by Lloyd Kropp
After a few minutes he came to a small sailboat that was isolated from the boats beyond it. There seemed to be no way of going any farther without retracing his steps several hundred feet across precarious bridges to another line of boats.
The boat was perhaps thirty feet long, a single-masted runabout. No rowboat floated nearby, and there was nothing anywhere on the deck except a single oar lying near the stern. He glanced down into a stern hatch. A foot or two of water glistened darkly inside the hull.
Then he had an idea. Perhaps he could cut the boat loose from the wooden bridge and row it through the weeds to the next ship. He found that two of the cords holding the boat to the bridge could easily be untied. The third he cut with his pocketknife. Then by rowing first on one side and then on the other, he made slow progress toward the next ship, about a hundred feet away. Suddenly his boat came upon a large pool of water where the shifting current had left a gap in the maze of weeds. Slowly the boat began to take in water. In a minute it was listing very badly to the port side, and he had trouble keeping his balance and rowing at the same time. The boat moved very slowly now in spite of his frantic rowing, and in a few more seconds the hull was half filled with water. It was clear that he was sinking. The next ship was still twenty feet away. All around his own boat the weeds had returned, whispering, pressing against the sinking ship. Perhaps he could swim the few feet that remained. But he had never tried to swim through weeds. Would they hold him up or would they choke him, drag him down into the water? He looked around. There was no one, no help anywhere. In another moment his boat would slip beneath the surface. Suddenly he remembered the oar. Perhaps …
He walked to the stern of the boat, carefully judging the distance. Holding the oar in both hands, he ran the length of the boat, fixed the oar in the ridged point of the bow, and vaulted into the air. The bow sank under his weight, and for one terrible moment he was suspended over the water, the oar sinking slowly in the green weeds. But the momentum of his leap had carried him over. He dropped the oar and reached out toward the rail of the boat he was falling toward. He felt his body strike the wooden hull; a terrible pain shot through his leg, and for a second he clung to the iron rail at the edge of the deck. Then very slowly he pulled himself over the side. There was a very large bruise on his right shin, but aside from that he seemed to be all right. He was at the point of congratulating himself on his quick thinking when he remembered how stupid he had been in the first place to row a swamped boat out of its resting place in the thick weeds. He looked behind him. For just an instant he could see the outline of the boat underwater, crossed by a pattern of Gulfweed and white seaflowers. And then it was gone, dragging large patches of vegetation with it, leaving behind a circle of dark water. Somewhere below he knew the boat was still going down. The Sargasso Sea was very deep.
All at once he realized that his efforts were getting him nowhere. He had been so busy balancing on precarious bridges and walkways and then saving himself from disaster that he had forgotten to look around for his dinghy. It gave him a start to realize that he had lost sight of his objective so easily. Beyond the boat on which he now stood there were two more walkways, one leading back in the direction of The Drift, the other out toward what looked like an old houseboat. In dim resignation, he decided to go on and explore the houseboat before turning back.
As he approached, he saw that it was indeed a houseboat, a square barge with a large square cabin set in the middle that allowed an even distribution of deck on all four sides. The houseboat was attached to long walkways extending out into the water to form a rectangle. About forty yards away, on one of the long sides of that rectangle, the structure was supported by an old lugger with broken decks and a shattered mast. The other two sides were held up with rowboats. The total effect was of a sort of square pier elevated two or three feet above the water. At several points he saw small boats tied to it, including three rafts with large sails.
Until that moment Peter had seen no real evidence of life in The Outland, but here someone had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble. Very quietly he made his way across the last few feet of walkway and then jumped onto the pier and listened. Somewhere in one of the rowboats crabs scuttled and clicked. Beyond that he could hear nothing.
As he walked around the pier he saw his aluminum dinghy tied to one of the supporting rowboats on the opposite side. His elation at the sight of it was pierced by an equally sudden thrill of fear. The Outlanders lived here, and Tabor had said they were very dangerous on their own ground. He began to feel extremely vulnerable. He was still a fairly young man, quick and strong from years of hill climbing and tennis and golf, but he was alone now and he had no weapon but his pocketknife.
Soundlessly he made his way across the old lugger and then onto the other side of the pier. The dinghy was moored just a few feet away. Just then he happened to glance up at the houseboat on the opposite side. There was a man standing in the shadow of the cabin.
Peter could not see what he looked like, and he had no idea what the man was thinking or what he would do. Perhaps he could get to his boat and push off before the shadowy figure could do anything.
His boat was tied with a thick rope and a bowline knot around one of the aluminum slats. On his hands and knees he tried to saw through it with his pocketknife, bending over the pier. He looked up. The man had left the shadows of the houseboat’s cabin and was walking toward him. He was very tall, and his shoulders and arms looked enormous.
Suddenly Peter realized he would need an oar. He remembered there were several lying on the deck of the lugger. He ran back to fetch one, but by the time he returned, the man was standing in front of the dinghy. In his right hand he held a long-handled gaff with a curved iron hook. He smiled very broadly. His left eye was missing, and a horrible scar, a blotch of purple, covered that side of his face. He wore nothing above his waist except a blue handkerchief tied around his neck.
