by Rod Duncan
With his ear pressed to the side door, Elias heard voices.
He needed witnesses from the village, men and women who bore oath-marks of the Williams clan. But inside the church he’d be hidden. All that planning and care to confront Jago in the safest place would come to nothing. Unless he waited for the others to come from the stables. They could make a loud argument together. If Jago heard, he would step out. Barging inside was too great a risk. Elizabeth would have to eat the meal she’d made.
Then, cutting through the murmur of male voices within the church, he heard a woman’s cry of alarm. His hand shot to the door handle.
He was inside in one step, trying to take in the strange scene. Jago paced along the front of the pews. Two gatherers were holding Tinker over the altar. His shirt had been pulled up over his head. His skinny back squirmed like an animal. The giant gatherer was standing off to the side.
The wind took the door, slamming it against the frame. Everyone turned.
He saw Elizabeth then. The giant had his one good arm tight under her neck, pinning her fast against his chest.
Other gatherers who’d been lounging on the pews now stood.
“Mr No-Thumbs!” Jago called, flourishing his arm as if to bow, but doing no more than nodding his head. “We’re honoured by your presence.”
Elias did bow. Deep. “Patron Protector.”
“Are you here to join our entertainment?”
“My week’s almost up. I was coming to see you. To spare you the trouble of the road.”
“Oh so generous. But I say again – are you here to share the entertainment?” Jago nodded to one of the men at the altar, who raised a stick and brought it down with a fierce snap. The boy writhed under the blow but it was Elizabeth who gasped, as if her own skin had been cut. Three red weals lined the boy’s back.
Elias’s eyes darted around the gloomy church. He counted six gatherers and Jago. Sticks had been piled on the flagstones between the pews, as if ready for a bonfire.
“Lost your voice?” Jago asked.
“No. I’m sorry, Patron. I… I just don’t understand.”
“And why would you? You didn’t see these two sneaking in to steal from us. We’ll get a confession from the boy. Or from the girl if he holds his tongue. Hard to forget a body like hers. Was she not with you at the Inn?”
The stick came down again. A mewling sound escaped from Elizabeth’s throat.
“I can explain,” Elias said, trying to make his words sound casual.
“You can?”
“They’re with me. That is… I’m with them. And others. We sent these two ahead to look for a place to rest. I said they should try the old church. It was my fault if they bothered you.”
Jago gestured to the man with the stick. Down it snapped on the boy’s back. This time Elizabeth remained still. One of her hands was pressed unnaturally against her hip, as if something were held there, hidden by the folds of her skirt. He turned his head away so Jago wouldn’t follow his gaze. It would surely be a knife. Things would go hellish bad, hellish quick if she tried to use it.
He spread his arms wide and stepped towards the Patron. He could feel the gatherers tensing. One sprung up from the front pew. Hands went to weapons.
“I bring news,” Elias said. “I have the information you asked for. All can be arranged as you wished.”
Jago cocked his head. “All?”
“Yes, Patron.”
“You were rushing to my homestead to share the good news?”
“Yes, Patron.”
Jago moved towards him, but seemed to change his mind and stepped to Elizabeth instead. Elias saw her draw breath, as if readying for a strike.
“What’s your name, girl?” Jago asked.
“Elizabeth,” she said, her eyes downcast.
“You served us in the Salt Ray.” He took a lock of her dark hair and felt it between finger and thumb, as if testing the quality of a garment. He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers then dropped his hand to her neck, spreading the coat collar
“Who owns you?”
Jago had only to slip a finger into the cloth and pull it away for all to be lost. That close, he’d know the untruth of her marks. And all she had to do was jerk her knife up under his ribs. Anger for the boy would give strength to her arm. In her mind, she’d see her blade burst out through his spine. Her hand would follow to make it happen.
“I belong to the mistress of the Salt Ray Inn, sir.”
“And what’s Mr No-Thumbs to you?”
Elias tensed. His heartbeat swapped from fast to slow and back. He felt that constriction in his neck. Damn, but he needed another dose to get through this.
“He’s a customer, sir.”
“He says he sent you ahead.”
“We’re trading beer from the inn, sir. He said he’d protect us on the road.”
Jago leaned towards her. His finger had been toying with her neck cloth. Now he brought it under her chin, tilting back her head. The Patron was so close to her that Elias could no longer see her knife hand.
“He offered to protect you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jago opened his mouth, as if to ask another question, then closed it again. His chest shuddered. Elias’s own heart seemed set to explode. But then the Patron stepped back and Elias saw a grin on his face. The shudder had been the beginning of laughter.
“No-Thumbs the protector!” Jago spluttered. “No-Thumbs the guardian of sour beer!”
The gatherers were throwing themselves into the mirth, doubling over, wiping tears from the corners of their eyes.
“Is this true?”
Elias bowed. “Yes, Patron.”
“How much do they pay you?”
“Board and food. A ride on the wagon.”
“How will you perform your mighty deeds? If a bear charges the beer barrels will you slap it with the flat of your hand? The mistress should come to me if she needs protection. My word will see her safe. She’d easily afford my payment.”
