The Seagulls Laughter

by Holly Bidgood

  ‘I’m… looking for someone,’ I answered, hesitantly.

  My companion turned his neck to view the painted boats that bobbed on the gentle swell further up the canal.

  ‘Someone who lives here?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I’m searching for my friend. He… I lost him.’

  The young man’s mouth took on a lopsided tilt in sympathy.

  ‘That’s too bad, man. Hey, what’s he look like, your friend? Maybe I’ve seen him.’

  I smiled to myself as my mind conjured the image of Eqingaleq creeping stealthily down the tow path beside the water in his bearskin trousers, as the boats’ owners looked on in amazement. Of course, I knew that no one but me had the ability to see him, for he was not of this world, but I did not want to admit this in the presence of a stranger and in a foreign land. I doubted that the people here would understand.

  ‘If you had seen him,’ I said simply, ‘you would know.’ I studied the ripples of water that broke against the manmade bank, listening to their subtle, soothing sound.

  ‘Well, I’ll keep my eyes peeled for any unusual visitors,’ the man said. ‘Besides yourself.’

  I glanced at him, wondering what was meant by this last remark. A small smile pricked the corners of his mouth in his open, friendly face; still it crossed my mind that I should get up and leave for I knew now that to good people I could bring only pain. In the distance I heard the howling of the wolves, as again they drew closer, always on my trail.

  I stumbled up onto my feet and turned to leave. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’

  The young man had risen also, and I had taken barely a few steps before he stopped me, speaking quietly.

  ‘Listen, man. You got anywhere to sleep tonight?’

  A sense of nausea swept up into my throat. Was I that transparent that he knew, without knowing me, that I was lost, alone?

  ‘It’s getting dark already,’ he added, when I did not answer.

  I tried to look at him but could not bring myself to meet his eyes, did not know what to say. The baying of the wolves grew louder; hungry yet untiring they would pursue me until I could run no more. And if I dared to rest out in the open, in the night’s oppressive darkness… a shudder ran down my spine at the thought.

  The stranger patted the shoulder of my anorak, encouraging me to take a step in the direction of the boat.

  ‘Come on, there’s plenty of room in the boat for one more weary traveller.’ He laughed a little, seemingly making the effort to sound light-hearted. ‘Who knows, there could be wolves out tonight!’

  I stopped, my eyes shot up to meet his. He looked uneasy at the intensity of my stare, the panic that must have visibly swept through me. His gaze shifted. ‘But it’s all right, we’ll untie the mooring rope: they won’t be able to swim to us across the canal.’

  I forced myself to smile – to show that I had understood that it had been a joke, a meaningless remark – and stepped after him onto the back of the boat. It rocked gently under my feet.

  ‘Neil,’ the man said suddenly, stopping and turning to face me so abruptly – or perhaps I was simply too dazed to anticipate his movements – that I nearly careered into his arm, outstretched in greeting. I did the same, and shyly we shook hands.

  ‘Malik.’

  ‘Welcome aboard, Malik!’ He smiled, and releasing my hand he turned to move through a low doorway beside where we were standing, and disappeared inside the boat.

  I peered over the side of the boat to the water below: it looked almost black, decorated with rippling silver circles from the first few drops of a new rain. A strange sensation of peace accompanied the fatigue that spread through my body, lulled by the rhythm of the water and the gentle, longed-for silence that had come to replace the roar of the city.

  At the sound of quiet footsteps from inside the boat I looked up, expecting that it would be Neil returning to see why I had not followed him. The face that appeared in the doorway, however, was one that I did not recognise. It was largely obscured by a wild black-and-grey beard and thatched with hair of a similar nature. Two piercing eyes picked me out where I stood on the deck, helpless and uncertain. The head vanished as suddenly as it had appeared and I heard a man’s voice call out gruffly: ‘It’s all right, Neil, I can see him too.’ And then Neil’s head appeared around the painted door frame, the glint of the failing light on his glasses, shrouding his eyes.

  ‘For a moment there I thought I must have imagined you,’ he said unabashedly. ‘Come on in.’

