Tamaruq

by E. J. Swift

‘I’m only just realizing how they do things,’ says Shri. ‘I have three kids at home. They’ve just lost their father. Do you really think I’d come here on a whim?’

  Ivra seems curiously deflated by the realization. She wonders if he would have preferred it the other way, the romantic notion of her deserting her family, fleeing across the ocean to find the place where her partner died. And yes, it is romantic, but romantic for someone who is not a parent. Who could willingly leave her grieving children hundreds of kilometres away with no assurances, no promises of return, to fling herself upon the hope of a grave and bury her face in the dirt.

  Romantic, yes. But an impossible luxury.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Ivra. ‘I don’t know anything about you except what Taeo told me. And he was mostly drunk when he talked.’

  She senses he regrets the words as soon as he has uttered them, but there is no way to retract the statement. She looks at Ivra and sees a man who is unravelling. Who somewhere along the line has lost faith and sense and is now struggling to restore something, anything. And instead of pity, she feels the need to punish him. She wants to make someone else hurt the way she is hurting.

  ‘You should have gone with him,’ she says. ‘You were meant to protect him. That was your job.’

  Ivra stares at her helplessly.

  ‘Don’t say you’re sorry. It’s too late for that.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘You can help me find this man. The sooner I can find him, the sooner I can go home.’

  The room where Taeo was housed is a concrete box. The bed has been made up and the space is clean and empty, awaiting a new occupant. Another Antarctican exile. One tiny window offers a bleak view of the mountainside. Bare rock and dense, forbidding forestry. Shri puts her nose to the glass and breathes out and imagines how Taeo must have hurt, standing here, how a room like this must have felt like a prison. Of course he drank; his loneliness must have equalled hers, exceeded it – at least she had the kids. Only for him that’s all over now. He’s left her behind.

  Downstairs they give her a box with his personal effects. There isn’t much inside. He didn’t take much with him. That was her fault.

  By the time she returns to Ivra’s house he has found them a guide for the first stage of their journey. She leaves the box of Taeo’s things in the house. The same day they depart Fuego and head out into the archipelago. As the boat drives out she looks back once at the toy town, assuming the commander’s people are following, but if they are she sees no sign of them. After all her months observing the Adélie colony, she is now the endangered animal being watched.

  El Tiburón sends the co-ordinates for their meeting place in a sealed envelope which also contains a dead scorpion. The creature’s body is crushed and its blood has smeared over the paper, but the deadly curl in its tail is still evident. Vikram shows the Alaskan, who raises an eyebrow but says they should not be alarmed; this is simply El Tiburón’s way of making sure they keep their counsel. Vikram doesn’t tell Mig. The boy is already angry over the Alaskan’s involvement; he doesn’t want to add to his doubts.

  The pirate has chosen a remote location out to the west which no one in the camp has ever visited. On that side of the archipelago, the land fragments into hundreds of islands, some densely forested, others barely more than rock, all of them difficult or impossible to access and largely uninhabited by human residents. The steep sea channels are littered with the carcasses of boats run aground. El Tiburón’s ship must have a hiding place among these treacherous coves; it probably has many.

  It is the first time that Vikram has departed the camp since they found their site, and he is nervous. He doesn’t like leaving people behind. The camp feels exposed, as though by removing himself he is removing its implicit protection. He doesn’t like the idea of placing himself in the pirate’s power either, but events have backed him into a corner. Every day that passes is another day lost, another day where a signal drops into the ether and the Antarcticans might choose to invade Osiris, or worse. Throughout the short summer nights he lies awake, tormented by visions of the place he called home, besieged, the people he knew consumed in flames or drowning in the waterways that sustain them. So many have died already because of his actions. He can’t be the arbiter of any more death; he isn’t sure he could survive it.

  Only a handful of people come with him. Mig. The Alaskan, reclining on a crudely constructed stretcher. They are relying on her to negotiate with the pirate. A couple of long-term camp members, both expert sailors. They leave at dawn. Crossing the island terrain to the sea is difficult with the stretcher, and their progress is slow, the many obstacles in their way causing the Alaskan to be bumped and jolted about. If the uneven movement causes her pain she gives no sign of it, and when Vikram glances back to check on her, her peculiar black eyes meet his with assurance, almost defiance.

