The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice

by Andrew McGahan

  It was one of the most horribly insecure feelings Dow had ever known, but he climbed on, and at last the barrel of the crow’s nest was looming overhead. There was no hole in the bucket’s base, however, so Dow would have to again sling himself out from under to climb in. The overhang was not so severe this time, but he was two hundred and fifty feet in the air now, and the deck was no more than a narrow plank far beneath his feet, surrounded by an ocean ready to swallow him whole.

  Nevertheless, the barrel above offered the only refuge to be found this high, so fear itself drove Dow to close his eyes, swing himself out and then scramble desperately over the crow’s nest lip to fall upon its floor.

  He found himself staring at a pair of bare feet, horned and dirty, one of which was missing several of its toes.

  ‘You look green as fresh kelp, boy,’ said a dry voice.

  Dow stared up to see a weathered face gazing down: the lookout. To Dow’s surprise he was an old man – or at least, older than any other common sailor Dow had encountered upon the ship so far; a shrunken individual with ugly gaps in his teeth, and with long grey hair hanging in a thin fringe from an otherwise balding scalp. Then again, the man was obviously hale enough to climb high aloft, and now, as the sky reeled behind his head, he was propped casually against the rail as if he was lounging against a solid wall.

  ‘And you ain’t done yet, neither. To the very top, that’s your course.’

  Dow made no response, merely rose to his feet. He felt an enormous safety, now that he was enclosed by the barrel – and a savage reluctance at the thought of having to leave that safety. For the test was not merely to climb to the crow’s nest, but to climb to the mast’s very tip.

  He looked up. The last twenty feet speared above him, slender and smooth, and bearing only a single crossbar two thirds of the way to its tip. There were no more shrouds to cling to – the mast was, essentially, just a flagpole now, and he would have to shinny up without supports.

  ‘But hark now,’ his crow’s-nest companion warned. ‘If you’ll be heaving your guts out – as seems likely – then get it done now. Rain your puke down on me from up there, and there’ll be trouble.’

  Dow’s stomach was in turmoil – he might have eaten rotten meat for breakfast, instead of almost nothing at all. If only the Chloe would stop rolling a moment. It didn’t seem possible that the mast could describe such arcs and not rip itself out of the bowels of the ship. But a glance northwards showed him that there was no end in sight to the procession of swells.

  ‘Get on with you,’ the old lookout scorned. ‘You reckon this heavy weather? Nah – when there’s a gale up and the seas are eighty foot high on the beam, then you’ll know what rolling is. This bucket up here gets tossed two hundred feet in a heartbeat, fast enough to suck the breath out of you. You lash yourself to the mast then, or be sent flying.’

  Dow couldn’t listen to any more. He grabbed hold of the mast and began to shinny up, hanging on as tight as his cramped arms and legs would allow. He reminded himself that he’d climbed hundreds of trees, almost this tall, back in his home forests. He reminded himself that he’d braved the very maelstrom, and that this was nothing so dreadful in comparison.

  It didn’t help. He’d thought he was immune to sea sickness, now he knew he wasn’t. He’d thought that heights held no fear for him, but these heights did. He was mortally afraid. It was an act of overpowering will just to force each arm and leg, each finger, to move. And all the while the wind plucked at him, and the gulf below sang its siren song to just let go and fall and fall …

  His hands found the crossbar. He needed now only to stand on that bar, reach up, and touch the metal cap of the mast, and he would be done. But he couldn’t do it. His limbs would obey him no more. He had reached his limit, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands ice, his stomach churning, and nothing in the world would convince him to rise any higher.

  Harsh laughter sounded from the deck far below, lofted up on the wind, and then from much closer, at his feet. ‘I told ’em all it’d come to this,’ was the lookout’s comment. ‘Small boats and whirlpools is all well enough for a green hand, but tall ships are another thing. You’re frozen there, boy, and that’s the end of you. You’ll be lucky to get down alive.’

