The Dead Men Stood Together (3 page)

‘They were in my path,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It seemed wrong to come empty-handed.’

‘How . . .’ I said. ‘How did you –’

‘I have a crossbow,’ said my uncle.

I saw too that he wore a cross around his neck.
‘Another on his back that mocks the first.’
No doubt my uncle wore his crossbow on his back.

‘You must be a good shot,’ I said.

‘Well now,’ he said, taking a piece of bread, ‘there’s not a lot of use in having one if you’re not, is there?’

‘I don’t know . . .’ I said.

The cross around my uncle’s neck was a large wooden crucifix. He saw me looking at it and grinned.

‘A wise old monk gave me this,’ he said. ‘In thanks for saving him from a heathen who was about to inflict some of the pains of the saints upon him.’

‘Really?’ I said, wide-eyed.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘’Twas in the Mountains of the Moon in the Arab lands. We had marched five days in burning heat in search of a treasure we had been told about in the port we had been besieging. But there was no treasure.’

He shook his head.

‘I have been so close so many times, but the treasure is always somewhere else, in someone else’s hands. One day, it will be different.’

‘Treasure?’ I asked.

‘Aye!’ he said. ‘It’s out there, lad. More treasure than you’ve ever dreamt of.’

My uncle grinned and leaned across to tousle my hair. My mother carried the pot to the table and ladled some of the stew into my uncle’s bowl.

‘Is no one joining me?’ he asked.

‘We’ve already eaten,’ said my mother, but, seeing my pleading face, she fetched another bowl and put it in front of me.

‘That’s better,’ said my uncle. ‘We need to feed you up, lad. Look at you. Skin and bone.’

‘He’s only a boy,’ said my mother. ‘Leave him be.’

We tucked into our rabbit stew and a contented silence reigned for a few minutes.

‘Are you a soldier, then?’ I asked.

He smiled a strange smile and fingered the cross around his neck.

‘I have been many things, lad,’ he said. ‘Not all of which I’m proud of. I’m a mariner first and foremost. But I’ve had my fill of fighting other men’s battles.’

‘Good,’ said my mother. ‘There is always a home for you here.’

‘Here?’ said my uncle. ‘No. I love you dearly but I cannot stay here. I’m not made for this life. I never was.’

My mother looked away, as though remembering old arguments.

‘No,’ continued my uncle. ‘I am going to seek my fortune. There are riches to be had in the East Indies and why should it not be me who grabs them?’

He saw my eyes widen. Not at the mention of riches, but at the mention of the East Indies – and my mother saw it too.

‘You are sailing to the Pacific?’ I asked excitedly.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That I am. The Spice Islands. Japan.’

‘You’ve been before?’

‘Aye. I’ve sailed to the East Indies and Japan. China too. I’ve stood inside the pleasure dome at Xanadu that Kubla Khan had built at his decree. There are wonders in the East – wonders no opium eater could ever hope to dream of.’

My eyes were so wide I feared they might pop out of my head.

‘But that means sailing round Cape Horn,’ I said. ‘They say it’s the most dangerous voyage there is.’

He smiled.

‘Aye,’ he said, as though danger was a fine wine to be savoured. ‘They do. And with some good cause.’

He smiled and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

‘I sail with a group of adventurers,’ he said. ‘They are rich – which is necessary for such an enterprise – but they are also peacocks who are more at home with their jewellers or tailors than they are slitting a man’s throat.’

‘You’ve slit a man’s throat, Uncle?’ I asked, startled.

‘When it has been necessary to do so.’

‘I’d rather not hear this kind of talk,’ said my mother with a frown.

‘You’re right,’ my uncle said. ‘It’s not anything to talk lightly of. Every man’s death is a sacred thing.’

‘Surely it is life that is sacred,’ said my mother.

My uncle shrugged.

‘The same thing in the end.’

My mother sighed but said no more.

‘Maybe you’d like me to teach you how to fire a crossbow, lad,’ said my uncle.

‘Yes!’ I said excitedly.

‘You’ll do no such thing if I –’ began my mother.

‘Peace. No arguments.’ My uncle held up his hands. ‘I’m not here long. We sail in a few days.’

‘So soon?’ said my mother.

‘I’m sorry.’ He reached out and touched her arm with his long fingers. ‘But I shall be rich one day, I promise you, and then I shall send for you both and –’

‘I shan’t leave,’ said my mother. ‘My mother, father and husband are all in the churchyard and I’ll join them one day.’

My uncle laughed.

‘Look at you!’ he said. ‘How old are you now? You can’t be more than twenty-five years old.’

‘I’m thirty-eight, as you well know.’

‘There’s time enough to talk of dying, all the same,’ he replied.

‘This is my home,’ said my mother. ‘I’ve never wanted more.’

My uncle smiled.

‘I know you haven’t,’ he said and he winked at me. My mother saw it and scowled.

My uncle leaned over and gave her a kiss.

‘Peace,’ he said again. ‘I’m teasing you. Some are made to wander and some not. There’s no right or wrong. We’re all made different.’

My mother smiled, but I knew that smile – it was a keeping-the-peace smile. It said, ‘I have more to say, but I’m choosing not to.’ I knew it well and I had the impression that my uncle had seen it a few times himself.

He proved himself to be a man who is happy with the sound of his own voice, and we were happy listeners, as he told of his adventures in exotic places we had scarcely heard of.

We’d not quite heard the story of each scar he chose to show us, when my mother said that she must away to bed and that I must do the same, for we had a buyer coming by close after dawn to collect some crabbing pots.