“I came for my boat,” said Peter. He pointed to his dinghy. “The metal boat. It belongs to me.”
The man with the scar did not answer. Just then another figure appeared about a hundred yards behind him on one of the walkways leading to the pier, a small man who was shouting and laughing in a high-pitched voice that ended in a kind of delicious squeal. He waved a long knife back and forth above his head.
The man with the scar began moving toward Peter. He was still smiling, and his smile stretched across large yellow teeth. Suddenly he lashed out with the gaff. Peter jumped back and the hook missed his head by an inch.
For a minute the two men fenced back and forth on the pier. Peter’s oar was longer than the Outlander’s hook, and by jabbing with it he kept the larger man at a distance. But the hook was more of a weapon. The Outlander used it to strike at the oar, cracking the wood and sending chunks of it flying into the air. Soon it would break or be whittled down to nothing.
Twice the Outlander ducked and lunged, trying to end the battle quickly by slipping under Peter’s guard, but each time Peter stepped back just as the gaff hook slashed through the air. He could see now that he would have to change his tactics. The oar was a clumsy weapon. He could jab with it, but a powerful lunge would mean rushing forward, which would be fatal if he missed, or swinging it over his head, which would leave him open to attack as he raised it.
As he began to tire from the weight of the oar, he wondered how much it would shorten his reach to hold it in the center with both hands. Suddenly he realized that he was using it as a spear or a lance when it would be much more effective as a cudgel. That way he could make short, powerful strokes to either side without leaving himself open.
The little man had reached the houseboat. Peter guessed that he intended to go around the pier and come up behind him. He would have to make his move quickly.
Shifting his hands toward the center of the oar, he swung it sharply to the right. The big Outlander avoided the swing by jumping back, but it caught him off balance. As he raised his arm to strike a counterblow
, Peter took a step forward and swung to the left. His oar struck the Outlander on the shoulder. A third swing struck the big man in the neck. With a dreadful moan, he staggered backward, his legs collapsing under him. With arms flailing at the air, he fell sideways into the water. Peter whirled around to find the little man creeping up behind him with his knife. But as he turned, the man squealed and ran back to the lugger, from which he shouted curses in Spanish.
Peter finished cutting the mooring rope and then jumped into the boat. The little man was still shouting at him. The big man with the scar cried out in pain and clutched at the edge of the pier.
After a few minutes, the complicated pattern of boats and walkways made it impossible to row any further, and he was forced to drag and carry his dinghy across the walkways and decks. Once, a piece of iron shot struck about a yard to his left and sprayed him with water. He turned just in time to see an old man with no teeth laugh and then duck behind the cabin of a boat forty feet away. Apparently The Outlanders were always cheerful. Perhaps, thought Peter, it was the clean outdoor living.
When he reached The Southern Edge, he hid his dinghy in the hull of an old bilander where no one lived, and made his way back to his own schooner. He felt very weary. The sun was near the horizon now. Already the clouds had turned orange and the waters below The Southern Edge were growing darker.
Five
THE SEAFIELDS AND THE MARY STRATTFORD
“Where were you this afternoon?” said Tabor. “Pao said you had a headache.”
“I got over my headache and I went exploring,” he answered.
Tabor looked at him with interest. “By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re back just in time for dinner. Did I tell you you’ll be eating with the rest of us from now on at The Mary Strattford? It’s time you met everyone.”
Peter waited for the next question, but it did not come. He looked up at Tabor, and then to his surprise he added, “I wasn’t just exploring. I was looking for something.”
Tabor smiled, but still he said nothing.
“I was looking for my boat. I thought it was time I began to make some effort toward getting back home.”
“And did you find it?”
“Yes. I went down to The Outland. It was tied to a kind of square pier about two hundred yards out.”
“You might have been killed. The Outlanders are very unpleasant to people who wander into their districts.”
“I nearly was. Two of them attacked me. I finally dumped one into the water and the other ran off.”
Tabor was silent.
“I just can’t wait around. I can’t leave my whole life behind me simply because no one here thinks it’s possible to get back to land. I have a good boat now. All I need is a sail and a motor and some provisions.”
“I understand how you feel,” said Tabor. “Perhaps we should let people live with us for a few weeks before we tell them there’s no way back. Perhaps that way it wouldn’t be such a blow.”
“Has anyone ever tried to leave The Drift? Why are you so convinced that it’s impossible?”
Tabor did not answer.
“I really don’t understand. It’s almost as if people here are against the idea of leaving. I said something to Pao about it this afternoon and I got the feeling she was upset. It was almost as if I had insulted her.”
“You told Pao?”
“Sort of. Not in so many words.”
“That was unfortunate,” said Tabor.
“Why?”
“Pao expects to marry you.”
“She what?!”
“She loves you. She expects to marry you.”
“But that’s absurd! She knows nothing about me! And besides, she’s only eighteen years old!”
“She’s nearly nineteen,” said Tabor. “And she knows a great deal about you. More than you think.”
