Red Sky in Morning (11 page)

T
HE FIRST DAYS PASS AND HE DREAMS DARK, SICKNESS
deepening into him, and he lies between two worlds. The eyes of strangers he sees bunked in the shadows and he knows the look of suspicion, knows that a man’s sickness is not to be meddled with. He turns throughout the day, days becoming night twisting like a knife and night darkening into some kind of void that puts a hold on time. He lies there buckling in the grasp of it, the world no world now. Sometimes he loses sense of the pain, the vise that clasps tight his chest, the teeth tearing deeper at his lungs. He forgets the weakness that has claimed his body and he drifts sleep-haunted. She comes to visit him but he cannot be sure if she came at all but he talks to her and she feeds him water and mops his brow, she who is his mother and his wife, the cold cloth on his burning forehead, and when he opens his eyes he sees also it is his friend.

He dreams he is in his bed and the fire asleep to find that Hamilton is on top of him, their bodies writhing, and he gulps air panicked in the roaring darkness, the man grappling silently to pin the limbs of his body, a head burrowing into his trunk as if he had the rabid power to break sternum, rip ribs apart, and he’s beating against the other man’s chest with his fists, hands coiled with murder, the two men in the act of killing and he grasps at Hamilton’s throat or pulls at his mouth, a twisted toothy rictus. In the tussle he sees into the man’s eyes but they are sightless ghostly orbs and he sees between the weave of the man’s hair the perforation of skull, a lacquered rim of dry dark blood and inside the man’s head a blackened void beckoning. Disgust drives him to kill the man again and again, pounding him with his fists and he reaches and finds a knife and jags the man’s chest with it and another time he is reaching for a hammer and when he is free of him sometimes he looks at the face of the dead man and sees the face of his own brother and sometimes just as he is finished Hamilton rises inexorable to meet him and the two lock all over again.

His breathing is so shallow he thinks it will cease, the architecture surrounding his chest will snap finally and be done, and he trembles with the cold and someone puts another blanket on him but he feels no warmth from it. He feels the chilled hand of a woman on his flaming head and notices the scent of her, dried sweat and biscuit and the whiff of faint perfume and all around the air thick with salt. Sometimes, too, he awakes and his mind is so still he can rise above the calamity in his body and see past the darkness of the hold towards a light, a bulging fish eye he thinks, the light of another world reaching for him where he lies. Sometimes he awakes and he finds himself enclosed in the dim light of this no world at all but for the dancing shadows cast by a shimmering slush lamp.

He hears the men talking but cannot fasten his mind onto their words. There is always talking, the comforting hum, and he cannot understand what they are saying but sometimes he is aware they are talking about him.

What he does not hear are the words of some men, fearful that whatever is eating through him they will wake in their cots with it next, but though they complain there is nothing they can do. Some of the men talk of putting him outside but another speaks up for the sick man and warns them away. The first mate comes down to have a look, his face wind-chiseled and lit by wise blue eyes, and he winces when he comes upon their foul odor. He notes the look in their eyes, their fear and suspicion, and tells them in his estimation that what the man has does not resemble ship fever.

Coyle dreams of his father and his mother and he is ageless and he is a child and he is haunted by the face of his wife. She stares at him with her sloping sad eyes and she asks him if he will be back and he gives her the child and tells her he doesn’t know and they are walking on the beach, the damp sand clustered about his toes and the surf foaming and over her eyes her hair is windblown.

He is stirred by the sound of crashing, something colossal, and the edifice around him groans as if lashed in agony, as if it were about to be pulled apart or split from under him, and in the silence that falls between the great sounds of the sea he hears the shouts of men, voices grave and epic. He feels everything slide from under him and he rolls about and is thrown from the bed he lies on and a man comes to the floor and talks to him and holds him still.

He has an idea the man has a boat and he asks him if he can borrow it and the man says nothing and he asks the man again, for he wants to go into the boat now, but the man gives him water and tells him he is on the boat now and not to be worrying and that everything will be alright.

