Magnus Fin and the Ocean Quest

by Janis Mackay

  Magnus Fin nodded. Yes, he’d heard about her singing and dancing and dressing up, but he needed to hear about it again and again and again. His grandmother ruffled his mop of black hair, kissed him on the cheek and carried on.

  “Oh, she had a voice I can tell you, like a nightingale. And like you, my lad, she was forever messing about down at the seashore. She could have married a lord, so she could. Well, she married your father and they were the happiest, bonniest couple in the north. Strange wedding, mind you, Magnus. Oh, it was great fun and the salmon on the table was second to none, but your dad invited none of his family. Not one! Which meant I had to do most of the work. Well, they got this wee cottage at the shore and everything was fine. Your dad got a job up at the farm and people say he was a good worker and your beautiful mother worked in the jewellers in town. Well, you were born and what a lovely wee boy you were. Then not long after your third birthday something happened. The good Lord knows what because I don’t, but in a jiffy all the beauty and youth in the pair of them went away. You’d think someone had gathered it up in a jug then poured it down the drain. Gone. Puff! Just like that.”

  Magnus Fin bit his bottom lip. He never enjoyed this part of the story.

  “No one knows what happened,” Granny May went on, shaking her head, “and if I’ve asked my daughter once, I’ve asked her a thousand times. But you just remember, boy, she was a beauty, and for that matter, so was your father. Now, lad, is there a cup of tea for your grandmother? Hm? All this speaking has made me as dry as a cork. And a wee biscuit too if you can spare it.”

  Magnus Fin jumped up, went through to the kitchen and made his grandmother tea. She had taught him to make tea, and toast and porridge. And she taught him to sing “You Cannae Shove Your Granny Off a Bus.” He came back with the tea, singing away to himself.

  “You are a great wee singer too. Just like your mother. And a little bird told me there’s a boy having a birthday soon,” she said, slurping her tea and winking at him over the rim of the cup. Magnus Fin nodded and grinned. “And what will that wee laddie who is going to be eleven be wanting?” she asked.

  Magnus Fin shrugged his shoulders. What he really wanted was what he’d asked for in the glass bottle he’d thrown out to sea. Apart from those things he would like a bike, but he didn’t know if his grandmother could afford a bike. Maybe it was too big a present to ask for. Usually she got him books and pencils and swimming trunks and jigsaws and sweeties. She lived in a little council house on her own in John O’Groat’s. He didn’t think she could afford a bike.

  “A book about sharks would be good,” he said. His grandmother looked relieved. “Well, if you’re sure that’s all you want I’ll do my best,” she said brightly, dunking her chocolate biscuit into her tea. “Now then, I’d better be getting back. Doing my line dancing tonight. Don’t want to go missing that bus now, do I?”

  Then Granny was off and the small cottage by the sea fell back into its quietness. Barbara lay sleeping. Ragnor was down by the shore. Magnus Fin went through to his room, carefully put away his Titanic treasures and counted the days to his birthday.

  Chapter Three

  The bonnie couple that Magnus’s grandmother spoke of were now bent and grey and wrinkled. They were little more than thirty years old but looked at least a hundred! The days of dressing up and dancing seemed to have gone for ever. There was not a mirror in the house that his mother had not broken, and lately Barbara had taken to wrapping her face in a shawl so only her eyes could be seen. When she ate her soup at suppertime she brought a hand to her face, and when the postman or the catalogue lady came calling she took to her bed, so that no one should clap eyes on her. Often Barbara, so ashamed of her haggard appearance, cried herself to sleep. On those nights Magnus Fin held spiral shells up to his ears so that the drone of the sea would drown out his mother’s crying. And the sea that came from his shells made a fine song, booming some nights and sighing others. Magnus Fin fell asleep to the slow hush of small waves lapping on the shore and woke to the same.

  Come daybreak he was up and out. There was the sea otter to watch fishing for her breakfast of sea urchins at the shore. There were the seals to say good morning to – the kind-eyed creatures with their noses rising out of the water seemed to know just when Magnus Fin would be up and about. And there was the tidemark to study, to see what had been washed ashore overnight. Sometimes, if his tummy was rumbling, he’d pull limpets and winkles from the rock and suck their juicy contents down in one suck. He loved them.

