I take his hand gently. “We could look after it. Hatch it ourselves and set it free.”
“It would learn our faces.”
I smile. “How lovely.”
He looks at me. At first there is a shadow of pity. Of understanding the way of things better than I do. Of his pessimism. But I return the look, and let him see my own certainty, let him see perhaps a hint of how we don’t always have to be poison, a plague on the world, of how we can nurture it, too, and slowly something shifts in his eyes.
Niall returns my smile.
THE AMUNDSEN SEA, WEST ANTARCTICA MATING SEASON
The cold is deep but I am calm. I haven’t submerged my head yet. I won’t need to, not until the very end. The water will do its work on the rest of my body quickly enough. And I’d like to watch the terns for as long as I can, that I might try to take them with me.
I will take a piece of you with me, Mam. You stole the breath from your own body just as I am doing. You gave me books and poetry and the will to see the world and for that I owe you everything. I’ll take the sound of the wind keening through our little wooden hut, and the smell of your salty hair and the warmth of you pressed around me. I will take a piece of you, too, Grandma, for you gave me quiet and you gave me strength, and I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize them sooner. I’ll take some of you, John, I’ll take the photo you kept on your mantel, and all the love you left inside it, waiting there long after they were gone. I’ll take each of the gifts the crows brought me, each of the treasures. I’ll take the sea with me, deep in my bones, its tides making their way through my soul. And I’ll take the feel of my daughter in my belly, I’ll take all of her, and keep her always.
But I need take nothing from you, Niall, my love. I’d rather give you something.
The nature of me. The wilderness inside. They are yours.
* * *
I sink beneath the surface.
My fingers and toes have gone white as my body furiously pumps blood away from them, trying to keep it at the center of me, where it’s still warm, struggling to keep my heart beating.
The sun makes patterns through the water above. I think I dreamed this, once.
The birds are silhouettes now, circling high. I watch them and watch them, and then I close my eyes.
We can nurture it, too.
My eyes snap open. Fish dart past, glittering in the sun. I’m so cold.
What did you say?
You showed me. We can nurture it, if we are brave enough.
But I’ve nothing left.
There’s still the wild.
Quiet.
And then,
Could you wait for me? Just a little longer?
Always.
I surge to the surface, crash to it and burst through it, the air violent in my lungs. I hardly know how it happens but things are moving, bits of me clawing at life, at the sea’s floor, dragging free of it yet, dragging free of this endless drowning shame.
I can’t move to pull on my clothes except that somehow I do, and I can’t stand on two feet except that somehow I do, and I can’t walk, there’s no way I can walk, except I do. I take step after step after step after step.
We are not here alone, not yet. They haven’t all gone and so there isn’t time for me to drown. There are things yet to be done.
I don’t know how long it takes. It could be hours, or days, or weeks. But eventually I see a vehicle approaching over the ice, and I hear the distant whoomph whoomph whoomph of a helicopter’s flight, and I allow myself to sink to the ground.
I won’t promise you anything. I’ve given up on promises. I’ll just show you.
EPILOGUE
LIMERICK PRISON, IRELAND SIX YEARS LATER
It’s raining the second time I am released from these walls, and this time, unlike the first, I am not empty with the thirst for an ending, I am full to the brim and carrying things with me, things like a degree hard-won and the memory of a vast untouched habitat on the other side of the world.
I am not expecting anyone to be waiting for me.
A dark smudge through the curtain of rain. Leaning against his truck. No umbrella.
I draw closer, thinking it must be Ennis, or maybe Anik—they all know I get out today but I never expected them to come so far …
It’s none of the Saghani’s crew. I haven’t met this man before. Perhaps he’s not waiting for me at all.
But I walk over to him, anyway.
He is tall and thick and gray, with an oil coat just like the one Edith used to wear when she went out into the paddocks in the rain, and he has dirty boots and lines around his wide mouth and his eyes—and I recognize him.
“Hello,” says my father.
* * *
Dominic Stewart’s truck smells of old coffee, and I see why when I put my feet down on about thirty old takeaway cups.
“Sorry,” he grunts.
I shrug and close the door.
We sit in silence, listening to the fall of rain on the roof.
“Where to?” Dom asks. His Australian accent is broad and fills me, astonishingly, with a sense of home.
I try to think of where he could give me a lift to but come up with nothing. Instead I think of the years I spent hating this man for what he did and where he was sent, and the years I spent ashamed of how like him I turned out to be, and the years I spent simply wishing I had family, even one single member, just one.
“Have you ever been to Scotland?” I ask him.
“No.”
“Wanna go?”
