The Night Swimmer

by Matt Bondurant

  Patrick poured me a tall glass of goat’s milk, thick and sweet with a slight bluish cast to it. He was the only one who didn’t bunk upstairs in the farmhouse; he told me that he had made himself a serviceable little home in an unused portion of the barn. I was amazed that someone who slept in a barn could appear so fastidious and clean. His blue polo shirt was crisp and his leather boat shoes had shining white soles. He was talking excitedly about the organic crops they had harvested and his plans for expansion, irrigation methods, and cultivation. He was rebuilding an old donkey engine tractor and spoke of the mechanics of the thing with sober expertise.

  Next year, Patrick declared, we’ll have two solid acres of vegetables, producing sixteen hundred pounds per acre, or more than forty pounds per person on the island.

  He squirted a perfect disk of catsup onto his plate and sawed a piece of goat patty.

  In three years, Patrick said, Clear could be completely self-sustaining. Subsistence farming is not only a possibility, it is the future.

  The other woofers nodded sagely. Patrick’s cheeks were flushed and rosy, his brown eyes flashing. He took out a small notebook. Highgate sipped his tea with a faraway smile on his lips.

  In six years, he said, with an expansion of acreage of course to about one third of the island, we are exporting twenty thousand pounds a year. If we can just get the co-op onboard, put it to a referendum.

  What about Kieran? Magdalene said. He’ll never let it happen.

  Kieran is the old world, Patrick said. The people here know what he is.

  And what’s that?

  A feudal chief in an isolated outpost, Patrick said. A niche in the cupboard of modernity. His time is over.

  This guy, I thought, talks like the twits I knew in graduate school.

  Yeah, Gus said, tell that to the board. Or all the fucking Corrigans.

  Magdalene poked a fork over her shoulder.

  Don’t forget all the new construction. All that crap.

  What’s the problem with the construction? I asked. Won’t it bring business and money to the island?

  Patrick turned to me with a stern look, a piece of goat cheese balanced on his fork.

  At what cost? What is lost in this transaction? And who benefits?

  Gus swung his arm over his head.

  All this, he said, all this, lost.

  Don’t be so dramatic, Magdalene snorted.

  He’s right, Patrick said, still fixing his earnest gaze on me. If Kieran has his way the island traditions and culture, the traditions and culture created by his people, will be gone.

  Why would he do that? I asked.

  Kieran Corrigan, Patrick said, is motivated by things beyond understanding. He doesn’t care about the world the rest of us live in.

  Oh, come on, Magdalene said. She just got here, Patrick, leave her alone.

  Highgate stood behind Patrick and placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders.

  Ambitious youth. How about we settle the western fence line first?

  The woofers clattered to the sink with their dishes and bundled out the door.

  * * *

  When Highgate was finished cleaning up we went out back to see the goats. The farmhouse dated from the mid-eighteenth century, with a few later additions. When they bought the twenty-seven-acre farm, Highgate and his wife had arrived with one male and two female British Alpine milking goats. Within a decade their herd was up to forty goats with kids. They produced and sold nine different products, including yogurt, milk, meat, ice cream, and a variety of cheeses.

  The goats were lurking by the concrete milking parlor, lined up in order of seniority. Highgate went down the line, holding their faces in his hands, feeling across their chests and groping the udders, telling me their names.

  Angelica, Nai, Jenny, Penelope, Kate, Monica, Lucy, the last a castrated male named Ferrell.

  Highgate didn’t keep more than one uncastrated male around because two uncastrated males will fight violently, sometimes to the death, during mating season.

  If the loser survives, Highgate said, he will get depressed, and will often wander off to die. But even a single uncastrated male can be dangerous. If he felt that I or one of the woofers was a threat to his place in the herd, he could attack.

  I watched the seemingly docile group of goats nibbling on the scrub that poked through the gate. They were tall, waist high, with bony haunches and rough hair mottled with black and white patches.

  Does that happen often?

