“The rest of the pack has fallen off, with Shambhala and a distant Crack the Wind the only pursuers of Johnny Reb. There are two more fences to jump and the lead for Johnny Reb looks insurmountable. Twelve stone and six on the back of Johnny Reb, eight stone on the back of Crack the Wind, and eleven stone on Shambhala.
“Near the three-quarter mark, Johnny Reb has cleared the final fence as he gallops the straight away to victory,” the first caller said, jumping back into the fray. “Crack the Wind is seventeen lengths back and Shambhala at ten lengths turning onto Studsberry Street. Two hundred and fifty yards to go and the celebrations have begun for Johnny Reb. At two hundred yards, Crack the Wind is charging up the middle, but it may be too little, too late. Crack the Wind keeps coming as Sir Lancelot and Comet Rider pull up before the turn.
“Johnny Reb is ten lengths ahead of Shambhala, and just making the jump is Crack the Wind fifteen lengths behind,” blasted the second caller taking the megaphone.
“One hundred and fifty yards to the finish line, it’s Shambhala making a move on Johnny Reb, with Crack the Wind still ten lengths behind!” the announcer shouted, pulling the megaphone off its stand, his face puffed red and full as a circus balloon.
“Shambhala is gaining on Johnny Reb as Crack the Wind is coming hard on the outside and closing fast. It’s…Shambhala and Crack the Wind bearing down on Johnny Reb. Shambhala is a length off as Crack the Wind is catching them both.”
“Give him the whip!” someone shouted below us.
“Don’t,” barked Abe, coming onto the roof as they passed, “let the horse take over.”
“It’s Crack the Wind and Shambhala neck and neck,” the announcer screeched, “as Johnny Reb falls back. It’s Shambhala. It’s Crack the Wind as they come thundering toward the chair. It’s Shambhala and Crack the Wind in a head-bobbing, heart-pounding, pulsating dead heat too close to call!”
The crowd went mad as it swallowed up Figgie and the other jockey. Papa shook Figgie’s hand so hard it looked like it might fall off. The three judges conferred in earnest, using their bowlers to block public view of their discussion. Everyone was milling about waiting for the decision as a boy carried a piece of paper up to the crow’s nest.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the race caller blasted, “the judges have reached a decision. After careful deliberation and review, the judges have declared a tie. The owners of Crack the Wind and Shambhala share all the winnings for their equal finish. On the official race card, Crack the Wind and Shambhala place first at 12:36, Johnny Reb second at 13:06 and Sir Lancelot third at 14:46.”
The crowd sang “God Save the Queen” followed by the “Death of Alec Roberson” as Figgie and our horse made their way to the winner’s circle along with Shambhala. The two jockeys held the silver trophy aloft between them.
“You’re a regular Tommy Corrigan, mate!” someone in the crowd yelled at Figgie, who was all smiles.
When I finally caught his eye, Figgie pulled on his shirt collar and gave the chock pin a slight jingle. I hugged Papa in the winner’s circle and couldn’t wait to tell him my news about art school as he spoke to the reporters.
“We might have gotten more, but I’m thankful for what we won,” Papa told the reporter from the Hook & Harpoon. “I plan to use the winnings to pay off our debts and investors, with enough left for a good tin of tobacco.”
I stopped in my tracks as the rest of them headed back to the Gordon Arms. How could we win so much and I still end up losing? With no extra money, I couldn’t afford art school even with a scholarship. Papa turned down an invitation from Bittermen for a victory dinner. He said we had a whaleboat to paint. As we gathered at the paddock for some fancy dancing, Papa asked me what I wanted to talk about.
“It was nothing, Papa,” I said, kissing his cheek.
The leaf band from the village serenaded us with old whaler’s ditties. Much later, I asked Papa what he had seen in our horse. He laughed, motioned me and Figgie over to where Wind was resting.
“See that,” Papa said, pushing back the mane on his forehead. We both looked at the black diamond with bewilderment.
“Ever hear of a horse called Briggen?” he asked.
