Girl. Boy. Sea.

by Chris Vick

  ‘He find boat and he find you. Is all.’

  I crash. I’m falling through the chair. I’m drowning. It’s not possible.

  ‘Did you see anything else, Mohamed? Out there. Anything.’

  ‘You all right, Bill?’ Dad says. He puts his arm round me, but I push it away and put my head in my hands.

  They’re staring at me as if I’m a freak. I’ve knocked my glass of tea over, spilling it across the table. A woman is mopping it up.

  Wilko puts a hand on my other shoulder.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I say to Mohamed. ‘Was there anything. Anyone?’

  The policeman speaks for Mohamed. ‘He say you want answers. He knows this. He say he show you boat. Maybe the boat give you answer. After all…’ He pauses, Mohamed speaks slowly, softly. When the policeman turns to translate, he is puzzled.

  Mohamed smiles, raises his eyebrows in a tiny, quick gesture and gives me a quick nod. It’s a signal, just for me.

  ‘Mohamed, he say the angel has secrets? He say you know what this mean.’

  Then Mohamed says, ‘Tanirt… hass… see-crett.’

  ii

  The boat is in a small shed.

  Now it’s Mohamed and me. Wilko and Dad stay with the police.

  The boat is on its side. It’s smaller somehow. No broken mast, no coconuts. It’s only my writing on the side that tells me it’s Tanirt.

  I smile and say in my mind: Thank you for getting us home.

  ‘I use boat. Little fishing.’ Mohamed looks apologetic.

  ‘You speak English?’ I say.

  ‘Little,’ he replies.

  Mohamed peers out of the door, to check we’re alone. He speaks in slow and broken-up words.

  ‘Girl. Say keep secret.’

  I take a breath. ‘Is she alive?’

  Mohamed smiles and nods.

  Waves of joy. I hug him. I feel the weight lift.

  He lets out a croaky laugh and kisses both my cheeks.

  ‘Where is she?’

  He shrugs. ‘Aya go. Many days.’ He points outside, waving his hand.

  ‘Far?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘Far.’

  I make my way to the boat. Stripped of all we had in it, it’s hard to see where a secret might be hidden. I turn to Mohamed and shrug.

  He points to the hold, jabbing his finger. Whatever has passed between Mohamed and Aya, I know one thing: she trusts him.

  I hobble over to the boat, climb over the gunnel and kneel – it sends an arrow of pain to my foot – and I sidle up to the aft. I take a breath and open the hold, leaning down and peering inside. It’s empty.

  I look at Mohamed again. He stares back at me.

  I focus my attention on the hold and instead of looking I feel inside. The edges and the corners inside are smooth, but there’s a line; a tiny gap between the wall and the ceiling of the small space.

  ‘Mohamed, do you have a knife?’ I mime cutting.

  He finds one. The blade slips into the crack, and the wall of the hold eases open.

  The notebook is there, and a wrapped package made of pages that have been torn out and written on. I carefully unfold the paper.

  Inside are two tiny diamonds. Even in the thin light of the boat shed they shine like stars. Morning and evening.

  And there’s something else.

  It’s the size of a little fingernail, curved like a fin, with jagged edges, like a saw. A shark’s tooth.

  On the paper she has written, in curving lines and dots and sweeps of ink, her own language.

  It’s as if the paper is her, with me now. As if she’s speaking in her own voice. But the writing is Berber and I don’t know what she’s telling me.

  *

  The police leave. The taxi too.

  We stay, because I insist. We eat tagine in the café. We’re given beds in Mohamed’s house.

  Dad thanks Mohamed and his wife for the hospitality, but all I can think about is what Aya has written.

  We sit on Mohamed’s terrace, overlooking the sea.

  There is a plan. Mohamed speaks French. He’s going to translate the Berber for Wilko, who’s then going to put the words into English.

  But before that, before I see her words to me, I want to know what happened. It’s strange, but I have to build myself up to reading her letter. I have to put myself back in our world.