  The rain had picked up momentum; I could hear it pattering on the roof of the boat – a skittish drum beat – as I stepped under the door frame and inside. The comforting aroma of wood smoke washed over me, a fireside warmth; I wanted to close my eyes, savour the smell of Home – whoever the home might belong to. But a persistent sense of apprehension kept me alert. Looking around I saw that the boat was no bigger than it had seemed from the outside, though it was unmistakably lived-in. My elbow knocked against an old gas stove stacked with ceramic pots and pans and overhung with a variety of kitchen utensils; on my other side squatted a small cupboard, a tin basin half filled with soapy water perched on the top. Beneath my feet I saw a rug adorned with branching flowers, and quickly I slipped off Michael’s muddy boots for fear of ruining it, though as I did so I was struck by the uncomfortable thought that I might be acting presumptuously.

  ‘Just make yourself at home!’ the man known as Neil said cheerfully. He was standing in a sea of cushions and woollen rugs, his back turned to a wood-burning stove and an untidy pile of chopped logs. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Dennis –’ he gestured to the man with the grey beard, who nodded accommodatingly ‘– Man with the Boat and Maker of the World’s Worst Coffee. And Dennis – meet... Malik, was it? Mysterious Visitor and Keeper of the Silence.’

  I did not know what to say.

  The man known as Dennis had been looking me up and down. I could see that beneath his branching beard his mouth was sharply drawn, apparently humourless. But when he spoke his tone was friendly. ‘Don’t mind Neil, he means no harm.’ His gaze lingered, curiously, and I knew that he was inspecting the strange, mismatched orbs of my irises, the windows to my otherworldliness that I could not hide. ‘You, err, speak English?’ he asked, acknowledging my obvious discomfort but misunderstanding its cause. I nodded. At long last his gaze shifted, coming to rest instead upon the cooker beside me.

  ‘Well, get yourself sat down anyway, I was just about to make some soup.’

  Awkwardly we switched places – the “kitchen” being too small to allow for the both of us to inhabit it – and heavily I sat down on a cushion, hugged my knees to my chest and peered through the glass door of the wood stove to where the flames danced and flared. Dennis clanged pots and pans around. I could sense Neil’s eyes upon me long before he spoke:

  ‘What happened to your eyes, my friend?’

  The noise from the kitchen ceased. A strange emptiness hung in the air: Dennis listening keenly for the answer.

  ‘I was born like this,’ I said. Like this. A circus freak, an outcast.

  ‘Wow.’ Neil nodded his head, making no attempt to hide his intrigue. ‘They’re so… intense.’

  The atmosphere was broken by the sudden cry of an infant, half-muffled as though drifting through from another room or the depths of my imagination. I started. For one long moment I believed, with every fibre of my being, that it was my daughter, and had my limbs not been flooded and heavy with fatigue I may well have leapt to my feet and run to her.

  Neil must have acknowledged my reaction to the sound, though he made no move himself. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, waving a hand to apparently excuse his inaction, ‘Martha’s in there with her.’

  The baby, when she was carried through from the other end of the boat by her mother a few moments later, stared at me unwaveringly with eyes as round as saucers. I feared she might burst into tears at the unnerving sight of my eyes – for such an effect they often had upon child
ren – yet she simply watched, and continued to watch me even once her mother placed her down on one of the rugs that lined the floor, as though I were the most interesting thing she had ever seen.

  Neil was again making introductions, but I barely heard. The baby’s innocent little eyes sent a chill of memory through the depths of my soul. Memories I had tried – unconsciously, it seemed – to banish to the corners of my mind and escape the hurt they caused. I had not been there when my daughter was born; she was already a few weeks old when I saw her for the first time, having finally and at great pains persuaded her mother’s family to allow me to meet the new child. And though, after that, I tried to be with my daughter whenever the chance was awarded me, my presence in the family’s household was met always with a coldness that marred the joy that a baby brings. It was not that I had done anything wrong, other than be born with a curse that was visible to all. And they shunned me, for they knew that a person cursed in such a way – that I – could bring only misfortune, above all to a child that I had fathered.

