Svalbard. The word echoed like a bell back and forth between the two boys. The wild land to the north, free now of ice, the stories said. Their parents had been heading for the archipelago, for the island of Spitsbergen, to make a new home.
Conall remembered little of them. Blurred faces, strong arms, a comforting voice, moments of kindness. A feeling of safety. Then they were gone. They’d set out as a family for the far north, but the boys had been left behind, when Conall was only five. Without Faro, he could never have survived.
He looked across the Bressay Sound to the ship, then back to his brother. “We can’t leave. They might come back. They’ll look for us here.”
“Ten years,” Faro’s voice was angry, bitter. “They’re not coming back. Understand? I’m getting on that ship. Come if you want or stay here. It’s up to you.”
“The sailors’ll want payment, we’ve nothing to trade.”
“We’re not asking. We sneak on board, hide ’til they’ve sailed. Even if they find us, we’ll make it to Norway. It’s a start. Better than being stuck here.”
Conall grimaced. How would Jonah Argent and his crew at The Old Broch deal with a pair of stowaways? “They’ll throw us off.”
“I’m going to try,” Faro said. “I’m sick of waiting.”
It was no idle threat. Conall would be left alone on Shetland, and the townsfolk, even the kind ones, would never take one of the Hawkins boys to their hearts. He would always be an outsider, an incomer: flotsam washed up on the island. “How do we get aboard? They’ll see us.”
“They’re doing a trade,” Faro said. “Tools and maps and old tech from the south. For hay and straw.”
Conall looked at his brother, puzzled. Faro shrugged. “They need it for something.”
“How does that help us?”
“You’ll see,” Faro said with a smirk. “Good thing you’ve got me here, if you can’t figure it out.” Faro threw the last of the bread to his brother and gestured for him to follow.
Conall looked over his shoulder towards the Broch, thinking of Ben and his offer of another meal. He could work there, if he stayed on Shetland. But his brother had protected him all these years, his only family. His only friend. The only one he could trust. They looked after each other. They were brothers.
“Enough of this dump,” Faro yelled as Conall ran to catch up. “Get your things together, anything you want to take. We can’t carry much. Tthis is our chance. We’re going to Svalbard. Good riddance Shetland. We’re going north.”
Chapter Two
STOWAWAYS
Conall clutched a battered leather shoulder bag against his chest, surveying the room where he’d lived these past ten years. Only one section of the half-ruined house still gave any shelter. They’d patched together enough of a roof to keep them dry but fierce winds off the North Sea whipped through the old building. An improvised shelf held rough wooden carvings he’d made as a child. Conall picked up a model boat, turned it over in his hand, examining the workmanship. Not so bad. But leave it, leave them all. Take only the essentials – and the binoculars, above all things.
They were his prized possession, discovered years before in the wreckage of a trawler, skewered on a windswept headland: a relic of the old world forgotten by the fishermen of Lerwick, home only to crabs and ghosts and barnacles, until the Hawkins boys came exploring, dreaming of hidden gold. Faro was the oldest, so he went first, clambering on board and rushing to the wheelhouse, but he found nothing. Conall explored the bones of the ships, and it was there, hanging from the transom, exposed like the rib of a great whale, he spotted the binoculars. He remembered holding them in his hands for the first time, the smoothness of the cold steel, the smell of the leather strap – and the envy on Faro’s face when he saw what Conall had found. No one could make lenses like that anymore, not on Shetland, not anywhere.
Conall had carried them proudly from the ship, taking the binoculars to a vantage point on the headland to gaze across the ocean. How old had he been: nine or ten? So many years spent waiting, hoping, dreaming – and gazing to sea.
He tucked the glasses into the bag and gathered up the dog’s blanket. He squashed it into the bag. “In you get.”
