Collector of Lost Things (22 page)

‘
Shh,
’ Clara soothed, ‘are you afraid, little one?’ The auk reacted to her voice, stumbling to the side and briefly losing its footing.

‘It’s restrained,’ I explained. ‘We tied cords around the wings and feet to keep it silent. There is another strap there, to close the beak.’

‘Is it necessary?’

‘It makes a most incredible growl. A resoundingly deep noise.’ Above us, almost in warning, we heard a sudden laugh coming from the fo’c’sle, several feet away through the deck. Footsteps too, although the roof must have been particularly thick and solid. I touched the beam directly above my head, almost the trunk of a tree in width.

‘You poor thing,’ Clara whispered to the bird, her voice sounding soft and out of place in such a dungeon. ‘But you are special—you are a very special creature indeed.’

I brought the dark-lantern down and placed it on the floor, giving, for the first time, a clear view of the great auk, leaning suspiciously away from Clara’s hand. It spied the light from the lantern and seemed both curious and afraid, attempting to face it, then backing away. Again it stumbled, hampered by the bindings, and I watched as Clara instinctively reached to loosen the leather strap that was fixed around its beak. I decided not to say anything. She was confident in a way I hadn’t anticipated. The bird allowed it, apparently soothed by the swift but careful way that Clara freed the knot, as if she was undressing a wound.

‘There,’ she whispered, satisfied, as she removed the strap. The auk shook its head, quickly, the plumage ruffling and flattening in a girdling motion as if it had been blown; then its beak opened, unhinging and closing several times with a small, dry click. She reached further, touching the bird on its back, stroking it along the neck and down towards its wings. I watched as the bird settled, lowering onto its feet and eyeing her, steadily.

‘You have a gift,’ I said.

‘Yes, it has been said before.’ She addressed the bird again: ‘We are going to look after you, my love. Don’t worry, you’ll be free again, soon.’

It was unexpectedly poignant. Faced with the reality of the bird’s incarceration, the grimness of the locker room—its menacing anchor chain, its smells of oil and turpentine—Clara had responded with a simple clarity of affection and care that gave me enormous hope.

Before I could prevent myself, I had reached out to touch her hair. My hand was already halfway there, poised, a few inches above her head. Staring at my fingers, in disbelief and elation, I watched as they traced the outline of the hair I so wanted to caress, to stroke, to call my own. This woman, once lost to me, now again so close, so very close. Beneath me, her shoulders tensed.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

Caught, I stumbled for an explanation, rapidly withdrawing my hand. ‘I thought I heard someone approaching. But I must be mistaken.’

She turned to face me. ‘Who would be down here, at this time?’

‘Yes, quite.’

‘Do they inspect this place?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re safe here. Mr French was quite certain of it.’

‘If we were discovered in here together, we would be the subject of a scandal,’ she said. ‘This ship is a gossiper’s paradise—I am taking a risk being with you.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Scandal seems to seek me out.’

The auk appeared peaceful. ‘You have done a wonderful thing here, Eliot,’ she told me. ‘Is this really the last one on the planet?’

‘Without doubt.’

‘Do you think it knows?’

I wondered. Had it seen the rest of its group slain? Can a bird have a notion of its own survival, its own unique self? I doubted it, and hoped that it couldn’t be the case.

‘I think not,’ I replied. ‘I have started to study it,’ I added, squatting to Clara’s level. ‘Before it is released, I intend to be quite comprehensive. My notes will perhaps be invaluable one day. Notice how strong it is in the wing, yet they are totally unfit for flight. They are merely paddles. When we were on the rock, I watched them swimming in the sea. They were fast and very buoyant—yet on the land were as clumsy as old geese. It was easy—well—for the men to gather them in their coats. And that beak—it is really the largest I have ever seen on any seabird. When they were standing together they made a communal growling. It was a startling sound. Do you think it seems well?’

She considered the bird closely. ‘I think so. It is hard to see. What are these?’

‘Further bindings. Mr French advised it, to hold the wings. He was afraid it might escape.’

‘From here?’

‘He said it was a tenacious creature and he didn’t want to see it running about on deck.’