  No, Highgate said. And not with this one, Ferrell. But the fight instinct is in them. They can rear up to smash another goat with their horns. Some of the bigger males could deal me one right in the face, kill me dead. Not like I would see it coming.

  We walked into a stacked-stone hut with a thatched roof so low you had to crouch to enter that now served as the goats’ sleeping quarters. The air was pungent with the fetid wet wool and ammonia smell of goats. A layer of dry straw covered the dirt floor, and pieces of plywood created several small chambers. Highgate knelt down by one of these and handled a couple of bleating kids, checking their weight and health.

  We’ll be sending these fellas off soon, he said. Their time is almost up.

  We walked down through the fields below the house, Highgate picking his way quite easily, his chin up, watch cap pulled over his eyes. Spread before us was the entirety of Roaringwater Bay, Baltimore and the mainland to our right and in the distance the long arm of Mizen Head stretching off to the left. As we neared the cliffs the sea roared below. Why would a blind man choose to live on an island dominated by such dangerous geography and persistent, deafening noise?

  So, he said. That’s about it. Anything else?

  I asked him about the strange man I had seen walking the fences at night, leading the pack of goats, a man with no arms.

  Highgate paused, sniffing the air. A fat tear rolled down his cheek, from the wind I supposed, an odd contrast to his constant grin.

  So you’ve seen her then. Miranda must have taken an interest in you.

  He turned and started to walk back up to the house. Miranda? I followed, waiting for him to say more. But he remained quiet, and when we reached the house he grinned and shook my hands and wished me good luck with my swim to Fastnet and told me to come back and visit soon. I said I would come back, and in the coming months I dropped by the farm often, having tea with Highgate and occasionally helping out in the fields.

  It was hours later that I realized I had never told Highgate I was planning on swimming to Fastnet. I hadn’t told anyone but O’Boyle.

  * * *

  The next day I called Fred back in Baltimore to check in and see if business had picked up. Just down the road from Nora’s was the post office which had a pay phone in the back garden. Fred picked up with a rather morose: Nightjar.

  Not much of a greeting, I said.

  Yeah, well . . .

  Everything okay?

  I could hear music but no voices. It sounded like the pub was empty as usual.

  Some guys came by, Fred said, from the island. Do you know who Kieran Corrigan is?

  Yeah, he’s an important guy around here. Was he there?

  No, some other guys came by.

  What’d they say?

  Nothing really, they just wanted to take a look around. Did you say anything to him out there?

  Who? Kieran? I’ve never seen the guy. Why?

  You coming back?

  I’ll be home on the next ferry.

  Chapter Six

  I met Sebastian Wheelhouse at the Five Bells that afternoon as I was waiting for the last ferry. I could spot him right away as a twitcher. The bird-watchers started coming to the Cape in early October for the first seagoing birds of the season. Bruised and battered by their Atlantic crossing, the birds would alight at the first possibility, the westernmost tip of Cape Clear. Very often a bird would be alone, separated from its migrating companions by miles of vast sea and wind.

  The bird-watchers t
hemselves came in a variety of forms, arrayed in mostly muted colors, soft hues and delicate browns and greens. Some carried large and expensive cameras, hard-sided cases with telephoto lenses, tripods, sight glasses; yet others went nearly unencumbered save their rubber boots and mackintoshes, small binoculars and notebooks. Most of the Brits were what they call twitchers, birders who travel long distances to sight and log various species, ticking them off their lists. They were mostly male, and solitary. They seemed to me to be a part of that disappearing middle class of English gentlemen, men who carried themselves like something from an E. M. Forster novel, the upright, cheerful, and staid Britishness, always quick to stammer an apology, men who unabashedly wore houndstooth coats over rag wool sweaters, walking sticks and notebooks bound with twine clutched in their armpits. In the pub they placed their books on the bar and using nubs of charcoal or elegant silver pens filled their pages with artful and delicate drawings of the birds they had seen.