  He knew every stone, every rock. He knew where the heron slept. He knew where the oystercatchers raised their young. He knew the difference between a shag and a cormorant. He knew where the polecat prowled and saw every morning whether a rabbit had been killed or not. He knew so much but the pity was, he thought, he had no friend to share it with.

  On this morning he took up a flat stone and skimmed it. The surface of the water was smooth. The waves were baby waves, hardly worth jumping over. His stone skimmed seven times. His record was nine but seven was still good. His father, he remembered, had taught him a verse: one for a minnow, two for a cod, three for a reel and four for a rod, five for a dolphin, six for a seal, seven for a shark, so squeal baby squeal!

  He laughed remembering the verse and the tickling that always came at the end. His father had been young then and full of life. It had been a long while since he’d been tickled. Magnus Fin scuffed at some stones. His job was to bring home driftwood for the fire. On the stones he found a thick plank. It could have come from a broken hull. He dragged it along the beach and back to his house. He might be thin but Magnus was strong.

  His father was resting against the dry-stone wall by the cottage and calling to his son, “Good work, son – that’s a fine bit of firewood. It’s time for school. Don’t be late! Find any treasure today?”

  “Two dead rabbits and a cormorant’s skull. But I left the rabbits,” Magnus said, lowering the plank with one hand and with the other showing his dad the delicate shape of the white bird skull.

  “She’s a beauty,” Ragnor said, nodding his old grey head and handing Magnus his school bag. “Now, go on, son – school!”

  Magnus Fin placed the bird skull carefully in his bag and headed off in the direction of the village school. Somehow he couldn’t run to school the way he could run to the beach. He dragged his heels and wished it was Saturday, Sunday or best of all, the summer holidays.

  “Late again, Magnus Fin,” said the teacher, Mrs McLeod, who was marking the register. She looked up when the strange wee boy closed the squeaky door of the classroom as quietly as he could. “What’s the excuse this time?”

  “Sorry,” he said, his voice a tiny whisper, “slept in.”

  Mrs McLeod had almost given up hope with Magnus Fin. She had even gone so far as to buy him an alarm clock. But when her husband, a fisherman, told her that he regularly saw the boy at the beach at six in the morning, Mrs McLeod knew sleeping in was not the problem.

  “Slept in where exactly?” she asked. The whole class now turned to stare at Magnus, who was trying without success to slip unnoticed on to his seat.

  “Bed,” he lied, his face turning red. Some of the children in his class giggled.

  “Being late is bad enough,” the teacher went on, “and telling lies is even worse. The cupboard needs tidying and you, Mr Magnus Fin, can do it. You can stay back after school today and help me. Right, class, let’s get on. Now, P6 – what do you know about Mexico?”

  Chapter Four

  “So, Magnus Fin, what’s so fascinating about the beach first thing in the morning?” the teacher asked that day after school when the other pupils had all gone home.

  “It’s always different, Miss,” he said, handing Mrs McLeod a box full of jotters. This was his detention for being late, but the truth was he didn’t mind staying on after school. “Like, um, the tide brings things in and I have to check,” he went on, his voice excited now. “If I don’t I might miss something great. M
y favourite is bits from sunken ships. And I got something today – wait a minute, Miss, and I’ll show you – I’ve got a cormorant’s skull.”

  Magnus left the teacher standing with her arms full of jotters and ran to his school bag and gently lifted out the cormorant’s skull. “See! I’ve got loads of stuff and I sometimes help birds if they’ve got broken wings and I helped a baby seal that was stuck inside a washing basket.”

  “Goodness me! That’s a good skull. Poor thing, but what on earth was a washing basket doing on the beach in the first place?”

  “Dunno, Miss,” he said, carefully placing the skull back in his bag. He returned to the cupboard, awaiting his next instruction.