“Have I ever,” said Figgie his eyes lighting up. “He was one of the best steeplechasers ever, but he was lost at sea two summers ago.”
“Aye,” said Papa with a grin, “meet himself.”
“Briggen?” said Figgie.
“Papa, a ringer?” I added dumbfounded.
“Now, now, I only suspected he was Briggen,” Papa said. “My wager with Bittermen was worded…Let’s say I took advantage of his over-eagerness to make a whaler look like a fool.”
“I can’t believe I rode Briggen,” exclaimed Figgie, raising his arms over his head.
Papa put his fingers to his lips and turned them like a key in a lock as he gave us both a wink. Before the night ended, I waltzed with Figgie to the “Blue Bells of Scotland,” our heels clicking on the red gum-planked floor. Abe and Frieda danced too, as did the whole crew. The barn echoed as we all sang the last verse together.
“Oh, where, and oh, where is my highland laddie gone,
He’s gone to fight the French, for King George upon the throne,
And it’s oh in my heart I wish him safe at home
For it’s, oh, my heart would break if my Highland lad were slain…”
The next morning several out-of-town businessmen offered to buy our horse and enroll Figgie in jockey school. Papa made his mind up; he filed papers with the constables’ office, freeing Briggen. Figgie turned down riding school. He said he loved horses too much to trot for money.
Later that day, Papa took the bridle off Briggen and slapped him once on the hindquarters. The horse bolted into a cloud of dust. When it settled, he was gone.
26.
The world went mad the day the Town Horse left.
Instead of uniting everyone, the steeplechase served to divide and embitter the townspeople. Neighbor turned on neighbor for perceived slights. Bittermen awakened the lust for wealth that he knew lay dormant within us like a virus from some plague.
More than anything, I wanted to get back to Loch Bultarra to be with my orcas, cats, and Figgie as it had been just a few days ago. In order for that to happen, I needed to show people that another way existed, and the orcas were the best example I could think of. People needed to understand the Law of the Bay.
The orcas were part of that law, and with the help of Figgie, Aiden, and the others, I put together a sampling of the drawings. My pictures depicted the pod members, their behaviors, and their family life. We found some old restaurant placards and mounted my drawings on the back of them. I broke off the end of an old fishing pole to use it as a pointer, just the way Mr. Davenport did in class.
Papa, Abe, and Warrain helped me carry all my materials to the opera house. Along the foot path, scuffles between street toughs and villagers broke out. Those who had cheered Figgie the day before were now blaming him for not winning the race outright. Every corner had a cabbage crate podium occupied by some galah or dag grizzling about our state of affairs.
The stage flickered with a ghostly hue as the Drummond lights lining the floor came up full glare. I set my artwork up on chairs for all to see. I heard Figgie and Aiden hawking my lecture outside as the room filled with people.
“Learn all about the life of the orcas. Secrets of killer whales, our ocean friends,” they shouted, handing flyers to passersby.
Bittermen introduced me as the city’s resident expert on killer whales. If I had stopped to think about it, I would have realized that I was nervous being in front of so many strangers. But I was so anxious to share what I’d learned that I forgot where I was. As I made a point about their size, colors, and distinctive markings, I saw Arizona and a few of our classmates slip into seats in the center of the hall. I was happy to see some kids
my own age. One man was particularly interested in why we used aboriginal instead of biblical names for the orcas. I told him they already had names that meant a lot more than anything I could think up.
“These are extraordinary perceptions for a youngster,” Bittermen said, applauding. “Do tell us more.”
Blushing with confidence, I showed drawings of how I had taught the pod to eat out of my hand and to come when I called. I spoke about how orcas used sound to disorient and catch fish. I explained how underwater noises could damage an orca’s ears and drive them to beach themselves. I felt proud when I was able to answer all of Bittermen’s questions about that to more applause. Orcas lived in family units, I told the audience. If you separated a calf from the pod, the whole group chased after it, no matter the danger. Next I showed a sketch I’d made of everyone rescuing Derain. I declared that orcas were the most loyal animals on the planet and would never hurt a person.