For the rest of their walk to The Mary Strattford, Peter was very silent. It was upsetting to think that the girl was trying to involve him, to pull him into her world. Surely, he thought, there must be some boys around somewhere that were her own age. But secretly, he was rather pleased. Pao was a beautiful and enchanting woman, even at eighteen. There could be worse ways of spending one’s life. But no, that was unthinkable. She was younger even than his students at Harrington University. He shuddered when he remembered the scandal over a professor in the Psychology Department who had dated one of his students. He remembered his own revulsion. It had seemed in such bad taste, and it reminded him of a trap he himself had almost fallen into. It made him think of—and the word “incest” came into his mind before he could suppress it.
Tabor led him to an old New Bedford whaler, a square-rigger over two hundred feet long that lay about seven or eight boats to the south of Tabor’s own ship. On the bow he saw a greenish bronze plaque nailed into the wood, on which were engraved the words, THE MARY STRATTFORD. In front of the mizzenmast a hatchway led down a flight of stairs into an oak-paneled room that flickered warmly in the plentiful torchlight. In the center of the room stood a long oak table filled with bowls of crabmeat, broiled fish, pitchers filled with juice, and different kinds of boiled vegetables in clay dishes. Around the table, the people of the clan sat on wooden benches.
Tabor led him to a place next to his own at the head of the table. Then, with an elaborate air of preoccupation, Pao took her place at Peter’s other side.
Tabor crossed his arms over his breast and closed his eyes.
“No storms have come to The Drift for three hundred years,” he said. “May God grant that no storms come for another three hundred. May we live in peace.”
“Amen,” said everyone.
Then he raised his hands to hold the silence. “We have a new man this evening at The Mary Strattford whom we hope will become one of us. His name is Sutherland.”
Everyone turned to look at Peter while Tabor made the introductions. There were nine people in all: an ancient woman named Rose; the two old men, Reuben and Javitt; Tabor’s two children, David and Michael; a very slender young man with a great shock of black hair named Raven; Pao; Tabor; and a plump, middle-aged woman named Bright.
“On behalf of everyone here,” said Reuben in a high, reedy voice, “we deem it our pleasure to welcome you to our ship and to our circle of fellowship.”
“My sentiments exactly,” said Javitt.
“What they mean is, we’re glad you’re here,” said Bright. “We want you to stay with us.”
Peter smiled at everyone. “Thank you,” he said.
The dinner hour was filled with conversation. Bright talked at great length about the antics of Tabor’s children, whom she looked after during the day. They had been doing something called weedwalking and she called them both “little Jesus” because they had the power to walk on water. Reuben issued proclamations about the weather and about The Seafield harvesting, with which Javitt invariably agreed. Pao drew Tabor into a discussion of Spanish and English grammar as compared with German. Later she talked about The Ballad of El Cid, which she had just finished translating. They laughed together a great deal. Peter had the feeling that somehow their whole conversation was very largely for his benefit.
Peter said very little during dinner, and strangely enough no one asked him questions about his former life or his arrival at The Drift. Everyone looked and smiled at him from time to time, but no one really seemed very concerned that a new member was entering the clan. No one except the old woman named Rose, who stared at him all through the meal. He smiled at her, but she did not smile back.
Finally, when dinner was nearly over, she said, “You’re the man from the sea, aren’t you?” Everyone looked up at Rose, smiled tolerantly, and then went back to eating and talking. Everyone except the boy named Raven, who seemed oblivious to all that was said.
“You got your boat today, didn’t you?” said Pao very quietly as Bright was taking away the dishes.
Peter looked up at Tabor in surprise and anger.
“I didn’t tell her a thing,” said Tabor.
“No one has to tell me things,” she snapped.
Peter could see that she was furious. For some reason, her anger made him miserable. He could think of nothing to say.
Soon the dishes were cleared and everyone got up to leave. “Breakfast is at eight-thirty,” said Bright. “Try not to be late. These wolves eat everything I bring to the table in ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Peter. “I’ll remember.”
“After you go hungry for three or four mornings you develop a sort of alarm clock in your head,” said Tabor. “I haven’t missed breakfast in nearly ten years now.”
“We would be honored and flattered by your presence at The Seafields tomorrow,” said Reuben. “Our experience and our knowledge will be at your disposal.”
“I concur,” said Javitt.
“But your afternoon belongs to me,” said Pao. “We can go exploring together.” She smiled. Suddenly, and for no reason he could discern, her mood had changed completely.
“That would be wonderful,” he said. A sudden and unreasonable surge of happiness made him smile and press her hand. Eighteen years old, he thought. It was getting more and more difficult to remember that Pao was only eighteen.
As he walked back to his schooner he saw Rose standing like a marble frieze on the deck of The Mary Strattford. She was staring at the moon. Raven, who had said nothing to anyone during the whole meal, shuffled off toward his own boat, his hands in his pockets. Pao was talking to Tabor. He could not hear what she was saying, but she seemed to be pleading with him, and occasionally her voice would rise as if in sudden indignation. The two children were running from boat to boat like rabbits. They were playing some sort of signal game with their hands.
“You used the moon yesterday,” said David. “You can’t use the same form two days in a row.”