  I had often tried to imagine how my mother must have felt when she saw her first – her only – child open his eyes for the first time. What must she have thought she had brought into the world?

  It was a relief only that the curse had not been passed onto my daughter; both of her irises were, thankfully, the same colour. The right colour.

  I sat immobilised as thoughts of her came flooding back, and for the first time since arriving in this strange country I regretted with my whole heart leaving the place where she was born and where she lived. How could I ever find my way back? How stupid I had been.

  ◆◆◆

  I dreamt of her that night, vividly and painfully, though by the time I awoke, disorientated from the heaviness of my sleep, all the details of my imaginings had long since vanished from my mind. I was curled up amidst the cushions on the floor, covered by a woollen blanket, the wan morning light lingering above me. I could not remember lying down to sleep the night before. I sat up hurriedly, flashed my eyes around the small space: perhaps Eqingaleq had returned to me during the night, to save me, to guide me… But the room was empty.

  The fire smouldered, radiating a meagre heat that did little to mar the chill that had settled in my body during my night-time stillness. I buried my hands in my hair, massaging my aching head into wakefulness. I could feel the gentle swell of the water beneath the boat. It was peaceful, quiet. Gradually I became aware of a snuffling sound, like that of a small animal drawing near. Looking up, I saw the baby crawling into the room – from the end of the boat that I assumed must contain the bedroom – hands slapping the floor rhythmically as she moved, making blowing noises through her closed lips. Just before she reached me she sat back on her haunches and grinned happily, then flapped her arms like a bird and squealed a string of nonsense syllables.

  Her mother entered just behind her, hurriedly, her fingers entwined within her fair hair, which she was teasing into a long plait over her shoulder and across her chest. ‘Sorry,’ she gabbled. ‘Sorry – did she wake you?’ She slipped an elastic band onto the end of her braided hair and, her hands now free, scooped the baby up onto her hip.

  I watched the baby’s movements, did not answer. She had immediately busied herself with picking at the pills of wool on her mother’s jumper with small, fat hands, a look of intense concentration on her pink face. Her mother shivered, exaggerating the ripple of her body for the sake of the infant, who squealed delightedly as she was shaken from side to side.

  ‘It’s cold this morning.’ I could not tell whether she was speaking to me or her daughter. I nodded anyway, just in case.

  The young woman slipped past me into the kitchen area. ‘You must be hungry; you fell asleep last night before you could eat your soup.’

  A flush of heat rushed into my cheeks. Luckily she was too preoccupied with setting the baby down upon the floor once more, a wooden spoon in her plump hands, to acknowledge my embarrassment. ‘I’ll make some porridge,’ she added. The hem of her checked skirt brushed the floor as she crouched down to rummage inside one of the cupboards. The baby, watching her, put the spoon to her mouth and began to suck on it loudly.

  I sat unmoving, did not know what to do. I felt the continued absence of Eqingaleq as I imagined I would feel a hole in my heart. A creeping paralysis threatened my limbs, like a wild animal stalking the weakest of its prey. Still on my knees I shuffled over to the wood stove, opened the door and began to rake the ashes. From the wicker basket beside the stove I placed some split pieces of wood on the embers and blew gently upon the smouldering coals to coax the fire back into life. It did not take long before the smallest of flames began to lick the edge of the kindling. I added some lumps of coal, breathing in the earthen aroma as it caught the heat.

  From the corner of my eye I noticed a tiny hand reaching for the basket of coals, and gently I moved the baby’s fingers away before she could blacken them with soot. I spoke to her soothingly in my own language, for a moment not realising that she would not understand. She seemed to enjoy the sounds I was making, watching the movement of my lips in fascination with round, bright eyes. I said the same thing again, and then she looked up at me, serious for a moment, before a wide smile spread across her cheeks and she waved the spoon above her head as though applauding my efforts. I could not help but laugh. She looked over to her mother – busy at the cooker – to share her enjoyment. The young woman laughed too, caught my eyes, and for one long second I felt as though the world had stopped in its tracks and the weight of it had been lifted from my shoulders. Her eyes were blue, the deep blue of the ocean, creased at the edges above cheekbones dotted with freckles and lips that seemed to wear the perpetual shape of a smile. Was it the spreading warmth of the fire that had brought a new pink to her cheeks?

