The Walrus Mutterer

by Mandy Haggith

  A voice used her name.

  She ignored it.

  She slept.

  *

  When she woke, she breathed slowly until she slept again. She did not want to wake. Finally, it was impossible to sleep any more. It was dark and she was wrung out with hunger. Thirst too. Everyone else seemed to be sleeping. Dread tormented her. Bad had become worse. Enslavement had become slavery. Her body was no longer her own. How long would it be before he did something to steal her spirit? They were beyond the edge of the world. She was lost.

  She tiptoed to the water barrel, wobbling. It was low. Og snored nearby. She dipped the cup and drank and felt it course down into her gut. Goodness, but not what she needed. There was nothing of what she needed.

  She drifted on her melting legs onto the deck. Toma was at the helm, staring at the sea. Did he never sleep?

  The sky was blurred with cloud, dull and starless. Grey water slugged the hull. The sea’s huge thoughtlessness seemed a refuge, a place to find respite from this small and incomprehensibly overcrowded boat. There was a tightness in her that needed the looseness of the dark water.

  She gave way to it and offered herself to the ocean. It was simple to do. She took off her coat and her boots. It would be wrong to send them, skins of animals, to the depths. But, without them she could go.

  She would go.

  She went.

  Storm

  Toma was furious. Rian had not seen him like this. He said nothing, but there was iron where his face had been, and fire in his eyes. He breathed out hard, snorts of mist that hung in the air over where she lay, prostrate on the deck where he had thrown her. The back of her head was sore where it had smacked down. He stood over her, one foot on each side of her, legs in the stance of a sea-rider. The hand that had let go of her was still stretched out in front of him, palm down, fingers open.

  She couldn’t read his expression. It was not only anger. It was something worse. Scorn? No. His eyes were as changeable as the weather. Perhaps it was sorrow.

  Would he sing again? Would he ask her to join him?

  No. Not that either. Nothing like that.

  He had pulled her back from going overboard. A crowd of voices were babbling in her head. Danuta was telling her to pull herself together. A child screamed. A slow insistent voice spoke only of filth and darkness. The screaming child wailed and Toma nodded.

  The screaming was her own. It was coming out of her own mouth and now Ussa was standing over her, Pytheas too. He was tugging at her shoulder but Toma’s outstretched hand prevented any movement from her somehow, as if he could press her to the deck just by gesture. He was talking. Ussa interjected with shrieks and barking. Toma finished what he had to say, and now the only sound was her wail.

  A hand clamped over her open mouth and she tried to bite it, but it was a strong hand. It smelled of ink. She gagged and whimpered. She was being lifted. Pytheas had her shoulders off the deck. Toma let go of his hand gesture and lifted her feet. They swung her like a sack between them, shuffling until they could sling her on her bunk. There were more words and then she felt rope: her ankles trussed, another across her chest. Toma tugged her fleece out from under her body and laid it over her. There were incomprehensible clouds in his eyes now and he was shaking his head. She could feel her face wet but couldn’t lift a hand to wipe it. She could roll though, onto her side, her face to the darkness. She closed her eyes and stared in.

  It was a tumult, a barrage, a storm. She let it rage.

  It was inside at first, but then the world answered with its own tempest. She lay in the dark listening to the sail howl and a shrieking in the rigging. There was flapping, then a rip. Shouts. A jangle of ropes and shackles. More shouts. When the boat tipped, the ropes stopped her rolling from her bunk. Pots clattered. Swearing from Og. A thump. Faradh groaning. The smell of puke. Water smacking. Splashing. Wind roaring. Everything roaring. Water sloshing everywhere. The world coming to an end.

  It never ends. There is no edge to the world to fall off, not until death. Thule is always just another beginning. It is cold, dark, wet and miserable but it brings no conclusion.

  Beginnings, the universe overflows with them. They are thrust perpetually into life.

  Begin again.

  Begin again.

  Always begin again.

  Faradh died in the storm. They found him face down in the bilges and threw him overboard with his clothes on. Li cried but no-one else had any strength to mourn him. The water barrel had toppled. They were certain to die if land did not appear soon.

