Saltskin (6 page)

The news rippled like a catchy tune and soon everyone
was whistling it:
The whales are coming
.

No matter what their role, the season had an impact on
all. Wives sewed up the rips in oilskins, pummelled dough
for endless loaves of bread, salted meat, and beat cream to
butter.

Whores poured wax over the down on their legs, armpits
and pubic areas so as to be smooth for the tongues of the
whale hunters and the surge in custom. They oiled their
skin and put vegetable dye through their locks — or tea for
brunette, vinegar for shine. They starched their petticoats
virgin white, dusted their dressing tables and rearranged
their rouge, creams, kohl and jewellery. They washed the
bedsheets with sand in the river and swept the dust from
the floors. They cut ferns and toetoe for vases, and hauled
fresh water for water jugs. They sponged and douched their
feminine parts clean and ready.

The whalers prepared their tools and weapons. They
gathered firewood on the beach into great triangular stacks,
over which they erected iron and copper tripods like great
wizard cauldrons. They tied ropes in clever and complex
knots.

Angelo caught on fast and, with the thrill of being part of
something big, eagerly pitched in to help. But his attention
span was scant: he'd drop his tools to begin something
else. He asked annoying questions incessantly. And Davy,
always with one eye on his friend, soothed tempers left
ruffled in Angelo's wake. He taught him to check their boat
for leaks, and their hammer falls joined the cacophony of
banging by ships' carpenters, punctuating the air like the
drums of a native village readying for sacrifice.

Gulls cawed over the sea like vultures. The sky darkened
and cleared and darkened again, as if the forces of fate did
not know which way to turn. The air was humid with the
atmosphere of danger, but the sea was chillingly still.

More ships arrived and lined the coast. Angelo and
Davy hauled equipment into the smaller boats suspended
from the side of each barque. They loaded harpoons of
monstrous size and ropes as thick as a man's wrist, utensils
like giant crochet hooks, for scraping and flensing.
The
whales are coming the whales are coming the whales are coming,
hummed the undercurrent.

In the grey hours of early morning on a gloomy Monday
the hunt began. Before the sun hit noon, blood stained the
sea. The sky was as black as fear, periodically illuminated
by arcs of lightning as it rained and thundered. The red
sea soon churned with thrashing tails. Whales filled up the
surface of the ocean, like giant stepping-stones as far as
the eye could see, and the dozens of smaller whaleboats
bobbed up and down, precarious and vulnerable. The
shouts of the men in the boats mingled with the cries of
wounded whales.

Boats capsized and many men were sucked under.
Harpoons, like demented cupid arrows, darted and crisscrossed
the air between boats and their targets, aimed to
pierce the blubber of their prey. Whales jumped out of the
water like wild buffalo, with boats on their backs, or crashed
down on top of them, smashing them to splinters.

Angelo clung to the side of one of the six smaller boats
discharged from the Unicorn, now a dot way back in the
bay. He held on with white knuckles to a life-rope knotted
around the middle of Davy, who stood at the prow leaning
forward, making the rope taut, harpoon raised ready to
strike. Their dinghy rose with the waves caused by the
stirring whale tails and crashed down into the sea, only to
rise up at unexpected angles, threatening to crack the boat
in two. Angelo muttered incoherently, his head jerking all
around him, his eyes wide and stunned. The sea was syrupy
with blood.

Then their dinghy was flung high and the water receded
before it, leaving a space of fifteen feet of air, the boat
suspended like a held breath. Unsupported, it hung for
a few seconds, then belly-flopped on an upcoming wave,
winding the sailors. Angelo felt his pelvis shunt against his
ribs. Before the whalers could recover, a huge whale rose
out of the water beside them, water streaming inky off its
shining body, its face level with Angelo's, and he saw the
terror in its eyes. Then he was shoved from behind and he
tripped and fell, and quick as fire another sailor stabbed the
whale's eye with a dagger. Angelo let go of the rope that
tethered Davy, shoved his arms plaintively to the heavens
and let out an almighty lament.

Davy staggered, rocking the boat, and water flowed in
on either side.