How many days like this he cannot fathom. But then the burden of dreams is lightened and sleep settles easier. For the whole of a day and the whole of a night he sleeps deep and soundless, nothing to disturb him in this new vale of peace. And when he awakens dreamless, his eyes blinking and he has the strength to sit up, he looks out of the hold of the tween decks where he sees the stretching light of an afternoon. And then one by one he sees the faces of the men take shape. A plume of blue pipe smoke, flinty eyes above their bowls, hands busy at cards or mouths quietly talking, and they are sitting on their bunks, some of them staring at him and others insouciant. And he awakens to the smell, the rancid sweat that sticks to the air, stale piss and the fetor of feces, and then a voice, a man with a husky growl, calls out from somewhere in the room.

Hey Cutter. Yer man. He is awake.

T
HE ATLANTIC. THE HEAVING
, swollen eternity of it. He drank it in, became delirious on it. The Murmod’s jib jutting off the bow as if to show with pointed finger the direction of their journey but there was no bearing visible and his mind was stricken that first time, the water’s reach encircled and so endless that it seemed the world had fallen off some great precipice while he was sick, slipped like a great sheet of ice and was gone.

He watched the endless weaving of the waves and he listened to the sails suck their cheeks in the wind and he walked about the deck, watched women in their huddles and men idle with their hands in their pockets and dark-eyed children flit unwatched. The air stout with smoke. Charcoal fires burned from cabooses on each side of the ship, each terminal surrounded by shabby figures who watched over burning griddle-bread and stirabout in smoking pots and their brattling voices stirred with the smoke that circled on the wind and blew back into their faces.

He sat down in the shadow of a man who spooned from a plate of food on his lap. The man was bald with wings of curling gray hair and he nodded his wrinkled brow when he saw Coyle and Coyle nodded back. The man produced from a satchel a piece of food and he unwrapped it and put it to his nose and smelt it. Smoked fish. As soon as it was on his plate he was encircled by three boys and they heckled him for some of it, a share of your good fortune they said, their eyes burning, and he ignored their pleas till a dirty paw reached over his spooning hand and made a grab for the fish. The man leaped up and his food tipped to the floor and Coyle exploded laughing. A boy took the fish from the ground and disappeared into the crowd and the man grabbed the boy nearest to him and slung him backward on his lap. He began to beat the child with the flat of his hand and a woman stepped shrill from the caboose and he wouldn’t stop till she took a fist of his hair. He stood up, his cheeks burning, and he stared at her in disbelief and then he sat down again muttering.

The Cutter appeared alongside him and he put a hand on his shoulder and laughter shook his great belly. The man glowered and The Cutter sat down heavy-boned beside Coyle. There he is, he said.

Here I am.

The Cutter nodded towards the other man. The wee hellions. They’re always at him. Isn’t that right Noble? They’ll be picking at ye all the way to America.

Noble sat fuming and ignored the digs of The Cutter who was now elbowing Coyle in the ribs.

He keeps to himself but he’s alright. A cooper from Fermanagh. You could be worse hey Noble? And how is Inishowen today?

Inishowen?

That’s what we call you on account of where you are from—knowing nothing about ye.

I’m alright so I am.

The Cutter took out his pipe and filled it with tobacco. Got any tinder?

Naw.

The Cutter stood up and borrowed a box of matches and lit his pipe and put the matches back in his own pocket. He sucked on the pipe and blew smoke against the sky and then nodded towards it.

Have you noticed yet? he said.

Coyle looked up. The whiteness of the sky and the clouds near invisible against it. The Cutter nodded again.

Birds, he said. I ain’t seen any in days.

Coyle smiled and stood up and began to walk about. He watched a small boy with a dirt-streaked face stumble upon the deck. Watched him race on speeding feet and fall tiny among tree-trunk legs. The boy picked himself up again and wandered examining the boards as if they held something mysterious and then he folded his legs and sat down upon them. He began to play with seashells from his pocket, lined them out at his feet into a single row. In the boy he recognized the face of his own child, saw the hands of his daughter testing the shapes of stones, heard the small bundle of her voice, and he turned towards the great void of the sea, his breath held in his chest and he looked out into the distance where time and movement seemed to hold still, where nothing seemed to happen at all, a void bereft of love and pain, a great wash of unmemory held in its ceaseless eternity.