  Pytheas did not look at Rian nor speak to her.

  Slavery

  It was Ussa who eventually untied her and told her the new situation.

  ‘You belong to me again now. Pytheas doesn’t want you. You’ve seen what he does: takes a piece of parchment, scratches away a few words, then tosses it away, starts afresh. Get up.’

  Rian barely had the strength to roll over. She made eye contact and what she saw shocked her. Ussa had aged. She was haggard. The flesh on her face had withered, yet as the skin slumped it was as if it had drained all its power into her eyes. They were moons burning through cloud and their pull was extraordinary. Rian found herself sitting up. An obedient part of her wanted to follow those eyes, to be tugged in their tide.

  Ussa had already gathered Og and Li in the galley. ‘It is time for me to take over from Toma. Look where he has got us. We need food and most of all water or we will die. Is there any water left at all?’

  Og shook his head.

  ‘It will rain, and we must be ready to catch it. Can you rig a sail or something?’

  Og and Li exchanged glances and nodded.

  ‘Of course,’ Li said.

  Rian was unsteady on her feet. She sat on Og’s bunk. No-one seemed to mind.

  Ussa pointed a finger at her. ‘You clear up this mess. It will make you feel better.’

  The galley was a shambles. Everything that could move had been tossed about in the storm.

  ‘I am going to catch a bird. We must eat.’ Ussa stomped off, the bear skin coat swinging, its bulk commensurate with her will.

  ‘You are one of us again.’ Og passed her a cloth.

  They all stared after Ussa. She stopped and turned. ‘Move it.’

  As Ussa predicted, it did rain, and Toma helped Li to rig a spare sail to catch water. He did not appear to mind Ussa taking control. It was cold and drenching and the swell after the storm made the boat lurch about. But they had water to drink, a whole barrel full in no time, cause for much celebration. They drank it at first as if it was fine wine, and then beaker after beaker.

  Og caught a razorbill on his line. They ate it raw. Rian was surprised that the tiny mouthfuls she was allowed could give her such pleasure. She was alive. After that, Ussa caught a puffin, then two more, and before long they had a dozen – a feast of raw bird flesh.

  Rian felt sick afterwards but she knew it was only the effect of food after so long with an empty stomach. She drank more rainwater.

  Pytheas had eaten and drunk less than everyone else and sat on his own, not meeting anyone’s gaze, then went to his bunk, looking unwell.

  Ussa picked flesh off a bird wing. ‘Toma says he knows where we’re going and we will make land soon, but I do not know if he is lying or not.’ With every bit of her bird she returned more and more to her old, belligerent self. She wrapped an arm round Rian. ‘I’m going to sell you to the first person I see.’ She laughed, mouth wide open. ‘You skinny little bitch. You’re bad luck, so you are. Now get back to the bilges where you belong.’

  It was the foulest job possible: the slurry sloshing about in the bottom of the boat was now a disgusting mix of leftover food, scraps of feathers and guts of the seabirds they’d been eating, puke and piss. Rian gagged with each scoop, but bucketful by bucketful she hauled it out and threw it in
to the sea. It was exhausting. Her arms strained with the weight of the bucket.

  Og lay down full of bird meat, looking sick. Rian scooped and tried not to retch. She filled the bucket again and again. Ussa sat at the foot of the mast, scanning the horizon. Li was at work tidying ropes, following Toma’s orders to trim the sail. A good wind had got up and Toma had an air of purposefulness as he steered towards the midday sun, adjusting their heading so the sail filled in a steady reach. The boat cut through the waves with a rolling gait.

  Back in the galley, Og and Pytheas were talking quietly. They broke off as she passed them. Pytheas was looking at her. His hair was plastered on his head as if he was sweating.

  ‘Are you sick?’ she asked. He nodded and indicated that he was nauseous by gurning, his hand on his belly.

  She thought about what she had left in her medicine pouch and what he had done to her. She had nothing to help him anyway, without any means of heating water to brew up a purging drink. She could give him some dried mint to chew or she could just let him suffer. She hauled another bucket from the bilges and considered what might happen if he started vomiting into it.

