by Jeremy Page
He straightened, satisfied.
‘How has this been arranged?’ I asked.
Sykes regarded me, an avuncular look in his eyes.
‘Please tell me,’ I said.
‘Accept good news, sir,’ he said, assertively. ‘Do not question it.’
Late at night the Amethyst passed the solitary outcrop of Rockall for the second and last time. It appeared, several miles distant, a black void against a dark sky, with only the scarring white of breakers surrounding its base to give it away. Upon first sight, it appeared as if there was a tear in the fabric of the world, through which an angry but silent torrent of water was pouring. Even as we neared and the glint of moonlight began to shine from several of its sheer facets, it was difficult not to view it as an empty and unholy object. I shall never see it again, I am sure, and neither do I wish to, it is such a bleak and distant sight, and the memory of it returns to me with sadness. I stood by the rail, noticing a solemnity cast across the deck, with several of the crew halting their tasks to watch its passing. In the near silence, I believed we could hear the waves as they shook the island, but the sound came and went with a phantom quality. It seemed that all the land of the world had shrunk into this single blunt finger that pierced through the ocean. I felt as if I was facing all I knew of land itself. Land was sheer and inhospitable and something that could not be clung to.
Clara refused to discuss the deal she’d made. It was late at night. She had opened her cabin door, but only after I had been knocking for several minutes. She didn’t want to come out, nor to invite me in.
I decided to be straight: ‘Did you pay him?’
She stared at me, tight lipped and fearful. ‘I offered, but it was refused.’ She looked pale and distracted. The talking of the day had drained her.
‘I was summoned by Sykes this afternoon,’ I said. ‘How did you achieve it? What could you possibly have said to persuade him?’
‘Him?’
‘Sykes.’
She smiled, but it was strained. ‘I didn’t go to Sykes,’ she said, ‘I went to Quinlan French.’
I felt a stab of panic. ‘French? That snake in the grass!’
She seemed to consider the problems of the day anew. ‘A snake has a useful bite,’ she said, dreamily. ‘Even you must admit that.’
‘So you got French to talk on our behalf?’
‘Something like that. I’m tired, Eliot.’
‘But what could French say to change Sykes’ decision?’
‘You told me once before—they have a special obligation to each other. Persuade one, and the other follows.’
‘It cannot be that simple. If you have put yourself at risk I shall need to know. What are you concealing?’
‘I answered French’s letter. That is all. Please be glad.’
‘Have you promised him something?’
She smiled. ‘The promise is theirs—you are to be put ashore, with the bird and its egg. I have been made aware of the arrangements.’
‘Clara …’ I urged, ‘please don’t face this alone. Tell me what you have done.’
‘French seemed to think it was not the bird—but you—who was the problem,’ she said, enigmatically. She shook her head. Her skin looked paper thin, blue beneath the eyes and her mouth looked as though a child had drawn it with a simple straight line.
‘Oh Clara!’
She leant her forehead against the door-jamb. ‘I am very tired, Eliot, and my head hurts with a terrible aching. It will all be fine.’
‘Are you in trouble? Let me help you.’
‘Sykes told me what you did this morning, with Edward’s rifle.’
‘It was a rash and stupid thing.’
‘No, it took courage. But it is not you, Eliot. You must not be like the rest of them, do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Men find it easy to kill. Yet the true mark of a man is not to kill, but to save.’
She looked to be in pain.
‘Will you tell me the story once more, Eliot?’
‘Which story?’
‘About Celeste. I want to hear it again.’
‘No.’
‘Please,’ she urged. ‘I am going to shut this door and listen to your voice. It will help me. Please, let me do this.’ She began to close the door—I resisted it with the pressure of a single finger. She looked at the finger, where it touched the wood.
I let go, and she closed the door with a soft click. I heard the lock being turned from within. Then her voice, close to the wood:
‘You talked, like this, a young man and a girl, on either side of a locked door. It must have been brave of you, to go up there, to the top of the house, and whisper to her every day.’