Rufus looked at him, ears raised. Conall picked him up, using a calm voice to put the terrier at ease, and tucked him on top of the blanket. The dog fitted but there was little room left. He’d leave his spare shirt and socks, but the wool jacket might come in useful, on a sea voyage to the arctic. He’d carry it loose, and it had two pockets he could stuff with things. He looked through a pile of books, scavenged from deserted houses or given him by townsfolk. He’d leave the novels, read repeatedly until they became old friends. He picked up a battered book that had belonged to his parents, a natural history of the arctic, from the days when it was frozen: ice, snow and bitter cold. Slipping the book into a pocket of his coat, he looked through what remained: histories and manuals and travel books, lives of famous men. The photographs in the botany textbook had faded with age, the illustrations of plants and trees barely legible. But the book was filled with wonders, plants treasured for their flowers, their colour and beauty. Exotic trees and shrubs that grew so fast they had to be hacked back in Autumn. On Shetland, even grass and wheat struggled in the parched summers. He tucked the book into a pocket and slung the jacket over his arm.
Leave the bedding, the shells collected from the beach, the plate and cooking tools. He pressed a pocket knife into the bag where Rufus had snuggled into the blanket. The dog opened one eye and gave a mournful stare. “You’d best keep quiet. And still.” He took a last look at the ruin that had been his only home and stepped outside to where his brother waited, staring to sea.
“You’re taking the dog?” Faro said. “Leave him, he’ll be safer on shore.”
Conall had found the terrier on the town dump two years back, abandoned as a pup, and the two of them had bonded on sight, never parted since. “I can’t. No one’ll feed him.”
“He’d better not give us away,” Faro said. “Come on, we’ll miss our chance.”
≈≈≈≈
The brothers headed to the harbour where three cart loads of hay and straw stood ready to be loaded on boats and taken to The Arkady. Faro volunteered to help in return for a chance to see the boat up close and the town mayor waved them forward, happy to use free labour. He stood beside the captain of the ship, a bearded man in his fifties with a weather-beaten face tanned by long hours in the sun.
Conall stared at the man, getting his measure. He had a serious face, stood tall and straight and strong, but somehow he didn’t look born to the sea, not like Jonah Argent. He wasn’t the best sailor on board, that was clear. He was captain because he owned the boat, or built it, or led the expedition.
Conall and Faro grabbed pitch forks and began to load the hay into large sacks which they stacked on a twelve-foot row-boat. When no one was looking, Conall slung his bag into the back of the boat. He lowered it carefully to avoid hurting Rufus and whispered to the dog to keep quiet. The bag wriggled and writhed but Rufus held his bark. Once the boat was filled the two boys leapt in. Two fishermen took up the oars, and the boat pulled away from shore towards the waiting ship.
A line of faces along the ship’s deck watched them draw closer. He recognised Jonah and others from the inn. A woman in her late thirties, maybe older, leaned on the rail, dressed in a white blouse and grey trousers, her hair tied back. She had her arm around a girl, Conall’s age, he guessed, maybe younger. He glimpsed her face and long brown hair, almost black, then she was gone.
The fishermen pulled the row-boat alongside The Arkady and the crew lowered ropes to haul up the sacks. Conall helped Faro tie them securely while the fishermen kept the boat steady, firm against the keel.
Faro shouted up to the sailors. “Where do you need the hay? Below decks? We’ll move it, for a look around the boat.”
Jonah’s face appeared, staring down at Conall. “You do all the jobs in this town boy? Aye, c
ome up if you want, save us the bother and we’ve got a ship to prepare. But take care and don’t steal anything. It’s ship’s law on here.”
They hoisted the hay aboard and Faro told the fishermen to row back without them. “We’ll get the last boat,” he said. They clambered up a rope ladder, Conall with the bag slung over his shoulder. Rufus wriggled, whimpering. Conall hushed the dog softly.
Argent told them to move the hay to the bottom deck, ordered one of the sailors to show them the way, then stomped off, shouting about stays and buntlines, lifts and leeches, yelling to the men scrambling in the rigging.
Conall looked up at the masts and the bewildering web of lines and cables, ropes and sails. The tallest mast must have been a hundred and fifty feet high. The last of the fuel on Shetland had run dry long ago and the small fishing boats had been converted to sail power. But no one had tried to build a larger sail ship, one that could cross the ocean. From the muddle of masts and ropes, he could see why. It was a task beyond them.