  “Pass me those crayons, will you? Good – and those paintbrushes. That wee Bobby Morrison has been putting his paintbrush away without cleaning it. Look! It’s ruined. You’ll have to throw it out. No wonder this school has no money. Oh, what a mess this cupboard is in. What is the world coming to? I don’t know. Washing basket, what next?”

  Mrs McLeod, tutting and sighing, took the dirty paintbrushes from Magnus Fin and dropped them in the bin, then struggled trying to lift the boxes of art equipment on to a shelf. With another sigh she turned to look at Magnus who was now busy stacking boxes of jotters in the cupboard. “Magnus Fin, you really should stick up for yourself you know. I heard that bully Sandy Alexander in the corridor. I heard what he called you – and your parents.”

  Magnus felt his face flush red. He stared at the floor. He’d heard Sandy Alexander too. “Decrepit lepers,” he’d said. It sounded bad the way he had said it, though Magnus Fin didn’t know what it meant. He just shrugged.

  “And, um … how are your parents these days?”

  “OK, I suppose. I mean, well, they seem … quite old and – and don’t do much,” Magnus Fin stammered, glad he was in the dark of the cupboard.

  “Strange, isn’t it? I mean, do doctors know what the problem is exactly? You know, the aging so fast thing.” Mrs McLeod was stacking the artwork into a pile, not looking at Magnus Fin.

  “My dad says we’re all different and I just have to get on with life. There’s a mousetrap here. Do you want it out?”

  “Oh, no! Don’t touch it,” she shouted. “Anyway, I think we’ve done enough for one day. Yes, your dad is right of course. We are all different. Now that we’re talking about being different, Magnus, I can’t help wondering about your eyes – if you don’t mind me asking. Do they run in your family? Have the doctors ever said anything about them?”

  Magnus Fin imagined a line of doctors in white coats giving clever speeches about people. As far as he was aware no doctor had ever said anything. Magnus Fin had lied once already that day. He decided twice wouldn’t make much difference.

  “That I am special,” he blurted out, feeling as soon as he’d said it that it wasn’t a lie. He was special. “Can I go now, Miss?”

  “Yes, yes. Off you go. And, Magnus – special or not – be on time on Monday, promise?”

  Magnus Fin grinned at Mrs McLeod, nodded then sped off. His dad would be down at the beach looking for him, and his mother would be bringing her soup to the table, the soup she’d laboured over all day long. Running home he could almost smell it. He was starving.

  Chapter Five

  That night, after supper, and after swimming in the sea with his wetsuit on, and after making a fire on the beach and toasting half a packet of marshmallows, Magnus Fin fell into bed exhausted. As he was about to drift off to sleep he heard the sobs of his mother coming from the room next door and the low tones of his father’s voice. Magnus pressed his ear to the wall and listened: “You should never have come ashore, Ragnor. Look at me, a decrepit hag. I’d be young still if it wasn’t for you. I wish I had never set eyes on you!” Barbara cried.

  There was that word again – decrepit. Magnus Fin usually held his hands over his ears through these arguments but tonight he wanted to hear more. Maybe it was something to do with turning eleven, but for once he really wanted to understand his parents and their strange illness.

  “If it wasn’t for your deed, woman, we would both be young,” said Ragnor. “Now hush or you’ll wake the lad.” Magnus Fin had heard this before, this crying and blaming. Now he began to think, maybe whatever it was that was wrong with his parents was somehow his fault. His eyes were strange. He knew that. No one in school had eyes like his. And his grandmother had told him the illness began after his third birthday. What had he done? He loved his parents. He wanted them to be happy. But always this crying, blaming, moaning, wailing!

  He had heard enough. He held shells up to his ears, hummed a tune along with the sound of the waves and eventually fell asleep, off to sea in his boat. He dreamt he was playing tig in the playground at school. Then he dreamt he was swimming under the sea and a beautiful girl was swimming by his side.

  When he woke early next morning the sun was streaming in the window. He loved Saturdays. Quick as it takes to throw on a t-shirt and pair of shorts he was up and out. Thank goodness for the sea, for the shore, the sand, the rock pools, the treasures the tide brought in, the oystercatchers and screeching gulls and the lone heron that stood hunched over a rock, staring at the flat sea. Magnus Fin loved the sea and the shore. He forgot his troubles when he was by the sea.

