The Night Swimmer

by Matt Bondurant

  Yeah, Ham said, waving his hand, but you know the island I’m talking about. Look, I’ve been thinking about what to leave behind. Something that will poke out of the ashes of this disaster, something to go into the next world.

  What are you talking about? Fred said.

  Probably be a lot like where you are now, Ham said. That sort of life. But anyway this document merely says that on the delivery of an heir this money will be rightfully yours. I don’t even have to be dead! It’s a win-win as we say in the business.

  An heir? I said.

  Dad, Fred said, that’s kinda . . . fucked up.

  Be that as it may, he said, here it is.

  We’re not signing that, I said.

  You don’t need to sign it, Elly, only my son here. You are merely an accessory to the fact.

  Thanks, I said.

  But with that money you could build a pool just like this, even better. Anywhere you want. Even on your island.

  Ham stashed the document back in the folder and handed it to me. There was the smell of something burning, like plastic or rubber. Small plumes of smoke were drifting over the tops of the casinos.

  You just think about it, have a lawyer look it over, whatever. Really, if you don’t . . . do anything, nothing will happen. It is only a reward system. No penalty.

  I don’t know, Fred said. This is kinda unorthodox.

  Ham poured us fresh glasses of scotch.

  You bring the turkey?

  Yeah. In the trunk.

  Good, he said. Leave it out to thaw. Bring it over tomorrow, say, noon. You’ll want to pick up some tarragon, thyme, sage, salted butter, lemons. Stuffing, I prefer corn bread. And the usual sides. I detest that sweet potato–marshmallow shit, so none of that. I’ll supply the wine.

  What’s that smoke? I said. What’s burning?

  Rome, Ham said.

  * * *

  The next morning the envelope Fred mailed to himself arrived. It was empty, with a small tear in one corner.

  Motherfuckers! Fred screamed. He tore the envelope into shreds and threw it out the window.

  * * *

  At the airport Fred insisted on going into the smoking lounge.

  It’s like a circle of hell in there, he said, look at it. Got to check it out.

  I read The New York Times while Fred entered the lounge, sans cigarettes, disappearing into the fog. At one point I looked up and he was crouching on the floor chatting with a seated man. When he came out we walked to the gate, Fred sniffing his clothes. He said the lounge was mostly full of young soldiers, deploying overseas.

  They didn’t seem scared, he said. Not at all. They were like kids before a football game.

  Probably a good thing, I said. Better than being afraid.

  I suppose.

  We had a four-hour layover in JFK, our plane leaving at eight in the evening, so we decided upon a strategy of heavy cocktails and light appetizers in order to facilitate the holy grail of international flight: to sleep through the whole damn thing. It never worked, of course, but it could be great fun as it gave your drinking the added element of unarguable purpose. We started with dry martinis, Bombay Sapphire, shaken, up, one olive.

  After a few drinks a small band of soldiers rambled in with their rucksacks and took a table. They were laughing, punching each other in the arm. Rawboned, knobby heads, thin wrists poking out of their rolled-up sleeves, freckled and razor-chinned, they looked freshly skinned. I saw Fred eyeing them, and I asked if those were the guys he’d seen in the smoking lounge, but he said no. He called the bartender and told him he wanted to buy the soldiers a round of beers.

  Whatever they’re having, Fred said.

  The bartender took a tray of drafts over to the table, and when they looked at her curiously she pointed to Fred, who held up his martini and nodded. Their eyes narrowed for a moment, taking both of us in, calculating, then they softened and a few nodded in return. Then one soldier picked up the beer and mimicked Fred’s nod, and they all laughed. They all picked up the beers and nodded and blinked at each other in turn, slapping the table and looking over at Fred, shaking their heads. Fred stared for a moment before he turned back to the bar, his face wooden.

  What pricks, I said. What assholes.

  Yeah, Fred said. It was a dumb thing to do.

  What?

  It’s so cliché, he said. Buying the soldiers a round.

  But it was sincere, I said. It was a nice gesture.

  Yeah. Still.