He glances at me, then back to the rain. Without a word he starts the car. And I see perfectly the old, faded tattoo of a bird on his hand.
Dom sees me staring at it and smiles shyly. “Iris used to like that one best.”
I return the smile.
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.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First I’d like to thank my wonderful agent, Sharon Pelletier, for taking a chance on an unknown Australian author and encouraging me to write this book. You were patient and supportive, and without your leap of faith Migrations might not exist. It certainly wouldn’t have found the perfect home it did, at Flatiron, without your hard work, so thank you so much.
An enormous thank-you to my editor, Caroline Bleeke, who believed in this book from the start and has worked so tirelessly to strengthen the novel immeasurably and then to see it into the hands of readers. You have truly been a dream editor, Caroline, and I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, your generosity, and your dedication. Likewise, the whole team at Flatiron have all my gratitude for seeing the potential in this novel and working so hard to see that potential fulfilled, from the gorgeous design, both within the pages and on the cover, to the gutsy sales ideas to the international reach you have achieved. I couldn’t have asked for more. Thank you to my extraordinary publicist, Amelia Possanza, and to the rest of the wonderful team at Flatiron, especially Keith Hayes, Nancy Trypuc, Katherine Turro, Marta Fleming, Kerry Nordling, Cristina Gilbert, Amy Einhorn, Flatiron president Bob Miller, and publisher Megan Lynch. Thank you, also, to Matie Argiropoulos and the team at Macmillan Audio for their work on the audio production.
Thank you to my clever UK editor, Charlotte Humphery; publisher Clara Farmer; and their team at Chatto & Windus; and to my lovely Australian publisher, Nikki Christer, and her team at Penguin Random House. It’s been a joy to work with you all and I look forward to what’s ahead.
Thank you so much to my team of amazing friends. Sarah Houlahan, for sending me those early academic papers about Artic terns and for giving me so many science tips with such enthusiasm, and for listening, always. Kate Selway, for reading the manuscript and doing a “science pass” on it—your details made all the difference. Rhia Parker, for reading the earliest draft of the manuscript, as you always do, and for helping me with such great ideas. Caitlin Collins, Anita Ja
nkovic, and Charlie Cox, for listening to me drone on about the various ups and downs that come with writing a book and for always doing it with a smile!
Thank you to my family, Hughen, Zoe, Nina, and Hamish, for your love and support, and Dad—thanks for teaching me about donkeys! To my grandmother Charmian, and my late grandfather John, for your support, and Pa’s insight into how boats move when in a storm. Thank you to my cousin Alice, for showing me around Galway and taking me to Irish sessions; your love of the ocean became a big part of Franny. To my brother, Liam, my grandmother Alex, and most of all my mum, Cathryn (who has diligently read every word I have ever written in endless, endless drafts); the three of you have been so unbelievably wonderful, I could not have written this without you, and I am truly so lucky to have you as my family. And to my partner, Morgan, you have been such a rock throughout this process, believing in me, sharing my excitement, and picking me up when it’s hard. Your passionate conviction in your beliefs is continually inspiring, and you’ve taught me that no one person is ever too small to do their part. Thank you.
Lastly I want to acknowledge the wild creatures of this earth and say that this book was written for them out of sadness and regret for those that have been wiped out and for love of those that remain. I truly, deeply hope that the world without animals depicted in Migrations does not come to pass.
ABOUT THE TYPE
Migrations is set in Fournier type. Fournier has a clean look on the page and provides good economy in text. Monotype, in 1924, based this face on types cut by Pierre Simon Fournier, circa 1742, which were called St Augustin Ordinaire in Fournier’s Manuel Typographique. These types were a stepping-stone to the more severe modern style made popular by Bodoni in the late 1700s.
Recommend Migrations for your next book club!
Reading Group Guide available at
www.flatironbooks.com/reading-group-guides
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHARLOTTE McCONAGHY is an author based in Sydney, Australia. Migrations is her U.S. debut and will be published around the world. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part Two
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part Three
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Type
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MIGRATIONS. Copyright © 2020 by Charlotte McConaghy. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.flatironbooks.com
Cover design: Keith Hayes
Cover photographs: Greenland © Plainpicture/Jorge Fuembuena; terns © Feifei Cui-Paoluzzo/Getty Images
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: McConaghy, Charlotte, author.
Title: Migrations / Charlotte McConaghy.
Description: First edition. | New York: Flatiron Books, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020001233 | ISBN 9781250204028 (hardcover) | 9781250774545 (international, sold outside the U.S., subject to rights availability) | ISBN 9781250204011 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Adventure fiction.
Classification: LCC PR9619.4.M3798 M54 2020 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020001233
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: 2020
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