes bumped alongside and jostled each other for water space.

  Calling again to Mr. Wright and his men to ’ware climbers, Francis shot his pistol into the air—once! twice!—and the noise diminished a little as the invaders paused.

  Then Francis called another order, and Mr. Best threw open a box and tossed a tin of tobacco across to him. Francis went to the side and shouted down to the boats to desist, but seeing the tin he held, they clamoured all the more.

  “Tobac, tobac!” they cried, in many voices—there were so many of them, and they looked so desperate, that Kay was certain the ship would be overwhelmed. She thought what she must do, where she could hide Thea and Pilot and the boy.

  Francis drew back his arm and hurled the tin of tobacco far behind the canoes, and two or three of them did turn back for it. One man, not waiting for his canoe to turn, leapt overboard and swam for the bobbing tin.

  In the meanwhile, Cocker the bosun had been harrying his men to sweat the ropes fast, and the ship at last began to make real way—but still the canoes pursued, and one or another would come up with a bump and a scramble. Then Francis or Mr. Best would send another tin tumbling back through the air, and again the onslaught would be distracted as men fought with each other to reach the tobacco before it sank.

  Thea came hastening up, alone, to find Kay. She whispered that she had left the boy shut in the cabin. They stood tight-clasped together by the lifeboat, fearful to leave or stay, and when a canoe slammed right beneath them, they looked down into the blearing eyes of a man who was climbing the side of the ship with fingers and toes as if it was a coconut palm. Then along came Jacky Judge with an oar and bashed cruelly at the man’s reaching hand until he fell off into the sea and was hauled back into a canoe by the others.

  The screaming for tobacco never stopped, that was the worst of it. The men were delirious in their desire and pain—Thea said it was like poor wretches crying for morphine in a hospital. Kay was afraid, and afraid for Aren, down below. Then she saw his shorn head peeping over the companionway ledge—he was clever to have figured out the door fastening!—and he ran to the rail beside them to see who beleaguered the ship, staring over into the roiling confusion of canoes. The cries (he must have known that word tobac) were growing a little less violent, but were still enough to frighten Kay.

  Aren looked down at the men but said nothing, and did not call out to them to come and fetch him home to his mama.

  Thea caught at the back of his shirt anyhow, as if she thought he might jump over. “Come down with me,” she said into his ear. “We’ll find Liu Jiacheng and get you some bread for breakfast! This is no matter for us.”

  He pulled a little against her hand, but she persuaded him down the steps again, cautioning him to take care with his footing.

  Since nobody told her not to, Kay stayed on deck until the last of the canoes had been left behind, the men in it waving and laughing.

  “We may be thankful for the breeze we had,” Francis told Thea later. “They’d have made short work of us if they had got aboard in that mood!”

  But in fact, as the canoes tired of paddling and dropped away, to Kay’s surprise Francis had called out an offer to trade with the last two canoes, and made a great haul.

  “I don’t know where I will be able to stow all these things!” cried Thea, when he showed her the treasure: a barrel of splendid sponges, beautiful shells and more of the exquisitely woven fishing lines.

  “They’d have followed us yet, if we had not traded,” Francis said in excuse. “All they would take was tobacco. I got a lot of their arrowheads—and nine turtles!”

  “Turtle soup and fried turtle for supper,” Thea said, looking them over.

  Kay disliked eating turtle extremel
y. She knew a tortoise.

  Aren had not had a word to say to the men, although they were from an island not forty miles from his home, and he did not seem to want to look at the things they had traded. That was interesting, Kay thought. Perhaps they were bad men who marauded along these waters and troubled his own place. When Kay pointed to the water where the boats had been, he looked vague and said a word she thought might be rengalack? Or perhaps it was his name again, only with something added.

  However were people to understand each other when words were not written down? This was impossible. She went back to her Greek books, all shuffled and out of order because of the commotion of the morning.

  He was not a bold boy, but not fearful either, Kay thought. Once they left the vicinity of the islands, he slowly emerged—not from hiding, precisely, but from where he had stood inconspicuous, melted into a shadow by the mizzen-mast. He stood watching her at her books now, his strong, broad feet easy on the deck, no need to wait for sea legs. Jacky Judge, running to make adjustments to the mainsail, caught him and slung him easily up to his shoulder, and then oop—up into the mainmast shrouds.