I leant my forehead against the wood. ‘It was.’
‘Did you not think you would be caught?’
‘I didn’t care.’
‘And when you let her escape—when she ran past you—what did you think?’
‘I don’t want to remember it.’
‘You must, Eliot. Please, do it for me.’
‘Let me in.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Celeste, let me in.’
‘Tell me … how you felt when she ran past you.’
‘I felt betrayed.’
‘Yes, of course you did. But you followed her, into the wood? You didn’t give up. You never give up, do you, Eliot? You followed her until you found her. Where was she?’
‘I don’t want to remember.’
‘You must.’
‘But I can’t. I’ve forgotten … I’ve learnt to forget that day.’
‘You found her. Where was she?’
‘In the lake.’
‘Yes. In the lake. Did you rush in to save her?’
‘There was a coot, floating in the middle of the lake.’
‘Do you see the coot, now?’
The coot, bobbing silently on the dark water, turning towards the ripples that radiated across the surface.
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It floats on the water, in the middle of the lake. It looks so peaceful.’
‘But it’s not peaceful, is it, Eliot? It is a place of great hurt and pain. Let me know what you can see.’
Celeste’s hair, spread out on the water, her back half submerged, her dress dragging her under.
‘She’s in the water,’ I said.
Reaching for her, her arms extended towards me, but in a stretch that is not far enough.
‘Celeste drowned, didn’t she, Eliot? She drowned that day.’
27
‘I WISH YOU WELL,’ Sykes told me. I really believe he meant it. We stood together on deck, watching the whaleboat being lowered over the side, in mutual resignation.
Below us, I remember how still the water was, surrounding the ship like quicksilver, then the soaring easy flights of the gulls and terns as they wheeled above the headland, lazy flight so early in the day. I remember how low and unassuming the shape of the Hebrides island of Barra was, dark and without definition, and the few scattered houses of Castlebay, around its sheltered cove. Wood and peat smoke collecting above the roofs, a light on in the windows here and there. I tried to fix that time in my mind as one remembers all turning points in a life. With clarity. With precision. You remember them in the same way a fork in a path is etched into a memory. The feel of a flint wall, the particular shape of an oak’s trunk. Remember these moments, and you won’t become lost.
‘These are for you,’ Sykes said, offering a handkerchief in which he’d placed one of the flattened bullets from his draughts set, and one of the discs of seal bone. Objects in opposition. I took them without comment.
‘You have what many naturalists do not have,’ he added. ‘More than curiosity or observational rigour—which are easily come by—you have the desire to save. It makes you unusual.’
‘Goodbye, Captain Sykes,’ I replied, seeing the boat nearly ready. ‘We shall not meet again.’
&
nbsp; Sykes smiled at my turn of phrase, pursing his lips in a half-whistle. He nodded, amused. ‘Who knows,’ he said, deliberately teasing. ‘Take good care of that little bird, now. Remember you told me the Scots clubbed the auk, for they thought it was a sea-witch.’
‘Yes, I told you that.’
‘Bear in mind, then.’ He touched his nose, emphasising the secret. Below us, the auk and its egg had been lowered into the whaleboat in the slack cask.
‘I was becoming quite fond of the bird,’ Sykes said, ‘it has a comical expression that makes it endearing.’
Before I could reply he had turned away from me, crossing the deck in the pursuit of some task. I thought about calling after him, needing to say the last word, but, really, the last word is never necessary.
Clara and I had agreed that she shouldn’t come up on deck to see me leave, and that it was best to say goodbye in her cabin. I had sat in there while my luggage was removed from my room, trying to ignore a sense of dread and finality.
Clara had attempted to be in a bright mood. ‘I think the egg will hatch in a matter of a day or two,’ she said. ‘I held the egg this morning and I thought there was movement inside, although perhaps I was just wishing it. It will be a miraculous moment—but you will have much to do and organise.’
