by Wendy Orr
I give her one of my old tunics; she cries more, and so do I, just a little.
I’ll wear a tunic on the ship, but once we get to the town – Tarmara, I practise saying – I will need only my finery. For today I’m dressed as I was for the saffron gathering, half a year ago, with every piece of jewellery that I own and some of Mama’s bracelets – she likes the feeling of them on her left arm, but plucks restlessly at the one on her right, till I’m afraid she’ll throw it off along the way. I’m wearing my cloak and new sandals, though. The cobbler lost his workshop in the shaking, but has been busier than he’s ever been, making new sandals for everyone who lost theirs under the rubble. They are stiffer than my old ones; the toe thong rubs on my left foot.
Mama will be travelling the same way she did the terrible day that we fled here, carried on her upside-down bed, but Nunu has painted her face as well as mine: eyes, lips and rouged cheeks. Dada brought the make-up back on this last visit: ‘Use it,’ he’d ordered. ‘The priest-folk are travelling, the sailing season opening early, bringing trade and prosperity back to the island – the people need to see the procession.’
And a procession it is. There’s barely an able-bodied person left on the farm for the day. I lead, Chance trotting beside me, followed by Dada’s four men carrying Mama’s stretcher, Nunu and the wise-women by her side. Rika has a lamb over her shoulders and her man a goat, sacrifices for our safe journey; behind them servants carry our baskets and provisions. I carry nothing but a bag with the extra earrings – the only jewellery I couldn’t wear – and our small gold ibex, our most precious possession.
We follow the meandering godpath over the mountain. The first wildflowers splash reds and purples in the green; springs bubble clear and fresh after the winter rains, and the grass is lush. There’s no hymn for a captain’s wife and daughter crossing from the wrong side of the mountain to set sail with him, and it’s not yet time for the spring songs, so we sing thanks to the goddess for the rain that’s fallen, and more thanks that it’s not falling today.
‘Visit each shrine, each god on the path – a libation and a prayer for our safe return,’ Dada had ordered, not caring that I don’t know the prayers yet.
‘Speak with your heart and the goddess will hear,’ says the wise-woman.
My heart sings of its love
for my land of steep cliffs,
grey, brown and red;
rocky hills where wild goats leap
and swallows fly home to nest;
snug, safe harbours
and the small steaming islet
where the great mother
meets the god of the sea.
How I fear to leave
and already long to return.
I sing
to the rock god who stands
overlooking the town,
the goddess of the stream
that never runs dry,
the god of winds at the narrow rock path
and the goddess of childbirth
in the wishing tree –
I understand much
that I didn’t before,
and by Tiny’s blushes
know she’s prayed at this tree
and understand why she must stay.
By the time we reach town, my soul is full and peaceful. I know that I’ve sung the island for Mama the best that I can. Nunu is smiling and so are the wise-women. We manage to keep smiling as we start through the town, because it’s not such a shock this time. Is that how Dada and the chief keep going? Can we can get used to anything, no matter how terrible it is?
I don’t start shaking till we meet Dada at the ruins of our house. All this time, I’ve tried not to think of that day; now I can’t stop. I seem to be back at the bottom of the stairs as Mama tumbles and the house crashes. The fear presses on my chest, stops my throat, blacks out my eyes.
Dada steadies me with an arm. ‘We must farewell the spirit of the house.’
With Chance trembling at my side, I pick my way over the rubble to the hole at the back of the kitchen where the house snake lives.
I pour her a libation of wine and a sprinkle of grain.
‘We leave you this gift,’ says Dada, ‘as a token of our hope to return.’
Carefully, he places the golden ibex into a chest and slides it into a hole under the floorboards, behind the cupboards.
The men pick up Mama’s stretcher, and we leave our home.
It’s a short walk to the harbour, but folk have come back from wherever they’ve been staying to watch us, and it’s late afternoon when we arrive.
The shipsheds have been cleared and the storage rooms are secure and full. Over the last weeks Dada has managed to find enough undamaged pottery to start his trading season, some from the stores under our house, and much from Nunu’s sister-in-law’s workshop. Nunu loses her look of terror and almost bristles with pride when she recognises the men loading the precious cargo.
The ship is already at the top of the slipway. The rowers’ benches and high, curving bowsprit have been repaired but there was no time to repaint the swallows on the left side, where the shipshed’s roof beam landed. Dada’s high steering chair is in place at the stern, and the cabin awnings are rolled up so that I can see the chairs in place, and the bed for Mama. It does not look like a very big place to spend a long time.
Sailors, porters and workers bustle, stowing provisions and sorting cargo. It’s the first thing that’s been normal about this day – I could almost pretend that the sailing season has started, the fleet has been blessed and this ship is the last to leave before the foreign ships arrive with their own wares to trade.
Nunu’s sense of smell isn’t as good as mine. It takes her a minute before the stench overwhelms her smile. Mama, who’s slept on her stretcher since leaving town, coughs and sits up, waving the stink away with such a natural gesture that for an instant it seems a miracle.
