Collector of Lost Things

by Jeremy Page

  ‘Mr French was once in the navy?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘He had an unfortunate—how shall I word it—entanglement,’ Sykes said, amusing himself. ‘To happier matters,’ he continued, brightly. ‘I have started a new image in needlework.’ He indicated a small desk below the aft window, upon which was a wooden frame and the clear outline, even at this early stage, of a great auk, sitting on a rock.

  ‘You really are a truly heartless man,’ I said, half joking, but only half. He decided to laugh, loudly.

  ‘Absolutely!’ he replied. ‘I am a rare specimen.’ He laughed again, and his laugh developed into a hacking cough. His face went red and he held a handkerchief close to his mouth, attempting to muffle it. I had noticed this before, a cough coming through the cabin walls at night, or from on the quarterdeck when he was commanding the course. Once, on the ice floe, a chair had to be brought down to him when his fit would not abate. I had put it down to the rapid changes in temperature, but here I was not so sure. The captain was ill.

  Seeing my doubt, Sykes waved his hand at me, as if swatting a fly. ‘A trifle,’ he said, as he regained control. ‘Mrs Sykes claims she can hear my cough even while I am up here in the Arctic sea. It consoles her, she says, to know I am alive.’

  ‘How comforting for her,’ I said, sarcastically.

  ‘And what of your upbringing, Mr Saxby? I suppose you went to a fine school?’

  ‘I was privately tutored,’ I said. ‘My father was a physician, in Suffolk.’

  ‘A boring county, I have heard.’

  ‘A peaceful one.’

  ‘With many illnesses?’

  ‘As many as other counties, I am sure.’ I had a fleeting memory of the times I had accompanied my father, visiting the sick. I was eight or nine. How he would enter the labourers’ cottages, taking off his hat, and leave me outside to sit in the lane or wander the fields. Drinks would be brought out, but people treated me—even as a child—as someone they did not want near their house. My presence was part of the illness that had settled among them. My father would emerge, straight-backed and gentle, after twenty minutes or so. We would walk in silence to the closest church where he would sketch the architecture, especially the porches. It calmed him, he used to tell me, although I was never sure what it was that he needed calming from. We would make models of these churches, in the evenings, from balsa wood, sitting at a table in the parlour. And while he drew the church architecture, I would scour the graveyard and hedges for bird nests. I had built up a sizeable knowledge and collection of eggs by the time I was fifteen. It was the year my father had died, quickly and without fuss, from an illness he had not diagnosed.

  ‘You are a curious man,’ Sykes said, catching me somewhat unawares.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I replied.

  ‘It is my job to know the nature of the passengers I have on board.’

  I regarded him, indignantly. ‘What makes you so sure of your judgements?’ I asked.

  He laughed. ‘We shall yet be friends, Mr Saxby,’ he said. ‘Let us shake hands,’ he added, rising, offering me his outstretched hand. I shook it, perfunctorily, thinking how rare it is to shake the hand of a man who has conducted an extinction.

  The fine weather didn’t last long. As we neared Greenland the clouds lowered, brooding, onto a sea that rose in long high swells. Each wave stretched for several hundred yards either side of the ship, as if the surface of the ocean were rolling on iron bars, and French directed a course to meet them straight on, making the bow rise and lower with unpleasant motion. The ship sank heavily into each crest, and the water rose as high as the scuppers. The Amethyst headed as it had before, west-south-west, but now the weather was ominous and bleak in that direction, with a horizon that had almost entirely vanished.

  On the pretext of examining my luggage, French led me, with a dark-lantern in his hand, to the place where he had concealed the bird on the lower deck. Although the arrangement of the ships was different, I recognised it as the same spot where Captain Bray had stored his frozen polar bear. ‘It is in here,’ French whispered, giving me the key to a padlock of a small door right under the bow of the ship. ‘In the navy, it was not unheard of for a woman of dubious character to be concealed in this spot.’

  ‘Then it is known as a place where people might search?’

  ‘It is safe,’ he replied. ‘There is already a woman on board this vessel,’ he quipped. ‘She is pleasing to the eye—so I doubt whether the men would think to search for another.’