  Sebastian Wheelhouse was unwrapped from his layers and enjoying a hot whiskey with nutmeg and drying his boots by the peat fire. I watched as he flipped through his bird book, studying the pages and occasionally running a finger over his sketches. His shoulders rolled slightly each time he turned a page, and his booted feet twisted before the fire. He was clearly deep in thought, his lips bunched together, and since he was the only remaining person in the bar, I figured he likely needed to catch the ferry.

  Last ferry’s leaving in a couple minutes, I said. If you need to catch it.

  He seemed genuinely startled.

  Oh, he said. Thank you. But I’m actually staying on the island for a few days.

  He didn’t move his body but craned his neck to look at me as I stood slightly behind him. He wore thin tortoiseshell glasses, and his hair was that low muddy color and streaked with bits of blond, like the chlorinated hair of a competitive swimmer, curling over his ears and forming a slight ruff at his collar. He had his forearms self-consciously covering his journal.

  I glanced at my watch.

  Well, have to get back to Baltimore.

  Cheers.

  His gaze didn’t waver for a moment.

  I nodded good-bye to Sheila and stepped out into the graying afternoon. The wind was light that day, and I knew the crossing would be nice and mild. A few birders lugging large bags were waiting on the quay, looking weary and windburned. I can honestly say that I thought nothing of this encounter, other than about his hair, and the way he bent his whole body over that sketchbook.

  The Siopa Beag in Cape Clear’s North Harbor sold coffee and tea and snacks, and in good weather they rolled out a few round tables next to the seawall. Bill Cutler was at one of the tables, holding down the Irish Times crossword puzzle with both arms in the breeze, his reading glasses on and touring cap pulled low. Nora’s son, Finn, was there on his bike, working his figure eights around the parked cars on the quay, his flaming head bobbing. When Finn saw me coming he launched himself at the seawall and performed his high-wire act, his face in earnest concentration.

  Bill lifted an arm high in greeting:

  Elly!

  The Times went flapping down the quay, Bill stumbling after, knocking the table over. Finn hopped his bike off the wall and raced after the paper, and leaning down like a Spanish gaucho in the reins he snatched the paper out of the air and came whizzing back to Bill, his face still serious and deliberate, glancing at me.

  Thank you, Finn! Bill said. Elly, you have a moment?

  Finn circled us as we talked.

  Have you spoken with Fred lately?

  Just today, I said.

  Bill frowned and pursed his lips.

  What?

  There . . . there was a problem of some kind. At the bar.

  Fred? With who?

  Not sure, Bill said. Hang on a second.

  He folded up his paper and took hold of my elbow and ushered me away from the Siopa Beag tables and the others who hung around waiting for the ferry.

  The customers, Bill said, some local guys. Heard things were a bit testy. Just a rumor.

  Bill held up his hands.

  I don’t know the whole story. I’m sure it’s nothing. You gonna come see Nell and me sometime?

  Sure, I said, but I don’t even know where you live.

  Ah, he said. Easy. Just take that little path to the right before you reach Nora’s. We’re the only ones up there. Around four Nell likes to have her tea on the terrace. Come any day.

  * * *

  Stephen-the-fucking-blow-in was on the ferry, and when I mentioned that Kieran’s people had been to the Nightjar, he whistled and shook his head. He told me about the pair of prize mules that he owned; apparently they could not be contained in their fields and had developed a tendency to get into other people’s gardens and cause a bit of damage. Stephen and his wife often visited their daughters, sometimes for a month at a time, arranging with someone to feed and look after the animals. Despite this, the mules would get free, and sometimes the minder would give up easy and the mules would wander for a week or more. Last time some of the islanders had appealed to Kieran to put a stop to it.

  Kieran sent his son Conchur over, Stephen said, to let me know that next time they’ll take care of it.

  How?

  Stephen shrugged.

  Whatever they want.

  Can he do that? I asked.

  Well, there ain’t exactly anyone here to stop him.

  What about the police?

  The guard? Who’s gonna call ’em? It takes them at least a day to get out to the island, and when they did Kieran would buy his cousins a beer and they’d all have a fine time.