T
HE CUTTER FINISHED
his food and he licked his fingers. We thought you were a goner, he said.

Coyle looked up from his food and then he spooned it into his mouth. The oats thick in his gob while he spoke. Have ye never seen a man sick before?

Aye. But there’s rarely a man sick as you who has come out of it.

There’s nothing else to do around here but get better. It took me a long while though to figure that out.

There ain’t nothing to do around here but get sick.

I’ve tried that. I donny recommend it.

Across from them two young fellas began play-acting, each taking the other in the grasp of a mock wrestle.

If you see the master’s wife you can thank her.

Why’s that?

It was she who came to your assistance. The ship’s mate keeps track of anyone who is ill. She came down to see you a few times. Gave you drops of some stuff to help you sleep.

I wonder what it was.

She said she didn’t think you had the ship fever.

I’m still not right.

You’re looking stronger.

It’s not on account of the food.

Seven pounds of bread, flour or rice per man each week and three quarts of water per day. A fine celebration.

The wrestlers began to attract a crowd eager for entertainment. One of them was red-haired and short and he took the other fella with an ankle trip to the ground. The wrestlers smiled through clenched teeth and then the redhead was grabbed by the groin and he howled and let go his grip. He reached instead for his opponent’s hat and he grabbed it and ran off. The Cutter stood up to watch and began to laugh and Coyle stood and watched the action and then he nodded towards a family that was eating.

I see there’s a wise many that brought their own butter and eggs.

Aye. And you didn’t bring anything.

Naw.

And why was that?

I was in a wild hurry to get away from that hellhole.

The redhead stood starboard with the hat dangling over the sea and the other fella reached him and began to yank at his arm. He pulled the redhead by the ear and the redhead yelled out and he let go of the hat. Dumbfounded the man watched as his hat sailed on the wind, rose on a vapor as if taking flight and then decided to settle on the sea. The crowd rushed forward to gawk over the edge and they started howling and laughing and the redhead broke free and ran for below deck.

Coyle looked at the people around him. How many people on board are there? he said.

I’m guessing about one hundred and fifty or so.

And I see the families keep to themselves.

Aye.

And the women to the women’s quarters too.

Well that depends, if you know what I mean.

Coyle cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

Let’s just say I’m hearing there’s one or two of them that are welcome to a visit.

The Cutter winked and rubbed an invisible coin in his hand and Coyle shook his head and laughed.

And it was you who gave me straw?

I asked about for you.

That was kindly.

What’s a man to do?

You could be counting stray birds.

The Cutter smiled. Man is sometimes a more curious thing to watch than beast.

Do you reckon?

Aye. Take you for instance.

What about me?

Well, for one, yer always futtering about with that dirty ribbon. And you look like a man who could be running from something.

Coyle found himself balling his hand and he put the ribbon into his pocket.

And how did you figure that out?

The Cutter just smiled a row of crooked teeth and turned to follow the brawl below deck.

H
E TOOK HIS FOOD
from the galley and descended the poop ladder singlehandedly below. The low hum of talk in the single men’s quarters and he found The Cutter swinging his feet on the top bunk and men on his own bed smoking.

Here he is.

One of the men made to get up but he told him to stay and he sat down on Noble’s bed opposite, broke a biscuit on top of the porridge and spooned it.

The Cutter tells me you’re an alright fella.

He looked up to see a pair of feet beside his head and then a face leaning down. The man stretched his toes and slinked his backside down from above and sat beside him on the bed.

I never said no such thing, The Cutter said. Stay away from him Snodgrass. Dangerous so he is.

The Cutter’s laugh huge and hoarse. The man smiled and licked his lips with a flickering gray tongue then offered a hand that became a vigorous squeeze.