  We rolled up to the gate just as boarding started. Fred was lumbering and drunk, his face all twisted up, and throughout the flight he punched through magazine articles and stared at the ceiling and scribbled in his journal, swearing under his breath, and neither of us got any sleep. But the great thing about Fred was that by the time we touched down in Cork six hours later he wrestled our luggage into the cab with a frowsy, sleepy grin, giving me a squeeze on the hip, and we cuddled sleepily as the cab headed west to Skibbereen.

  Can’t wait to get back to the Nightjar, he said. Missed the place.

  I fell asleep on his shoulder as we passed through Cork and into the countryside, the windows a wash of green.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was halfway through March and the winds from the west brought the high seas crashing into the Baltimore cliffs, sending sheets of water skyward for a hundred feet. Waves of salty mist pushed over the town in intermittent bursts, squeezing through windowpanes and under doors like exhaled breath. Everything was coated in a rime of salt and icy mold, and the ferry was relegated to once a week, depending on the weather. Fred read the paper sitting at the bar, wearing a T-shirt and flip-flops. The draft was relentless, but he never felt it. He had let his beard go lately and was developing what he called the full box hedge, but with his shaggy hair it made him seem more like a giant hedgehog drinking a pint of beer. It was nearly noon, and we both knew that nobody was coming.

  Why don’t we just shut down, I said. We could get out of here.

  He didn’t look up from the paper.

  Where would we go?

  Through the window I could see a few solitary men, Corrigans, stalking the ferry pier wearing bright orange survival suits. When we returned from America we’d found a note slipped under the door. It was something in Irish, just a single sentence, written in a precise hand. I wanted to have it translated but Fred chucked it in the fireplace.

  That morning the water in Baltimore Bay was a white churning froth and the BBC reported dozens of pilot whales were smashed on the rocks just west of town. I knew that Sebastian would likely be back on the island, perched on the Bill of Clear, watching the coming waves of migratory birds. The Ineer a choppy green bath, the cool feel of those slick stones, that quiet submersion. Fastnet, the glowing path. The pub felt suddenly tight and close.

  I think I want to go back out, swim a bit.

  Go ahead.

  You don’t mind?

  Nah.

  Wanna come?

  I’ll stick around here.

  Fred raised his head and looked around the empty room.

  Maybe somebody’ll show up.

  We could use some paying customers, I said.

  Fred mumbled and shook the paper.

  As opposed to all of our friends who come in for free drinks.

  He looked up at me.

  Ah, come on. Like who?

  The woofers for one.

  Please, Fred said, don’t even start.

  Start? I’m not the one handing out free drinks to anyone that rolls in here and hangs out with you for a bit.

  How would you know? You’re always on the island, running around with the goat herder and who knows who else.

  What are you talking about?

  C’mon, Elly, it’s a small world here. People see you on the island, they see what you are doing. Everybody knows.

  The room was tightening, smaller, and a faint ping, a pinprick of sound, started ringing in my ears.

  Knows what?

&nb
sp; I tried to take on a defiant look, to dare him to say it. I knew that he wouldn’t, even if he had heard something. I thought of Sebastian and me in the Five Bells, laughing over our hot whiskeys, his delicate fingers fanning open his journal, the pencil drawings of jackdaws, house martins, shrikes, yellowhammers. His steady, attentive gaze.

  Fred filled a tumbler with ice and poured himself a glass of bourbon. He took a long sip. His T-shirt was torn around the back of the collar, and he had yellow pit stains under his arms. His shorts hung below his belly, perched on his hips.

  Look, he said. Let’s not do this.

  Do what?

  Okay, he said, I’m gonna say it. You ready?

  I was not, I was not ready for what he was about to say. I was terrified.

  You saw that number Ham showed us. The contract. What do you want to do?

  I can’t, I said. Not now.

  Not talk about it? Or . . . it?

  Not now, I said. I couldn’t possibly . . . We’ll talk about it later.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder and left. The ferry was mercifully waiting at the berth, and a few minutes later I was on my way to Clear.