I placed on the floor a dish containing strips of cod from my breakfast. The bird eyed the dish and its food suspiciously. ‘We must give it time,’ I suggested, easing back. When the bird moved, an oily shine, almost iridescent, flashed across the back of its neck. Its beak was truly huge and wondrous, the ridges carved into it as if sculpted by a chisel. It gave the auk an ancient expression.

‘He has a general’s face,’ Clara said.

‘Yes, like Caesar.’

Clara picked up a strip of the cod and held it towards the bird. The auk leant back, warily, then in a quick movement it opened its beak and took the fish with its head angled sharply to the side. She laughed happily, shrugging her shoulders like a child and looking at me with complete satisfaction.

‘Astonishing!’ I said. ‘Clara you are a
magician
!’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, squeezing my hand. Expecting her to let go, I was surprised when she continued to hold me.

‘And you must thank Mr French for making this possible.’

‘I have learnt something,’ I replied. ‘Mr French is a cousin, or distant cousin, to our own captain.’

‘Oh,’ she replied, letting my hand go. ‘That may change things.’

‘Hopefully not, but we must be careful.’ Even mentioning the man seemed to bring the scent of his cologne into the room.

‘How did you learn this?’

‘From Sykes himself. He told me in his cabin. He claims they have a special obligation to each other.’

‘What kind of
obligation
?’

‘Well, perhaps that is something we have yet to learn.’

Clara was thoughtful. ‘I have something to admit, too,’ she said. ‘I have told Edward everything.’

‘About the bird?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? Is that wise?’

She looked a little insulted, so I quickly attempted an explanation: ‘I say that only because he is behaving in a strange manner.’

‘I think knowing about this bird, and its survival, it might give him a cause,’ she said, ‘for hope.’

‘But what if, during a strange mood, he were to tell the captain?’

Clara was amused. ‘Edward and the captain are not friends. Edward believes the captain is determined to make a fool of him. Haven’t you noticed?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t.’

She reached up and brushed my cheek with a finger. ‘No, there are many things you fail to notice, aren’t there?’

That night, as I lay in my bunk, my mind raced with thoughts of Clara, of her touch, the coolness of her fingers, her expression. But also I thought about the girl I had known as Celeste, who had similarly possessed my spirit. It was inescapable. I would never be free of her. I never wanted to be free of her. But just what had she meant by touching me? Had I imagined it? In the middle of the night all things are possible.

I tried to calm myself by concentrating on the great auk, hidden in its grim locker between the giant links of the chain and the containers of oils. I thought of its eye, dark and wild, among the shadows, and the bindings around its wings and legs. Survival, but at the cost of freedom. Perhaps on these terms it was no survival at all.

At about three in the morning, still not asleep, I heard a commotion coming from on deck. Several voices were raised and a laugh rang out, rough and clear. I lifted the felt curtain from my porthole and looked across the dark ocean. The clouds were brooding, overlapping in blooms of density like writing ink spilt in water. Then I saw below them, in the distance, as black as driftwood, the unmistakable outline of cliffs. Jagged and hideously cruel, they had the appearance of rotten teeth jutting from the sea.

I watched, transfixed by such a bleak and lonely view, and decided to go on deck. I only reached the saloon. Because as soon as I had opened the latch to my cabin, I was halted by the sight of Edward Bletchley, sitting in his customary armchair next to the wood-burner. His legs were straight out in front of him, as stiff as a corpse, and his head was slumped forwards so that his chin rested almost on his chest. He appeared dead, or dead asleep, but as I walked up to him he opened his eyes and fixed me with a strange, bleary gaze.

‘Aha,’ he said, vaguely, before shutting his eyes again.

I stood, unsure what to do. The fire had been damped to its slowest burn, to last the night, so only the faintest glow shone through the glass. The only other illumination was from the oil lamp that hung in the rear of the saloon. It spread a greyish half-light, similar to the Arctic dusk, throughout the room, and cast a stony pallor on Bletchley’s face. He resembled a cemetery sculpture guarding his chosen grave.

‘You cannot sleep,’ Bletchley said, his eyes opening once more. In his expression I saw a drifting consciousness which roamed, before settling with renewed focus upon me.

‘You too?’ I replied.

He bent his legs slowly. ‘I can, but choose not to.’

