Tales of Neveryon (19 page)

Well:

Her father and her uncle, whom she lived with, had a fit! They forbade her to go. When she refused to stay, they beat her up and locked her in the house and now refused to let her out until the boat left the shore. And that’s not all, Jori went on, for that afternoon, three older girls had come back from swimming (with Imek’s little daughter tagging along), and had met the Captain and two of the sailors, one of whom was a fat, yellow-haired woman, who, at the inn the night before, had drunk amazing amounts and slapped her scarred, fleshy hands on the counter and told shrill stories that had kept everyone laughing for hours; the Captain and the two sailors had taken the girls out to the boat! An hour later, when one of the sailors rowed the girls back, parents and relatives had gathered on the shore to snatch up their offspring. The sailor had not docked because she had seen the angry group, and had made the children swim in, the last few feet – at which point someone had jumped in and tried to upset her skiff and gotten his knuckles pounded with an oarhandle for his pains. The sailor had rowed back to the ship.

And no more sailors had come in from the boat that evening to explore the waterfront or eat in the inn. But the boat still sat on its maroon reflection in the sounds –
waiting, apparently, for a party of women to return from the Rulvyn, where they had gone to trade.

Norema and Jori walked back on the irregularly cobbled lane that sided the backs of the poorer houses; nets and laundry and ropes and bird cages hung in the trees between black, daub-and-wattle huts. The thick, sandy grass that would grow anywhere save on the salt beach had pushed aside stones Norema had watched men and women set in place when she was younger than Jori.

As they reached the shaggy bark fence that was the back of her father’s yard, the gate ahead swung forward on its wide, leather hinges and half a dozen men tromped out, leaving her father looking after them, one hand on the log bolt he had just pushed back to let them leave. His cheeks were wrinkled in concentration above his beard. He rubbed the curly red hair on his jaw with two sap-stained fingers.

‘Father, what did they want?’ Jori demanded with more boldness than Norema dared (it signified less real curiosity, at least that’s what the older girl had always thought).

The wrinkles fell. But he still stared after the men.

‘
Father
…!’ Jori insisted.

‘Nothing. Nothing you need worry yourself about.’ Behind him, across the yard, between the high and half-hulled ribs, a horizontal thread of light blistered with silver – and was the sea.

‘Does it have to do with the red ship?’

Their father frowned down at the two girls. ‘They asked me for my word that I would sell the ship no supplies nor offer them any services should any of its wicked women or its accursed captain sneak in to shore after sunset.’

‘What did you say?’ Jori demanded.

‘Well, I couldn’t very well refuse.’ Her father’s smile spoke vaguely of indulgence. ‘Big Inek’s daughter is one
of the girls they took out to their boat; and he works for me.’

‘What did they do to her?’ Jori demanded on.

‘Nothing.’ But the vague smile became a vague frown. ‘Or so I hear – and we should all be thankful for it. It’s not what they did do, but what they could do.’

Norema asked, ‘What could they do, Father?’

‘Look, I’m not going to stand here in the road and be interrogated by my own children about things I have no wish to discuss.’ The frown hardened. ‘If girls want to talk about such unpleasant things – and I can’t see any reason for it, myself – they must do so with their mothers. Not me. Now run home and stop dawdling here on the road. Go on now, run.’

And Norema, who was distinctly too old to go dashing home before an irrational father, felt uncomfortable and embarrassed – and walked quickly after Jori, who was indeed now sprinting down the dusty highway.

Childhood is that time in which we never question the fact that every adult act is not only an autonomous occurrence in the universe, but that it is also filled, packed, overflowing with meaning, whether that meaning works for ill or good, whether the ill or good is or is not comprehended.

Adulthood is that time in which we see that all human actions follow forms, whether well or badly, and it is the perseverance of the forms that is, whether for better or worse, their meaning.

Various cultures make the transition at various ages, which transition period lasts for varying lengths of time, one accomplishing it in a week with careful dances, ancient prayers, and isolate and specified rituals; another, letting it take its own course, offering no help for it, and allowing it to run on frequently for years. But at the center of the
changeover there is a period – whether it be a moment’s vision or a year-long suspicion – where the maturing youth sees all adult behavior as
merely
formal and
totally
meaningless.

Norema was at such a point that afternoon. ‘Talk to your mother, indeed,’ she thought, and started off to do so. (It was because she was at that point that she chose to talk to her mother about it in the particular way she did.)

Tadeem was going out the door when Norema barged in. Her mother, alone now in the kitchen, was pulling at the ropes that came through the wooden collar in the sandy wall beside the fire. Somewhere, baffles creaked and scraped.

Norema went to the table, and with her fingernail pried at the dark line on the plank that she thought might be a loose splinter. ‘Mother?’ It wasn’t. ‘You know the red ship anchored up in the sounds?’

Her mother tugged; baffles clashed.

‘What would you do –’ She ran her nail again along what she now knew was just a particularly deep grain – ‘if I said I had shipped aboard as a sailor?’

‘What?’ Clashing ceased. ‘No – you’re not
that
thick-skulled. But why would you even want to suggest such an awful thing?’

‘Why is it awful? What have they done, and why is everyone upset about them?’

Her mother stood up. Upset? A boatload of women, half of them girls hardly older than you, with a strange man for captain, combing the port for more girls to take off from our island – and you ask
why
people are upset?’

‘Yes,’ Norema said. ‘I want to know why.’

Her mother raised her eyes, then turned back to the baffles. ‘…this fireplace. Really!’ Baffles clashed again.

‘Two summers ago –’ Norema leaned against the thick
table plank – ‘Fevin was the only man working on Beaio’s boat. I went out with them for three days and you didn’t complain.’

