She looked into his eyes, tears on her cheek. She grasped his head and hugged him, holding him close. “Oh my boy,” she said, “my poor boy, how did you survive? I worried, so much, missed you so much.”
“Faro,” Conall said. “I survived because of Faro.”
“He was a child himself. How old?”
“He was ten,” Conall said. “I was five.”
She sobbed. Crying is contagian but Conall fought it. Faro had taught him to be strong, tough inside, and never show weakness. He turned away from her, unable to look at her tears. “Why did you leave?”
“We didn’t mean to, you must understand. It all went wrong.”
“We were children. No one looked after us.”
She swiped tears off her face. “It wasn’t our fault.”
“Whose was it? What happened?”
She put her hands over her face, peered at him through her fingers. “They sailed early, we’d left you on shore, left you safe, but we went back to the cabin.”
“Why?”
“We were four of us, in one cramped cabin, the whole journey, no time to ourselves.” Her eyes flashed at his, filled with shame and guilt and embarrassment.
“You left us on shore?”
“They weren’t supposed to sail. There was an emergency, slavers were spotted, they left, wouldn’t turn back.”
His lip trembled. “You never returned.”
She held her face in her hands. “We couldn’t, there were no stops, straight here, to Spitsbergen, and we looked for a ship back but there were none. We tried to buy a boat, to come back for you, but we ran out of money, and there was no other way. He went looking for the treasure. All for you. For our boys.”
He thought she might break and crumble from so much crying, her body slumped over her knees.
She sat up, put a hand to her mouth. “He never came back. He shouldn’t have gone. I warned him, asked him not to, but we were so worried, I kept begging him to find a way. But not that.”
She seemed a mad woman, not the mother he’d imagined all these years. What had she become? He put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her. He’d waited so long to find his parents, to be under their protection. But it was her that needed the support. He’d care for her, put her right again, if he could.
“Did he find the treasure? How did he know where to look?”
She shook her head, hair flinging around her shoulders. Something burned inside her. She couldn’t face the pain or talk of what happened. Why? What was this treasure? Who or what protected it so fiercely.
“We have to find Faro,” he whispered “before he does something stupid.”
≈≈≈≈
Conall and Jonah travelled with Tugon and the Oduma as they crossed the island, a caravan of people and animals heading north, gathering their forces. They were not one tribe but many, some living as nomads always on the move, others in settlements for a season or more. They called the whole of Spitsbergen home, and there were thousands of them. Tens of thousands.
They flocked to Tugon’s side, as a messiah returned to deliver them from persecution, or an avenging angel who would set them free.
“He’s the only who could unite them,” his mother claimed. “The only one they would all follow.”
Conall spent the time with his mother, getting to know her once more, but finding he could never scratch beneath the surface. There was so much pain in there, and she had smothered it so thoroughly, there was no way through. When he asked about her life, or her hopes and feelings, she deflected the questions. So he settled for talking about the tribe, hoping to find out more about her life on Spitsbergen. One day as they walked a narrow, stony trail, he asked her of Tugon, and why he was revered, almost worshipped. She told Conall how the Oduma lived without kings or presidents, councils or governments, without guards or police or soldiers, without written laws. They never fought among themselves, or with others unless pushed to it. But when attacked, they were fierce and unrelenting, like Tugon himself, the brooding quiet man of the quarry, with his hidden strength and deep secrets.
“Why do they follow him, if they don’t believe in leaders?”
“He was chosen as a child, six years old. The wise men and women found him, recognised him as a shaman who would guide them.”
“They picked a child, at random?”
She shrugged, as though she didn’t know, or maybe that he wouldn’t understand, so there was no point in saying.
“When he was taken by the slavers, they waited for him,” she said, “they knew he’d return.”
“Yes, but…”
“Don’t ask. Wait, watch.”
When his mother grew tired of his questions, Conall talked with the young men and women of the Oduma, learning their ways. They were a quiet people, hard working, always looking for ways to find food or make shelter, craft tools or build a boat out of bark and sealskin, or a tent from deer-hide. But they were quick to play and laughter. Packs of children and dogs ran around the camps once the day’s journey was done, not exhausted like Conall and Jonah, but bursting with energy, screaming and laughing.
On the evening of the sixth day of their trek across Spitsbergen, Conall sat beside Jonah, watching the children play, the dogs circling the tents yelping with excitement. Conall’s mother sat with a group of women in the centre of the camp, shelling hazelnuts. The leaders of the tribe had gone with Tugon for a tribal meeting.
“You must be happy. You got what you came for,” Jonah said.
“Half of it, maybe. But not my father, and then there’s Faro.”
“It’s a start though, better than you’d any right to hope for, after all this time. Finding your mother’s no small thing.”
Conall sat in silence, thinking. He glanced at Jonah. “She’s not how I remembered.”
“People never are.”
“She’s strange. She’s one of them, one of the Oduma.”