‘Fish,’ she says petulantly, waving her hand again. ‘Fish.’
Which could almost be right, if the fish were long dead. It’s the purple-dyers, three men and a woman, laden with heavy bundles. They stand well back from us, but closer than I’ve ever seen them. They are small and wiry, their backs bent under the weight of their loads, hands stained purple and feet grimed and tough as goat hoofs. It seems a kind of blasphemy that although they barely look human, the men’s loincloths and the woman’s skirt are splashed with the sacred colour.
‘The goods have been properly aired?’ my father demands.
Their leader speaks, but is so nervous that I can’t understand his answer. My father nods and his men take the bundles, screwing their faces in disgust.
The packs my father opens to inspect are fine linen, shaded from the soft pink of sunrise to the deepest royal purple, dark as the sea at sunset. Only the faintest sea-scent lingers. I can feel Dada’s sigh of relief: this fabric is the highest quality, and will trade well. It’s a good omen for a desperately needed trading season.
He nods, and the dyers disappear quickly, carrying their stink with them.
We camp in the emptied storerooms, and are ready at dawn when the Lady, the chief and all the able-bodied Swallow Clan arrive at the harbour. Many of our entourage have sheltered with us overnight; now folk flock to the quay again – it’s crowded, lined with people back up the banks of the inlet almost to the town itself.
Up to our house, I think, and imagine the view in reverse, the way I’ve so often seen it from the windows of my father’s room.
The ship on the slipway seems taller now that I’m about to board. The different layers of my ceremonial shift and skirt should let me get on decorously, without showing my secret women’s parts – but I avoid looking at the boys of my clan behind their parents.
They might all have chosen, have been chosen, by the time I return and finish my Learning. All the rules have changed – so just for an instant, when Lius looks right at me, I look back.
Dada lays the lamb on the sacrificial stone at the t
op of the slipway. The chief cuts its throat with his sharp bronze knife, and the Lady catches the flowing blood. She lifts the bowl with a prayer to the sea gods, and pours the blood over the bow of the ship.
She is so completely the Lady that I don’t even think of her as Pellie’s mother. She’s wearing her own sacred skirt and shift, but the Lady’s necklace hung with dragonflies and ducks: sun-gold, moon-silver and the sky-blue of lapis lazuli. But it’s more than that – the goddess has visited her, invested her with power and mystery, inhabited her. Her voice is the Lady’s voice.
The goat’s lifeless body joins the lamb’s on the sacrificial rock; his blood splashes over the ship’s bow. The crowd stands silent, hands on hearts until the Lady’s prayer is finished. Don’t stop! I will her, because as long as she’s praying we don’t have to leave.
Pellie is standing behind her sister, the new Kora. Our eyes meet, and when the prayer finishes we rush to each other, hugging tight. The saffron around our eyes streams down our faces like blood.
‘I’ll be back,’ I whisper. ‘It’s just till the end of the sailing season.’
‘But your Learning!’ Pellie sobs, as if she’s the one being left out. ‘How can I finish mine without you here? How can I choose a boy without talking to you?’
I pull my favourite bracelet off my wrist and push it onto hers. ‘Let this talk to you from me.’
‘And this for you,’ she says, doing the same.
‘Loading!’ shouts Dada. In his captain’s voice, I think, and shudder, because I’m about to discover what being on a ship means.
Pellie and I hug as if we’ll never see each other again.
Dada straps Mama and her bedding into one of the leather slings used for hauling heavy cargo on board, and swings himself on deck to supervise. The men pull her up so gently – two guiding from the ship, leaning down till it seems only their toes are gripping the deck, two more on the ground fending off any bumps, and two hauling – that she doesn’t even brush against the ship’s hull before Dada is receiving her and carrying her to the cabin himself. Nunu is hauled up next – without any of the guidance or ceremony. Finally I’m lifted, with my puppy on my lap, dangling free for a moment like a happy child on a swing. It deposits me on the deck, and I scramble out as gracefully as I can without dropping Chance.
The ship takes me by surprise by shifting slightly as more cargo is slung up on the other side, and the puppy yelps. ‘Shush!’ I order him. His mother follows Dada like a shadow, but never makes a sound – I don’t want the sailors thinking Chance will be trouble.
Ibi’s family should be next, I think.
Then I see them. Ibi’s wife is leaning on his shoulder and sobbing; she’s wearing the loose gown of pregnancy, but even from here I can see her chest heaving. Her family surrounds her and though they have offerings of flowers and wine, there are no bags or chests of belongings. Ibi is holding his son so tightly the child is screaming; his wife’s mother is tugging at Ibi’s arm, trying to get him to let the baby go.
They’re not coming. He thought he’d talked her into it, but she’s changed her mind, or her mother’s changed it for her.
I don’t blame her! Only a fool would take a baby and a woman about to give birth on a voyage.
Or someone desperate. Someone who believes that his family’s fate will be worse if they stay.
