Elysium. Part One. (10 page)

Chapter
Eight
.

South-easterly wind.

Sixteen knots
.

  Eryn waited until Jocelyn had left, and then sidled up to her brother.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ she said, awestruck.

  ‘Make of what?’

  ‘Jocelyn was eyeing you up all evening! Don’t tell me you didn’t notice!’

  ‘Was she? She was talking to Morgan for most of the night.’

  ‘She was talking to him but she was looking at you! It was getting embarrassing!’

  ‘I saw her glance over here a couple of times. You think she likes me?’

  ‘You’re such a daisy, Jesus!’ she cuffed his arm, ‘I’m going to speak to her!’

  He made a feeble attempt at protest but she was already gone. Out the door she ran, slipping behind the pub, and over the fence toward the coast.

  She continuously searched over her shoulder; fearful someone might spot her and ask where she was going at such an hour. On any other night she might have thought of countless lies in response, but to be asked tonight would have sent her into a reel of stammering.

 The evening was still and the air retained the heat of the day. Above the black silhouette of the old hotel, a billion stars winked nonchalantly as she stole down an overgrown path which wound steeply to the coast. Her long skirt rustled against the grass and she had to hitch the linen to silence it. She would have to leave the path and make her way blindly to the Waeshenbachs’, but her knowledge of the area was absolute, and she skipped over rocks and felled trees as though she were navigating the area by daylight.

  Behind her the muted sounds of laughing and drunken conversation hung in the calm until distance and lapping waves overcame it.

  She reached the Waeshenbachs’ in little under half an hour.

  Boen was full of agitation; she found him crouching beside the shelter, shredding a leaf and twirling it in his fingers. He jumped when she whispered his name.

  ‘For God’s sake, Eryn! Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Sorry… I couldn’t get away. Pa was loitering. You, know, this isn’t the best night to do this, what with everyone so excited.’

  ‘Well, my pa’s going to Ireland tomorrow, and he won’t be back for over a fortnight. Anyway, those women might be the best distraction we’re likely to get for a long while.'

  Eryn looked out to sea. Maybe Boen was right; it would be a perfect night for rowing; it was clear and warm – the crescent moon outlined the black mass of Lundy on the horizon. They couldn’t have asked for a better night with regard to the weather.

  ‘Have you thought about this?’ Boen said. ‘I mean, when we get there, what are we going to say? Neither of us have been there before, where should we go? And if we find somewhere we can’t just burst in and start accusing people.’

  ‘We’ll have to go to their pub and see if you recognise anyone.’

  Boen rolled his eyes. ‘You’re joking! Is that what you've come up with?  What if two of them have coats and galoshes? Or three of them? Or
all
of them? That might be the fashion over there, for God’s sake. And say I do recognise someone? Am I going to tackle him to the ground and bring him back here or shall I leave that to you?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ She whispered sharply. ‘We’ll take it as it comes.’

  He shook his head. ‘Take it as it comes!’ he said to himself, holding out his hand to help her, ‘I thought you had a plan!’ The boat rocked and clumsily bumped into the equipment-filled dinghy beside it. The water lapped and seemed to Boen to make a tremendous racket. He cursed under his breath, and told her to keep as still as possible. He climbed in behind her, and heard the door of the house open as he did so.

  He grit his teeth and watched, frozen with indecisiveness while his father walked towards them, muttering angrily.

  Neither of them moved; they both realised the journey was over before it had begun. What could they say? That they were a couple and had chosen the boat as a good place for a romp? His father would see through that before the words had left his mouth.

  Guliven was seething, and both Eryn and Boen were wide-eyed, expecting him to grab them and tear them from the dinghy. Boen foresaw a beating right on the spot, and Eryn was preparing to be dragged home by the ear, where Semilion would learn of her slipping away. A thrashing would no doubt follow.

  Guliven suddenly reached down and grabbed a length of tangled reel that was hidden in the grass before striding back towards the house. ‘…sodding thing,’ was all they caught him say.

  Boen sat silently until he heard the door slam, his heart pumping so loudly he thought his father might catch the sound and return.

  ‘Eryn, I don’t…’ He began to say, but she was already hoisting the oars into position.

  ‘We can’t turn back now,’ she said, loudly slicing them into the water.

  ‘We bloody well could!’ he said, snatching them off of her. ‘Here, let me…’

  He untied the boat and they cast out slowly on the still water. All the while he kept his movements measured and deliberate, he made the catch silent, not wanting the metal collar to grate in the oarlock, and manoeuvred the boat soundlessly and smoothly onto the shallows.

  Eryn was excited and she held onto the sides as they glided leisurely away from the shore. She had been at sea before, but not for years, and never under such circumstances. She could easily be accused of forgetting why they were going, but for the moment there was an innocence to be experienced, a blamelessness in the enjoyment of a calm ocean and a sky bursting with stars.