  Anger flared faintly in Dow, enough for him to un-squeeze his eyes and look down – straight to the spot by the shrouds where Diego and his friends still loitered, all their faces upturned. Dow was sure he could read, despite the distance, the eager expectation of disaster in their smiles. But even their mockery was not enough to unfreeze his limbs.

  Then his heart skipped in a manner that had nothing to do with fear or anger, for now he saw that another figure had joined the group, to stand close by Diego; a slighter shape muffled in an officer’s coat, but bareheaded and with face uplifted. From so far away the razor-fine markings on that face were invisible, but Dow would have recognised Ignella of the Cave from even a mile off – by the tilt of her chin, by the fierce set of her shoulders, and by the way her hands were jammed protectively into her pockets.

  A hot bolt of shame ran through him. He had not thought things could get any worse, but now they had. Not only had Nell come out to witness his humiliation, but she was sharing the moment, shoulder to shoulder, with the one man Dow loathed more than any other on board.

  Of course, Dow had hated Diego of the Diamond right from their first unfortunate meeting back in Stone Port, when he’d given the lieutenant a black eye, and Diego in turn had tried to have Dow flogged. And seven weeks of sailing together had only strengthened Dow’s opinion that Diego was pompous, conceited and cruel, and not one inch a natural commander.

  So he’d been sorely mystified at first by the exalted position that Diego in fact seemed to occupy aboard the Chloe. He was not the most senior in rank of the lieutenants, and he was clearly disliked by Captain Vincente and by Commander Fidel – not to mention by the crew, with whom he was always offhand and superior. Nevertheless, Diego was undoubtedly the accepted leader among the junior officers and the midshipmen.

  It was Johannes who had explained the situation. Diego, simply, was rich. He hailed from one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in all the eleven kingdoms. For now he was a mere lieutenant, yes, but his ancestry guaranteed that before too long he would be given higher rank, and then one day his own ship to command. The other junior officers, poorer and less important, had no such guarantee; the best that many of them could hope for was that some rich captain would select them as first officers. For the sake of their careers, thus, it was only wise to attach themselves to Diego’s rising star.

  Dow could forgive them that. He didn’t care about the junior officers anyway. But Nell was a different matter. For Johannes had also reported a rumour that had been running about the ship ever since the departure from New Island. A terrible rumour that made Dow’s skin crawl. A rumour that said Diego and Nell were secretly engaged to be wed.

  Wed!

  Johannes himself didn’t believe the tale, as there were many arguments that spoke against it. For one, as a female scapegoat, Ignella’s position on board was sacrosanct – it was considered taboo for her to become involved with any of the crew. More tellingly, to Johannes’s mind, a scapegoat like Nell was hardly a worthy match for someone of Diego’s status. She had no wealth or property of her own; indeed, she was effectively a piece of property herself, belonging to the Chloe. Diego would be expected to find a far more suitable wife among the noble ladies of the high courts of Great Island.

  Even so, Dow had watched carefully for any sign that the rumour might be true. And he had indeed, throughout the voyage, glimpsed Nell and Diego walking together at times upon the high deck. They did nothing so obvious as hold hands or kiss, but they did appear very at ease in each other’s company, talking and laughing with their heads bent close – and any closeness at all was already too intimate for Dow’s liking.

  But why did he care so much?

  He had no answer to that, other t
han Mother Gale’s long-ago pronouncement. If you’re drawn to her, then it’s meant to be. And he was indeed drawn, with an acuteness that confused him. After all, Nell hated him, that he already knew. She had thrown a crystal goblet at him.

  Yes, but afterwards – as Dow could not forget – she’d touched the wound on his forehead, and called him a lucky fool, and there’d been something wistful in her voice, something that set him alight.

  And yet what of it? How could his fate ever be linked to hers if she was bound in turn to a Ship Kings officer?

  Now, staring down from his precarious height, a jealous pride woke in Dow. Failure could be born in Diego’s presence, but not in Nell’s. In two convulsive movements he hauled himself onto the crossbeam, then threw up his hand to slap it against the metal fitting on the mast’s peak.