“You’re leaving out how you use dark powers to control them!” a man shouted from the shadows.
At first, I didn’t recognize the voice, and the hot glow from the lights prevented me from seeing his face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
“Oh, I think you do,” the gravelly voice said, hanging back in the darkness.
“That’s my daughter you’re speaking to,” said Papa angrily, standing up.
“Here, here,” said Bittermen standing in protest. “This young lady is a guest in our city; her character should not be attacked.”
“An unwanted guest,” said the man, moving closer, “for I’ve seen her perform ungodly acts on our waters.”
“I have not,” I shouted, stamping my foot.
“That’s enough,” said Papa, moving toward the man.
Men in the audience sprang up and restrained Papa, Abe, and the rest of the crew.
“This is outrageous,” said Bittermen. “If you’re making accusations, show yourself, man.”
My stomach began to turn as I realized who was stepping out of the gloom—the captain of the fishing trawler, the same man who had dumped chum on me and Figgie.
“She’s the one I saw from my trawler that night dancing around with those devilfish,” said the captain, moving toward the front of the stage. “She was alone on the water with the little dark fella, and they were casting spells, too.”
Gasps echoed through the room as Bittermen called for quiet. I tried to speak but couldn’t. I felt as if a python were squeezing the breath out of me.
“Oh, it’s worse than that!” bellowed the captain. “You desecrated the Lord’s likeness with depictions of native idolatry and pagan images!”
He held up the dinner scene I’d drawn of Uncle and the villagers.
“How did you get that?” I shouted.
The audience clamor mimicked lyrebirds shuffling through the brush. “This is an outrage,” said one. “Disgusting,” yelled a woman. “How could this happen here?” said others as rows of people got up to leave.
“See, I always knew those whales were nothing but trouble,” said another.
“Funny, how a whaler wins a race with a lopsided horse and a jockey who doesn’t even belong here.”
“None of them were affected by the comet because they bought all the medicine with money took from our bay.”
“And our schools, what are we paying for? To have our kids taught this!” shouted a man picking up my dinner scene and tossing it at the stage. The tip of the wood frame hit the Drummond stage light. The loud pop and flaring flame caused everyone to panic and push toward the exits. Some stumbled and fell, women screamed, men smashed chairs and tables. Figgie and Aiden battled up through the crowd until they reached me on stage.
“No, please don’t leave,” I begged the crowd weakly from my knees. “The orcas help the bay; they don’t harm it!”
As the men let go of Papa and Abe, they rushed to me on the stage. The heat from the lights lashed at my skin. I covered my face with my hands. I wanted to cry, but I wasn’t going to let anyone get the better of me. Bittermen looked stunned. He smoothed the brim of his hat and left.
Arizona stood alone, staring at the stage and wiping tears from her cheeks. Our eyes caught as she left a piece of paper on a chair.
Papa hugged me as I assured him Figgie was just a good friend and our canoe trips were about the orcas. It didn’t matter to him. He said the whole kit and caboodle of us would leave tonight if I wanted to, but I’d have none of it. I wanted us to stay and enjoy our victory. As we left the opera house, I picked up the slip of paper Arizona had left on the chair. I think I can help, she wrote, meet me by the cannon tomorrow at six p.m.
When we got to the hotel, the door to the boatsteerer’s room was open. I glanced inside. There were two Murphy beds against the front wall and four canvas cots strewn about. Warrain sat facing us, leaning on the spindles of a straight-backed chair, his arms dangling like octopus tentacles in an open-air market.
“He was yabbing it up at Smithson’s Billiards,” said Warrain, waving us in.
The both of us looked at each other and said, “Who was yabbing?”
“Him,” said Warrain, pointing behind himself with his thumb.
