Islands in the Stream
by
Aahlu
My parents had a cottage there, an isolated, low lying structure on a teardrop shaped island separated from the harbour by the broadest of the stream's lazy meanders but joined by a series of plank footbridges over the lesser of the creeks to the wide, windy expanse of the saltmarsh itself.
They say one man's misfortune is another's good luck and so much the better when it happens to us. I say parents but in truth my sister and I were orphaned by cholera seven or eight summers ago and the couple who'd greeted us after the funeral were none other than our dead father's long lost brother and his wife we were told. Fresh back from abroad with a purse full of guineas and a sack full of improbable tales to tell.
So we took them in, made them welcome, gave them a bed for they'd nowhere else to go. Oh yes, we took their guineas in exchange for hospitality, one or two at least until uncle took over father's old job as ferryman. Routine and familiarity held us there and yes, laziness too, I suppose. We had little and needed less for fish and fowl we had aplenty. The rest, what rest there was, often came by way of payment in kind. So we drifted directionless, into the summer following our mother and fathers untimely death, wondering only occasionally what the fickle fates might have in store for us.
Late summer turned to autumn and the nights lengthened again but the river flowed on past us as usual. Now and again a tall ship came in to the harbour on the tide but mostly they were little ships. A thirty foot ketch from Rising bringing timber and taking thatching reeds away again, a short masted dory from flatland and fen. That brought leather and hempen ropes and took away great bundles of dried gorse sticks for their bakeovens. Those smaller boats were mostly fishermen, local men who worked hard making their living from the sea.
Crabbers and cocklers and flatfish snatchers. Walkers on water and on the salt flats. The salt of the earth, or sea in this instance. Self reliant and secretive, and smugglers to a man.
Lost and weary the man stumbled in the cold, saturated by the fog in spite of his great coat, despairing of finding shelter on such a night. Our lantern called to him as the evening faded, swinging there at the end of the quay, so he tied his coble to a post, hid his pistol under his greatcoat and stumbled up the bank to our house while high above him in the growing gloom a single grey seagull screamed. Home to roost! Home, home, home to roost!
He saw immediately his mistake, the broad stretch of grey water barring his way. He was not on the outskirts of the village at all but on an island in some other damnable place. He sighed disgustedly, knowing his arrangements had gone awry the moment the fog had come down. Was it too late to relaunch his boat and row for the mainland, he wondered. One look at the fast falling tide in the channel and he knew that it was. One mistake in that and he'd be carried swiftly out to sea. Indecisively he drew back. It must be over that way somewhere, he told himself, the village, beyond the haze of fog on the far side of the stream.
You'd call it Clay, that place, if you did not know it, with it's crooked, wheel rutted narrow street and tumbled-down, cobblestone and often flood ravaged houses, for clay it was and clay it had aplenty, so much so that it stuck to you and dragged at your weary feet as if to pull you down along with it, back into the earth. Aye, clay it was and clay it had, a finer mud not seen for leagues around. And all because of the Glaven River. That was the source of it! Sit awhile and I'll tell you of it, of marsh and mere and smugglers tale. Oh they are only tales you know; believe me, made up to fool the excise men, most of them anyway. At least……
But, ten summers ago, maybe more, perhaps, when beacons had flared on all the hilltops, they'd crowded the little ships right up to the bridge in readiness while bad weather and an onshore wind held them there for a week, their round bellied hulls chafing reeds from their fenders, hempen ropes taut as lyre strings.
Then the wind changed and the rain eased but the Spaniard did not come, he dare not for he knew naught of these waters. So they went out to meet him, found him aground in the eastern roads on a sandbank and with powder and shot they murdered him.
But there were some who'd looked, in other times, upon the enemy perhaps as a friend, an ally at least in their schemes and plots and plans and schemes. Brandy from the Low Countries, fine white wines out of Spain. It was foolish to fight when one could be trading…...
