Kraken (4 page)

“My apologies for looking like a homeless person. I’m really not. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The meritocracy is a neo-liberal myth. And I’m going to shut up now. Sorry.”

Will looked around, as if something on the deck was going to save him from his sense of shame. When he looked back the man was looking at his face again.

“No— I mean, yes. Yes, of course you can come in. Can you rinse your feet off first? There’s a basin just here.”

He stepped outside, brushing past Will, and walking over to a large tub of water. Will stepped it in, the water still holding a faint warmth from the day’s heat. The guy used his hands to rub the dirt off Will’s feet and ankles. His fingers felt warm and soft, and Will leaned against his shoulders as he raised one foot then the other. When the washing stopped Will suddenly realized what he was doing, and straightened up, embarrassed. He seemed to have lost the rulebook today.

The man put one hand on Will’s upper arm and ushered him into the cottage. It was small, and decorated in early charity shop. One sofa, an oval wooden dining room table with two chairs, and a fridge-freezer in a tiny galley kitchen. Every flat surface was decorated with abalone shells and sea glass. A window sill hosted a line of speckled birds’ eggs, ordered by size.

A single interior door presumably led into a bedroom.

Will turned and faced his host. He didn’t know what the etiquette was for unexpected visitors on remote islands, so he decided just to ask. “I’m sorry for barging in like this. I’m hoping . . . could I stay here tonight? Please? I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

The pleasure on the man’s face seemed genuine. “Of course you’ll stay here tonight!”

“I would be eternally grateful for your sofa.”

The man looked doubtful. “It’s not very comfortable.”

Will laughed. “I was five seconds from spending the night under a tree. Maybe longer than a night. The sofa sounds like heaven.”

The man looked uncertain, but went into the other room for a minute and got sheets and a pillow, and a patchwork quilt. He did something complicated to the sofa and suddenly it was a flat padded surface. Looking at Will he asked, “Do you need dinner? A drink?”

“Um, no. But thanks. I’d really like to just go to sleep.” It was true: he was exhausted. “I don’t quite know how to explain— “

“Explanations not required, okay? We can talk in the morning.”

Will didn’t know how to express his gratitude. He was amazed the guy hadn’t greeted him with the wrong end of a sawn-off shotgun. He shucked his trousers and shirt, and climbed into his makeshift bed while the red-haired guy had his back turned, drawing the curtains. Will squirmed his legs against the clean cotton, feeling like a boy again. He couldn’t stop his eyes from closing.

“G’night,” the man said softly, and closed the bedroom door behind him.

The morning sun woke Will early, coming in through a gap between two curtains. He lay watching the silhouette of the pine trees against the fabric, then laid his arms across his face.

He must have been insane. Gods! He’d run away from his boyfriend and hiked into an unknown forest. He was an industrial chemist, for the gods’ sake. He was suited for fluorescent lights, meticulous checklists, and high levels of caffeine. There would be statistics somewhere on exactly how many people died going carelessly unprepared into a forest, and all of them would be industrial chemists.

He felt the house shiver as Cy presumably got out of bed, and sure enough, in a second he heard a door close deeper in the cottage, and then the unmistakable sound of someone taking a piss.

Will got off the sofa and folded the sheets, stacking them squarely with the pillow, then sat, thinking about what to say. A minute later the bedroom door opened, and the red-headed man came out, wearing loose sleep pants. “Hey.” His voice was warm and mellow.

Will faced him uncertainly.

“Hi. I’m sorry again about last night. You were a life saver. Um, so . . . I don’t know what to call you.”

The man half-tilted his head to one side and looked at him. “Well, Cy, I suppose. Or Cyrus, if you want. It’s up to you.”

“Okay, Cyrus. Good. I’m Will.”

He stuck his hand out. Cyrus narrowed his eyes and stared at Will’s hand for a second, then brought his eyes back to Will’s face. Then he let out a huff of laughter. “Yeah, of course. No, good idea.” His hand met Will’s, the grip strong despite the delicate length of Cyrus’s fingers. His palm was uncalloused; soft and warm.

“The bad news is we’re not getting any breakfast until we go to the store. I’ll get you a towel for the shower.”

The hot water felt amazing, and Will figured Cyrus wouldn’t mind if he used some shampoo. He’d send him some thank you cash when he got home.

While he was drying off there was a tap on the bathroom door.

“There’s something for you to wear today when you’re ready,” called Cyrus.

He dried off, and found a pile of clothes right outside the bathroom door. Tan pants, and a cable-knit sweater to go over a soft navy-blue t-shirt. As he came back out into the main room Cyrus was just coming in from the porch. He gestured past Will to a steaming mug on the dining table.

“At least there’s coffee. I’ll be quick.”

“Thanks for the clothes.”

“No problem.”

Once he was certain Cyrus was in the shower Will stepped out under the trees and tipped the hot beverage out into the leaf litter, grimacing. He didn’t like to be rude, but instant coffee was not coffee. A handful of tiny thrushes clustered around a nearby tree, fluttering at his bad manners. He heard the sussurrar of waves, and realized he was on a headland.

He found his shoes, stuffed with newspaper, drying on the porch, and sat down to put them on. A drip of water landed on his neck, and he shivered. Cyrus stood close behind him, radiating heat from his shower.

“I’m glad you’re here,” said Cyrus.

Will shifted uneasily. “Shall we go?”

“Right.”

