The Voyage of the Dolphin (24 page)

‘I regret to have to inform you, ladies and gentlemen,' he called, pointing downwards, ‘that lunch is now being served.'

The cabin boy, sporting several fresh pustular constellations, arrived with a thump from the crow's nest and sprinted towards the opening. The group at the bow began to break up.

‘You coming, Walter?'

‘Be there in a minute.'

Crozier gazed out at the ocean. He was thinking about Fitzmaurice's plan to write about their adventures, and their pact regarding the giants. Why should he worry? In the unlikely event of Fitzmaurice producing anything readable, no one would believe it anyway. Sometimes he had trouble believing it himself… His mind wandered back to the valley on that first morning, the mist lifting over the fields, the far-off rumble of the waterfall – and the memory was already fragile, almost beyond retrieval.The faces of the giants too, framed against the sun, were bleaching out, like photographs in reverse. He wondered if he and his friends had become ghosts to those they had left behind in Ireland all those months ago.

The wind was picking up and the sea turning choppy. Behind him the sails thrummed. He scanned the horizon. Landfall couldn't be far off: fragments of Europe that would mark the beginning of their final approach. Journey's end. Home.

A tingle of movement in the distance caught his eye, a dark scintillation that dissolved as he tried to focus. He squinted but could make out nothing but restless ocean. Yet there it was again, a disturbance, a flurry of waves breaking the wrong way. His mind jumped back to the submarine on the outward voyage and, with a throb of foreboding, he moved further along the gunwale. Then he smiled.

There were nine, ten… no,
eleven
dolphins leaping and plunging along a furrow of sea. Their stone-smooth bodies glistened as they arced through the air. He found himself marvelling at how high they soared, and how fluidly they re-entered the water, as though formed from the same element. As he watched, they began to alter their course, until, after a few moments, they were coming square-on, two and three abreast, in a line, bursts of spray dispersing in their wake. They were closer now: he could see the sleek delineation of their domed heads, their ecstatic grins, and he could hear their cries, like birdsong, as they raced towards the ship.

My thanks to the following:

Patrick Murphy at Cobh Harbour Office for sharing his knowledge of sailing ships; John Fairleigh for his hospitality, and the peace and quiet of his Westmeath boathouse; Gerald Dawe and Dorothea Melvin for their advice and support; my son Milo for his candid and transformative criticism, and my wife Eve, as always, for her fortitude.

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