  ‘I think that’s inappropriate for you to say.’

  ‘Really? Just a comment upon a lady’s beauty, in case you hadn’t noticed. Perhaps you are immune to such things.’

  ‘Were you in the navy?’ I asked.

  He visibly stiffened. ‘Briefly.’

  Inside the locker, he hung the dark-lantern from a roof beam, showing me how I could close the slide to conceal the light. Below it, piled in a heap almost as high as my waist, were the giant links of one of the anchor chains. The light swayed above them, playing with their shapes and shadows, giving them a living, seething, snakelike texture. It was an eerie place. The locker smelt of iron and wet salt, and had the trapped frigid air of an ice-house.

  ‘This is a horrid place,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly,’ he replied, grinning wolfishly. ‘A fine home for prostitutes.’

  At that moment the ship must have sunk deeply into a wave. Being so close to the bow, it was as if the floor had risen to hit us. I stumbled against Mr French, who out of experience had braced himself against the door-jamb. I heard the wave sweep above me on the other side of the hull and realised that for a second or two we must have been below water level. The sounds of rushing water fell away as I regained my position, haunted by the feeling of a darkness that had swept through the room, unseen.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I smelt the scent of his cologne on my lapel.

  The great auk was at the back of the space, behind packing crates and surrounded by the heavy outline of the anchor chain. It was a miserable sight. I thought, despite myself, of the dioramas that would be constructed at the world’s great museums after they had purchased one of Sykes’ skins. How the auks would be mounted on plaster, a few twigs or weeds arranged around their feet, a background painted in colours of the northern Atlantic: slate grey and moss green. The auks would be made to look magnificent, proud and wild and free, so unlike the auk that looked up at me in this horrid locker room. It felt like the darkest space in the world, a space that only men can truly make, filled with cruel machinery and the stench of bitumen and oil. Yet it held the most precious and unique of all of God’s creatures. In this foul room, under the greasy light of the dark-lantern, I saw the brilliant flickering glow that only the last can emit.

  14

  CLARA AND I MET on deck following dinner, waiting for the eight o’clock change between the second dog and first watches. As the crew were handing over in a boisterous manner, we quickly descended the companionway to the lower deck. Beyond the cable-tier we saw barrels and sacking, ropes and tins, metal boxes and wooden crates, all bending with the shadows that moved vaguely across their edges. It was certainly no place for a woman.

  ‘Tread carefully,’ I whispered. I held Clara’s hand, leading her forward between the crates of the cargo, and her hand felt cool and strong in my own. It is good, I thought, good that she feels determined and calm.

  ‘The bird is in here,’ I said as we reached the locker door: ‘be aware of the beam when we enter, it is low.’

  Inside the locker room, I was relieved to see her undaunted by the smells of oil and iron or the sight of the links of the anchor chain, heaped across the floor.

  ‘Here?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, quite the dungeon, isn’t it?’ I said, trying to be light, pushing against the anchor chain with the toe of my boot. It didn’t shift. ‘Forgive me bringing you to such a place. The bird is behind those crates at the side.’ I pulled the wooden chest that
French and I had positioned, fully expecting the bird to have vanished. But as soon as I had moved the box, there was movement among the shadows, and the pale breast of the auk shuffled as it attempted to remain hidden.

  ‘I can’t see it,’ she said. We listened as the rough feet of the bird scratched the floor of the locker then, beneath me, the anthracite gleam of the auk’s extraordinary beak emerged, like the handle of a dark knife being held towards us. Larger than I had remembered, it was heavily grooved and as ridged as a tribal spear. The beak remained still, impossibly weightless above the floor, then it tilted to one side and the glint of an eye defined itself from the shadows, watching us, unblinking.

  ‘Shh,’ Clara soothed, ‘are you afraid, little one?’ The auk reacted to her voice, stumbling to the side and briefly losing its footing.

  ‘It’s restrained,’ I explained. ‘We tied cords around the wings and feet to keep it silent. There is another strap there, to close the beak.’