  It seemed to him that his father loved the sea too. Every day Ragnor walked slowly along the shore to a place where he cast his fishing line out to sea. Every evening there was fish on the table, herring or mackerel. Barbara gutted the fish and cooked it, humming away to whatever was crackling from her radio. There were times when even Barbara forgot her troubles and sang away to herself, the old pop songs she used to love. Then Ragnor would put a shaky hand around his wife’s waist and kiss her lined face and the rare sound of laughter would light up the little cottage. Magnus Fin loved those times and wished this laughing and singing could go on for ever.

  Ragnor, when he wasn’t fishing, often sat in his cave by the sea. When Magnus was very young this had been the storytelling cave. He remembered the wonderful stories of life under the sea, and the way his father spoke brought the magical watery world to life. He would carry the boy on his back, striding out across the shore. And they’d make great sand castles and dig sand holes all the way to Australia. But though that was only a few short years ago, it may as well have been another lifetime.

  Magnus Fin looked at his father now, limping slowly along the beach path with his grey head bent low and his thin legs shuffling shakily. What had happened? The other parents he saw every day standing at the school gates seemed much younger. Why did the clock in his house whirr so much faster?

  Magnus Fin followed his father along the beach path to his cave. He ran to catch up, hoping for a story. After all, he was still a child, wasn’t he? But his father sat in the cave in silence, staring out at the stillness of the sea. It seemed there were no more stories.

  “When you are older, son,” he said, looking slowly up at Magnus Fin, who stood expectantly at the mouth of the cave, “there will be other stories to tell you. Stories that will shock you to the core, but not now lad, you’re too young.” Ragnor’s voice sounded weak and shaky.

  “Please tell me now,” pleaded Magnus, stepping inside the cave.

  “It’s not yet time, Fin,” said Ragnor, his face as wrinkly as the furrowed waves. Then he was silent for a long while.

  “Look, son,” he suddenly said, pointing out to the sea. “Do you see how flat the sea is? Have you wondered where the big waves have gone?”

  Magnus Fin turned to stare out at the great ocean in front of them. It was flat, crinkly with the brush of the breeze, but it was true, there were no waves. Now that Magnus thought about it, there had been no big waves for a very long time. He couldn’t remember the last time he had watched mighty rollers crash against the rocks or got out his surfboard.

  “It worries me,” said Ragnor. “Something’s not right in the world under the sea and there’s nothing I can do about it. The waves cle
an the sea – and the waves have gone.”

  Magnus Fin sat silent, hunched on his stone. Out at sea screeching herring gulls circled over the flat water. His father stared at them, talking as though he had forgotten his son was with him.

  “Aye, no waves is not good. The sea has fallen on bad times. These small teacup waves hardly bother to break on the stones. It’ll be dirty in there, right dirty. Makes me think Neptune himself has fallen asleep. And all I can do is sit here and worry.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad!”

  Ragnor looked round, startled. “Ach! You gave me a fright, laddie. That’s what happens when you get old, you haver away to yourself. Don’t heed me, Fin.”

  “But you’re not really old, are you?” the boy blurted out. “Why do you and Mum look so old?” Of course he had asked many times before but was never given an answer. Lately he had given up asking, but now it came again, out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “People at school say you must be ill, and Mum too. I’ve heard her crying at nights. The teacher said the doctors should know. Are you both ill? Are you?” Ragnor, staring now at his son, saw a tear glisten in his boy’s eye in the red glow of the sun.

  “Ill? Aye, in a way. That’s all part of the story, son. Don’t ask yet. When you’re eleven. Then I’ll tell you. I promise, Fin. We’ll come back to the cave and we’ll make a fire and I’ll tell you the strangest story you ever heard. Until then, son, don’t ask me.”

  Magnus nodded his head. His father spoke as though being eleven was a long way off. Had he forgotten? His only child would be eleven years old in two weeks time.