  Not rising from the hammock, Thea put a hand to her eyes to watch him climb, crying Oh! but making no real protest. Aren laughed and grabbed at the ropes and scrambled up ahead of Jacky, easily beating him. Sad again for her spindly arms, Kay turned back to her now-orderly books and opened to the exercise for today.

  TRANSLATE INTO GREEK:

  1. If I had known that you were there, I should not have gone away.

  2. Do not give anything to anyone till I come back.

  3. You ought not to have sold that horse for so little money.

  4. I thought that I should not be able to wait for you.

  5. I sent a messenger (άγγελος, angelos) to tell him to come tomorrow.

  She looked up from her work to find Aren staring at her books again—long lashes opening wide those clear eyes. He rested an arm on the table, casually, and leaned nearer to see her page. Checking to see that it was all right with her, he pressed a small finger gently onto the page, and looked a question at her.

  “Greek,” she said. “It’s Greek, the language I was telling you the story in last night . . .” Then she said, as if she was a ninny, “I already know quite a lot of Latin.”

  If it had been anyone but he, she would have blushed at this ridiculous boasting. But he looked at her lovingly and lifted his eyebrows in understanding. He had a companionable way of keeping his mouth closed that was agreement, acceptance.

  In the evening after supper, Kay sat with Aren swinging in the hammock while Francis and Thea promenaded along the deck. No islands in sight, no worrying flotilla of canoes. Not far enough away (but of course Aren could not understand him), Francis asked, “What do you expect me to do with the little chap—train him for cabin boy?”

  Her violet skirt swaying as she turned, Thea answered him shortly, “No, not at all. He is our boy now.”

  From the still look of his face, Kay thought Francis was not in agreement, but he said nothing.

  Thea began to teach the child proper English. He was a responsive little fellow, and had picked up a smattering of words already in these few days, at least to understand. She sat with him at one end of Kay’s table, making letters on a piece of scrap paper and sounding them out, as if Aaron was one of her early pupils at Blade Lake. How different these circumstances! The sea air wafting around the deck and the comfortable bustle of the crew both tempted him away from the table, but he seemed to have a strong desire to speak to them, and did not tire quickly of repeating the words she taught him, pointing to the pictures she drew.

  She drew the alphabet, which had been of some assistance in training the Indian children, and got him to trace the letters on scrap paper and erase them until they were perfect. In Shanghai she would try to find a child’s primer; she missed her old books.

  “Ship,” she said, and waved her arms around them and at the little boat she’d drawn.

  “Shit,” he said, and Kay bent farther over her books to hide her laughter. Thea kicked her ankle beneath the table; mockery would not help the pupil. She said the word again, drawing his attention to the difference in the making of the t sound and the p sound. Both were present in Polynesian languages, and he learned quickly.

  When he’d had enough of schooling, Aaron helped Seaton mend sail, followed Jacky Judge up into the rigging or sat with Kay, feet through the railing, watching the crew scuttle around the ship. In the afternoon they had another session, and Thea drew more pictures of ladies and houses and bears and cats to illustrate the words she was teaching him. He had a quick mind and a good ear, and he liked to please her. He loved to play this is the church and this is the steeple, especially when her hands turned inside out to show all of the people inside them, or twisted into the parson going upstairs.

  The days grew longer and warmer, and even slower. Francis said they would be out of sight of land now for some weeks, and out of danger from marauding canoes. Seeing that they were also out of chickens, and had not been able to barter for more, Thea decreed it was time to butcher Mr. Dennis. The pig was always called that, it being considered unlucky to mention the word pig on board ship—Thea still did not know why.

  Liu Jiacheng managed the butchery before she came up in the morning; but a great harvest of blood had been saved in buckets lined up along the deck, for making blood sausage and headcheese. Shuddering at the smell, Kay declared she would do her work in the saloon. Not being so dainty in his sensibilities, Aaron stayed on deck watching interestedly while Thea and Jiacheng portioned and dressed the meat and Mr. Best, bustling in, set up the smoker at the rear of the House for smoking sausage.