  ‘Is it necessary?’

  ‘It makes a most incredible growl. A resoundingly deep noise.’ Above us, almost in warning, we heard a sudden laugh coming from the fo’c’sle, several feet away through the deck. Footsteps too, although the roof must have been particularly thick and solid. I touched the beam directly above my head, almost the trunk of a tree in width.

  ‘You poor thing,’ Clara whispered to the bird, her voice sounding soft and out of place in such a dungeon. ‘But you are special—you are a very special creature indeed.’

  I brought the dark-lantern down and placed it on the floor, giving, for the first time, a clear view of the great auk, leaning suspiciously away from Clara’s hand. It spied the light from the lantern and seemed both curious and afraid, attempting to face it, then backing away. Again it stumbled, hampered by the bindings, and I watched as Clara instinctively reached to loosen the leather strap that was fixed around its beak. I decided not to say anything. She was confident in a way I hadn’t anticipated. The bird allowed it, apparently soothed by the swift but careful way that Clara freed the knot, as if she was undressing a wound.

  ‘There,’ she whispered, satisfied, as she removed the strap. The auk shook its head, quickly, the plumage ruffling and flattening in a girdling motion as if it had been blown; then its beak opened, unhinging and closing several times with a small, dry click. She reached further, touching the bird on its back, stroking it along the neck and down towards its wings. I watched as the bird settled, lowering onto its feet and eyeing her, steadily.

  ‘You have a gift,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it has been said before.’ She addressed the bird again: ‘We are going to look after you, my love. Don’t worry, you’ll be free again, soon.’

  It was unexpectedly poignant. Faced with the reality of the bird’s incarceration, the grimness of the locker room—its menacing anchor chain, its smells of oil and turpentine—Clara had responded with a simple clarity of affection and care that gave me enormous hope.

  Before I could prevent myself, I had reached out to touch her hair. My hand was already halfway there, poised, a few inches above her head. Staring at my fingers, in disbelief and elation, I watched as they traced the outline of the hair I so wanted to caress, to stroke, to call my own. This woman, once lost to me, now again so close, so very close. Beneath me, her shoulders tensed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  Caught, I stumbled for an explanation, rapidly withdrawing my hand. ‘I thought I heard someone approaching. But I must be mistaken.’

  She turned to face me. ‘Who would be down here, at this time?’

  ‘Yes, quite.’

  ‘Do they inspect this place?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re safe here. Mr French was quite certain of it.’

  ‘If we were discovered in here together, we would be the subject of a scandal,’ she said. ‘This ship is a gossiper’s paradise—I am taking a risk being with you.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Scandal seems to seek me out.’

  The auk appeared peaceful. ‘You have done a wonderful thing here, Eliot,’ she told me. ‘Is this really the last one on the planet?’

  ‘Without doubt.’

  ‘Do you think it knows?’

  I wondered. Had it seen the rest of its group slain? Can a bird have a notion of its own survival, its own unique self? I doubted it, and hoped that it couldn’t be the case.

  ‘I think not,’ I replied. ‘I have started to study it,’ I added, squatting to Clara’s level. ‘Before it is released, I intend to be quite comprehensive. My notes will perhaps be invaluable one day. Notice how strong it is in the wing, yet they are totally unfit for flight. They are merely paddles. When we were on the rock, I watched them swimming in the sea. They were fast and very buoyant—yet on the land were as clumsy as old geese. It was easy—well—for the men to gather them in their coats. And that beak—it is really the largest I have ever seen on any seabird. When they were standing together they made a communal growling. It was a startling sound. Do you think it seems well?’

  She considered the bird closely. ‘I think so. It is hard to see. What are these?’

  ‘Further bindings. Mr French advised it, to hold the wings. He was afraid it might escape.’

  ‘From here?’

  ‘He said it was a tenacious creature and he didn’t want to see it running about on deck.’

  I placed on the floor a dish containing strips of cod from my breakfast. The bird eyed the dish and its food suspiciously. ‘We must give it time,’ I suggested, easing back. When the bird moved, an oily shine, almost iridescent, flashed across the back of its neck. Its beak was truly huge and wondrous, the ridges carved into it as if sculpted by a chisel. It gave the auk an ancient expression.