The tides, not time, it was that ruled us then, for there was never a clock in the house nor watch neither, that I knew of. Why would we have needed such anyway when either daylight or darkness prevailed to denote the passing of our days? Besides, both clock and watch were yet to be invented in the form that you now know them. But these tides, the same tides which brought so much sorrow to these shores brought too all the riches and the poverty, the health and the sickness, the happiness and the upset which is more sometimes than people can bear. And all at once, once, all on the same evening when the moon was full and as high as the spring tide the ship'll come in. Sit awhile and I'll tell of her, the Mary-Lynne. She's safe now, now that shingle banks cover the harbour mouth and tideless timbers of her hull burn blue and green in the embers of our fire. Those will be some copper nails, supposedly, short and knobbly like finger bones when we find them in the cold ashes of our fire, bent and chipped where the axe found them, clenching tight together both boards and ribs. Copper nails perhaps, and fragments of a hull's sheathing too, as thin as a leaf and as pretty as a spaded guinea.
Alas! Poor Mary-Lynne! There is no sign at all of her now, unless you know where to look. A lesser island in the stream hides her hulk for the Glaven splits and flows slowly and steadily here, running deep and wide in soft clays but shallower and slicker 'cross bands of gravel.
Aye, she's safe now and you're safe too, e'en though the suns a'setting, 'cos our doors already locked and barred tight 'gainst whatever the night might bring. Outside, the Glaven flows, her level falling, drawing water greedily from her banks while a lone gull cries hideously somewhere above grey fog banks.
Ah! The Mary-Lynne, that once great ship. I was going to tell you a tale or two of her. Hmmm well yes, some say she was a slaver. Well maybe you too have you heard some say that. Others say those balls and chains were but ballast, or part of a cargo on its way to the new world. You can believe either of course and I'll not persuade you. A slaver? Maybe but on my oath hush, oh hush; she once was also a smugglers ship……
Ah! That will be my sister now, come to ask if you'll stay for supper. Tell me you'll stay and mother will make up a snug berth for you somewhere, never fear.
The man shivered, stared at the fire for a moment before relighting his pipe. That act in itself reflected not only how he was feeling but etched his unease in every line of his face. Wreathed in smoke he nodded slowly. He had little option now but to stay put in the house overnight whether he liked it or not.
High above the fog a single grey gull drifted, its wings barely moving as it wheeled and turned.
"Tell your mother I thank her kindly, and yes of course I'll stay" Weariness weighed upon him heavier than the thick brown mud which sucked the boards of the coble he'd hauled halfway up the bank. Lethargy persuaded him, without difficulty to abandon his plans for the remainder of that day and to start afresh in the morning instead. The villagers would have to wait until morning. For now he'd content himself with these poor wretches instead.
"Tis our own ale!" my sister told the man, gazing at him boldly "and good stuff it is too, by all accounts!"
She clattered across the room noisily, bearing a stone jug and a couple of drinking horns, which she set down upon the table.
The man nodded "Ale" he began "I……yes ……"
His voice tailed off as his eyes followed my sister as she left the room.
I poured for him, setting the horn within reach of his hand before filling it to within an inch of the rim. Generous! Yes you might well think that. And it'd be true mostly for yes, generous I am.
Cold meats upon a platter, she brought him next, some thick bread, not too stale and with the green mould cut off the crust hastily. Two rosy apples from the sunnier side of our old crabtree along with a wedge of strong local cheese. Oh my friends, a large piece of that will surely make you dream and dream.
The man stared at my sister as she leaned across the table. "Perhaps you would like some broth too?" sister said. "Mothers got it warming over the fire. 'T won't be more'n a moment or two before 'tis ready…….."
"You are very kind" the man began "Too kind and this is unexpected. I meant only to briefly look in on you. I got lost in the fog and needed to get my bearings you see……"
Sis nodded obligingly and he stared at her. Openly and greedily like a hungry man. I knew what he was thinking. Three women and him, shut up together in the house.
"Your father…….." he began again, staring at me. "Will he return tonight do you think?"
Well the tide was ebbing fast, rushing past our cottage as hard as it could and no man had the strength to row against it nor sail, for in that fog there was not a breath of wind.
"Maybe!" I said "If he delays not too long in the tavern!"