  A violent flush of victory filled him. One arm tight about the mast, he stood upright on the crossbar and looked out. Clear now of every sail and spar, his view was unencumbered on all sides and the ocean seemed vast beyond taking in; Dow hadn’t realised just how limited his view from the deck had been, and how close the horizon had pressed. Up here that horizon leapt back by an extra dozen miles or more, and the great swells dissipated away southwards until they were no more than ripples on the edge of sight. For a moment, even the wild rolling of the ship felt good.

  But as he clung there in his triumph he became aware of cries from below. At first he thought that some among the crew were shouting insults (or perhaps even congratulations) up to him. But no, the tone of the cries was strange. Surprised. Alarmed.

  ‘Behold, New Islander!’ the lookout suddenly called from the crow’s nest. ‘To the north. Look what comes!’

  The old sailor was pointing urgently. Dow followed the finger, and saw nothing at first, other than the grey northern sky. But finally he detected a glint of white, wheeling high against the clouds.

  It was a bird.

  A gull, Dow assumed at the first glimpse. It was some weeks now since any had been seen, but the Chloe was drawing close to land again – Great Island lay less than a week’s sail to the east – so perhaps this was the first gull to mark that approaching landfall?

  But then he saw that it could not be a gull. It was too large. And the colour was wrong. It was not merely white, it seemed almost to be glowing against the backdrop of the sky. And as it wheeled yet closer to the Chloe Dow could see that it was not merely large, it was enormous.

  Below, the lookout’s voice was hushed with wonder. ‘An Ice Albatross. I’ve seen the like but once in all my days.’

  Dow’s exultation was fading, and he was uneasily aware once more of the swoop and drop of the mast as the ship rolled. But the great bird held his attention. It was directly over the ship now, as high above Dow as Dow was above the sea. Its streamlined body was long and sleek, and each wing must have been twice the length of a grown man.

  ‘It’s a thing no landsman will ever spy,’ the lookout said, awed. ‘Such birds are encountered only out upon the deep ocean, and where they nest no one knows, except that it is upon none of the Four Isles. Some say they stay aloft forever. Others say that they make their homes in the northern ice, hence their name, but it’s only a guess, for none has ever witnessed it. They are the greatest of all birds, the rarest of all creatures, and the masters of omen, for good or for ill. Doom will come to any ship that harms one.’

  This last came as a warning, for now the great bird was circling lower. It called out, a high shriek like that of a gull, except longer and louder, and lilting at its end in a manner that spoke of loneliness and endless wandering above the waves. The sound pierced Dow’s heart, a cry that gave voice to his own longing within. And still the albatross lowered.

  ‘Beware, New Islander!’ hissed the old man fearfully. ‘It means to alight at your very side.’

  Dow did not need to be told. The immense creature was hovering only a few yards above him, seeming to circle effortlessly about the masthead, though in fact the bird was riding motionless on the wind, wings stretched wide, and it was the mast rather that dipped and swayed. Eyes like black glass watched Dow from beneath dark feathered brows.

  Abruptly the great wings folded, fearsome talons reached down, and in a deft instant the bird was perched upon the opposite arm of the crossbar, with only the mast standing between it and Dow.

  There was silence now from those below. Dow could feel their shock and disbelief; he shared it. The albatross was an overpowering presence. Upright, it stood as tall as Dow himself, but while he was merely human, made of fragile skin and bone, the bird was a creature of radiant whiteness and sheer strength; wing, sinew and claw. Each feather, he saw, was lined with a thin strip of vivid purple. And its eyes! They were set forward in the albatross’s broad head – hunter’s eyes, like those of a hawk or an eagle – but so much deeper and blacker; as fathomless as the ocean itself.

  They were locked upon him, and Dow in turn could not look away. He felt no threat, only that he was being studied, that he was being weighed by an intelligence cold and ancient and alien.

  The bird straightened and ruffled its mighty wings; its golden beak parted and it cried again, another shriek, searing and sharp and desolate, staring fixedly at Dow all the while. Did the eyes hold a message? A question? Dow could not tell. He felt an overwhelming desire to speak an answer of some kind, but there were no words with which to say it.