I waved for the rest of the youngsters to go on to our room while I joined Warrain. The back window of the boatsteerer’s room had been flung open. I could smell the seaweed and lapping briny water of the rising tide against the building. A bedsheet was tied to an iron waste pipe that ran down the back wall next to the window and through the hotel room floor. The sheet intermittently jerked slack and taut, as if a large fish were caught on the end. We rushed to the window to look out. A gagged figure hung upside down, flailing against the brick wall like bait jumping around on a hook.
“He talked too much, and then he didn’t talk at all,” Warrain boomed. “Now maybe he will talk some more.”
Warrain told us that he and Ned had overheard the man bragging about a plan to rid the bay of all its problems. When he boasted about pinching a girl’s sketch of a village banquet, Warrain made up his mind to grab him in the alleyway.
“Meet Noah Brown who likes to hang around town,” laughed Warrain, pulling up the sheet hand over fist. “Let’s see if he remembers better now who is behind all this hubbub.”
“Are you ready to talk?” Warrain asked in a friendly tone, patting the man’s jowls.
The daggy fella violently shook his head yes. “See, more blood to the brain helps a person think,” said Warrain, removing the gag.
Breathing heavily, Brown asked for a glass of water. Between sips, he admitted to spying on Loch Bultarra and stealing my drawing. I soon realized that he was the figure I had seen circling the family graves some weeks ago.
“I want you to know, I feel bad about doing this,” Brown said to me apologetically, “but when you can’t fish no more you got to do something to earn your keep.”
“Weak men are good at feeling bad, less so at making amends,” said Warrain, grabbing him by the collar.
“Okay, okay,” the man muttered, staring down at the water. “You got to understand, this comet has made people crazy…do things they’d never dreamed of doing before.”
Warrain untied the man’s hands and feet. He took hold of his collar with both hands again and leaned the man back out the window.
“Feel bad faster,” Warrain said.
“They’re gonna kill off them black whales that follow you around,” he whimpered as he hung halfway out the window.
“Who?” demanded Figgie angrily. “Who?” he repeated, shoving the man in the chest.
The man tumbled out the window, cursing like the sailor he used to be, before hitting the water with a wail.
“Bye now,” said Warrain, closing the window shutters to his cussing. “Everyone’s tired. No one will hurt our Blackfish tonight.”
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Figgie bunked with Warrain and the rest of the harpooners. I perched on our window ledge, listening to the soft clang of harbor buoys. There was a cedar downspout out the window as close to me as the tree branches at Loch Bultarra were from my porthole. I waited until all the kids fell asleep, then leaped for the downspout as if it were my tree back home. My weight pulled it away from the roof gutter. As the downspout sank deeper into the tidal mud, it lowered me toward the water. When I was close enough, I dove. The air was cool, but the water was still summer warm. My nightshirt billowed around me in jellyfish fashion as I swam toward the clanging in the distance.
I climbed onto the big red harbor buoy gently bobbing to and fro.
Jungay had never had to find me beyond the whaling station so I waited patiently. Somehow, I needed to warn him about the fishermen’s plans. Yet what was I warning him about and how would he understand? I had no answers to these questions. I wasn’t even sure they were the right questions to ask.
The last sliver of moon cast the bay in enough shadow light for me to see the forest and mountains surrounding our home miles away. So often I had longed to be here, among the lights of Paradise, only to now ache for our darkness again. I fell asleep to the heartbeat ding of the small buoy bell. I was half asleep when Jungay’s jagged top fin tweaked my nose.
Silently I stood behind his top fin as I always did. This was our sixth journey together. We set out methodically pacing ourselves for a long dance neither of us wanted to end. His mournful song told me he understood the warning I bore. The high-pitched cries that followed echoed deep into oceans I’d never dreamed of and touched consciousness I’d never imagined existed.
We were, in our own ways, lamenting a planet that had lost its Dreaming.
We stopped for a moment, drifting on the waves and waiting for a reply that never came. Jungay’s clicks and melodies acted as lassos of sound roping in the heavens and pulling the southern lights toward us in massive curtains of green and gold.
The Whaler's Daughter Page 19