The man laughed shortly "It must be the company then, more than the ale for rarely have I tasted as good as this!" He smacked his lips and set his drinking horn down empty. Fools! He knew in his heart what they were and would soon revel himself to them. Their own ale indeed! Did they really think he was as naïve as that? Yes he knew in his heart their father would return soon. He had to in order to see that the coast was clear. In order to……
Above the fog a single grey gull swooped and drifted.
……in order to receive his share of the contraband.
She brought him broth, a round wooden bowl of it and a curved horn spoon to sup it with. Leaning over she said in a low voice "'Tis heated through, so take care you don't burn your mouth with it……" and winked when he gazed, as he might, at the front of her blouse.
Perhaps, he thought, there might be a way out for them yet. One of them at least. The buxom one, perhaps.
Sis drew herself upright beside him. She'd given him the last of the mutton broth and almost all the lentil soup too. Mixed together. Thick and grey green, khaki if you like, it steamed in the bowl in front of him. She knew what he was instinctively, knew right enough by the look, by the smell, by the very presence of him. After all, no man walked these marshes who was not either smuggler or excise man.
"'Tis our own ale!" she'd told him, then waited in vain for the proper reply. "While you lay a'sleeping I made it!" he should have said. But he didn't.
…………… The man moved carefully on the seat, the pistol at his belt concealed by the pleated folds of his sash. One shot he had and there were three of them. So which one, he mused, would it be.
He found the soup remarkably filling in spite of its unappetising colour and salty tastelessness. Why if…… He looked into the bowl and found to his surprise that he'd hardly made any impression on it. Well……
Comfort was the press of the pistol against his side and comfort was the heat of the fire on his back and the weight of his backside against the hard boards of his seat. Comfort too was the knowledge that, in spite of everything, he'd got the better of them. He'd eaten their food and drunk their ale, their best Hollands watered down with small beer perhaps. And in the end comfort was in the realisation that, in a moment or two, when the candle burned lower, he would decide which one he'd shoot and which one he'd rape.
And while he pondered, high above the fog the grey gull swooped and screamed. Home to roost! Home, home, home to roost!
Removing a small fragment of bone from his mouth he placed it carefully on one side of the plate. The old woman he discounted almost immediately, without even seeing her. There was no need, he thought, for if these were her daughters then she must be ancient indeed. And if that were so, he thought lightly, then she'd be no match at all for him.
Oh I felt his eyes on me alright. Wicked, cruel eyes they were! Calculating and cold and I hated him. Oh yes, I tell you I knew what kind of man he was, we knew, all three of us. After all, as I've already said; no-one walks these marshes at night who is not either smuggler or excise man……
"Mother asks whether you'd like to wash before you take yourself to bed." Sis asked from the doorway, the question bringing the man unexpectedly out of his reverie.
"Wash?" he enquired looking up at her "Why for pity's sake would I want to do that?" He leaned back on the bench and peered at her. "What are you suggesting, pray?"
"Suggesting sir!" my sister said "Why nothing at all. We are simple people here. Islands in the stream if you like. We know nothing or, at best very little, of how other people live."
She shrugged "But you being a gentleman and all that" she went on "we assumed you'd desire to sleep with clean face and hands."
The man laughed. They were getting beyond a joke already. First it was their own ale, then it was that vile congealed soup, now it was the suggestion that somehow he had dirty hands. Islands in the stream, she'd said. That was an odd remark, he thought. Whatever did she mean?
Carefully he began to lay the crude horn spoon on the table and just as carefully he tried to rise to his feet, both actions, he discovered, suddenly seeming almost impossible to do.
He stared at the soup bowl accusingly. The meat must have been tainted, must have been……bad, rotten, or something and……now, it was, he told himself, lending him some most damnably peculiar sensations.
Above the fog a single grey gull screamed. Home to roost! Home, home, home to roost!
Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of auntie moving up behind him as he slumped forwards. "Reckon he's eaten his fill!" my sister said.
Auntie caught him a moment or so before he slipped sideways. Any longer and he'd have been on the floor. Not that it would have mattered except that he might have broken something on the way down. The bowl, the drinking horn or the jug of ale I mean. So I shoved the table away from him with both hands while sis slipped her hand under his sash and relieved him of his pistol.