“Must have been difficult for her,” Jonah said, “losing her children. Hits a woman hard, that will. Especially if she blames herself. Then to lose her husband. She’s left all alone, and this is a tough land. And they’re not so bad, these folks. Got some strange beliefs though, all this sacred nonsense.”
He meant the treasure, sacred to the wildmen but there for the taking as far as Jonah Argent was concerned. “Don’t even think about it, you promised.”
“It was you that promised. I held my tongue.”
“He says my word binds all.”
“He can think what he likes. You don’t speak for me, young Hawkins.”
“You’re going after it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“With the captain’s map?”
“He wasn’t using it and might be dead for all we know.”
“He’s alive,” Tugon said from behind them. They’d heard nothing of his approach.
“Sneaking up on us now,” Jonah said, flustered, getting to his feet as if he expected trouble.
“We have spies among the slavers,” Tugon said, ignoring Jonah’s discomfort. “The crew of your ship are being held near the old town.”
“Longyearbyen, from the old days?” Jonah asked.
Tugon nodded. Conall glanced at Jonah’s face, saw the gleam in his eye. The lust for treasure.
“Your crew work in a coal mine. The captain and his wife are held in a cell and questioned every day, starved and beaten. No one knows why.”
Conall could guess. Did the slavers know of the map? Should he warn Tugon?
Jonah tugged on his beard thoughtfully. “So what’s the plan?”
“War,” Tugon said. “We attack. We free our people, rescue yours, close the mines, drive the slavers from our land.”
“Sounds simple, when you put it like that,” Jonah said. “But there’s a whole bunch of killing and dying to be done before all this is over. On both sides.”
Tugon looked at Jonah, unblinking, his face impassive. “You know these men, they’re the same that took you, at
the quarry. What would you do? Talk to them? Hope they change? We drive them from the land.”
“No mercy, eh?” Jonah leant heavily on his cane.
“You’ll help us?” Tugon looked from Jonah to Conall and back again.
Conall didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
“You’ll help us fight?”
He’d never killed a man and didn’t know if he could. He understood little of wars and fighting. And would his mother let him go? Or would she try to stop him? “Whatever it takes. Is there word of my brother?”
Tugon stared at the ground. “He’s in the camp.”
“Alive? With the crew? We’ll free him, when we get the others.”
“Your brother may not want your help.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“People change in the slave camps. I’ve seen it. I was there longer than you.”
“He’s my brother. They won’t break him.”
“They might change him. You might not know your brother, when you find him.”
“I have to help him.”
“It might be too late.”
“I have to try.”
“You’re right,” Tugon said. “It is good to try.” He turned and strode away, deep in talk with the leaders of the Oduma.
Conall stared after Tugon. “What did all that mean?”
“Don’t pay it any mind. They like being mysterious,” Jonah said. “This fighting’s more of a concern. No telling which way it’ll go. Slavers have guns. Explosives too. Can’t be sure. It’s a risk. And then there’s the confusion, the chaos, everyone chasing around, taking their eye off things.”
“Don’t.” Conall knew Jonah was thinking about the treasure. The battle would be the cover he’d need, the ideal time to go looking. “Let’s get the crew safe. Nothing else.”
“Aye, you’re right,” Jonah said. “Forget the treasure. Leave it be. Get our people out. That’s what counts.”
The first mate muttered similar thoughts throughout the evening, and over dinner, and before they slumped into their blankets, as if trying to convince Conall, or himself, or the world in general.
But the next day, when Conall woke, Jonah was gone.
Chapter Nineteen
RESCUE
Three days passed, with no sign of Jonah. The first mate had disappeared into the woods and valleys of Spitsbergen. Conall said nothing, not wanting to reveal Argent was missing. But Tugon must have known. Surely Jonah couldn’t have slipped away unseen? The Oduma knew these lands, and all Jonah had was an old map and a heap of cunning. He’d be seen, he’d be followed, and if he moved towards that treasure, Tugon would know.
As the days went by, Conall spent less and less time with his mother. She’d grown tense and agitated as preparations for war progressed, telling Conall he couldn’t go to fight, forbidding it even. She insisted he be confined to camp, to stay by her side with the women and children.
He didn’t bother to argue with her. He went straight to Tugon. “I’m no child and they’re my friends. My brother’s in there. You need me. The crew will trust me. They don’t know you, or any of your men. There’s no one else.”
“No,” Tugon said, “there’s no one else.” He said no more, but Conall understood the meaning. Jonah should have been here. Jonah should have done what Conall must do.
Tugon marched his people relentlessly across the island. There was no sign of settlements or slavers inland. According to the wildmen, the incomers lived around the coast where the sea kept the climate warmer in winter, where they could fish and trade by boat. There were no roads across the island, only animal tracks, little more than trails through ferns or brambles or dense heather. But the convoy kept moving, growing larger as more tribes joined them, no longer bringing their women and children. Only the men, armed with spears and bows and knives, grim faced and quiet.
Tugon assembled his forces in a valley ten miles from the sea. They numbered five thousand or more. Conall had never seen so many people gathered in one small space. But it wasn’t enough, the tribesmen whispered. More would come, but needed time. The island was large, and took days, even weeks to cross on foot. “We should wait,” people said, “he’s rash, looking for revenge on the slavers. It’s not time.”