'Sit down!' Davy growled at Angelo, who bellowed all
the louder, as if he were heading a charge of his own. In
his confusion and outrage he panicked, then made a dash
at the ropes of the harpoons. As one man tried to shoot
the dart, Angelo had the other end, pulling it back into the
boat. A fierce tug of war ensued, then Angelo suddenly
released the rope and the sailor fell overboard into the
froth.

Angelo went mad, using whatever means he could to
fight his fellow sailors: he punched one in the jaw and
kicked one in the shin, the whole time roaring. The men
tried to restrain him. Sailors in the other boats turned
to look and lost concentration, missing their targets, or,
worse, capsizing in the maelstrom.

Then Davy had Angelo by the shoulders and slapped
him in the face. He held Angelo's cheeks firmly and spat
and cursed until Angelo went limp. 'Don't worry, Angel
boy, we'll get you home,' he said, and their dinghy turned
from the slaughter and rowed back to shore.

One man had drowned. Captain Angus heard the report
from a score of men. He set Angelo up on the shore with
giant hooks and his job was to haul the catch in, tail first,
after the boats had run ashore. But the sight of the first
dead whale, its mammoth size and the warmth beneath its
skin were too much for Angelo. He slid down the whale,
sobbing.

Practically every man had one thing or another to say
against Angelo and the captain heard it all. He knew the
sinister tide of the men could only be dammed, like a
flooded river, for so long. But there was no time to mediate
right now, for all hands were needed.

The sight of the mournful and oddly forgiving eyes of
the whales activated Angelo's sleeping remorse and guilt
leaked like a poison. He tore at his hair, bent over double
in pain and paced in tight circles, his face screwed up as if
his leg were being sawed off.

Captain Angus couldn't fathom the man. On the one
hand he was virile and masculine; on the other he was a
weakling. There was something lofty about him, as though
he were bred for finer things, or buggered if he knew. It
could be the devil. It perplexed Angus, who rubbed the
whiskers of his chin. Not for the first time he was struck
by the queer grey hair of the lad, scarcely a man, and he
wondered if it were the devil's work.

Angelo was so obsessed with his own feelings he was
unaware of the black looks the men sent him. Or the
talk behind his back of the sullen mood he had created.
Many men wanted to have a go: men with wounds of the
spirit who had a bone to pick, men ready to hurt for the
unsoothed pain within. Word spread through the crew and,
as of one mind, like millions of crabs out of their holes,
they named Angelo enemy.

Captain Angus moved Angelo on to another chore —
stood him stirring the giant cauldrons of boiling blubber
to extract the oil. The steam sealed grease to his face.
Mounds of gaseous intestines piled up on the sand like
tapeworms. Tens of men worked at the task of skinning
the blubber from the carcasses, three men on either side
and one on the whale's back, peeling the flesh off it, using
rusty scrapers. Blood painted the air and rivulets of it
puddled, the redness contrasted with the yellow sand.

Night crept up. Torches stuffed with oil-drenched rags
were lit and shoved in the sand. Men scuttled about like
heathen phantoms, shadowy figures. The beach was strewn
with skeletons, spookily grotesque in the dark, and the
stench of rotting flesh made Angelo retch. It was endless
— more corpses hung to be stripped, and all the while the
awful reproach of it: an unspoken shading of the spirit.
Angelo, for all his fast-fistedness with men, was simply
not a killer. He felt alone, for it seemed to him he was the
only one who cared. The men around him were high on
it, excited by the secret lust of battlefields.

Angelo resolved to quit. He sought out Davy and
found him having a shit in the sand dunes. Davy whirled
around and stumbled to cover himself. He kicked sand
over his turd and took a dented tin flask out of his vest
pocket. He held it out and squinted at his friend.

'Here, drink this and keep your head down.' The flask
contained some rum laced with a calming powder. 'Don't
leave the beach without me. Got it? We go everywhere
together. Mates?' Davy tried to extract agreement, but
Angelo's head was swinging wildly.

'I've got to talk to the captain.'

'He's on the ship. Just wait here, eh? We'll go and have
a drink and talk about it.'

Angelo sculled the rum and took off towards the
Unicorn
.