  When she gave him the last dry mint leaves and indicated he should chew them slowly, his face was a contortion of emotion. He took her hand and kissed it as if she was a princess. She pulled it away.

  Of course it had to be that moment that Ussa chose to relinquish her post. Her voice was a vixen howl. ‘What is going on here?’

  The staff cracked onto Rian’s shoulder, knocking her to her knees. The bucket, which she had set down beside her bunk, rattled into the bilges. She scuttled after it, but Ussa grabbed her hair and yanked her up, shouting, her face too close.

  ‘Answer me. What is going on? You little slut.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Her head lunged to one side as the slap made contact.

  Ussa towered over her. ‘You ravenous little whore. Do you think you’re some kind of princess? Eh? You keep your slutty hands down there in the bilges where they belong.’

  She said something to Pytheas in her southern dialect of Keltic and Rian found it obvious what she meant because Ussa’s gestures were so eloquent. Pytheas was being warned off Ussa’s property.

  In a way Rian was relieved. She didn’t want his attentions. What he had done to her in that black night, spreading her legs and forcing himself into her, that was enough contact for a lifetime. She should have known better than to help him with her herbs, but the instinct to offer healing was too strong; all her life she had been taught to do so. It was the way of the Mother.

  The relief was short-lived. Ussa had not finished with her.

  ‘What sort of a punishment does a slut deserve?’ She spoke loudly enough so everyone on the boat could hear her.

  Og looked up. ‘Bilges is the worst job on the boat, is that not enough?’

  Ussa looked at him as if he was a boy. ‘So now you’re trying to protect her as well.’ She shook her head, reached for Rian’s hair, tugging her out onto deck. ‘Strip.’

  Rian began to unfasten her jerkin, hands trembling.

  ‘Get a move on.’

  She speeded up a bit.

  Toma asked a question and Ussa told him to shut up and mind his own business.

  Rian was down to her underclothes.

  ‘Get them off.’

  Rian turned her naked back. Her face was crushed against the mast and she was tied around the thighs, ankles and neck. The wind was cold on her skin and the rope dug in.

  The strap whined before it bit, then whined again and bit again. Leather lacerated skin. Rian was only conscious of the pain and then she clawed her way mentally back to her high place. She would not submit to that woman, no matter what. She felt the pain, and it was only pain. Her hatred of Ussa was stronger. She balled it up like dung and saved it away inside her.

  Clickimin

  She came round in her bunk to a touch on her head and Og’s voice. ‘Land, Rian. Land!’

  She was lying on her front and as she tried to turn her head she felt the wounds on her back reopen after the night’s quiet effort to crust them shut again. As she rolled onto her side, her shirt, stuck to the flesh, peeled off scabs, filling her eyes with self-pity. But land, the sight of land, was worth agony. Land meant the possibility of an end to this nightmare. It might even mean escape. Land, any land, was bound to be better than this.

  She hobbled towards the deck, drawn by sheer instinct, ignoring the pain that raged from her neck to her knees.

  And there it was: a green line, already shaping itself into a rocky coastline, with hills beyond. Land, grey, solid and bathed in sun.

  Rian closed her eyes and opened them again. It was still there. The sea glittered and waves splashed white, landwards. They were on a broad reach, the sail full across the boat, blocking her view if she stood. So she crouched, looking below it. They were heading into a loch, or a channel between islands. Soon rocky shores were visible.

  She breathed deeply. She could smell the land. After all those days at sea – how long had it been? – there was the scent of life in the air, the mother-fragrance, earth-breath.

  She inhaled to the top of her lungs, feeling her back sting, and exhaled all the way, letting it go.

  Toma was relaxed at the tiller, with the appearance of being back in familiar waters. He was murmuring away to himself, no doubt a navigation song or story, his lips moving even though there was no longer a boy to teach it to. He caught her eye, tilted his head and with a lift of his eyebrows, conveyed some kindly question to which she responded with a pucker of her chin. She had to bite back tears.