  A long, busy day. After a good dinner of roast pork, Thea found herself genuinely tired by evening. So was Aaron, it seemed. While she played lingering Chopin nocturnes in the twilit saloon, the boy crouched to watch her feet go up and down, pressing on them gently as she pressed the pedals, before rising when she paused in the music to climb up into her arms like a baby. Kay had not done such a thing for many years.

  His skin was warm and clean, his bones light as air. Thea reminded herself that he was very young. Francis had settled on eight years old, given the small stature of his people, and had given him the day of his acquisition, December 1, for a birthday. The birthday of his new life. His head, pressed into her shoulder, was all over soft and sweet-smelling. Eyes still hidden, he reached up and stroked her cheek with one hand. She held him tighter, glad that Francis had gone up to speak to Mr. Wright.

  What his life must have been like, she could scarcely imagine. Poor, certainly, and hungry, but he was a loving child, and that is learned from loving parents. She tried to turn her mind away from thinking of his mother. Life on these islands could not be easy. Perhaps Aaron’s mother had too many children to feed, and would not notice—well, hardly that, but perhaps be glad that one was well taken care of now. Perhaps she had died, as women so easily did in these cultures. The father had had no qualms in selling him, after all!

  A benevolent God had given her the chance to save this one soul at least from poverty and starvation—to bring him up as a Christian, in love and kindness, and as part payment for the deaths of all those poor Blade Lake children—and she would do her best.

  12

  China

  The Morning Light docked in Shanghai, and the discharging of her case oil cargo began. The harbour smell hammered into Kay’s nose: intoxicating, almost suffocating—she put her hat over her face for respite. The land wind carried spinning odours of sherry wine or Hollands gin, fruit-laden as it came in old fruitcake, with a following assault of fish paste and fetid meat. The cleaner snap of mace was left behind in the islands; complicated, darkening rot now crawled in at every breath. The harbour was clogged with putrid things; little catamarans and push-boats picked their way through the watery mess even while adding to it; every boat had on it someone tossing a basin of slops or night soil over the
side. Kay shivered to think of falling into that dark-moving murk.

  While Aren helped Jiacheng and Arthur Wetmore turn out the kitchen and restock, Kay and Thea spent a whole day housecleaning the cabin: taking screws out of tables and chairs so they might move about the room again, rolling out the carpet, finding summer slipcovers for the settee, et cetera—all the dainty things that make life comfortable in port. Since they would stay in Shanghai for a month, pictures and photographs came out of the lazaret, old china Kay had never seen, and all the other treasures Francis had picked up in various places, including the famous Hundred Faces fan that had been given to his father by their Shanghai partner, Mr. Yen, in 1880. On the fifty two-foot ivory sticks of one side, fifty faces were carved, and on the other side, forty-nine; the face of the one holding the fan became the hundredth face. With these things set up in their accustomed positions, the Aft cabin looked fully dressed, quite different from when the Morning Light was at sea.

  When he came back from the market, Aren roamed the room, touching every new thing with a careful finger. Inspecting it with his skin, Kay thought. Once he had made the place his own again, he surveyed the whole room and, with a conscious look at Thea, nodded his head in the English way of agreement, saying carefully, “Very nice, shipshape!”

  But he could not keep his eyebrows from lifting, lifting to Kay, as they did when he wished to say yes.

  The harbour water still moved and shifted and moved as the sun set, but the night sounds of little boats rowing and people chatting to each other were almost soothing. Lying in her bunk, almost asleep, Kay pressed one hand against the wood. Outside that wooden barrier, the China Sea pressed back.

  Francis spent the thirty days in Shanghai on business arrangements, working the local shippers to find charters for this trip and the next several projected voyages. Between company visits, the city was a splendid place for shopping, with streets and streets of little shops, each for one purpose and one purpose only. Still wearing hand-me-downs, Aren was left on the ship, happily learning knots and ropes and carving with Seaton; Kay went along or did not, as the mood took her. More often she stayed with her books, especially after Thea presented her with the Middle Liddell, found in a crowded bookshop with spectacularly packed shelves stretching up thirty feet, and a spindly ladder to reach the highest, as high as a crow’s nest.