Captain Angus had been thinking on his grey-headed
sailor. He reviewed the sight of Angelo wretched over the
whales and he noted the lad's peculiar lack of remorse
regarding the drowned sailor. Maybe Angelo did not know
what had happened, he considered. From the porthole
of his cabin, littered comfortably with nautical maps, he
watched Angelo, through the hellish flicker of the fire
torches, striding up the beach, his body bent forward,
his arms stropping at his sides. Angelo dragged a dinghy
— not the Unicorn's — into the waves and rowed towards
the ship.

Angus sighed and lit a kerosene lamp. He poured two
measures of wine into a pot and set it on the stove. Then
he opened a cupboard and took out an ounce of caviar he
had been saving for a special occasion, some cheese and
bread. He lit the fire in the stove and left the grate open.
The pot boiled; he poured the mulled wine into two pewter
mugs, sat down in his rocker chair and splayed his legs as
he stuffed tobacco into his pipe. When he heard the clank
of the chain ladder, of Angelo hauling himself up and the
sound of his strident steps on the planks of the deck, he
found himself anticipating a conversation with this man
named Angelo, for he knew he was making his way to
him. When Angelo flung open the door of the captain's
cabin and knocked belatedly and a touch defiantly on the
door, Angus felt jolly pleased to see him. He motioned for
Angelo to take a seat.

Angelo took in the cabin, with a book-lined shelf that
would be the pride of any scholar. The volumes were
leather-bound.

'Well, well, well,' said Angus. 'How many wells does it
take to make a river, Angelo?'

'Eh?'

'Just one if it's big enough, boy. Just one.' Angus tapped
his forehead sagely. He indicated the mug of mulled wine,
pushed the caviar towards Angelo and handed him a
teaspoon.

Angelo started to blabber and waffle, waving the spoon
like a conductor. Angus listened to his ramblings, which
were as distorted as a puzzle — not much of it made any
sense. He caught fragments: bloody water, all dead, and
once, Mama. It was clear the lad wasn't coping.

Angus savoured the salty pulp of fish eggs on his
tongue. He sipped his wine, swirling it in his mouth and
letting its spirit soften him to a gentle stupor. And he let
Angelo rave. After all, whaling was a rough business and
Angelo would not be the first to respond badly. He had a
duty, as captain, like a man of the cloth, to listen. But he
wasn't really listening or else he would have heard.

It was a moment before Angus realised Angelo had
stopped. The captain refocused his vision and noted
Angelo sagged in his seat, the whites of his eyes blazed as
if scrubbed, and his pupils wide and black. The ship rocked
like a cradle.

'Aye,' said Angus, not knowing the gist, 'and where
does that leave you?'

'I have to abandon the Unicorn,' said Angelo. The
calming draught Davy had given him was finally taking
effect, making him serene and languid.

'And what?' asked Angus.

'And find her.'

Angus perked up, shifted his position, let out a discreet
fart. 'Ah, the devil love. And where is the bonnie lass?'

'Here somewhere,' said Angelo glumly.

Angus ripped off a hunk of bread, sliced some cheese,
topped it with a shred of fish and handed it to Angelo,
who chewed with his mouth open. Angus filled Angelo's
cup with more wine.

'She lives here, then? That was quick — a dusky lass, is
she, one of the natives? Oh, the north of this land is knee
deep in them. Aye, I could see your head being turned by
that.'

Angelo realised he had said too much, and to change
the subject said, 'Why's this ship called the
Unicorn
?'

'Because that beast represents the soulmate. It's a
symbol used by the heretics to mask the tenets of their
faith.' He indicated the bookshelf, and when he saw no
light dawning on Angelo's face he said, 'Look up.'

Angelo tipped his head back and saw that the cabin
ceiling was carved with a unicorn as handsome as a
thoroughbred horse, its horn long and proud. On its strong
back, sitting side-saddle, was a mermaid, with long tresses
that swirled around the two figures. Angelo's jaw dropped
further, revealing the mush of food, and he let out a sigh
of awe. Nodding in his emphatic way, he looked at Angus,
and found himself warming to the captain as he had never
warmed to anyone.

'What faith?'

'Ah, the faith of love of alchemy, my lad — of silver
into gold through the medium of love.' Angus' voice rose
in exaltation. 'There's a counterpart for everyone — alive
or dead or yet to be born.' Then his voice softened and,
almost mournfully, he said, 'Man and woman.'