  He puts Mig in the lead. The boy is a good scout, and it keeps the Alaskan out of his sight.

  It is a relief to reach the sea. From here they can travel by boat. It isn’t a good day for it – a grey and ochre sky overhead forebodes storms, and the water is rushing swiftly through the channels, flecked with hostile foam. The journey takes them the rest of the day, leaving the party tired and jumpy. At the forefront of Vikram’s mind is the knowledge that if they run aground, or capsize, the Alaskan will not be able to swim. But the two sailors guide the boat to their allotted co-ordinates without incident.

  They find themselves alighting on a steep, rocky beach on a small island hemmed in by larger and higher land masses, which cast the beach in shadow. Cave entrances riddle the side of the cliff face. They pull the boat up high onto the beach and prepare to wait. Vikram scans the sea, the slopes of the surrounding islands, but can see no evidence of human life, or any other kind of animal. Only the birds have made their nests here. Their keening cries reverberate across the water. If anything happens to them in this lonely place, only the birds will witness it.

  The two sailors stick together, talking skittishly about the tides, before their discussion drifts to other, darker things. Mig’s attention is caught.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Monsters,’ says one of the sailors.

  ‘Monsters, aye.’

  ‘I thought you were talking about serious stuff.’

  ‘Who says it’s not serious?’

  ‘Go on then. Tell me.’

  ‘Did you know a race of giants used to live here?’

  Mig laughs. ‘Giants? Is that supposed to scare me?’

  The sailors exchange a glance.

  ‘They’re long dead, it’s true. But there’s other things. Things you don’t see. A spirit in the straits, long, skinny thing with a head like a cat and a tail like a shrub. Doesn’t like people trying to cross the water. Stops them. Drowns them. Comes from below.’

  ‘Or from above,’ says the other, swooshing an arm towards Mig’s head and grabbing a handful of his hair.

  ‘Oy!’

  ‘A flying snake that sucks your blood. Changes shape when you’re looking the other way.’

  ‘Like a pirate.’

  ‘Aye, like a pirate.’

  ‘You’re talking shit,’ says Mig.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ The first sailor casts a sombre look skywards, where abrupt, orange rays of light pierce the clouds to reveal a lowering sun. ‘When they buried my grandfather, he looked like a lemon that had shrivelled up in the sun. Not a drop of blood left in the old carcass. Something got to him.’

  ‘All right then. If your water spirit’s so dangerous, why didn’t it stop us?’

  The first sailor pulls something from a pocket. Something furred and bloody with tiny feet curled in on its belly. Mig peers. A dead rat. He can see the incision where its throat has been opened up.

  ‘You have to appease it,’ says the sailor.

  A purple gloom descends across the archipelago. Mig, fascinated by the caves, wanders over to investigate. Vikram watches, wanting
to call him back but knowing it will only annoy the boy. Mig ducks in and out of visibility. Each time he is lost to sight Vikram feels a renewed tug of anxiety. He remembers the scorpion. What if those caves are a trap?

  ‘Feeling responsible?’ says the Alaskan. Her tone is sardonic. Vikram joins her by the boat.

  ‘It was his choice to come with me.’

  ‘When he made that choice I don’t suppose he knew quite how dangerous a person you are to be around.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do, send him away?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. You can’t train kids like him. They’re sweet as syrup until the day they betray you.’

  ‘You’re still angry,’ he says.

  The Alaskan laughs, then sneezes. Her eyes start to water. Vikram half expects the moisture to be black too.

  ‘Angry? No, not angry. Just amused.’

  Vikram looks at her.

  ‘How are you holding up? The journey here was rough.’

  She sniffs.

  ‘What do you care?’

  Mig has disappeared from view for several minutes. Vikram scans the row of cave entrances worriedly.

  ‘Mig! Mig, get back here!’

  ‘If I were you I wouldn’t speak quite so loudly.’