  Li stopped himself just before slapping her on her back. His smile was full of bitterness and desperation. She had no smile to return.

  Og patted the bench beside him but there was no question of sitting. She clutched a thwart and stayed where she was, crouching.

  Pytheas and Ussa were together, mostly hidden by the sail, leaning forwards, hair blowing as if it was they, not the wind, that was propelling the boat towards safety.

  They passed an island and entered a sheltered channel, gliding in on smooth water. Ahead, smoke. A settlement.

  Og asked and Toma answered. He knew this place. ‘Clickimin. The Black Chieftain lives here.’

  All Rian cared about was whether there would be butter and yarrow and anyone she could trust enough to touch her wounds.

  The settlement was on an island. It grew before their eyes, the broch dominant and surrounded by stone houses and barns, smoke signalling occupation. Soon there was the frantic activity of making landfall. The sail came down and they had to row into the harbour.

  Rowing. There was no escape, no matter the agony of it. Rian nearly fainted as with every tug on the oar her wounds tore open. Eventually the pain rang so loudly she ceased to feel anything and she rowed like a beetle pushing its ball of dung, oblivious to the world.

  Eventually, they came alongside a boat and halted and the thronging harbour swam in and out of focus. Rian eased herself off her bench and stood. Ussa was already clambering onto the next vessel, drawing all eyes to her as she made straight for dry land.

  Now that they were safe, there was suddenly too much to do. Food was the first priority. Og was immediately at work, interrogating people at the shore. He returned to Ussa’s boat, grinning, with a loaf of bread and some salted fish. He shared it out between the four of them who remained on Ròn; Toma and Li grabbed their pieces with glee and Og split the other half loaf with Rian. She realised Pytheas had gone, although she had not noticed him leave. She thought bad thoughts, wishing him away for good, or dead, then her conscience pricked. Danuta had taught her that the mother knows what we wish and sends our unkind thoughts back to do to their evil on us. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to do anything but wish him gone.

  She munched on the bread slowly. It was fresh and smel
led of sunshine. Although the day was cool and grey, the air carried the scent of flowers. The tide was high. A line of lichens on the rocky shore showed where the sea would never reach except in storms. Og and Toma were talking supplies. The fisher-people around them chattered, fastening boats, working on repairs, arguing over catches. She didn’t need to understand it to feel its comfort. The boats were mostly like theirs, hide curraghs, and there were some smaller, sturdy-looking wooden craft.

  Rian was desperate to get off, to touch dry land, to lie still somewhere and rest and heal. Now the tension of the sea journey was easing, a tide inside her rose inexorably, higher and higher until she could hold it back no more and it began to spill from her eyes.

  Og saw her though she tried to turn away, to face out to the water, her back to the men. She felt his hand on her shoulder and winced. He snatched his hand away, saying, ‘Sorry, sorry, poor Rian, poor Rian,’ over and over, grimacing, wanting her to stop crying so badly it was almost funny, but she wasn’t able to stop.

  ‘I want to get off.’ She heard herself wailing like a child.

  Og said, without hesitation, ‘Go. Go girl.’

  Toma nodded.

  Og was halfway out of the boat, beckoning to her. ‘Come on, the boss could be gone days. Shore leave!’ He was grinning and gesturing with an excess of comedy and something close to desperation. She followed down the wooden pier where the boats were tied up onto dry land for the first time in weeks.

  Cake

  When her feet touched the ground her legs no longer knew how to hold up her weight. It was as if she was listing and then she was down on her knees touching pebbles, stones, tufts of thrift and grass, iris spikes, mud. Mud! Its softness. Stones, with all of their density and their stillness. She touched and touched and the plants gave her their smells and people passing smiled curiously at her. They were perhaps seeing a girl in ecstasy at touching land after a long journey but to Rian it wasn’t that at all. They could not possibly understand. The mother offered life to her soul and she supped on it like a baby at a breast, realising only now how close to dying she had been on the boat. No matter what happened, whatever she had to do, she would not go back aboard.