His eye roamed over Elizabeth. Then he nodded and the giant let her go. The gatherers who had been holding the boy let go also and he ran to her. She gathered him in, cradling his head rather than his back.
“Tell me your news, No-Thumbs,” Jago said.
“You wish me to speak it in front of them?” Elias nodded towards Elizabeth and the boy.
“No,” Jago said. “No. We’ll speak alone. But… She’s pretty, don’t you think? The boy’s not your bastard, is he?”
“No, Patron.”
“No, Patron?” Jago seemed to taste the words as he repeated them. “But I fancy she means something to you.” He pointed to the gatherer with the stick. “Go fetch medicine for the boy’s back. Mr No-Thumbs has a liking for him. And the wench. We must treat them with particular care.”
Chapter 15
The church had seemed to be a single hall. The east window let in light from twenty feet above the altar. Smaller windows lined the side walls at the same height. The wind had been strengthening. Now it rattled the glass and flexed the corrugated iron sheets, making them groan against the wooden frame. If Elias hadn’t known how long the place had stood, he might have thought it about to split down the middle.
Jago led him to the side of the altar and pulled back a threadbare wall hanging, leading him through into a small sacristy. The low roof sloped away from the main body of the church. The room had been furnished with a table and wash basin, a pot-bellied stove, a row of coat pegs on the wall and a travelling chest, which lay open. Splintered wood marked the place where its lock should have been. Jago folded down the lid and sat.
Elias had been practising his speech all the way along the road from New Whitby. But now he came to it, the words didn’t seem so wise. One thing, though, had fallen to his gain. None of Jago’s men could hear what he was about to say. Even if the Patron didn’t like it, he wasn’t going to lose face.
“Tell me your secrets,” Jago said.
“You
told me I’d get a reward.”
“Afterwards.”
“You didn’t say what I’d be given.”
“You don’t trust me?”
Jago leaned back against the wall. His mouth had curled downwards. Elias waited. At last the Patron said, “This is a dangerous game, Elias.”
“But I have something to offer. Everyone wants the secret of how I got to Labrador. I told you I’d stolen a boat.”
Jago grunted. “A small one, you said. You’re nothing but a scabrous dog. It vexes me that you don’t seem to know it.”
Elias bowed, as if he’d just been praised. “The tide could have carried me across,” he said. “By good fortune. Patrol ships might have missed me. A one-in-a-thousand chance. But I’d nothing to lose. It might have been true.
“What you hope is that I found a more certain way. Other people are thinking it too. You’re not the only one to ask me. I’ve left them to guess. But now I’m going to tell you the truth. There is a way to cross. It got an outlaw from Newfoundland to Labrador. But it could just as well bring a cargo of weapons the other way. All in sure safety. Twenty cargos. One hundred.”
“How?”
“Through a person I know.”
“I’m not a patient man, Elias. Be careful.”
“If I told you everything here and now, it’d still do you no good. But…” Elias had reached the heart of it. The words he planned to say were turning his mouth dry and tight. They would be treason against the very words tattooed across his chest, and Jago’s. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “But… if this man… the one I know… if he decides to help… no one will be able to stop you. You could have it all. You could be the first king of Newfoundland.”
Jago drew his head back. He blinked three times as if clearing his eyes from sleep. “I should cut out your tongue!” But his pupils had dilated with lust. “I should have you torn apart by horses.” He was whispering too. “If I let it be known…”
“Then should I say no more?”
“You play a dangerous game!”
When he’d said those words before, they’d been a threat from one man to another. Now they spoke of others not in the room: tens of thousands of warriors, all the layers of feudal Newfoundland from Patron to slave. It had been the subject of their dealings from the start. But in giving voice to the idea, Elias had broken a taboo.
Jago got to his feet. He paced to the other end of the small room and stood facing the rusting corrugated iron. Elias waited, keeping his own mouth clamped tight.
“Who sent you to say this?”
“You did, Patron.”
Jago wheeled to face him. “The old clans hate me. They’d love nothing better than to see me thrown down. Your words reek of their plotting. Is this a trap? I’ve got your woman and your boy.”
“They’re not mine.”
“Others want this knowledge, you say?”
“Yes, Patron.”
“Who?”
“Everyone who knows enough to have guessed part of the story.”
“You refused them?”
“Yes.”
“Then why offer it to me?”
Jago was right to fear the snare of his enemies. If Elias’s story wasn’t convincing, his end might come in that small room.
“I’m talking to you because of the reward,” he said.
“The old clans are richer.”
“But they wouldn’t give me what I want.”
“Which is?”
“A new cloak,” Elias said. “With garnets big as blackberries sewn into the clasp. And hemmed with silver thread.”
Jago’s expression darkened.
“I could sit with Patrons wearing a cloak like that. I could sit with their sons and their ministers.”
“That’s all you want?”
Elias shook his head. “No. That’s why I’m not talking to them. They have money. They have fine clothes. But none would give me what I really need. I’ll help to make you king of Newfoundland. And in return, all I want is for you to dress me in finery and set me up in a game of cards.”
