When people did come forth at last, they gathered in groups to whisper on salt-spattered corners. They pointed to the doors ripped from hinges and the chimneys toppled from the roofs. They showed one another the smashed windows, the fallen lampposts, the drowned cat bobbing in the sewer.
But there was worse.
“There’s always worse on the coast of Twill,” Mrs. Holly said to Aunt Opal, after they’d met and warily congratulated each other on the road to town. “If you and Eric are going to the weep tonight at Grangers’, would you mind me walking with you? It’s not a time to be alone.”
“No, it isn’t,” replied Aunt Opal. “We’d be glad to pick you up on our way by.” Together, the women looked off across the fields to where Twill’s coast came into view. And though the sea appeared there as the meekest and most charming pool of blue, their faces hardened.
Harold Granger’s fishing boat had never come home. One glance at the rocks off the coast showed the reason. The hull lay crushed on Mad Bull, a ledge that had been the death of many good crews over time, and many strong sailing ships. There was no disgrace in ending there, the Granger children were assured.
They were orphans, now: eight-year-old Rachel, with a pair of braids thicker than her wrists, bowlegged Joey, ten, who wore his fishing cap backwards and liked to kid around. Eric knew them from school. Neither had been with their father on the morning of the storm. For this, the people of Twickham raised thankful eyes to the east, where The Blaster was generally believed to hole up.
“Though why we bother thanking the old tyrant, it’s hard to see,” Aunt Opal remarked, as she, Mrs. Holly, and Eric trudged the muddy road to town that evening. “Everybody knows he would have drowned the children, too, if he could have got them.”
“Hush!” said Mrs. Holly, tucking a dish towel more firmly around the cake she was carrying in a basket. “You never know who’s listening!”
“Has anyone gone to look at the Grangers’ boat?” Eric asked. “Maybe Mr. Granger is still hanging on out there. He was a smart fishcatcher. I can’t believe he isn’t somewhere around.”
“Someone has gone, and he isn’t,” Mrs. Holly replied, drawing a ragged breath. “And please let’s not speak of it anymore.”
In Twill, it was the case that those lost at sea were rarely found, whether because of The Blaster or the treacherous currents offshore. In fact, Mrs. Holly’s husband had disappeared in just this way, not to mention Eric’s parents, and the walkers now fell silent to respect these disturbing memories.
Everyone in town tried to cram themselves into the Grangers’ house that night. When the three arrived, candles were burning five deep in the windows, casting a waxy glow upon clusters of damp faces. It was obvious that the weep, as these all-too-frequent gatherings had come to be called, was already well under way.
They were half funeral rite, half worship ceremony to The Blaster. Guests were welcome to weep whatever way they wished—with happiness for the miracle of their own survival or with sorrow for those gone. And many wept both ways under the nervous flickers of the fish tallow candles, because their feelings were rather confused.
There was also the important matter of the food. Like Mrs. Holly, most families in Twickham had cooked for the Grangers’ weep. Pies, cakes, cookies, casseroles, fish roasts, and oyster stews were piled on every available table and ledge. Eric sniffed the rich smells, but he tasted nothing. Not one guest was eating, nor would anyone touch a scrap, because this was The Blaster’s feast alone. At a later hour, it would be taken out and hurled off the Twickham cliffs into the sea. Here, it was hoped, The Blaster would find it and, after filling his cavernous belly, feel inclined to go away nicely, perhaps to sleep for several weeks, and give the town time to recover.
“Do you sometimes wonder if The Old Blaster really does eat our food?” Eric whispered to Mrs. Holly as she placed her cake carefully among the other offerings. Aunt Opal had dumped off a jar of pickled turnips and gone to talk fish nets in the kitchen. “Do you think all this cooking for him does a bit of good?”
Mrs. Holly silenced him with a ferocious glance.
“You are as bad as your aunt about saying what you shouldn’t!” she hissed. “You’ll be drowned next storm if you keep it up!”