  Mohamed tells Wilko in French (which he seems to speak well) and Wilko tells me.

  I don’t remember word for word, I make lines between the stars. But more or less, this is the story.

  The Fisherman

  Mohamed set off alone before the sun came up.

  The boat was old. It would last weeks, but not months. He didn’t have money for another one. He needed luck. He needed many fish and soon, or else the boat must last for months. And that was a different kind of luck.

  He prayed for his nets to be full.

  He knew what the sea could give, but how it could give nothing too. And how it could take. How it had taken his father, who had set off in the wind and the waves when no one else would. And not because he was brave, but because he had no choice. And his father died that day. Mohamed did not want this to be his fate too.

  Mohamed thanked Allah that at least the storm had not yet started. There’d be days of waves and winds like the last one, some weeks before. Worse maybe. But not yet.

  Now he had been able to set his pots, on the reef that only few fishermen visited. Many miles from the shore. If the engine failed, or the leaks got worse, it would be his end. The risk was great, but when the sea gave, it gave him a lot. And there would be no fishing when the storm came, so he had to make money now.

  After some hours, when he reached the reef, he found his pots were empty. He cursed them, and himself for hoping. And thought to ask Allah, why he would tease Mohamed in this way. But he didn’t. What would be the point? What could he do now? Set the traps again. Go home and return when the weather was good.

  He saw the speck like a grain of sand in the distance. He thought it was probably an old barrel. He thought of going to see, but that would waste fuel. He sat a while, smoking a cigarette.

  He saw a bird, high above. And frowned, because this one was alone and a long way from land.

  The bird swooped and landed on the engine. The gull crawked at him.

  Often birds followed him, diving for scraps and small fish thrown away. But they rarely landed on the boat. This one was brave.

  ‘No fish today, bird. No lobster. Not for me, not for you and…’

  It had something tied to its leg. A piece of cloth.

  The bird flew up and away, circled and came back, and perched on the bow. It crawked again.

  This was why it was on the boat. The thing couldn’t fly properly with this piece of rubbish tied to it. Now it was close again he saw how scraggly the bird was, how thin.

  Mohamed thought to cut it free but he knew how vicious birds could be. It would peck him if he got near. But the bird didn’t fly away, and when he moved closer it stayed put. It turned its head to see him better.

  He opened his bait pot and gave it a scrap. Then another. And another. He made a small pile for it on the back of the boat. As the bird ate, Mohamed – as quick as he could – grabbed its leg and nicked the cloth, freeing the bird. It pecked him, but not hard and only once, and stood with its head cocked, staring at him.

  The cloth had been tied to the bird. Someone had done this. But why?

  It was a ripped piece of a t-shirt. A European t-shirt like the surf tourists wore, with foreign writing and a cartoon of a duck.

  Mohamed looked at the t-shirt and at the dot in the distance. He was such a long way offshore. The bird must have come from the dot.

  Then he remembered the stories of the boats that had sunk in the storm some weeks before. A storm that had come from nowhere. A storm so sudden some had said it was the work of a demon, like the old stories.

  People had talked of a missing boy. A European
boy.

  Perhaps this was from the wreck of one of the boats? Maybe something with value, or use…

  Mohamed made a guess of the time and how far he had come. He did not know if he had enough fuel. Probably, but not definitely. And a storm was coming. It made sense to go home.

  But there was the t-shirt. And the bird. And the dot like a grain of sand. He squinted. It was a long way off, hard to see, but could it even be a boat?

  He started the engine. He’d go a bit further till he could see what it was, then turn around.

  As he got closer he saw the dot was a boat. It was no fisherman’s boat, it was small and modern. But it had a kind of mast and a torn sail made from tarpaulin. And as he approached, he saw; there was a small carved figurehead. And a word, painted on the side, in writing like that of a child. It was Berber writing.

  Tanirt. Angel.

  Again he thought about the boats that had sunk in the storm.