  Then it was too late. The bird unfolded its wings a little and dove from the perch. A white statue, it dropped directly down among the rigging, and frightened cries rose about the ship. Only at the last moment did it open its wings fully to soar across the deck far below, sending men scattering out of its way; then it was out over the water, climbing again to higher airs, and wheeling away back to where it had come from, into the north.

  Dow – and all the ship – watched it go in long silence, a brilliantly white shape receding. From time to time it circled back towards the Chloe, and it would cry out again, as if urging the ship to hurry and follow. But the ship held its course, and at last the albatross was no more than a white speck against the northern darkness. Then it was gone.

  Numbly, Dow slid back down the mast to the crow’s nest. The lookout made room for him; indeed, the old man seemed to squeeze himself away from Dow in revulsion. For a few moments they rode there wordlessly as the nest continued its great plunges to and fro above the rolling deck, Dow too overcome by wonder and exhaustion to feel sick anymore.

  ‘An Ice Albatross,’ the lookout marvelled softly at last. ‘Never have I seen, or even heard, of one alighting upon a vessel. And if I – a ship’s poet – have not heard of it, then it has never happened.’

  Dow thought dimly – a ship’s poet?

  The old man was staring at him, and it was not revulsion in his eyes, but reverence. ‘And you, close enough to touch it. I saw the way it looked at you, the way it called to you. What did it say?’

  Dow shook his head. It had said nothing to him.

  But the lookout shook his own head in return. ‘Oh, it said something, even if you don’t yet know what it was.’ And then he bowed briefly. ‘You have been marked by a great omen, New Islander, and it is not for me to scorn or dismiss such a one, poet or no. The sea has spoken.’

  Confused, Dow said, ‘You write poems?’

  ‘Ha!’ The old man’s grin was gapped and ugly. ‘No. I am no composer of pretty verses – for such, I gather, is the meaning of the word to you New Islanders. But on board a ship, poet is the title we give to the oldest hand among the crew, he who has served longest before the mast and upon the seas. He who is the most schooled in lore. Not book-schooled – we leave that for the officers. I mean schooled in the greater things, in the cruel and bitter ways of the sea. Below decks, in the dark of night or dread of storm, it is to the poet, not the officers, that a sailor turns for wisdom. Alfons is my name.’

  A premonition chilled Dow. That this particular man had been on look-out duty today, when such a bird had come, at
the very moment he’d clung atop the mast … already Dow could imagine the way the tale of it would be forming in the poet’s mind, to be repeated later that night to eager listeners below decks.

  Dow Amber, the boy who rode the maelstrom, the first New Islander to go to sea in generations, and on the day of his testing the ocean sent great waves, and an Ice Albatross came to him as he bestrode the masthead … But no – it hadn’t been like that. The waves were not so great or unusual, Alfons had said so himself; and Dow had been so terrified he’d almost failed in the climb, and as for the bird – well, the bird had simply rested a moment from its flight, it was sheerest accident that Dow had been there at the same time. The sea had not spoken. The sea was a mindless thing. Unthinking. It had no special interest in a youth called Dow Amber.

  But the look in the poet’s eyes made mockery of Dow’s silent objections. He wondered then what she would make of it, scapegoat as she was, mistress of the Chloe’s fate. But when he stared down to the main deck, Diego and the other lieutenants had vanished, and Nell too was gone.

  2. THE THOUSAND-GUN SHIP

  The great swells faded slowly over the following three days and the Chloe ceased its awful rolling, but the sky remained grey and a pool of cold air descended from the north, so that sleet fell, and it was bitterly chill on deck. Dow – Able Seaman Amber, Third Class, as he now was – spent most of that time with Johannes and Nicky, down in the smithy’s warmth.

  As a sign of his new status he now wore, on a stout cord about his neck, a small bronze coin, pierced with a hole. It had been presented to him by a smiling Fidel when Dow had finally descended the mainmast. All the seamen on board wore such a coin, except that the coins of Seamen Second Class were made of silver, while Seamen First Class wore gold.