Migrations

by Charlotte McConaghy

  My mouth opens but nothing comes out. I sigh. “He hates it. I’m always leaving him behind.”

  * * *

  Later Ennis and I sit at the window and watch the stretch of fjord that swallowed us. Behind us his crew members are getting steadily drunker and have taken over the set of Trivial Pursuit, which has incited numerous arguments. Léa doesn’t participate in the ribbing, but smugly wins most of the rounds. Samuel is reading by the fire. Any other night I’d be playing with them, and I’d be pushing and prodding to see the make of them. But tonight, the task. I need to get myself onto their boat.

  The midnight sun has turned the world indigo and something about the quality of the light reminds me of the land where I was raised, that special Galway blue. I’ve seen a fair helping of the world and what strikes me most is that there are no two qualities of light the same, no matter where you go. Australia is bright and hard. Galway has a smudgeness to it, a tender haze. Here the edges of everything are crisp and cold.

  “What would you say if I told you I could find you fish?”

  Ennis’s eyebrows arch. He’s quiet awhile, and then, “I’d reckon you’re talking about your birds, and I’d say that’s illegal.”

  “It only became illegal because of the trawling methods huge liners used to use, which would capture and kill all the surrounding marine life and birds. You don’t use those anymore, not with a smaller vessel. The birds would be safe. Otherwise I wouldn’t suggest it.”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  I nod.

  “So what are we really talking about, Franny Lynch?”

  I retrieve the papers from my bag, then return to the stool beside Ennis. I place the papers between us and try to smooth out some of the wrinkles. “I’m studying the migratory patterns of the Arctic tern, looking specifically at what climate change has done to their flight habits. You know all about this, I’d say—it’s what’s killing the fish.”

  “And the rest,” he says.

  “And the rest.”

  He is peering at the papers but I don’t blame him for not interpreting their meaning—they’re dense journal articles with the university’s stamp on them.

  “Do you know of the Arctic tern, Ennis?”

  “I’ve seen them up this way. Nesting season now, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. The Arctic tern has the longest migration of any animal. It flies from the Arctic all the way to the Antarctic, and then back again within a year. This is an extraordinarily long flight for a bird its size. And because the terns live to be thirty or so, the distance they will travel over the course of their lives is the equivalent of flying to the moon and back three times.”

  He looks up at me.

  We share a silence filled with the beauty of delicate white wings that carry a creature so far. I think of the courage of this and I could cry with it, and maybe there’s something in his eyes that suggests he understands a little of that.

  “I want to follow them.”

  “To the moon?”

  “To the Antarctic. Through the North Atlantic Sea, along the coast of America, north to south, and then down into the glacial waters of the Weddell Sea, where the birds will rest.”

  He studies my face. “And you need a vessel.”

  “I do.”

  “Why not a research vessel? Who’s funding the study?”

  “National University of Ireland, in Galway. But they’ve pulled my funding. I don’t even have a team anymore.”

  “Why?”

  I choose my words carefully. “The colony you’ve seen here, along the coast. It’s reported to be the last in the world.”

  He breathes out heavily, and with no surprise. Nobody needs to be told of the extinction of the animals; for years now we’ve been watching news bulletins about habitat destruction and species after species being declared first endangered and then officially extinct. There are no more monkeys in the wild, no chimps or apes or gorillas, nor indeed any animal that once lived in rain forests. The big cats of the savannas haven’t been seen in years, nor have any of the exotic creatures we once went on safari to glimpse. There are no bears in the once-frozen north, or reptiles in the too-hot south, and the last known wolf in the world died in captivity last winter. There is hardly anything wild left, and this is a fate we are, all of us, intimately aware of.

  “Most of the funding bodies have given up on the birds,” I say. “They’re focusing their research elsewhere, in places they think they can actually make a difference. This is predicted to be the last migration the terns will attempt. It’s expected they won’t survive it.”