Then, like the dead thing he almost was, we allowed him to fall to the floor.
Oh he was a big man, I can tell you. Big and strong even with a goodly measure of auntie's stew inside him. Hemlock and dead man's fingers it has in it, you know, but only a little so as not to spoil the taste of the meat. Little enough though to bring paralysis though not enough for death I think. No, poisons would be found for the rictus would be their giveaway, whereas there'd be no signs at all if he'd simply drowned.
So we turned him while he groaned and tried to scrabble at us thinking we'd help him. Poor, poor man, hadn't he even then realised? Yes we turned him onto his back on the cold stone floor and held him, sis and me, while auntie, with grim determination lifted her skirts and sat down firmly upon his face.
You know I was going to tell you about the Mary-Lynne wasn't I? And I will too, if you're still interested that is. She was no slaver I can promise you that now. No slaver but a smugglers craft through, through and through. Some distant relative of mine built her I think, down in Suffolk somewhere……oh yes, that was it, or course, at Slaughden Quay.
She'll drown him in her own juices and his own spittle soon. Already he weakens and uncle is not home yet. A smugglers craft I tell you, with blue and white Delft tiles for ballast and soft gloves and hard liquor for a cargo. I'll get you a glass 'ere long, when aunt has done with him……
And still, above the fog, the grey gull wheeled and moaned.
I could tell the moment he died on me, or under me, to be precise. It was exactly at the time that uncle got home, I know, for I heard the double rap upon the pane just at the moment his last breath left him.
For a wild moment I wondered what it would feel like to fuck a dead man. They get stiff when they die, you know, someone had said. Well sadly this one was as limp as the fog outside when I felt for him, which left me unfulfilled and feeling rather sad. Both auntie and sis had had their way with him but, being the youngest and therefore last in line, by the time I got to him he was already as good as dead.
Last time we'd had an excise man to play with we'd raped him until he couldn't stand then strangled him with the cheap money belt we'd found round his waist when we'd stripped him. That was after we'd stuffed his mouth full of rabbit skins to choke off his screams as we cut off his thing. Smugglers? Oh yes, our menfolk are, but us? Well we're just wildly oversexed murderesses. But before you condemn me as a liar or a charlatan I'll show you the scars and the bloodstains so you'll know that even as the fire burns brightly and you lay a'sleeping I wrote down all this.
Auntie let her man in swiftly, quietly with scarcely a murmured word. The smell of the sea, of brandy and pitch, then he unhooded his lantern and allowed the light from it to spill into the room.
I'd got off the dead man by then, tidying myself hastily before uncle came into the room. He glanced at me then, purposefully crouched by the man's head and bade me hold the lantern for him.
"It's Andrews, the lieutenant by all the stars!" Uncle spat. "You've done well to hinder him!"
Auntie laughed shortly. "And here in our own home no less!"
Uncle nodded grimly, fumbling briefly for a heartbeat, for a telltale throb at wrist or neck. After a moment he sighed, stood up and stared at her.
"Well you've done for him and no mistake my love. He's growing cold already!"
Auntie grimaced "Wasn't me that done it!" She turned and looked directly first at me and then at my sister "He was still breathin' when I left him……"
I didn't want to argue, knew it'd do no good anyway. Besides, they were only joking, all three of them. Uncle knew what we'd done we'd done between us and whilst he had an idea how we'd done it he asked for no explanation. I didn't want to argue, my body ached too much from the missed opportunity so I did as uncle bid me. I put on my coat and my boots and went outside to fetch the exciseman's boat.
The little coble bobbed eagerly, anxious to be off the moment we put him in it for there was enough of a surge left in the tide to carry it out to sea. Morning would find it perhaps a couple of leagues further round the coast with nothing to link it to us. Better still, when the tide turned in the early hours along with the setting of the moon, some wave or other, the one with his name on it, might rise up and swamp the boat. He'd be drowned for sure then and good riddance. Excise men hear me. If ever you come in search of the Mary-Lynne be warned. If you want to live to see the sunrise, don't set foot; don't trespass, on these islands in the stream.
© Auhlu 1990
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Mon, 5th April, 2010
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