‘Fevin was not a foreign, black captain combing our port for women to snatch away forever. Norema, suppose this captain sells these women for slaves. And who knows what he does with those girls at night, when the day’s watch is ended.’

‘It couldn’t be too unpleasant,’ Norema said. ‘There’re more of them than there are of him.’

Her mother’s
humpf
mixed contempt with frustration. ‘You just don’t understand anything, do you? We try to bring up our children so that they are protected from the world’s evils, only to find we’ve raised a pack of innocents who seem to be about to stumble into them at every turn just from sheer stupidity! Girl, when you
look
at that scarlet hulk, floating out there in the sound, can’t you just
feel
how strange, unnatural, and dangerous it is?

‘Oh, Mother!’ Norema said. ‘Really!’

Then, because she saw her mother start to tug at the baffle ropes again – which, by now, were perfectly well set – she realized just
how
upset her mother was. So she sat down at the table and hulled the speckled nuts in the clay bowl that Jori had collected the previous afternoon.

Then she went back to the waterfront.

Wandering between the docks and the storage sheds, the net houses and the small boats pulled up and upturned on the roped logs, she felt the oddest quality to the lazy, evening dockside. Was it, she wondered, the red boat which, from here, was not even visible?

Strolling the violet evening, she suddenly realized that the strange air in the little waterfront streets was simply emptiness. The sailors from the strange boat were, of course, no longer frequenting the inns and docks. And the
local waterfronters, though not exactly scared off by the prospect of these same sailors, were still keeping away.

It was too amusing!

She turned toward the door around the side of the inn, when Enin came charging down the steps, saw her, stopped, and whispered (though there was no one else in the gravel-covered alley): ‘Did you hear, they’re going to do it tonight!’

Norema frowned.

‘The ship! The red ship! They’re going to burn it!’

He turned, running, and she saw part of her reflection whiz across his stomach mirror. ‘Burn it to the water line!’ he shouted back toward her – she turned to watch him – and ran down the street.

On the deserted gravel, before the sandy docks, where masts bent together and swayed apart, Norema felt a sudden chill along her left side, under her shift; it was horror – not the complete and stifling horror that encases the body in a paralysis of inaction, but a simple and slight horror whose only physical sign was a tingling, all on one side, that someone else could have as easily put to the breeze that had cooled the dock some few degrees over the previous minutes.

Certain storytelling conventions would have us here, to point and personalize Norema’s response to Enin’s news, go back and insert some fictive encounter between the girl and one or more of the sailor women: a sunny afternoon on the docks, Norema sharing a watermelon and inner secrets with a coarse-haired, wide-eyed twenty-year-old; Norema and a fourteen-year-old whose dirty blond hair was bound with beaded thongs, sitting knee to knee on a weathered log, talking of journeys taken and journeys desired; or a dawn encounter at a beached dinghy between Norema and some heavy-armed redhead falling to silent
communion at some task of mending, bailing, or caulking. Certainly the addition of such a scene, somewhere previous to this in our text, would make what happens next conform more closely to the general run of tales. The only trouble with such fictive encounters is, first, they frequently do not occur, and second, frequently when they do, rather than leading to the action fiction uses them to impel, they make us feel that, somehow, we have already acted, already done our part to deploy a few good feelings – especially when the action required goes against the general will.

Norema, as we have seen, was a young woman who knew the passions of analysis; today we say such people are more likely to place their energies behind an abstract cause than to work at untangling the everyday snarl of things. And though it would not have been all that difficult to say the same in Norema’s time, she was, nevertheless, not that different from you and me.

On the street, before the inn, Norema resolved to do something about the burning – or at least see what the burners were doing and do something about it if there was anything do be done.

She turned away and walked from the inn, spreading her toes wide in her loose, soft shoes, each step. A momentary memory of a morning walk with Venn, with the shadows of the masts across the gravel … Those shadows now lay out on the water, shattered by little waves: and the memory shattered before feet scrabbling on the docks.

A man hallooed.

A younger man hallooed back.

Ahead, two boys jumped off the deck of a boat, ran to the dock’s foot, and peered across the street. From around
the corner came a dozen men, Big Inek and Fevin among them.

Norema hooked two fingers on the cord around the high, canvas-covered bale beside her, moved halfway behind it, then moved out again so she could see the ropes tossed back to the dock, see the one mast among the others, swaying and swaying, stalk out on the blue-black water.

Between two houses, Norema could see sunset’s copper smear. Above, the sky was the darkening indigo the calmest ocean can never quite reflect. Children’s voices snarled in the street.

Norema looked down. Three grubby children had run out between the huts:

‘Let’s play red ship!’

‘I’ll be the captain!’

‘You can’t be the captain. You’re a girl!’

‘Are we going to sneak up on it and burn it?’

‘Yeah!’

‘All right. You be the captain. We’ll sneak up and we’ll burn
you!’

‘No, come on. You can’t do that, either. Didn’t you see? Only men go out to do that.’

‘You go on and play by yourself, then. I’m not going to play with you!’

‘No, come on …’

‘Yeah, come on. You have to play.’

‘You have to have girls to play red ship.’

‘That’s what the game is all about.’

‘Come on, now. You play.’

The mast moved beyond the clutch of masts. A sail, jerking and flapping, rose, filled, and pulled around toward the sound.

The two boys were running up the dock.

The little girl ran behind. ‘Hey, wait for me! All right, I
said
I’ll play …’

Norema stepped from behind the bale, frowning, uncomfortable, sure she had just seen something very important and totally unable to say why – a situation which, for someone like Norema,
was
discomfort.