  ‘Small boats do not float about on the ocean by themselves, for no reason,’ he said. He called out: ‘Salam. Is anyone there?’ But there was no reply.

  As he got near, he caught the smell. Now he was afraid of what he might find in the boat. The stench was rotten and sick. The smell of death.

  He began to turn the boat. He didn’t want to see. It was best to go home.

  But the bird crawked and flew to the other boat and sat on the prow.

  ‘Come, bird,’ he said. ‘If you do not come with me, you will have to stay, and maybe die.’

  The bird crawked and stared and stared and crawked. Mohamed considered the bird a while and knew in his heart if he didn’t see inside the boat he would remember the look the bird gave him forever. Which was crazy, because it was just a bird.

  ‘Okay, bird. Okay.’

  Mohamed slowly drew his boat up to the other. But before he looked, he took off his shirt to cover his mouth and nose.

  The girl was not much more than bones. The boy too. And his leg, his foot. Mohamed fought the urge to be sick.

  There was dried blood all over the hull. And other mess.

  How long had they been dead?

  But the girl opened an eye and raised a bone-hand.

  ‘Aman,’ she whispered.

  Mohamed gave her water.

  She took the bottle and drank a little. Then, with an effort that seemed almost impossible, she raised herself up.

  He tried to help.

  ‘No,’ she said. She knelt by the boy, she lifted his head and poured a little water into his mouth. His lips hardly parted, but his throat moved and some of the water went down.

  The boy’s eyes opened. But he didn’t see. Mohamed gave the girl his fish and couscous. The girl ate some, chewing slowly and carefully. But she did not swallow the food. She leaned over the boy again and put her mouth to his. She held his jaw with her hand and squeezed, so the boy had to open his mouth. In this way she fed him, and with a little more water, he swallowed.

  Mohamed was shocked to see this. A girl and a European boy. Like this!

  He would never forget how the girl looked at the boy. How she had stroked her hands through his hair. And the words she whispered.

  ‘Live. Long life. Live. Do not die. Live. I beg you.’

  With her fingers she picked up more of the grains of couscous and took another mouthful, which she also fed to the boy.

  Between each mouthful she put drops of water on his lips.

  She fed him again and again. She did not take any food herself.

  Mohamed almost cried to see this. This kiss of life. The will that made her do these things. A spirit stronger than her own body. Stronger than the boy.

  But it made him sad too. Because he knew it was too late, that the boy would soon be dead.

  When the food was gone, he said they should move the boy into his boat and go to land. But the girl said: ‘We can’t move him. And we can’t leave our boat. We will not leave Tanirt. You must tow us.’

  ‘You are stubborn,’ he said.

  But the girl wouldn’t change her mind.

  As they travelled, he looked behind him from time to time. The whole journey home, she cradled the boy’s head, and whispered to him, and kissed his head. The bird sat on the prow.

  It was slow. They made land as the gold of the day was sinking in the sea.

  As they drew closer to the shore the girl said she would give Mohamed jewels, but he must not tell anyone about her. She said he had to swear it.

  He did not believe her about the jewels. But she said she would show him.

  When they came in, he quickly took her to the boatshed.

  He had to half carry her. She stumbled and fell, all the time looking back at the boat. Then Mohamed cried and shouted for help. Men came. They carried the boy to a car. They would go to the road and the police, and then the boy would be taken to hospital. But it was many miles and Mohamed believed the boy would die before they reached a doctor. He didn’t say this to the girl when he returned to the boatshed.

  She gave him the jewel and thanked him and asked that he give her refuge.

  He didn’t know what to make of this strange girl. But she had given him a jewel worth a year of fishing. More. And she promised him another if he sheltered her.

  So he hid her, in the boatshed. He brought her bread and milk. And fish for the bird.

  He made sure she ate slowly. Little and often. Over the days he brought her cheese, eggs, tagine, nuts, fish. She ate it all.