  “But you think they will,” Ennis says.

  I nod. “I’ve put trackers on three, but they’ll only pinpoint where the birds fly. They aren’t cameras, and won’t allow us to see the birds’ behavior. Someone needs to witness how they survive so we can learn from it and help them. I don’t believe we have to lose these birds. I know we don’t.”

  He doesn’t say anything, eyeing the NUI stamp on the papers.

  “If there are any fish left in this whole ocean, the birds will damn well find them. They seek out hot spots. Take me south and we can follow them.”

  “We don’t go that far south. Greenland to Maine and back. That’s it.”

  “But you could go farther, couldn’t you? What about just to Brazil—”

  “Just to Brazil? You know how far that is? I can’t go wherever I please.”

  “Why?”

  He looks at me patiently. “There are protocols to fishing. Territories and methods, tides I know, ports I have to deliver to, to get paid. Crew whose livelihoods depend on the catch and delivery. I’ve already had to shift my route to take into account all the closing ports. I change it any more and I might as well lose every buyer I have left.”

  “When was the last time you fulfilled your quota?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “I can help you find the fish, I swear it. You just have to be brave enough to go farther than you have before.”

  He stands up. There is something hard in his expression now. I have hit a nerve. “I can’t afford to take on another mouth. I can’t pay you, feed you, bed you.”

  “I’ll work for free—”

  “You don’t know the first thing about working a seine. You’re not trained. I’d be agreeing to pass you straight into the afterlife if I brought you aboard so green.”

  I shake my head, unsure how to convince him, flailing. “I’ll sign a waiver so you aren’t responsible for my safety.”

  “Can’t be done, love. It’s too much to ask for naught in return. I’m sorry—it’s a romantic idea to follow birds, but life at sea is harder than that, and I got mouths to feed.” Ennis touches my shoulder briefly, apologetically, and returns to his crew.

  I sit by the window and finish my glass of wine. My chest is aching and aching and if I move I will shatter.

  If you were here, Niall, what would you say, how would you do this?

  Niall would say that I tried asking, so now I will have to find a way to take.

  My eyes home in on Samuel. I go to the bar and order two glasses of whiskey and take one to his seat by the fire.

  “You looked thirsty.”

  He smiles, chuffed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been bought a drink by a young woman.”

  I ask him about the book he’s reading and listen to him tell me its story, and then I buy him another whiskey and we talk more about books, and poetry, and I buy him yet another whiskey, and I watch him get steadily drunker and listen to his tongue grow steadily looser. I can feel Ennis’s eyes; now that he knows my intent I think he’s suspicious of me. But I focus my attention on Samuel and when his cheeks are rosy and his eyes glassy, I steer the conversation to his captain.

  “How long have you been working on the Saghani, Samuel?”

  “Nearly a decade now, I’d say, or close enough to.”

  “Wow. Then you and Ennis must be close.”

  “
He’s my king and I his Lancelot.”

  I smile. “Is he as romantic as you are?”

  Samuel chuckles. “My wife would say that’s impossible. But there’s a little romance in all us sailors.”

  “Is that why you do it?”

  He nods slowly. “It’s in our blood.”

  I shift in my seat, as intrigued by this as I am appalled. How can it be in their blood to kill unreservedly? How can they ignore what’s happening to the world?

  “What will you do when you can’t fish anymore?”

  “I’ll be all right—I’ve got my girls waiting for me at home. And the others are all kids, they’ll bounce back, find something else to love. But I don’t know about Ennis.”

  “He doesn’t have family?” I ask, even though I know otherwise.

  Samuel sighs mournfully and takes a huge mouthful of his drink. “He does, he does. Very sad tale, though. He’s lost his kids. Been trying to earn enough money to give up this life and get them back.”

  “What do you mean? He’s lost custody of them?”

  Samuel nods.

  I sit back in my armchair and watch the flames crackle and spit.