“With who?”
Elias held out his hands, palms upwards, fingers and what remained of his mutilated thumbs spread. “With the men who did this.” He could have asked for anything else and Jago might not have believed him. But the man had a taste for revenge in the same way others have a taste for wine.
Elias’s heart thrummed, painful in his chest. He needed to smear glycer-fortis under his tongue. He needed to get out of the sacristy, out of the church, to feel the fresh wind on his face. But there was no way back from what he’d just said.
“My contact agreed to meet you,” he said. “If you want this, we’ll take the north road. But… you can’t bring more than two gatherers. That’s what he said. If we go to him – you and two gatherers and me – he said he’d give you what you want.”
A smile grew on the Patron’s face, starting on one side and spreading until his teeth showed sharp between his lips.
“I agree,” he said.
A shudder rose from Elias’s belly. He couldn’t tell if it came from loathing or relief.
Chapter 16
After his outlawing, after his thumbs had been cut, Elias had set out to escape. He knew a way down from the Island of the Reckoning to a shingle beach. He scrambled it in the dark, wading around headlands, the water close to freezing.
The hardest part was the climb back up. He tore strips from the lining of his cloak and wrapped them around his wounded hands. He made hooks of his fingertips and lodged them in crevasses in the sea cliff. When he scrambled over the top, he found himself hidden between tangles of tuckamore. He must have passed out, then. But when he woke it was still dark. His jaw rubbed against the dirt as he spoke.
“Sit up,” he said.
It was an order, so he did.
He stood, fell, stood again, swaying. He shifted one foot in front of the other, moving away from the cliff. When he didn’t stumble, he took another step. Then another. Movement seemed to help. His mind began to clear. The sensation of walking pulled him away from the numbness in his hands. When at last he looked back, he saw that the campfires on the Island of the Reckoning had grown distant.
To follow the track would mean a swift death, once the eighteen hours of grace were up and hunting parties set out in pursuit. He knew the dangers of crossing rough ground in the dark: bogs and hollows. But they were the odds he’d been given.
When the sky started to brew sunrise, he crossed a stream and headed up the valley side, finding a rocky gully to shelter in. And just in time, because a party of horsemen and dogs raced along the road below, the way he might have walked.
Lying at the lip of the gulley, hidden by long grasses and low brush, he watched. If the dogs ran past the place where he’d crossed the track in the night, he would be safe for a few hours more.
A bilberry hung near his face. He plucked it with his teeth. The sharp juice puckered his mouth. There were riper ones nearby. Far below, the dogs were running ahead. If they hesitated with the finding of his scent, the riders would see.
He unwrapped the binding from around his right hand. His guts churned at the sight of it, but he didn’t throw up. He could feel the thumb even though it wasn’t there. Reaching out, he took one of the riper bilberries between his first and second finger. But in pulling it from the bush, it burst. He’d squeezed too hard.
Below him the dogs had reached his crossing point. Two of them ran on but one stopped to sniff the ground, running in a circle. The riders had reached it.
Elias took another of the berries between his fingers. This time it came away clean.
Only one of the riders reined in his horse. Ahead, the other dogs were picking up speed. They began to bark. The last rider gave up. He dug in his heels and galloped away, catching up with the rest of the party. The last dog followed.
Elias looked at the berry held between his fingers. He put it to his mouth and bit. The juice ran sweet.
Once over the ridge, there was no more chance of being seen from the road. Berries and stream water kept him alive, and the heat of walking. After a time – it might have been the third day, he’d lost count by then – he came again to the coast and a cluster of shacks. The peasants who lived there would pay their rent in food. Such families could never catch or grow enough to work themselves out of hunger. Yet it was their sweat that stacked the tables of Patron and gatherer. Elias had known all this before. But it had never hit him so hard.
He waited until the men had set out in their fishing boats before creeping towards the drying racks. There were chickens around him and an old dog with grey hairs at the muzzle, whose growl was only a token. It was the geese that gave him away: a flock of them in a pen between the shacks. They set up a great noise, which drew out the women and children.
Elias grabbed three salmon from the nearest rack, gripping two between fingers and palms, the third he held in his mouth, as might an animal. He backed away. None of them followed. There was no fight in them. Hunger and pain left little room for pity. But Elias felt it still.
Afterwards he’d think that he could have asked for help. They might have given it freely. They knew what it meant to suffer.
He ate the salmon raw, tearing the flesh, grinding the bones with his teeth, eating every part. But only a little each day. It was enough to keep him alive until he could stumble along the road into Short Harbour.
Under moonlight and from deep memory, he walked the rocks next to the bay, finding Fitz’s house, and the boatshed that belonged to it. The land door was locked, so he clambered round onto the wooden slipway, crusted with barnacles at the edge. The sea door swung open to his touch, the creak of it quieter than the waves scouring the cobbles behind him. It was too dark to see but he felt the curving side of a skiff and followed it until he found the ladder to the loft, just where it had always been. With the trapdoor laid back down, he stretched out on the floorboards. It had been their hideaway as children. It brought a kind of peace.