  The police came, and so did the newspaper and the radiomen from the city. The boy lived, and he was news. Mohamed was asked a lot of questions, and he didn’t like it, and he didn’t enjoy being at the centre of this whirlpool. But he was pleased about the jewel and he kept his promise to the girl.

  He brought her food and clothes and every day she grew a little stronger.

  She made him make more promises. He could only ever tell the boy about her if he returned. And she gave Mohamed the message.

  Tanirt has secrets.

  One morning he came with bread and eggs. The girl and the bird were gone.

  iii

  ‘Where?’ I ask.

  Mohamed points to the east. He speaks in French, Wilko translates.

  ‘Down the road of bones. To fight the Lord of the Sun.’

  The warlord. Who stole the jewels. Who she stole the jewels from. Mohamed explains he’s named after a character in some old legend.

  And it makes sense. In my heart I already knew it.

  ‘Sahit,’ I say to Mohamed. Thank you.

  Mohamed speaks to Wilko in French.

  He says: ‘Now we need to translate the words, and…’ He looks out to sea.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Well, he says he’s sorry, that he and I have to read the words. He says they’re private, they’re meant for you.’

  And what will it say? I think. Will it tell me where you are, Aya? A map to find you?

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. While they work I walk – hobble – to the sea, with Dad helping. The wind has died and there’s a path of moonlight stretching to the horizon.

  ‘You okay, son?’

  ‘Yes. Because whatever is in that letter, I know she’s alive. That she’s out there, somewhere.’

  When I get back, Wilko hands me the book, opened to where he has written the contents of the letter in English.

  Dad and Wilko and Mohamed leave me alone, with a hurricane lamp to read by.

  Aya speaks to me. And now I don’t need to remember her stories or make my own lines between the stars because I have her words.

  And before I even start to read I know I’ll find her. One day.

  I know that she has gone where it is impossible for me to follow and I know, as well as I know Aya, that she is going to tell me that it is impossible, in her own words. But I swear it to myself.

  I think you will like my gifts.

  One diamond is for Mohamed. One is for you. The shark tooth, also for you of course. I took it from your foot, while you lay
in the boat, screaming at the sun.

  You have found Tanirt, you have found this and I think you will know the story of how we came to land.

  Before this was a great confusion of days. We were so near to death. Not only you, both of us. I could feel it, cold and waiting, all around us.

  Many times I believed you were dead. You had spoken words of the mad, for days. And then words of things only the dying see.

  And then – worse – you spoke no words at all. And though your eyes were open, you did not see.

  In the end I had to fight you to even take a little water.

  And I believed you were going to die. I knew it. And it broke my heart.

  I knew I would follow you soon. Maybe an hour or a day but it would come. And I was more afraid then than I have ever been. Not of death. I was afraid, because I did not want to die alone. You see? I did not want to die alone.

  I saw a bird, high above, and this meant that we were close to land. But still I did not hope. Until I saw the boat, and Gull, our friend, flew to the boat and Mohamed found us. Then you were taken from me. And this was hard too. Almost as hard as though death took you from me.

  I know you are in England, alive. And this gives me great strength.

  I must go now, down the road of bones, to fight the Lord of the Sun.

  No one believes I will return. No one knows I am alive. And the Lord of the Sun, he is weak.

  ‘A warlord, weak?’ you will ask.

  Yes, I will say. As the king knew only after one thousand and one nights, a man with no love in his heart is weak. I will come, a shadow in shadows. That is my story and I will write it.

  And so what now? What is the end of our story? The story of the girl and the boy and the sea.

  Do you think I know?

  My uncle once told me that everyone who listens to a story wants answers, they want a happy end, and they want the answers to all the questions. But he told me, you must have questions. Always. With any story. I think it is true.

  Not all is explained. Not everything is told.

  So, you see, Bill, I do not know the end of our story. Not yet.

  I know Thiyya has defeated the djinn, Lunja has tricked the sultan, Shahrazad and Dinarzade are safe. The girl and the boy have crossed the sea. The adventure is over.