  * * *

  The ferry had just passed around the southern edge of Sherkin and was heading through the series of rocky straits that separated the islands, the area known as Gascanane Sound, when I saw a pair of large animals perched on a small rock plateau. The island was about thirty feet square, rising out of the sea at an angle, the broad side facing the eastern end of Cape Clear and Douglass’s Cove. As we drew closer I could tell the animals were large and impressive-looking donkeys. They were humped together, their heads down between their trembling forelegs, their wet manes draped over their faces. They were Stephen-the-fucking-blow-in’s donkeys.

  Waves of sea spray whipped through them and they shifted their back hooves, trying to keep their footing on the slippery rock. They had been suffering for some time and clearly wouldn’t last much longer.

  Hey! I said aloud to no one in particular. Then I stood up, pointing. Hey!

  There were a half dozen islanders clustered behind the pilothouse, the pilot obscured by the fogged window. The other passengers looked at me, then at the donkeys. Then everyone looked away. The pilot flicked his cigarette out the window. Standing in the bow in a peacoat and wool cap was the hulking form of Conchur Corrigan, watching me. The bow of the boat rose and fell, and Conchur seemed to rise above the island, then drop beneath it with each passing swell. He smiled, a tight, bristly grin out of one side of his face, almost like he was proud of me. Like it was some kind of test, and I had passed.

  * * *

  Patrick explained to me that there is a kind of prejudice in Ireland about goats. To be a goat farmer is to signal the confines of one’s fortunes. They are the perfect animals for Ireland, Patrick said, with their resiliency, milk and meat production, the simple care, and their ability to subsist on nearly nothing. The most common goat in Ireland, the basic British Alpine, can also be easily trained to stay in moderately confined areas, and they quickly establish their own pack authority, with all of the animals lining up in order. They obediently move into enclosures, indoor feeding areas, or out to pasture. Disease is limited and rare, and even a crippled or deformed animal, born with a clubfoot, for example, will drag itself around the yard and produce milk and kids without complaint.

  That spring I helped Highgate and the woofers with the kidding and dehorning. One of his best milkers, a gray speckled goat named Jenny, was coming down with mastitis, or milk fever, a teat and udder infection caused by bacteria. Highgate had me touch her udder, which was strangely warm. In the advanced stages the udder will actually get hot to the touch, then harden like a rock, eventually dropping off. Mastitis in Irish means “lump in the ground” because eventually the goat will lie down and be unable to get up.

  Does this hurt them? I asked.

  Gus and Magdalene held a young male on the barn floor while Patrick plied the cruel-looking dehorning tool, long-handled with heavy teeth that literally bite the horn buds out of the goat’s skull. Highgate stood by with the blood-stop paste in a small can, his fingers dipped in ready to apply to the wound.

  It’s hard to say, but we know it isn’t like our type of pain. The advantage of animals is that they have no imagination.

  How is that an advantage? I asked.

  Without imagination, what is fear? What is pain without fear?

  I’ll bet it still hurts, Magdalene said. I hate this.

  But if we don’t do it, Highgate said, they will hurt each other. Next we have to do Rachel, which is going to be tricky.

  Rachel was a strong candidate for a champion milker, and so Highgate wanted to make sure he took care of her. Her horns had been cut once already, but one of them wasn’t scooped out deep enough and began to grow again, a twisted, knotted spiral across her forehead that was growing back into her skull. It would have to be fully removed, and to do that they had to put her out. Highgate held a soaked rag over her nose until she collapsed. Then we slid her onto a large piece of cardboard and carried her into the kitchen, laying her on the floor. We need hot water, Highgate explained, and keeping her temperature up is vital, so it is better just to do it in here. I couldn’t watch, so I stepped outside and stood in the back pen, gazing at the waves of Roaringwater Bay. It was heavy out there, dark, and the swells six feet or more. Back to the east the lights of Baltimore winked. I tried to count the lights in the harbor, to see if I could determine which was the Nightjar, but I never could be sure.

  Gus stepped out the door, a streak of blood on his cheek. He smoked a cigarette and we stood looking at the sea.