Cyrus grabbed a knapsack on their way out. There was a second sliding door on the other side of the house, opening on to the other side of the wraparound porch. Cyrus started down the steps.

“Aren’t you going to lock it?” asked Will.

Cyrus looked back and grinned. “City boy. No one here would steal from me. Come on.”

The path to the beach appeared be designed for something small and nimble with hydraulic brakes. It was built in a series of switchback turns, with only a few begrudging steps made from logs and rammed earth to make it manageable.

At the bottom of the cliff was a tiny shingle beach, only just big enough for the large aluminum dinghy pulled above the high-water mark, and tied to a handy tree with a red and white painter. To the right a rocky shore extended forty feet or so before the point curved away out of sight. To the left a bay carved through the forest, the deeper green of a channel visible in the centre, where a creek must run down from the hills before feeding out to the ocean.

“Which way?” asked Will, looking across the bay to where a matching point marked its end, far on the other side.

“Here,” said Cyrus, pointing to the boat.

“I thought we were going to the store?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s a boat.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

“No, I can’t— “ Will took a deep breath. “I can’t go in a boat.”

“What do you mean? She’s plenty big enough for two of us. She’s 12 feet long!”

“That’s not it.” Will hoped Cyrus would drop it, but he stood there, hands on hips, watching Will, until finally he burst out, “I’m afraid of the water.”

Cyrus snorted. “That’s stupid. You
came
here in a boat.”

“No, that was . . .” Will gestured vaguely with his arms. “Bigger. I didn’t have to see the ocean.” Will thought of Aiden’s arms wrapped around him. The water hadn’t seemed so scary at that moment.

Cyrus considered Will through narrowed eyes, then huffed out a breath. “Can you help me push her out, at least? You can get wet, right?”

“No, I can . . . I mean, yes, I can help you push her out. I can paddle. You know. Wade. Just not— not over my head.”

Cyrus dusted a deep layer of pine needles and ash leaves off the seats.

“Hang on a minute,” he said. “Here, hold these.” Cyrus handed Will two honey-colored wooden oars. “Just go and stand down there, for a second.” He pointed at the sea’s edge. As soon as Will moved Cyrus pushed the little boat up on edge and let it tip over upside down, like a turtle. He shook it, then flipped it over again, leaving behind a pile of damp detritus.

“She doesn’t get much use,” said Cyrus, as stowed the knapsack in the tip of the bow, and checked the bung. Will handed the oars back to Cyrus, then rolled his trousers up to his knees, and toed his shoes off, throwing them up onto the shingle. Cyrus gestured with his head for Will to take the other side, and the two of them lifted the dinghy and carried it the ten feet to the water’s edge, pushing it out until she floated freely. The water was cool as it caressed Will’s calves and feet.

“Hop in,” said Cyrus.

“No, I told you. I can’t get in.”

“Will, you have two options. Option number one is to get into the dinghy. Now. Option number two is I will pick you up and put you in the dinghy. Which one would you prefer?”

Will stiffened. ”You can’t
put
me
in a dinghy!”

Cyrus moved an inch towards him, and Will broke, letting go of the boat and making a splashing run for the beach. Cyrus was faster, impossibly faster, grabbing Will around the waist and swinging him over his shoulder. Cyrus waded out to where the dinghy bobbed freely and dumped Will over the gunwales. He landed half on the seat, and all his breath was forced out in a painful grunt. Will slid off the seat into the damp bottom of the boat. Before he could move Cyrus threw his shoes in beside him, then jumped into the stern, as the dinghy drifted out into the bay.

The oars were resting length-ways on the seats, and before Will had his breath back Cyrus had the row-locks fitted and had started stroking confidently.

“No outboard?” panted Will, as he lay curled up, looking up at the sky, his face flaming and heartbeat thundering like a cascade in his chest.

“Nah, I don’t like the noise.”

Will nodded. He noticed red leaves floating in a little pool of water next to his head, drifting back and forth with each of Cyrus’s strokes. When they got to this shop he was never getting back on this dinghy or near this man again. He had his wallet— fuck, no he didn’t. His wallet was back up in his pants pocket in the cottage. Fine, he’d just throw himself on the mercy of a friendly yachtie. He hadn’t been this humiliated in . . . ever.

Cyrus pointed the boat north, and as they headed around the point Will craned his neck to spot Cyrus’s house in the trees: anything but to acknowledge the water all around him. The cottage was set low to the ground, a long porch wrapped around three sides. It was painted to blend in with the pines growing closely around it but the glint of sunlight on the windows stood out in the dark gloom of the trees.

When they rounded Cyrus’s point a little cuddy runabout, sleek and streamlined, rolled languorously in the water. Stylized waves were painted on the bow. A boy, only six or seven, was fishing from the stern with his father, and Cyrus called out a greeting. Will cringed at what they thought of him, inexplicably lying in the bottom of the boat. Thank the gods they didn’t know who he was. On the starboard side a skein of gulls lined the bulwarks, padding uneasily from foot to foot and watching as Will and Cyrus rowed past. Their droppings marred the clean lines of the paintwork down the hull towards the waterline.

“Just visitors,” noted Cyrus. “Found the island by good luck, I think. Always something to catch, here.”

The rhythmic hollow slapping of water on the metal hull lulled Will. The voices of the father and son lingered in the air long after they’d passed them.
Voices carry over water
, he remembered. His heartbeat eased, and he felt almost calm again.