  Vikram whips around. A figure is striding towards them across the gloom of the beach. They have not come from either of the directions Vikram anticipated – the sea or the caves – and the only other way of reaching the cove would be by clambering down the sheer face of the cliff. Apparently the pirate has accomplished this in silence, surprising all of them.

  The pirate approaches. They are dressed in leathers and camouflage, pistols clearly visible at each hip and a rifle slung over the back. A tricorne hat shadows the face. As the figure draws closer Vikram glimpses tinted glasses and a face that is smooth and androgynous, the sort of face that could, from a distance, be mistaken for a woman. But the faint shadow across the chin and the breadth of shoulder would appear to confirm El Tiburón’s much-disputed gender.

  The pirate comes to a halt a couple of metres away. His head turns slowly, taking in their motley crew.

  ‘You make a lot of noise,’ he says at last. His voice is a light tenor, soft and persuasive. The two sailors shift uneasily on their feet, and Vikram wishes he had asked them to wait at the other end of the beach. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Mig picking his way back across the rocks. He moves slightly to place himself between the pirate and the boy.

  The pirate steps across to the Alaskan.

  ‘You, I know.’

  Unexpectedly, he drops to one knee and kisses the Alaskan’s hand.

  ‘Flatterer,’ she says.

  ‘Flattery is deserved,’ replies the pirate, rising. ‘And these?’

  Instinct tells Vikram to answer with absolute honesty.

  ‘My name is Vikram Bai,’ he says. ‘These are my associates.’ He names the two sailors and Mig, who has reached them, and is eyeing the pirate closely.

  ‘You are the Osirian.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A lot of people desire your head.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘A wanted man.’

  Vikram says nothing. He feels the pirate’s eyes behind their glasses, roving over him. He stands his ground.

  ‘You come to me for assistance,’ says the pirate.

  ‘I need a ship.’

  The pirate gestures.

  ‘There are many ships in Patagonia.’

  ‘I need a ship that isn’t afraid of a challenge.’

  ‘So.’ The pirate takes a step closer. His right hand, gloved, curls around the holster of the pistol. ‘I am not interested in bravado.’ He points to the Alaskan. ‘She is why I am here. Her message piqued my attention.’

  The Alaskan displays no interest in this statement.

  A shout from above interrupts them, startling Vikram and the others. It sounds like a warning. El Tiburón turns and barks something back in a language Vikram does not recognize. Then, with no warning, he sprints across the beach, drops to one knee, tosses aside his hat and takes the rifle from his back, aiming the weapon out to sea. Vikram follows the line of sight and can just make out the bobbing light of a small boat.

  The pirate fires a number of precise, soundless bolts. That’s not Patagonian technology, Vikram thinks, unsettled. It is too far away to see whether the pirate has hit his mark, but somehow Vikram does not doubt it. He senses the jitteriness of Mig at his side and knows the boy will have questions later about the company they are keeping. He cannot let Mig know he shares the boy’s fears.

  ‘What was that about?’ he asks the Alaskan quietly. He doesn’t want to ask the obvious question. If they have made a mistake, there is no getting out of it now. The shout from above made it clear the pirate is not alone.

  ‘A warning, I suspect,’ she answers.

  ‘To them?’

  ‘To us.’

  ‘How many warnings do we need?’

  ‘A lot of people would like to execute El Tiburón,’ she says. ‘Perhaps even more than would like to get hold of you.’

  El Tiburón waits a moment, despatches one more round, and rises, returning his hat to his head. The pirate proceeds to walk calmly back to where they are waiting, strolling along the water line. Vikram can hear the ocean lapping at the beach. The tide is coming in. Within the hour, this cove will be flooded.

  ‘Who were they?’ Vikram asks.

  An expression of surprise crosses the pirate’s face.

  ‘Should I know? They threatened this meeting.’

  ‘Did you kill them?’ asks Mig.

  The pirate gives him a haughty glance.

  ‘Certainly.’

  Vikram keeps his face carefully neutral.

  ‘El Tiburón, the Alaskan tells me you are the only captain who can help us. What can we do to persuade you?’