I stepped up to the wood-burner and rubbed my hands above its hotplate. A constant dry warmth rose there, but it was hardly enough to warm the room.

‘We are passing Greenland,’ I said.

Bletchley didn’t reply. Again I saw a glaze of something dark and clouded drift across his eyes. He frowned, as if trying to understand what I had just told him.

‘I am not surprised you are unable to sleep,’ he said, quickly. ‘You are full of many secrets.’

I thought I would sit by him, thinking he was unpredictable and to do so might prevent him raising his voice. The saloon at night was an intensely quiet place, the cabin doors were of thin wood and I had no knowledge of who might be listening.

‘I am?’ I replied.

He raised a finger and pretended to admonish me, as if I was a child. ‘Oh come, come, Eliot, we should not play games.’

I smiled at him, steadily, certain that he was drunk.

‘My cousin is an attractive woman,’ he said.

‘What of it?’

‘Most attractive. I know you have a similar—how should I put it—
appreciation
of her.’

‘You are talking about Clara.’

‘Cla-ra. Yes. The fashion for such ringlets is beguiling, I feel they resemble a spaniel’s ears, but really, she is beautiful.’ He focused on a point in the air between us and, strangely, lifted a hand as if to move it away. There was nothing there. His fingers made a little brushing motion. ‘She is precious to me, you understand that, Eliot? I told you of our special connection, didn’t I? How we used to lie in our beds and communicate with each other?’ He placed the palm of his hand upon his throat, then, quite deliberately and slowly, he stroked it down his chest and onto his thigh, purposefully sensuous. I was appalled. ‘She is like a piece of sunshine that we have brought with us,’ he said. There is very little sunshine in the Arctic seas, have you noticed? But we have it, on board. We have the sunshine with us, among the shadows.’

I stood, determined to leave him at once. Whether he was drunk or not, his incoherence was alarming. He raised his hand again, trying to prevent me leaving. ‘Do you think,’ he whispered, with stage theatricality, ‘that you will get away with it?’

Looking down, I saw him as prone and vulnerable in his chair, almost childlike, his stockinged feet pointing in at each other. A slump to his right shoulder made him look injured. He was pathetic.

‘Yes,’ I said, finding an unexpected certainty in my voice. ‘I think I will get away with it.’

Bletchley laughed, loudly. ‘A drink then, Eliot, to the sea-witch you have brought on board. A drink to the last great auk.’ He lifted a large silver hip flask and offered it to me.

‘Please keep your voice down.’

‘A drink!’

‘I would rather not,’ I said.

‘Nonsense,’ he replied. ‘
Non
-sense.’ He unscrewed the cap and poured a healthy measure into a small glass he had on the table.

‘Greenland, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are agitated, Eliot. I can tell it, in here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Your mind is burning from the inside. Have this, it will mollify you.’

He gave me the glass. I smelt it, but didn’t recognise the origin of the spirit. It had an unusual greenish colour.

‘I do not think so,’ I repeated.

‘Please have a drink with me. Or else I will do something.’

‘You are sounding foolish.’

‘I will shout.’

‘I have had enough of this. Go to your cabin right now and lie on your bed. You are delirious.’

Edward Bletchley took a deep breath and opened his mouth. I really feared that he was on the verge of doing just what he had threatened—that he would shout, God knows what.

I downed the measure of spirit. ‘Satisfied?’ I said. The drink was sweet and woody, similar to anisette and not at all unpleasant, but I still could not place it.

‘Another, and you will sleep like a baby,’ he said, kindly.

I drank a second measure, fuller this time, by way of taking my leave of him. ‘The drink is poisoning your mind, Edward. You will become ill and useless,’ I said.

‘But at least, not sober. At least that, my friend.’

‘Go to your room,’ I said, turning towards my own cabin.

As I lay on my bunk I heard Bletchley stumbling towards his cabin. A candlestick fell loudly on the dining table. He probably would not remember our encounter by the morning, but it still unsettled me greatly. I stared up at the ceiling, perceiving a strange thickness to the air, an underwater quality that made the knots and joints of the wood swim and reassemble and fade. I thought of the coast of Greenland, several miles across the ocean, and its dark-toothed cliffs felt like the jaws of a mantrap that was widening around the ship.