  ‘He has a general’s face,’ Clara said.

  ‘Yes, like Caesar.’

  Clara picked up a strip of the cod and held it towards the bird. The auk leant back, warily, then in a quick movement it opened its beak and took the fish with its head angled sharply to the side. She laughed happily, shrugging her shoulders like a child and looking at me with complete satisfaction.

  ‘Astonishing!’ I said. ‘Clara you are a magician!’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, squeezing my hand. Expecting her to let go, I was surprised when she continued to hold me.

  ‘And you must thank Mr French for making this possible.’

  ‘I have learnt something,’ I replied. ‘Mr French is a cousin, or distant cousin, to our own captain.’

  ‘Oh,’ she replied, letting my hand go. ‘That may change things.’

  ‘Hopefully not, but we must be careful.’ Even mentioning the man seemed to bring the scent of his cologne into the room.

  ‘How did you learn this?’

  ‘From Sykes himself. He told me in his cabin. He claims they have a special obligation to each other.’

  ‘What kind of obligation?’

  ‘Well, perhaps that is something we have yet to learn.’

  Clara was thoughtful. ‘I have something to admit, too,’ she said. ‘I have told Edward everything.’

  ‘About the bird?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Is that wise?’

  She looked a little insulted, so I quickly attempted an explanation: ‘I say that only because he is behaving in a strange manner.’

  ‘I think knowing about this bird, and its survival, it might give him a cause,’ she said, ‘for hope.’

  ‘But what if, during a strange mood, he were to tell the captain?’

  Clara was amused. ‘Edward and the captain are not friends. Edward believes the captain is determined to make a fool of him. Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t.’

  She reached up and brushed my cheek with a finger. ‘No, there are many things you fail to notice, aren’t there?’

  That night, as I lay in my bunk, my mind raced with thoughts of Clara, of her touch, the coolness of her fingers, her expression. But also I tho
ught about the girl I had known as Celeste, who had similarly possessed my spirit. It was inescapable. I would never be free of her. I never wanted to be free of her. But just what had she meant by touching me? Had I imagined it? In the middle of the night all things are possible.

  I tried to calm myself by concentrating on the great auk, hidden in its grim locker between the giant links of the chain and the containers of oils. I thought of its eye, dark and wild, among the shadows, and the bindings around its wings and legs. Survival, but at the cost of freedom. Perhaps on these terms it was no survival at all.

  At about three in the morning, still not asleep, I heard a commotion coming from on deck. Several voices were raised and a laugh rang out, rough and clear. I lifted the felt curtain from my porthole and looked across the dark ocean. The clouds were brooding, overlapping in blooms of density like writing ink spilt in water. Then I saw below them, in the distance, as black as driftwood, the unmistakable outline of cliffs. Jagged and hideously cruel, they had the appearance of rotten teeth jutting from the sea.

  I watched, transfixed by such a bleak and lonely view, and decided to go on deck. I only reached the saloon. Because as soon as I had opened the latch to my cabin, I was halted by the sight of Edward Bletchley, sitting in his customary armchair next to the wood-burner. His legs were straight out in front of him, as stiff as a corpse, and his head was slumped forwards so that his chin rested almost on his chest. He appeared dead, or dead asleep, but as I walked up to him he opened his eyes and fixed me with a strange, bleary gaze.

  ‘Aha,’ he said, vaguely, before shutting his eyes again.

  I stood, unsure what to do. The fire had been damped to its slowest burn, to last the night, so only the faintest glow shone through the glass. The only other illumination was from the oil lamp that hung in the rear of the saloon. It spread a greyish half-light, similar to the Arctic dusk, throughout the room, and cast a stony pallor on Bletchley’s face. He resembled a cemetery sculpture guarding his chosen grave.

  ‘You cannot sleep,’ Bletchley said, his eyes opening once more. In his expression I saw a drifting consciousness which roamed, before settling with renewed focus upon me.