He wasn’t the only one saying things, though. Around them, conversations begun in whispers and sniffs were taking a daring turn. People asked why The Blaster had gone after Harold Granger, of all people, and in the Season of Calm as well. Harold was a fine man. A very talented person. What had he done to deserve such treatment? It was outrageous, people said, and too much to bear. Too much for a town to stand anymore. Too much to go on, yes, too much.
Eric listened to these heated words, but he knew they meant little. People always grew angry at weeps. Nothing ever came of it. When the next day dawned clear, or rainy, or even windy, they dragged out their nets and crab traps again. They climbed on their slim boats and rowed through the rocks to go fishing. Tomorrow would be no different. Even the Granger children would go, brave and solemn eyed, on a neighbor’s boat.
Eric glanced over to where Joey Granger was standing in a throng of weepers. The boy’s face was swollen, and he looked as lost and alone as if he’d been stranded on a desert island. Eric supposed he should go over to him. He should go and say something to make Joey feel better. It was expected in Twill. It was what people had done for him. He didn’t go, though. He felt too disgusted. He turned and pushed through the crowd to the Grangers’ front door. When no one was looking, he let himself out.
“I had to get away from there, Gully,” he told the bird later, as they lay together near the fire. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. There was nothing I could say that would’ve made any difference. Everyone in Twickham gets hit sooner or later. You know it. I know it. We all grew up knowing it. What can anyone do? This is the coast of Twill.”
5
NOW, FOR MANY DAYS, a thick gray mist lay over the coast, as if The Blaster himself thought he’d gone a bit too far and wished to hide Twill’s pain from his eyes. Eric went often to Cantrip’s Point with the crab traps, where he caught little enough in the gloomy fog. Whenever he went, he brought the big net, though lugging it back and forth was a terrible job. He kept his eye on the lampfish hole at lampfish feeding times, but he never saw anything there.
At first, he thought the big fish might have been frightened off by the storm. Then, when there was still no sign after a week, he wondered if it had been hurt, or perhaps even killed. Lampfish were not known for abandoning their holes.
“But how many holes have been discovered so close to shore?” he said one day to Gullstone, whom he now kept near him at all times by means of a long string tied around the bird’s foot. “For that matter, what does anyone in Twickham really know about these fish?
“Will you please stop pecking that string!” he added crossly to the sea gull. “You know it’s only for your own good. You don’t want to get lost in another of The Blaster’s storms, do you?”
Oddly enough, very little was known about lampfish, Eric found, when he began to ask around.
“You aren’t supposed to know,” a fishcatcher down at the docks told him. “It’s too dangerous to try finding out. Lampfish are lampfish, and what they do is their business. I wouldn’t worry about it. Just keep an eye open and ring your bell if you see one. There’s been only one lampfish caught this year. Everyone in town is in need of fresh hooks.”
So Eric kept up his watch over the underwater hole. When the weather cleared, he began to linger at Cantrip’s Point after sunset in hopes of catching the big fish on a night expedition. One evening, as he sat on the ledge staring out to sea, and as Gully limped gloomily around in the dark hunting for snails, a shape loomed up and the ancient fishcatcher from Strangle Point appeared. The fellow lurched toward them like a sailor walking the deck of a sinking ship. His tarpaulin coat slapped at his knees.
“Congratulations!” His voice boomed through the night air, loud enough to
alert every lampfish for miles around. Eric raised a finger to his lips, but the old man didn’t see this, or chose to ignore it. With a great flap of coat and boots, he swung himself to the ground.
“It’s a lampfish night if I ever saw one!” he bellowed, waving an arm at the ocean before them. “No moon. No wind. No waves. Seen anything out there yet?”
He looked sharply at Eric. But when the boy shook his head, his old eyes wandered off again and his vacant expression returned. He lay back on his elbows and gazed across the water.
“You never know with lampfish,” he murmured. “And that’s saying the least of it.”
This was so exactly what Eric had been thinking, lately, that he couldn’t help but agree with a friendly nod.
They sat together in silence. Eric didn’t mind. The night was a pleasant one. When at last the red glows of the lampfish began to rise and glimmer around the point, a sweet feeling of mystery swept through him.
“You were right about that storm coming,” he said, turning to the weathered profile beside him. “How’d you know? There wasn’t a cloud anywhere, and no wind.”