But every day that passed, more slaves would die. Conall knew it. Tugon too. They’d worked for these men, seen the cruelty, the craving for production and quantity and profit. Faro was in there, and Heather. They had to act. There was darkness now, in the night, for an hour or more. It was enough, Tugon said. It was time to strike.
And so they struck.
≈≈≈≈
The slaver camp had been built on a peninsular, with sea on three sides. It was connected to the mainland by a narrow strip of land that was guarded, fenced and patrolled by dogs. On this headland lived the slaves, made to walk ten miles each day to the coal mine where they worked. The offices and storerooms, warehouses and workshops were located behind the fences. A harbour with stout stone walls protected the slaver ships which docked here, bringing supplies and people and weapons.
The Oduma launched their boats: canoes carved out of tree trunks, coracles made from bark treated with pine resin, row-boats taken from the settlers over the years. They crossed the bay towards the slaver camp, barely making a sound as oars and paddles dipped into the water. On the headland lights shone from the guard rooms and from torches swinging as men patrolled fences. But the approach by sea was unprotected. No dogs would smell them coming.
The advance party slipped ashore on a stony beach, no more than a hundred men. Their task was to find the prisoners, alert the slaves, free them before the main assault. Conall helped pull the coracle up the stones. Olan, the wildman leading the attack, tapped his shoulder. He pointed to their right, to brick buildings that served as offices for the slavers, where they did their business and made their plans. The captain and his wife were held in the basement, according to Tugon’s spies, in a locked cell with no window, no light, unseen by the other prisoners.
The Oduma split up, the main group heading left, towards the long wooden huts where the slaves were housed. Conall and Olan, with a dozen men, crept along the foreshore to the brick buildings. A single guard slouched in a doorway. One of the tribesman edged closer, took him by surprise and snapped his neck. The door was opened, and they slipped inside, unseen.
The building should be empty at night, according to the spies, except for a guard in the basement itself, keeping an eye on a dozen or so prisoners. They were kept close to the heart of the operations, so they could be questioned at will, and so they could never meet the other slaves, exchange information or offer them leadership. These were the ones the slavers feared.
Olan made a noise outside the metal door of the basement, a long, low whistle. The man inside called out to them. He shouted. The jangle of keys and the door swung open. He stepped through and a knife pierced his windpipe, no chance to scream or moan. He fell dead, blood splattering on walls. The Oduma dragged the body away and Olan led them into the basement.
≈≈≈≈
One of the Oduma brought keys from the guard room. The first cell they opened held three men, skin and bone, faces gaunt and haunted, bruised and beaten. They cowered towards the back of the room in pitch darkness. Conall called to reassure them, urging them to keep quiet. The men huddled together, refusing to move or come out of their cell.
“Leave them,” Olan said. “They’ll run, when the fighting starts. Find your captain.”
Conall walked up and down the cell doors, calling out to Captain Hudson and Erica in little more than a whisper, until finally a voice came from the other side. “Who’s there? Who is that?”
“Conall Hawkins, sir.”
A moment of silence. “Conall? How? Is Jonah with you?”
“He made it to Spitsbergen. But he’s not here.”
One of the Oduma opened the door. The captain stepped through, shielding his wife. “Is this a game? A trap?”
“A rescue. We’re here to get you out. The wildmen are coming, the attack is starting. Come, quick.”
The couple stood in the doorway, hands to their mouths, whispering.
“Now,” Conall urged. “We have to move.”
“Why should we believe you?”
The sound of distant shouting echoed through the building. The attack was beginning. At any moment, the camp would be awake, filled with lights and gunfire. Olan grabbed the captain by the shoulder and pulled him through the door.
Mrs Hudson followed, clutching at her husband protectively. “Have you seen Heather? Have you news of my daughter?” Erica’s voice was strained, terrified.
“She’s in the slave barracks. There are wildmen going there now to free everyone. She’ll be safe.”
Olan tugged on Conall’s shoulder, urging him to get moving. “To the boats,” he said. “Get the prisoners out.”
Conall waved at the Hudsons, trying to get them moving. “You have to go. They’ll come here first. You must get out.”
Olan pushed them towards the door, and the Hudsons began to move. “If this is a trap…” the captain hissed as they ran from the building.
Gunfire shattered the silence. The attack was starting. The slavers were awake, aware, and ready to fight.
“To the boats,” Olan yelled.
They raced to the foreshore. The captain and his wife were helped into a coracle. “Get them away,” Olan said.
Two wildmen took the oars. “Conall, come with us,” Erica said. “It’s not safe here.”
“I’ll find Heather,” he said. “I promise. There’s a battle to fight. They need me.” His next task was to reach the slave barracks, find the crew, persuade them to fight alongside the wildmen.
The oracle pulled away from shore. “Where’s Faro,” Conall called. “Have you seen him? Is he safe?”
In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers Page 16