Faro pushed him in the back. “Get on with it.”
Conall picked up a sack and followed Faro towards the back of the ship where a sailor waited, waving his hands in the air in annoyance. “Throw them,” he said. The boys dropped the sacks which thumped onto the deck below. As they clambered down, a deep animal groaning filled the confined space. A cow. Then more noises. Pigs and sheep. Conall reached the bottom of the steps and stood on the lower deck in a narrow hallway, with rooms on either side. The noises came from the stern, along the corridor. The ship smelt like a floating farmyard.
“Down there.” The sailor pointed to a narrow gap. A ladder led into the gloom of the hold at the bottom of the ship. They threw the sacks down and climbed after them. “Sacks at the stern, away from the fuel barrels. You know your way now,” yelled the sailor.
The hold was cramped and dingy, barely high enough to stand. Around the steps, metal barrels had been secured to the sides of the ship by a chain. In the centre of the room stood a diesel engine, cold, quiet and lifeless. Beyond the engine, boxes of supplies had been stored next to a stack of hay. Faro clambered past the engine and told Conall to hand through the sacks. Conall put his bag on the deck, opening it up to check on Rufus.
“Give me that,” Faro said. He took the bag and stored it behind the hay.
Conall craned his neck to peer round and check on the dog. If they were ordered off the boat, Rufus would be alone down here. But there was no way to carry the bag up and down those stairs while lugging sacks of hay on his back. “Stay there boy. I’ll be back, I promise.”
Faro jabbed him in the chest, pointing back towards the steps.
“We need water.” He whispered the words, unsure how far his voice would travel in the boat. “And food. What will we eat?”
“Worry about that when we’ve sailed,” Faro said.
Two more row-boats arrived from shore laden with sacks. The boys spent an hour moving them down to the hold, as the row-boats returned again and again with more supplies. Finally the last of the hay arrived and there were only three sacks left on deck. The row-boat bobbed on the water, manned by a different crew, men unaware that Conall and Faro were on board.
The boys each grabbed a sack. Faro went first. Conall paused, looking around the ship. The sailors were busy, shouting orders, stowing supplies, getting the ship ready. No one noticed them. A boat headed out from shore and Conall recognised the captain sitting at the front.
Conall mouthed a silent farewell to the town of Lerwick and his hilltop lookout, then slipped down the steps, following Faro into the hold. “I say we wait here.”
“What about the last sack?”
“If we go back, they might notice. The row-boat was leaving, I’m sure of it.”
They stacked the hay sacks around themselves, building a den where they could hide. Conall let Rufus out of the bag but held him close, listening to the sounds of the ship, and the sailors making her ready. His heart pounded. They were heading into the unknown. He’d miss the island, the views across the headlands, the oceans, the dawns and sunsets. But Shetland had never felt like home. They’d never been accepted by the locals, who had enough troubles of their own without looking after orphans dumped on their doorstep.
Jonah’s shouts from on deck mingled with the banging of the captain’s row-boat against the hull. Conall held his breath at the sound of footsteps on the ladder down to the hold. A man muttered in the gloom, tinkering with the engine. It throbbed into life but even the thrum of the engine close by couldn’t drown out the clanging of the anchor chain being hauled in. Gently, almost imperceptibly, The Arkady began to move.
It wouldn’t take long to clear the Sound, the thin channel of water between the Shetland mainland and the Isle of Bressay. Then the crew would put out the sail, to save the precious fuel. Rufus clawed at the sacking impatiently. Conall gripped him, holding his sides, imploring the dog to stay silent. He sensed Faro next to him tensing in anger. But the man by the engine hadn’t heard. The engineer kept muttering to himself, while up above they heard the sailors rushing around on deck, pulling on ropes, barking commands, winding winches and tugging at the sails. A shout came from above and the man in the gloom slowed the engine until it stopped. His footsteps receded upwards. A light clicked off, and they were alone in the dark.