  We were quiet awhile as the ferry threaded its way east, Stephen gazing at Sherkin, a mass of green gliding past on our starboard side. Island justice.

  He sighed and rolled his head around a bit, then told me a story about a man from Galway, a bird-watcher, who came to the island one season. The fellow got drunk at the Five Bells and ripped out the plumbing in the bathroom. The ferry refused to take him off the island, and no one gave him shelter or food for three days. The man was howling in misery on the hillsides, sleeping in caves. Stephen shrugged. We came around the point of Baltimore, the beacon up on the cliff, entering the harbor.

  Come see us, I said, at the Nightjar. I’d like you to meet Fred, my husband.

  Stephen looked at me with a sad expression, gripping his bag.

  Sure, Elly. Sometime, for sure.

  * * *

  The door to the Nightjar was propped open when I came up the hill from the harbor. There was a kind of stillness in the air, and the people on the docks and sidewalk seemed to glide past me with blank stares. A couple of men stood outside the Jolie Brisée, the pub a few doors down, watching me cross the street. When I came in the pub was empty save a couple of English bird-watchers at a corner table and Dinny perched at the bar nursing a pint. Fred was nowhere in sight. I went around the bar and said hello to Dinny, who nodded at me with a crooked grin. I found Fred in the kitchen huddled over the stove, making an omelet. He came at me with an exaggerated low-step and picked me up in a bear hug, kissing my neck.

  Sweet, sweet E, he said.

  I tried to look him in the eye. His face seemed especially ruddy and his mouth loose. He smelled of whiskey.

  Are you okay?

  I’m good, I’m good. Want something to eat?

  Been doing some drinking?

  A bit, a bit.

  How’s business?

  Fred shrugged and gestured to the front room.

  Whaddya think? Not real great.

  He slipped the omelet onto a plate and began chopping at it with his fork as we walked back into the main room. He had stopped shaving again, getting that furry-faced badger look that I didn’t really like. There were a couple open books on the bar and a stack of scribbled notes. Every few weeks I would find new books about particle physics or hieroglyphics. The next month it would be the history of Constantinople, Italian opera, Henry James, Ch
inese navigators of the fifteenth century. He was currently into Spinoza. I picked up a used paperback copy of the treatise On the Improvement of the Understanding.

  He polished lenses, Fred said. For a living. Can you believe it?

  Don’t you say it.

  What?

  Don’t tell me how that is such a great metaphor.

  No, but listen, he said, his face a mask of due seriousness, this is interesting.

  And I thought, no, it isn’t. Only to you.

  Whatever, I said.

  I held out my arms.

  So what happened?

  Yesterday afternoon, Corrigan’s guys come in, Fred said. You know the construction dudes? And a few other guys, ferry guys, in the jumpsuits? Anyway, they come in and sort of sniff around, just looking at stuff, and I say, can I help you gentlemen? all nice and shit. They just ignore me. I’m like, uh, can I get you a drink? Finally one says, don’t bother. Not no thanks or even just no, he gives me don’t bother.

  Fred chewed thoughtfully, regarding the ceiling.

  And there was this other fellow lurking outside. Huge motherfucker. Watching through the window. So, I say, whaddya guys want then? Then this one dude in a ferry jacket just sort of stares at me and then flicks a cigarette on the bar. So I say, hey asshole, what’s your problem? And then a couple of the construction guys with the shaved heads, they get all bristly and step to the bar and start muttering shit in Irish. Then a big group of bird-watchers came in so they all just left.

  You know Bill just told me, out on Clear, that he heard something bad happened.

  Jesus, Fred said. News travels fast.

  What do you think they were doing?

  Fred shrugged and forked some omelet into his mouth.

  Guess just checking the place out. Right Dinny?

  Dinny touched the rim of his glass in reply, his eyes fixed on the bar. I thought about the builders on the island, working on Kieran Corrigan’s holiday homes, the men on the ferry in orange jumpsuits. Why would they come in here? Would O’Boyle know something about this?