  How long are you staying? I asked.

  ’Nother few months. Then I go.

  How about the rest?

  They leave next few months. ’Cept Patrick. He says he stays, ja? For at least another year. Till he finishes.

  Finishes what?

  Gus scratched at his beard and shook his head.

  Shit, I dunno. Save the farm. Stop Kieran.

  Stop him? From doing what?

  Gus pointed down the hill toward the Waist.

  The guesthouses, new pub? He’s acquiring land. People are selling.

  Are you talking about tourism?

  I don’t really, I just feed the goats, you know?

  Sure.

  I like goats, Gus said. I like this farm.

  Okay.

  Hey, you seen Miranda, ja?

  Yeah, a couple times.

  She watches you?

  Gus smiled in the wind.

  You are lucky then, he said. She never shows herself to me. Just to Highgate. Some of the others claim they’ve seen her, but they’re full of shit. But Highgate and Miranda, it’s like they have a way of talking. They communicate.

  How?

  Gus shrugged and stubbed his cigarette on the bottom of his boot, then stuck it in his pocket.

  Must be something about you. The swimming, ja? She’s never around, but she protects the other goats. Never lost a kid since she came. No ravens, nothing.

  We heard a shout from inside, and something knocking, like a hammer on wood. Gus pushed inside, and I followed him.

  In the kitchen Rachel was writhing on the floor, her hooves pounding the cupboards, the air filled with a shrill, high whistling sound. There were small green clumps, like mushed seaweed, and streaks of blood all over the floor. Highgate was holding her head, one hand in her mouth, searching for something. Rachel thrashed, her eyes wild, Patrick trying to corral her kicking legs. Highgate cursed and removed his hand, then clamped both hands over her muzzle, holding her mouth shut. He bent down and put his mouth over her nose. Blood came foaming out of the gory hole where her horns had been. Akio started screaming, and Patrick whipped his head around and told her to shut up. Then Rachel’s sides were heaving and Highgate sat back on his haunches, blood smearing his face and hands. Gus knelt and felt her pulse.

  She’s breathing.

  Rachel’
s eyes settled closed, and her breathing became regular.

  Mon Dieu, Magdalene said. What the fuck was that?

  Highgate slathered some paste on her wound, then taped a large piece of cotton over it, winding the tape around her head.

  She choked on her cud, Highgate said. She wasn’t breathing and we had to clear the passageway. I think she’s okay.

  He lifted his head and sniffed the air.

  You got the teakettle on, Akio?

  Akio was sobbing, but she went to the range and turned off the heat.

  All right, Highgate said, let’s wash up and have a bit of tea. She’s going to just sleep it off here for a bit.

  We sat in the main room, Magadalene and Akio still dazed, and slurped our tea. Patrick loaded the stove, his forearms scratched and pink from scrubbing. He used a rag to wipe mud and goat hair off his boat shoes. His khakis were streaked with blood and his face was swollen, his eyes a bit glassy. Patrick had never flinched, I thought, but he was not impervious. The dogs piled in their beds, looking a bit embarrassed. After a few minutes there was a clatter of hooves and a groan and Rachel came bounding out of the kitchen, bucking like a wild bull.

  The door, Patrick!

  Patrick was already in motion, vaulting the couch, and Rachel went straight for it. He got the door open and she launched herself out without breaking stride, giving a few more kicks, then trotting over to the pen where she waited to be let in.

  * * *

  The next afternoon I was walking across the cushiony turf of the East Bog of Ballyieragh when I came over a rise and saw Ariel among a small stand of trees that lay in a shallow ditch. She was tying little clumps of bones into the trees with strips of cloth; in the lower branches hung skulls of small animals, and underneath the trees on the damp earth there were more stacks of broken bones, children’s toys and dolls, all torn asunder or broken significantly, scattered in circular patterns. Ariel saw me approaching and smiled warmly, her parka hood tight around her face, her gloveless hands reddened with cold. I wanted to turn away from this scene but there was nowhere to go, so I walked under the tree and pretended to admire her work.

  I know it isn’t pretty, she said.