  I’m startled by the low rumble of a voice, and realize that Samuel has begun to sing a forlorn ballad about life at sea. Jesus, I’ve really tipped the poor guy over the edge. I try not to laugh as I realize half the pub is staring. With a signal to Ennis, I struggle to drag the big man to his feet.

  “I think it’s time for bed, Samuel. Can you stand?”

  Samuel’s voice grows louder, operatic in its intensity.

  Ennis arrives to help me with the old man’s considerable weight. I remember to grab my backpack, and then we support Samuel, still wailing, out of the bar.

  Outside I can’t help it. I start laughing.

  A few moments later I hear Ennis’s soft chuckle join mine.

  “Where are you moored?” I ask.

  “I can take him from here, love.”

  “Happy to help,” I say, and he nods.

  It’s not yet dawn, but the light is disorienting. Gray and blue, with a pale sun hanging on the horizon.

  We walk along the fjord to the village port. The sea opens up before us, dissolving into the distance. A gull squawks and caterwauls above; they’re rare enough now that I watch it for long moments until it disappears from view.

  “That’s her,” Ennis tells me, and I see it. A sleek fishing vessel, maybe thirty meters long, its hull painted black and scrawled with the word Saghani.

  I knew it the second I read the name. That this was the boat meant for me. Raven.

  We help Samuel stumble on board and guide him below deck. The corridors are narrow, and we have to duck to get through the doorways into Samuel’s cabin. Small and sparse, with a bed on either side. He wavers and then crashes like a lopped tree onto his mattress. I wrestle with his shoes while Ennis goes to get him a glass of water. By the time it’s next to his bed Samuel is already snoring.

  Ennis and I glance at each other.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” I say softly. He leads me back up onto the main deck. The smell of the ocean fills me as always and I stop, unable to walk away.

  “You all right, love?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath of salt and seaweed and I think of the distance between here and there, I think of their flight and mine, and I see in the captain something different, something I couldn’t recognize in him before I knew about the children.

  I reach into my pack for the map and go to sit by the railing. Ennis follows me and I spread the map between us.

  With an invisible dawn approaching I quietly show him how the birds have always set out on separate paths, and where they come back together, each of them following a different route to the fish but always winding up in the same places, always knowing exactly where to meet.

  “The spots are a little different each year,” I say. “But I know what I’m doing. I have the tech. I can take you to them. I promise.”

  Ennis scrutinizes the map, and the lines carving their paths through the Atlantic.

  Then I say, “I know how important this is to you. Your children are at stake. So we go for one last haul.”

  He looks up. I can’t tell what color his eyes are in the light. He seems very tired.

  “You’re drowning, Ennis.”

  We sit for a while in silence, but for the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull. Somewhere distant the gull cries out.

  “You’re true to your word?” Ennis asks.

  I nod once.

  He stands and walks below deck, not bothering to pause as he says, “We depart in two hours.”

  I fold up the map with shaking fingers. A wave of such deep relief hits me that I could almost throw up. My footsteps sound softly on the wooden plank. When I reach land I turn to look back at the boat and its scrawled name.

  Mam used to tell me to look for the clues.

  “The clues to what?” I asked the first time.

  “To life. They’re hidden everywhere.”

  I’ve been looking for them ever since, and they have led me here, to the boat I will spend the rest of my life aboard. Because one way or another, when I reach Antarctica and my migration is finished, I have decided to die.

  GARDA STATION, GALWAY FOUR YEARS AGO

  The floor is cheap linoleum, and very cold. I lost my shoes somewhere, before walking three miles through the snow carrying a bag of football uniforms. I can’t remember how I lost them. I told the police, and they put me in this room to wait, and they have not returned to tell me.

  But I know.