  Boen was calmer now they had cast off and drew farther from land. His movements became more fluid, and the catch of the oar in the dark waters bubbled and swirled. The collar grated wetly in the oarlock, and he strained as he drew the oar through the water, leant forward and began the process again, and again, and again.

  His feelings were less buoyant than Eryn's, not only for the fresh reminder of his father's temper, but for the corpses he imagined beneath the water's surface. During the day he had heard of the bodies washed up along the coast, and been shocked by the number taken down by the ship. He conjured an image of dark figures swaying to and fro with the rhythm of seaweed under the ethereal glow of the moon. The thought sent a shudder through him.

  They were silent at first. Eryn felt as though she were being swept up in an unprecedented mystery, cast out on a star-mirrored sea as though they were rowing across the cosmos. She saw the rusting quarantine wires in the distance, they gleamed ochre in the moonlight, and Boen guided them to a hole that had been cut away to allow access to runners’. They ducked as they glided through it, and then they were in the Celtic Sea, and Lundy; black and jagged, windswept and lonely - couldn’t have looked more oppressive.

  Once through the wire, Boen set about erecting the sails, which Kelly himself had constructed from the old skiffs that lay rotting about the community. By cranking a handle over and over, the contents unfurled from a box at the bow, and slowly unfolded into a towering sail that stretched like a slumberous yawn before taking hold of the draught. Without it they couldn’t hope to row the crossing in under five hours.

  ‘So what are we going to say when we get there?’ Boen asked, and Eryn scowled that he wouldn’t let the matter drop. She’d been hoping that they could improvise when they reached the island. But he was right; they would have to have some kind of story.

  ‘We could say that we’ve just got married and this is our honeymoon.’

  Boen choked, and turned it into a cough. ‘You what?’

  ‘Why not? Reighn and Dawn had a honeymoon when they got married.’

  Boen hadn’t meant that, he was surprised that she had even uttered those words unaccompanied by nausea. ‘Do you think they’ll believe it?’

  She looked at him for a moment, and then turned away. ‘No, probably not.’

  ‘Well, I can’t think of anything else without making them suspicious… So it’ll have to do.’

  ‘Don’t get any ideas, now.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve had them since I was eleven.’

  He couldn’t see her blush, though he noticed her shifting where she sat. And her silence, to his longing imagination, spoke volumes.

*

   They came to a dilapidated pier two hours later.

  In the shallow waters was slumped the carcass of an old ferry, rusting and at the mercy of barnacles. With only a breath of wind and lapping waves to accompany them, the island - as Mortehoe must to any who trespassed, seemed completely devoid of life.

  A wedge of dark granite glistened above the sea-line, its lower half dank with undulating seaweed. The granite rocks gave way to open fields rolling with wild flower and waist high grass. On the clearest of days there could be seen green cliffs and the purple heather of late spring from the peaks of Rockham Bay, but the night had taken all colour from the island, which was now as bleak and charmless as midwinter.

  ‘So?’ Boen said, pulling Eryn up to the well-worn pier. ‘What now?’

  ‘Stop asking me like I’m some kind of bloodhound,’ she replied, brushing herself down as she stood. ‘We should make for the pub, it shouldn’t be closed yet.’ Judging by the moon it was close to eleven o’clock, and although they knew there was a pub on the island, when it closed was a mystery.

  She looked beyond Boen’s shoulder. The place was hollow and ghostly, and it was impossible to discern the direction in which they should be heading.

  ‘Once we find it we tell them we’re looking for a room, right?’ Eryn said, wishing to break the silence.

  ‘To consummate our wedding?’

  ‘We’re not going to use it, you dog. We’re going to slip away before morning to get your pa's boat back. Once we’ve told them we’re married they’ll let us have a drink in the bar and we can start to ask some subtle questions.’

  ‘Let’s just hope it works out that way. Can you imagine what would happen if a couple of Lundians came to the Smuggler’s and started asking questions? We’d beat them off with sticks and make them swim back home.’

  ‘Relax…’ She said, though she was as nervous as he. They made their way along the pier and up to the muddy embankment before surveying the whole island. They pointed out the dark shapes of buildings likely to be pubs, and then descended on to the fields of waist-high grass, and clambered over stone walls in their search.

  It was as quiet, undisturbed, and serene as Mortehoe, and yet there was a loneliness about this place that sent a shiver through Eryn. The trees were bent by the wind and spoke of the deformity in the myths of the island; they leered in a fashion that would have been quite unnoticeable during the day. At night, however, they seemed like an accompaniment of demonic figures. She tried to shake away her grim imaginings and stepped closer to Boen.

  They walked along the cliffs for a few minutes, away from the derelict lighthouse of the south, hearing nothing but the rustling trees, hissing grass and breaking water. A black church pierced the sky a way off, and they turned towards it, following the deserted roads that were nothing more than tracks of sludge.

  Boen pointed, but had to nudge Eryn to draw her attention. He was directing her to a roofless set of buildings a little way away, veiled by weeds and shadow. She squinted, and then turned to him. Silently they agreed they were heading in the right direction.