My uncle declared he was tired too, but refused my offer to give him my bed, saying that he wasn’t sure he could sleep in a bed after years of sleeping on rocks and in ditches and the holds of rat-infested ships. He swore that our barn would be luxury in comparison. And with more embraces and a noisy yawn, he said his goodnights and retreated to the barn.

I went to my room and looked out of my window, out past the roof of the barn in which my uncle made his rest and towards the woods and the hermit. All the warm glow that had built up in our kitchen seemed to drift out through that round window and be replaced by a sudden chill.

The words of the pilot’s boy came back to me and, though I should not have let his foolish talk upset me, it did. I spent a restless night, my dreams troubled by those pictures scrawled into my uncle’s skin and by the thought of the air alive with demons.

IV

I woke very early, before anyone else stirred, and lay in my bed in a waking dream and ahead of me, in my dreaming, was the open ocean. I had always felt in my heart that this was where my future lay. The menfolk of our family had all been mariners for as long as anyone could recall.

And I don’t mean fisherfolk. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve nothing against fishermen. They are brave enough and do a job that’s needed. But I’m talking about true mariners here.

My family had sailed the seven seas. They’d served in the navy and fought for their country. They’d crewed merchant ships trading with distant empires. They’d seen things most men only dream of – and more than a few things that most men would be glad to dismiss as a nightmare and nothing more.

My own father was a mariner and, like so many of that kind before him, had lost his life to the sea, swallowed up by it in a storm that likewise took the lives of most of his crew. I knew many of them and had known them since I was a little boy and my mother had taken me down to the harbour. I would be there to see my father sail out and cheer him as he came home.

I couldn’t wait to get a chance to climb aboard my father’s ship and would have sailed away with him when I was five, had he or my mother let me. I sailed with him often on shorter voyages and learned many of the skills and crafts of sailing men. I should have sailed with him on his last and fatal voyage, but I was ill and could not go.

Another ship saw my father’s go under and, though they tried to come to their aid, the seas were too high and they managed to pick up only a handful of men, and my father was not among them. I was twelve years old when we heard of his death.

The news hit my mother like a bolt of lightning. She cried and cried until I feared she would never stop, and in looking after her and looking after the business when she was too beaten down to work, I could hide the fact that I did not feel the same pain.

I did feel pain, but it was a bitter pain – it was the pain of feeling I had never really known my father and that now I never could. It was the pain of not feeling the pain I knew I should.

I wished I could have loved him as the mourners at his funeral had loved him, but I had never seen what they had seen. He’d never shown that to me. He had taught me all I knew about the sea, but the man himself was a mystery to me.

My mother was sure it was providence that I had been spared my father’s fate and refused to let me sail again. She had her own business as a basket maker, selling baskets and crabbing pots to the fisherfolk, and she made me learn the skills of their making and help her in the selling.

Inside, I felt that this was no work for a man – and certainly not a sailing man – but I couldn’t bear to give my mother any further sadness, so I kept my complaints to myself and helped her as best I could. In time, I came to enjoy my days with her and miss the sea as something I’d known once but would not know again.

Now my uncle was here, home from wandering and ready for more, and I was once again filled with a terrible yearning to see the world.

V

When the sun’s rays began to light my room, I got dressed, crept past my mother’s room and went stealthily into the barn, where my uncle still slept. He looked like a dead man. He barely made a sound with his breathing and he made no movement at all. He lay on his back, hands clasped together across his chest.

He was fully dressed, the purse and dagger still round his waist. The crossbow was leaning up against a wooden post. My mother would never let him teach me to fire it, I knew it. I looked at my uncle and then reached for the crossbow.

As soon as my hands touched it, I felt myself dragged sideways and something sharp pressed against my neck. Looking up, I saw my uncle leaning over me, his dagger pointed at my windpipe. He shook his head and let me go.

I scrabbled backwards through the dirt until I reached the wall and then sat staring at him. He was putting his dagger back in his scabbard.

‘You’ll get yourself killed, creeping up on a man like that,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ was all I could think to say.

He turned and smiled.

‘No – it’s me who should be sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived my life among thieves and scoundrels. I’m not fit for decent people.’

My heart was still leaping about like a rabbit in a sack.

‘You really do have a look of your father about you,’ said my uncle, stretching and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

‘Did you know him well?’ I asked.

‘Know him?’ He said with a laugh. ‘Of course I knew him. he was my brother! He was a good man. He was a tough man too, despite his gentle ways. I liked him. He never had too much time for me though.’

‘Why?’ I asked, calming a little.

‘We were different animals,’ said my uncle. ‘He thought I was reckless and a dreamer. And he was right. We can’t help how we’re made. I always wanted to know what was over the horizon. He was a fine sailor, your father, but I could never understand why he never wanted to sail on and explore. But then he had you and your mother to come home to.’

My uncle’s smile faded and he looked away.

‘Were you never married, Uncle?’ I asked.

‘Me?’ he said. ‘No. Well, almost – once. A long time ago. But I’d have made a poor husband and an even poorer father.’

He turned to me and peered at me intently.

‘And what about you? Do you dream of distant shores?’

‘I used to,’ I said, lowering my voice a little in case my mother walked by. ‘But I don’t sail any more. I help my mother now. Ever since my father died . . .’

My uncle nodded.

‘She’s lucky to have a good son.’

‘She wants me safe,’ I said.

‘Safe?’ said my uncle, as though he had never used the word in his entire life. ‘And is that what you want? To be safe?’

‘I have porridge ready on the stove,’ said a voice behind him. It was my mother, standing in the doorway. I jumped to my feet. I saw the look in her eyes and knew she had been listening. She grabbed hold of my uncle’s arm as I walked out of the barn and headed towards the house.