  I heard the slamming of a door opening with too much force – breaking the spell. Neil blundered into the room, clutching a jumper in one hand, his eyes turned towards the floor as though in search of something.

  ‘Martha, have you seen my socks?’ In the same breath he caught sight of me, as I knelt still on the floor surrounded by cushions. ‘Oh, morning, Malik. Sleep well?’ He smiled encouragingly, perhaps to show that he did not mind my having fallen to sleep in the midst of the hospitality he had shown me the previous evening.

  I nodded mutely.

  ‘Cat still got your tongue, eh? Good, good. Martha! My socks?’ He strode over to the young woman, who was rolling her eyes at him, spoon in hand by the cooker.

  ‘I don’t know, Neil, why don’t you just keep them on your feet?’

  I noticed the toe of a woollen sock peeping out from beneath a flower-patterned cushion, which I moved to the side and discovered the other one. I stood up, and clutching the socks in one hand I lifted the baby up into my arms, away from the stove.

  ‘Thanks, man,’ said Neil, grinning as I handed him his socks. The baby reached out her arms towards her mother, standing beside Neil, who took her from me almost apologetically. I mumbled something about the fire, eyes averted, then turned and ducked through the doorway and out into the fresh air.

  The rain fell lightly, skittered across the water in thin curtains driven by the mounting wind. I took off my jumper and rolled my shirt sleeves up to my elbows, seeking the coolness of air on my bare skin, a call back to life from the drowsiness of the night and the numbness of my wearied soul. I gulped down the clear air, trying to swallow the lump in my throat: the longing for Eqingaleq and his guidance. I was truly lost now, captured within an infinite moment, unable to move forwards, cut off from everything that I had known before.

  I stepped onto the bank of the canal. Felt the reassurance of solid earth beneath my bare feet. I sank to the ground where Neil and I had sat the evening before. I kept myself still, listening. I imagined I could feel the vibrations of the rain upon the earth, the relentless, rhythmical pounding of the shaman’s drum as he journeyed to the Spirit world. But it was so distant now, I could not discern the
beat. I had journeyed too far.

  Neil picked his way off the boat, in each hand a bowl and spoon. He sat beside me and we ate our porridge in silence, the steam rising from the rims of the bowls like smoke signals.

  ‘Those lines on your arm –’ Neil gestured with his spoon in between mouthfuls of porridge ‘– what do they mean?’

  I looked down at my right forearm, the exposed skin decorated by black lines sewn into the skin, geometric shapes, dots and patterns – the same distinctive tattoos that my ancestors had worn.

  ‘My mother’s brother drew them,’ I said, unsure how to explain. ‘He had the same patterns drawn on his arm.’

  Neil nodded, his gaze still resting on my arm. His vision must have been obscured by the reams of rainwater that ran down the lenses of his glasses. ‘It’s… traditional?’

  My turn to nod my head, mute again.

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  Sometimes my skin still prickled with the memory of the pain.

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  Qallu’s hands, steady with the needle, concentrated upon his work. Sober, for once. The palms of my hands slippery with sweat, wishing I had acquisitioned some of my mother’s bottled spirits after all, to dull the pain with their strength. But the pain was part of the process: to prove you had the strength and stamina to withstand it. And I was fiercely determined. Let no one say you are not one of the People now, I remembered my uncle’s low voice, bubbling with reassuring warmth. Your arms bear the patterns of your ancestors. This is who you are.

  PART TWO

  1

  Martha

  England, January 1974

  I remember Neil as a child – a gangly pre-teen with round glasses and a suggestion of handsomeness to his features that he had yet to grow into. His hair was shorter then, though it already brushed the tips of his ears. He allowed it to grow; soon to his earlobes, then his chin, and eventually past his slim shoulders. ‘Like Neil Young,’ he would say with a grin.