The fishcatcher didn’t answer. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Eric didn’t want to shout at him. He leaned back and looked up at the sky.
Without the moon, the stars seemed to shine brighter. Far away to the south, an arc of bright light bulged up on the horizon. Eric knew it came from one of the big trading cities some hundred miles below Twill, one of the cities whose lights burned night and day, it was said. No one Eric knew had ever been there to see if this was true. The sea between was too rough for Twickham’s slim fishing boats, and even if it hadn’t been, Twill folk weren’t about to take chances.
Trading ships from the outside brought occasional information. But the foreign sailors who landed at Twickham were a rowdy, hard-drinking bunch who could not be trusted to tell a sober fact. It was impossible to know whether the buildings in these cities really were made of glass, as one sailor had reported, or if the inhabitants wore furs and jewels and never needed to fish at all, as another had said.
Eric sighed. Beside him, the fishcatcher rustled in his oilskin coat. Sir Gullstone was invisible in the dark. His string had stopped moving. The bird was probably asleep at the end of it, lovable old thing.
“Do you ever think about going someplace else?” Eric suddenly found himself asking the old man. “Because I do. Don’t tell my aunt, but I’d like to quit all this fishing. Where does it lead us, anyhow? I want to get off this coast and go someplace where a person can do things without looking over his shoulder all the time, where people aren’t being hurt or killed every other day of the week.”
Eric gave the string an affectionate shake and glanced at the fishcatcher, who seemed this time to have heard him. He was nodding his head and grinning.
“I’ve been!” he announced, cheerfully. “It’s the same, everywhere!”
“The same! But it couldn’t be!”
“It is,” said the old man. “Well, up here anyway.” He peered at Eric. “Don’t think you can keep a thing safe by tying a string around it neither. Can’t be done, no. Won’t never work.”
“What do you mean!” Eric cried, holding fast to Gully’s leash. He was about to demand a full explanation when the old man sat up. He cocked his head to one side, listening. He lifted his beakish nose and sniffed the air.
“What is it?” Eric asked. Then he heard something, too. A gentle bubbling sound was coming from the ocean below. A noise of swirling water arose with it, then stopped, then came again. Eric leaped to his feet, but the fishcatcher moved quicker and caught his arm.
“Where are you going?” he snapped. “Stay with me. You can’t leave me down here on the ground by myself.”
“I won’t. I’m just going to see what’s making that noise,” said Eric, trying to pull his arm away.
The old man held fast. “Don’t leave me!” he cried. “Stay here. You can’t go.”
“Yes, I can!” Eric replied. “I know what’s making that noise and I want to see it.”
“Noise?” A sly look crossed the fishcatcher’s face. “What noise? I don’t hear anything. Listen. There’s nothing.”
He cupped an ear with one hand while with the other he kept hold of Eric. He was strong, much stronger than he looked.
Eric paused and listened, and at first it was true. There were no bubbling sounds. But in the next minute, he heard a great gush of water, as if a wave had broken on a rock, and the sound of something moving away through the sea.
“Let go!” Eric cried, twisting his arm hard in the fishcatcher’s grasp. He pulled frantically and, after a second wrench, broke free and raced for the brink of the ledge. He was in time to see only a blazing streak of red far-off in the water near the whirlpool’s surge. The color was so intense that he caught his breath. As he watched, the streak was joined by others, in different fiery hues, and a fantastic swirl of lights shone up from the sea and lit the dark water all around.
“Oh!” Eric gasped. “Look! Look!”
A deep sigh came from behind him. He turned to find the fishcatcher raised on his knees, gazing past him in awe.
“It’s only the lampfish,” Eric reminded him. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
“Afraid?” The fishcatcher’s eyes darted at him angrily. “Only the lampfish, did you say? And tomorrow you’ll run to ring your blasted bell, no doubt. First thing in the morning you’ll call the whole town out.”
“No, I won’t,” Eric answered. “I could have done that weeks ago.”
“So you could.” The old man nodded. “I’ve had my eye on you.” He sat back on his heels and squinted at Eric. “This lampfish you’ve been watching is a fair-sized fish, I think.”