  ‘I will take you.’

  ‘You will?’

  Vikram looks to the Alaskan, and catches her in the midst of rearranging her face. She’s as surprised as me, he thinks. She was expecting to bargain.

  ‘I haven’t said where I’m going—’

  ‘It is not hard to guess. You are correct, I am the only who can take you to Osiris. Any others will fail.’ The pirate extends one gloved hand. Cautiously, Vikram takes it, and they shake briefly as people do in this country in greeting or farewell. El Tiburón tips his hat in a salute that appears ironic, and turns on his heel.

  ‘How we will know—’

  ‘I’ll send word. Via the nirvana.’

  The two sailors are jolted by that. They stare at the Alaskan, then drop their gaze uncomfortably. The Alaskan laughs hoarsely.

  ‘Thank you for that, El Tiburón.’

  The sailors begin to push the boat towards the tideline, conversing between themselves, clearly disturbed by the revelation, or the pirate, or both. Mig stares after the retreating pirate. His hand is in his pocket, squeezing the length of rope he carries with him everywhere. Blurring into the dusk, Vikram sees the faint outline of El Tiburón scaling the cliff, moving hand over hand like a gecko. He blinks, and the man has vanished.

  ‘There were bones in the caves.’ Mig’s voice at his side is very quiet. ‘Leg and arm bones, all stacked up together, in rows. I never saw bones like that. I never saw so many.’

  ‘It’s probably nothing to do with El Tiburón,’ says Vikram.

  ‘Then why did he want to meet here?’

  Vikram doesn’t answer immediately.

  ‘You have to trust me on this, Mig. It’s our best chance.’

  It’s too dark to see Mig’s expression, but his disbelief hangs between them, and the boy heads back to the boat without another word.

  Another day. Another island. Shri has lost track of how many they have visited. They all look the same. The dancing trees and the sea and the insects at night and when the insects finally stop the silence, a different calibre of silence to the deaf and blind swaddling of Antarctica, one full of
hidden things and things withheld. Then there was a storm, abrupt and terrifying, that almost blew them out to sea, and lost half of their provisions. The physical hardships she could manage, if it weren’t for the children’s absence, eating away at her like a sore that refuses to heal. She can’t connect to them. She can’t see their faces or hear their voices. She can’t protect them from those little shits at school. She’s been cut loose.

  Meanwhile, their goal remains frustratingly elusive. Ask an inhabitant of the archipelago and they’ll nod and hum and swear they know and yet reveal nothing. The man who survived redfleur? Oh yes, we know who you mean. He’s on this island. No, that island. No, the one after that, for certain. Go west, five kilometres, say? Maybe six. You’ll find it. There’s a cliff whose face is marked with the shape of the parrot. There’s a tree with its branches burned to a stump. You’ll know it when you see it. You’ll know it for certain.

  ‘I’m beginning to think they’re all lying to me,’ she says to Ivra. ‘No one wants me to find this man. What if we can’t find him? What if he doesn’t even exist?’

  ‘It’s not lying,’ Ivra says. ‘It’s the Patagonian way.’

  ‘I hate the Patagonian way. No one tells you anything. They never answer questions with an answer.’ This doesn’t seem adequate to express her frustrations, so she casts about for something more concrete. ‘They kill whales.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw a whale, in the harbour, when I arrived.’ Shri remembers vividly the mammal’s blood leaking into the sea. The water turning to red. ‘It had been slaughtered.’

  Ivra’s expression clears.

  ‘That’s not the case. That whale came in from the ocean. It tried to swim into the archipelago. It was dying.’ Ivra pauses. ‘It was fleeing from something.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Face up to it, your precious Patagonians are whalers.’

  ‘It was fleeing,’ Ivra insists. ‘It had been attacked. The ocean’s changed, you know. We don’t know what’s out there any more. The whale is an animal of the Nazca, no Patagonian would ever harm one. But have it your way, if you want.’

  He turns his back, clearly offended. I’m pushing him away, thinks Shri. But I can’t help it. I can’t stand this place. I have to find the Osirian, and soon.