I nodded. I was holding a cup of coffee, and very aware that as soon as I finished it, I would have to leave. The sounds of my case being taken up on deck could be heard. In just a few minutes it would be placed in the whaleboat and the men would be sitting, resting on their oars.
‘You are quiet’ she said. I imagined the turbulence she must have been concealing, her emotions channelled into trying to be practical, being brave, being anything other than dealing with the here and now. She began to tie her hair, her fingers working quickly at a knot at the back of her head. I watched the silky winds of her hair being gathered and turned, a knot developing that was intricate and soft.
‘Remember I told you, once, about the place I used to imagine, when I was a child—a place where all the lost things of the world might be found? It’s up to you now, my heart, to find that place, and keep this bird and its chick there. You’ll do that, won’t you, Eliot?’
‘Yes,’ I promised.
She looked back, her eyes bright with bravery and doubt in equal measure. ‘And as soon as I am able to, you know I shall come back here, don’t you? I’ll come back and see what a fine hiding place you have made in these coves and islands. See, you’ll have to work hard, because you won’t want to let me down, will you? I’ll be back to see our bird and … and the chick and I will come back to see you …’
‘I don’t want to leave,’ I said.
She nodded, and sat next to me. ‘I know,’ she sighed. She had let go of her hair—the knot sprang open, half finished. I watched the plait slowly unravelling.
‘What will happen?’
She placed her hand on mine. ‘The egg will hatch,’ she replied.
‘It’s not what I meant.’
‘I know what you meant. But I cannot answer that.’
I had climbed into the whaleboat, as if in a dream. The Amethyst’s planks had smelt tarry, and my last touch of them was something I felt on the tips of my fingers for a long time after. I sat in the tender, where the two Herlihy brothers were waiting to row me to shore. I remember the simple push that one of them gave the ship, to cast us off, and the sense that with it I was leaving the one thing that I truly shouldn’t leave, nor should ever leave. And as the brothers rowed me to the quayside, I turned my back upon the ship, tried to listen instead to the soft rhythmic dip of the oars in the still water, the sound of the great auk murmuring from within its container, occasionally adjusting its footing in there. I tried to concentrate on the egg I was keeping warm in the fold of my lap and tried, but failed, to ignore the presence of Quinlan French, standing like a column of dark troubled air behind me, at the quarterdeck rail.
I arranged my lodging at the Castlebay Inn. They had an outbuilding where, above a store, there was a bare loft that could accommodate myself and my luggage. One window, at the end, offered a small view of the loch and the sea beyond. It was through that window that I watched the Amethyst preparing to sail. I followed the familiar routines of unfurling the mainsail. The men, from so far away, appeared like a row of knots in the fixed rigging. The window had four panes, and I sat perfectly still, watching the ship lean gradually away from the wind, begin to drift from the bottom right pane into the centre of the window, and then into the upper left pane, further sails becoming loosened, flapping then tightening, being brought under control, the ship growing ever smaller, eventually vanishing, removed from my sight beyond the curve of the world.
I lit a strong fire in the stove and arranged my books on the shelf. I hung my jacket on a peg near the fire, where it would naturally warm. I ate the two coconut biscuits Simao had given to me on leaving, with a jug of hot tea that the innkeeper, Mr MacNeil, had brought over. I sat long into the night, disturbed by aspects of my departure, a separation I felt increasing, second upon second, between myself and Clara. I was perfectly still, seated at my desk, but she was leaving.
In the early hours I fell asleep, not in my bed, but on the armchair next to the fire, with a blanket across my lap, in the same manner that Bletchley had spent most of the voyage. Long into the night I sat there, gazing across the room at the dark bird with the two patches of white plumage above its eyes. Comical indeed, as it regarded me as if I was a puzzling companion. Fellow traveller, both of us a long way from home. In the shadows, I had watched as it occasionally turned its head, the light glimmering a dull graphite shine on the side of its beak. The auk sat on or near its egg, adjusting its posture, sighing or grumbling deep in its throat, keeping vigil. In this room, two days after I had landed, the egg hatched.