“It’s a huge one,” Eric replied. “And very tricky. I’ve been after it since before the big storm.”
“Its hole, I suppose, is somewhere near here?” The fishcatcher gestured around the point. “And no doubt you’ve been plotting to land it alone. I must say, I’m disappointed. I’d have wagered you were smarter than that.”
“Its hole is right under this ledge, if you want to know,” Eric replied testily. “And what I’m planning to do is no business of yours. Anyway, the fish is out circling Cantrip’s Spout right now, so I guess we might as well pack up and go home.”
“Cantrip’s Spout, did you say? Aha, Cantrip’s Spout!”
A strange thing happened to the fishcatcher’s mouth. It quivered. Then it wriggled. Then it snaked itself around into a horrid, mirthless grin.
“Cantrip’s Spout!” The mouth opened crookedly at one side to let out a splutter. No, it was a giggle. Another giggle followed, and then a full-fledged gurgling laugh. The old man clamped his hand over this terrible mouth, but he could not stop more laughs from boiling up. He bent over gasping and crowed with laughter. He hooted and howled, and held on to his stomach. He rolled on the ground and stuffed his fists between his lips and still he could not stop laughing. Tears streamed from his eyes, and his ancient, sun-bronzed cheeks turned red.
“What’s wrong with you?” Eric shouted.
The fishcatcher only laughed harder.
“Stop it! Stop!”
The words had no effect whatever. Eric backed away, off the ledge. An appalling idea had come to him. He thought he knew who this fishcatcher was.
The figure on the ledge continued its horrible, twisting motions. The laughter came in chuckles, then in gulps, then died down, perhaps simply from lack of breath.
“Mr. Cantrip?” Eric called. “Mr. Cantrip, is that you?”
The writhing ceased. The old man’s head came up. He looked around, then focused on Eric.
“Cantrip?” he asked.
“Yes. That’s who you are, isn’t it?” Eric shouted.
With a great creaking of tarpaulin, the fishcatcher rolled again to his knees. He hoisted himself, leg by ancient leg, to his feet. He leaned over and brushed himself off. Sand and debris had caught on his coat His long white hair had
fallen over his eyes. He smoothed it back with both hands and nodded.
“Aye, it’s Cantrip, poor devil. It’s him. And why he’s back standing on this evil point, I don’t know. He should never have come. It stirs him up, see. It makes him remember.”
He wobbled forward several steps, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder at the black ocean spreading away from the ledge. Eric saw his mouth twitch, again. But the old man drew himself up and began to lumber toward the field.
“I’ll be off,” he muttered. “It’s getting late.”
He walked a bit, then turned on Eric.
“I’ve seen you watching out here for lampfish,” he said in a low voice that was clear and perfectly sane. “I know what you’ve got in your mind. Don’t do it, young fellow, that’s all I’ve got to say. Don’t go bothering those beautiful fish. And don’t be ringing that horrid bell of yours, neither. There’s systems at work you know nothing about. Keep yourself moored and battened is my advice, and I know very well what I mean in this case.”
All the time he spoke, his eyes were fastened on Eric’s. Afterward, he resumed his weird gait through the long grass, heading in the direction of Strangle Point. Eric watched him go with a shiver. He felt cold all over, suddenly, as if some unearthly hand had gripped him and let him go. Only when the figure had vanished into the dark and the creak of tarpaulin had completely died away, did he dare to call softly,
“Gullstone! Wake up! Let’s get out of here.”
He gave the string a little tug to stir the sleeper.
“Come on! We’ve got to go. Aunt Opal will be wondering where we are.”
There being still no movement, Eric jerked the string harder. It gave way with sickening ease.
“Gullstone!” he shrieked, charging into the dark, but it was too late. Out in the field, the string’s end hung limply between clumps of grass. There was no sign whatever of the big sea gull.
6
“A STRANGE MAN, YES, BUT not a thief, I think,” Aunt Opal said in answer to Eric’s urgent question at breakfast the next morning. “Actually, I’m astounded to hear he’s still alive.”
Lampfish of Twill Page 3