≈≈≈≈
The rocking of the ship increased as they pulled away from the inland waters into the north Atlantic swell. Conall and Faro lay motionless in the darkness of the hold, surrounded by the jumble of sails, cables and ropes, tools and supplies. Above them animals shuffled and stamped, heavy hooves clonking on the wooden deck.
Conall’s mouth was dry and he longed for water. He hadn’t eaten since leaving the inn. Where would they find food? They’d have to sneak around the cramped ship somehow, even though every available space was used for storage or living quarters.
“How far to Svalbard? How long will it take?”
“Ten days, twenty, I don’t know” Faro said. “Depends how often they stop. They’ll head for Norway, work their way up the coast. They’ll need to stock up again I guess, hay and fresh water.”
Once darkness fell they slipped out from behind the sacks, barefoot to reduce the sound of their feet on the decking. They crept along the length of the ship in pitch blackness, arms in front of their faces, feeling for obstacles. Any sound on this ship might carry. Sailors could be sleeping above their heads, only inches away.
They squeezed past the engine towards the steps at the rear. On the middle deck they emerged into a dim light. Electric lamps cast enough glow to move more freely. “A battery, or a generator,” Faro whispered. “Wind power, maybe.”
Faro led the way past cabins on either side, a workshop and a washroom, until they came to an open area the full width of the ship. A shelf of books stood at one end, and a table with a chess board, packs of cards. Faro crossed the room slowly, put his ear against the door and listened, then eased it open.
As Conall stepped through the door the smell of animals and dung, food and straw intensified, a deep, earthy scent, pungent in the enclosed room. He felt the heat of the animals, their presence in the dark, sleeping but stirring, aware that someone was in their space. A calf shuffled off to his left. There was no light except the faint glow of the moon through portholes. He put his hand on Faro’s shoulder and followed him into the centre of the room. It took a few moments, but his eyes got used to the darkness. The calf was standing up, watching them. He moved closer, counted seven calves in all, half grown. No adult cows. He moved the pens, counting lambs, piglets, young goats.
“Easier to transport,” Faro whispered. “Young ones live longer, take up less room.”
At the far side of the room they found an enclosure that was home to chickens and a rooster, ducks, and seven geese. Conall climbed in and took four chicken eggs. As he clambered out, he heard Faro rustling through bags. “Carrots,” Faro said, “for the pigs. Better than nothing.”
Conall showed hi
m the eggs. “We’ve no way to cook them.”
“Eat them raw.”
They each cracked an egg and swallowed it down. The gloopy white of it slithered down his throat and Conall almost coughed and retched.
“Not that bad,” Faro said. He cracked a second and gulped it down. Conall followed suit. It was food. “Is there water?”
“There’s a barrel here, fed by a pipe from up on deck. Rainwater,” Faro said. “It’ll be all right.” He opened the tap, put his mouth underneath and slurped the water as it splashed across his face. Conall scooped up handfuls of it and brought it to his lips. It tasted clean but musty. “Where’d they get all this stuff?” Conall ran his hand down the side of the barrel, examining the texture. He’d seen plastics before, remnants of the old world that survived on Shetland, but it was scarce. Irreplaceable.
“Mainland I guess, lots more of it there,” Faro said. Conall examined more bags in the corner of the room but found only feed pellets and rotting vegetables no human would touch. He opened boxes and crates, pressing his hands inside, and brought out potatoes, carrots and turnips neatly stowed. A smaller wooden box had been filled with neat rows of seeds. “They’ve got everything to set up a farm,” he said. “It doesn’t seem fair to take them, they’ve gone to all this trouble.”
“We need proper food,” Faro said. “Kitchen must be on the top deck. Most of the cabins too.”
“We’d never reach it,” Conall said, “not without being seen.”
Above their heads the wood creaked as someone walked along the deck. Conall froze, barely breathing. Had they been heard? What would the sailors do when they found they had stowaways on board? They’d never stay hidden for ten days or more, not on a ship so cramped and crowded.
“Back to the hold,” Faro whispered. “There’ll be a watch on the top deck.”
In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers Page 2