We both heard the sounds of movement coming from within the shell. A scratch at first, which soon developed into a tap, a series of taps, then a rhythm that came and went in little bursts. The great auk regarded the event with curiosity, angling its head to watch the egg as if not quite comprehending why it should be emitting a noise. I sat still, not wishing to disturb it. After forty minutes or so, a hair-like crack began to appear, about as long as a small finger, followed by a dense ring of fractures that developed part way along the line, caused by the concentrated stabbing of a beak within. Concentric rings broke the shell further, the way ice will crack under pressure, and a glimpse was revealed, within two parting edges, of a diaphanous membrane which stretched with the single, insistent pulse of life that I had come to recognise for as long as I had known these remarkable birds. The shell took on a flexible, living quality, pushed from within and then rocking from side to side.
I was struck by the hypocrisy of my joy: this was without doubt the most valuable egg in the world, the shell that any collector or museum would gladly fight over, a shell that I had longed to see and hold for the entirety of my life, yet here I was gladly wishing it to be destroyed by the simple life that it held. Oh, if only Clara had been there, at that miraculous moment! Within an hour, watched by the bird and myself, half of the egg had unhinged, unveiling a wet and confusing interior of feathers. What I could see of the chick lay panting, taking breath and twitching with vital energy. Every few minutes it would resume, rocking and pushing and attempting to lever the shell away. It was a most humbling experience to witness. I had seen many chicks hatch before: swallows’ eggs, as fine as the birds that lay them, wrens’ eggs, too, so delicate it seems they are made of wasp paper, but this struggle, this elemental birth, through a shell that seemed as set as china, was one of the most moving things I have ever observed. Every second it took, every movement of the chick, the world didn’t deserve to witness, and would never see again. I felt privileged, and in awe.
When I saw the beak emerge, fronted by the minute appendage of its shell cutter, I was overcome with tears. The head turned within the open egg and, even at that size, the distinct profile of the character
istic beak was clear. With a sudden tipping of the egg the chick tumbled out, damp with albumen, unsteady and spiky, its wings flared against the bare surface of the floorboards. It staggered and fell, its beak hitting the wood as if it was a weight that had not been anticipated. I immediately knew the chick had died, that the struggle of its hatching was too much for it to have endured. For the agony of several minutes it did not move. It lay, wet as a fallen leaf, on the floor. Then with two eyes as black as ink, as precise and as piercing as any I have seen, I saw it perceive its mother, and the chick began its struggle towards her.
I kept all this secret, and until now I have never, in fact, told a soul. These birds were too rare for their existence to be known. I have learnt that man places a special price on the unique, and that it will blind his judgement until it is too late. My job in those first few weeks was purely to keep these birds alive, to record them in every detail I could, to make sketches and notes, observe their behaviour and, above all, to make them invisible. My arrival in Castlebay had created interest among those who lived there. I believe I was viewed as a spy acting for one of the estate landowners, and my enquiries about the area and outlying islands were greeted with some suspicion. To some extent this was useful. I kept my room locked and no one dared pry. I was able to study local maps and charts, explaining that I wished to observe the nesting sites and migration routes of indigenous birdlife, and know that this information was given willingly, because they feared I had a more onerous agenda. It was only after several weeks, with no calamity befalling their community, that I felt I was truly believed. A gentleman naturalist. It was a term that suited me well, and one I could hide behind.
During that first summer I purchased a ten-foot sailing skiff, which I spent several weeks restoring. I arranged for a new standing lugsail to be made and bought two nine-foot sculls. I caulked the keel, stem and sternposts with cotton-wick, which I forced in with a blunt chisel, and addressed the planking with a holding-on hammer, tightening up where I saw fit. I attached air-cases either side of the midship thwart and bought several fathoms of new rope and an anchor. I scraped the little craft down, before applying new coats of varnish inside and out, and finally I painted a black rail and a white underbody, the personal livery of the great auk. My secret homage. It was difficult but instructive work; using my hands upon the boat both restored and asserted a sense of purpose in me.