  I pass the minutes and then hours by reciting passages of Tóibín in my head, remembering them as well as I can and trying to find comfort in his story of a woman who loved the sea, only it becomes too hard to try for prose, so I reach instead for poetry, for Mary Oliver and her wild geese and her animal bodies loving what they love, and even that is difficult. The effort of compartmentalizing is a steady scraping away at my mind. The long snaking curl of an orange being peeled in one skillful piece: that is my brain. What about Byron, the heart will break—no, maybe Shelley, what are all these kissings worth—no, Poe, then, I lie down by the side of my darling, my darling—

  The door opens and saves me from myself. I am trembling all over and there is a puddle of vomit beside my chair that I don’t remember supplying. The detective is a little older than I am, impeccably groomed, her blond hair tied into a neat twist, charcoal suit cut to fit all the right lines of her and shoes that make that clop clop sound that always reminds me of a horse. I notice these details with strange precision. She sees the mess and manages not to grimace as she sends for someone to deal with it, and then she sits opposite me.

  “I’m Detective Lara Roberts. And you’re Franny Stone.”

  I swallow. “Franny Lynch.”

  “Of course, sorry. Franny Lynch. I remember you from school. You were a couple of years below me. Always in and out, never staying put. Until you moved away for good. Back to Australia, wasn’t it?”

  I stare at her numbly.

  A man arrives with a mop and bucket and we wait while he painstakingly cleans the vomit. He leaves with his tools and then returns a couple of minutes later with a cup of hot tea for me. I grip it with my frozen hands but don’t drink—I think it might make me throw up again.

  When Detective Roberts still won’t speak, I clear my throat. “So?”

  I see it then: the horror she has been working to hide from me. It slides over her eyes like a veil.

  “They’re dead, Franny.”

  But I already know that.

  3

  The Saghani, NORTH ATLANTIC SEA MIGRATION SEASON

  My hands have started bleeding to the touch. I spend six hours of each day tying ropes in knots. I am to do this until I can tie all ten of the most common sailing knots blindfolded or in my sleep. I have to know each one intimately, and I have to know which knot is used for which task. I was sure I knew all of this day
s ago, but Anik has made me continue tying anyway. The blisters formed first, and then they burst and the blood came free, and each night they begin to scab over, just a little, and each morning the scabs are worked off and they bleed again. I am leaving a smear of myself on everything I touch.

  Knot tying, though painful, is relatively relaxing compared to my other tasks. I pressure hose the deck twice a day. I scrub it top to bottom, and tidy all the gear away, carrying heavy machinery and tanks of petrol. I clean all the windows, wiping away salt and grime from both sides of every glass surface. I clean inside, too, vacuuming cabin floors, mopping and scrubbing the kitchen, wiping down every surface and making sure there isn’t a drop of sitting water anywhere, especially in the freezer area. Sitting water is a boat’s nemesis. It causes rust. It makes things stop working.

  The first few days after departing were spent unpacking and correctly storing supplies. There is food enough for an army aboard, as it needs to last us months. Yesterday I started learning about the nets. The Saghani is a purse seine, with nets 1.5 kilometers long, so the crew spends a great deal of time maintaining these nets, their weights, cables, and the enormous power block, which I think is a mechanized pulley system and rears into the sky like the claw of a crane. I have yet to see any of it in action, because we’ve been navigating our way through perilous waters in search of a school of herring that may not exist. The nets have “corks” along one edge, which are bright yellow floating devices, and these have to be coiled into a circular pattern so they don’t tangle. This, too, cuts open the blisters on my fingers, but I coiled and coiled for eight hours, practicing so that when the nets are actually in use I’ll be able to do this quickly and economically. After that I went back to cleaning what was already clean.

  I think they’re trying to break me.

  The crew doesn’t want me here. They were bewildered when they heard the new plan, the new path. They’re frightened of sailing waters they don’t know, that their skipper doesn’t know. They resent me for it.

  But what they don’t suspect is that I love every second of the backbreaking, laborious eighteen-hour days. I have never been so exhausted in my life, and it’s perfect. It means I sleep.