A belch from the goddess, like a comment. We’re so used to it these days that no one seems to notice, but Ibi’s son coughs, a hiccupping cough that mixes with his screams, and turns him redder still. It breaks the spell on Ibi; he hands the baby back to his wife, farewells her as formally as a visiting dignitary, and strides back to the ship.
There is more going on than I’ve been told. Dada says that Mama and I are leaving because it’s Mama’s only chance to be healed, but I’m sure it’s not the only reason.
I’ve watched this ritual
every year of my childhood;
sailed on the flower-decked ship
in safe celebration around the cradled sea
with the other ships behind us.
But today has no flowers
or celebratory tours;
the sacrifices are real
but the ceremony a shadow –
a children’s game
played in deadly earnest –
the Lady not the Lady,
the chief still bearing scars of mourning,
subdued cheers of a bewildered people –
and the fleet not following,
for the other ships will wait
till repairs are finished
and the season right.
Sitting straight on my cabin chair,
serene as the Lady herself,
I sing sailors’ responses to the people’s farewell;
the ship glides on its rollers
down the slip to the sea,
and two by two the last sailors
swing themselves to the deck,
each to their place and paddle,
smooth as a dance –
and my light voice is lost
against their deep bass.
I seem to have shrunk
in this ship’s world of men
where my father is chief
and there is no Lady.
With a lift and a roll,
the ship slides free;
my father on his throne
shoves the steering oar
and the men’s paddles pull us
away from our land
till the wind god answers with his breath.
Now our square sail
pulls stronger than paddles
and the people’s song fades
like a sigh in the breeze.
I swear I won’t cry,
but as I wipe the sea spray from my eyes,
I stare at the sky –
I don’t want much,
just one swallow,
the first of its flock, returning for spring –
an omen that we
will also return.
But though gulls cry and wheel,
hoping for fish,
the sky is empty of what I want.
When our homeland disappears from sight, the world is empty too. The ship, which seemed so big on land, is small on this unending sea with its hidden monsters and angry gods. The fifty-two sailors, seated two by two on their benches, have lifted and stored their paddles; they sing, doze, and play knuckles as if they are relaxing in their own homes. I want them to be alert, to row and help the sail to get us to Tarmara as fast as we can. This is not like sailing around the cradled waters of home, with land in sight on every side. That was exciting; this is frightening.
Dada calls Ibi to take the steering paddle, and runs lightly down the centre walk-bridge to the cabin. Mama is sleeping, Nunu dozing at her feet. Chance has finally stopped whining and fallen asleep on my lap.
‘Is that dog not too big for laps?’ Dada asks.
‘I didn’t want him to wake Mama with his crying.’
‘Ah,’ says Dada. ‘I was confused – I didn’t realise it was the pup that needed comforting.’
My face burns, but Dada pretends not to notice.
He strokes Mama’s hair off her face; pulls the coverlet up over her shoulders. ‘Change into your travelling clothes,’ he says, ‘and come out on deck with me. Your mama will be safe here with Nunu.’
Dropping the awnings for privacy and shade, he turns his back to me, and continues gently stroking Mama’s forehead while I undo my wrapped skirt, exchange my embroidered red shift for a plain one, and pull a warm woollen tunic on top. The excitement of putting on my ceremonial maiden’s dress yesterday wore off long before we reached town; my season on the farm has taught me how much freer a tunic can be. And warmer.
‘Come,’ says Dada, and I follow him out of the cabin, duck under the square sail and past the rows of sailors, up the central bridge to the raised deck of the bow.
Dada’s eyes sweep the horizo
n. I think he’s going to show me something, but all he does is smile and say, ‘Breathe. Close your eyes, feel the wind and breathe.’
So I do. My bare feet grip the wooden deck, and now that I can’t see the great emptiness of sea and sky, I feel the breeze and salt spray fresh on my face like a gift. Its energy fills me and washes away the constant worries and fears. My body shifts with the rocking of the ship.
I open my eyes to see a parade of flying fish burst free from the waves, a family of dolphins close behind them. When the fish disappear, the dolphins return to the ship, leading us on our way.
Though the sea has lost the terrors
of empty vastness,
a day and a night
seem to last a full moon.
The rocking ship
makes Nunu throw up
so I have to care for my maid
as well as my mother
while I would rather stand on deck
to watch for birds
and land.
The Great Island is well named –
we see it early, from far away.
Too wide across, says Dada,
to see the ends;
not as beautiful as my home,
but with flatlands between hills
and white-headed mountains,
not as strange
as some of Dada’s stories.
I can’t yet see the harbour
but Dada calls me
to leave Mama and Nunu
and stand with him at the steering oar;
so as the sail drops
and the men pick up their oars
I see the channels,
the quays and shipsheds
of Tarmara Town.
Lightning excitement
flashes through me
because though the ships and harbour
are almost familiar
they are new and strange –
and I am standing by my father
seeing it all.
Beyond the quays
the town spreads,
smaller than ours, but with a great palace