The Lion Lies Waiting

by Glenn Quigley

“Fair enough. I just wanted to let you know, I’m goin’ away for a few days, with Edwin and Duncan. We’re leavin’ first thing tomorrow, an’ I wanted to make sure you’d be able to cope without me.”

  Morwenna set her hands in her lap. Ever since the revelations of the past summer, Robin had been slightly overprotective of her.

  “I’m sure I can manage for a few days without you, Robin,” she said.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say she could manage a good deal longer, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and truth be told, she was still ashamed for lying to him for most of his life. She expected she’d feel the same way for the rest of hers.

  “It’s just…it means I’ll prob’ly be away for the solstice,” Robin continued.

  “Oh,” Morwenna replied, fumbling with her sewing again. Then with one hand, she fussed at her grey curls, ensuring they remained tucked beneath her lace cap.

  “So, I wanted to give you your gift early.”

  The parcel was shabbily wrapped in rough linen and tied with a complicated knot. Her stiff fingers struggled with the string until Robin pulled at it, snapping it easily.

  The linen slid to the floor revealing the dazzling gold-leaf gilt work underneath.

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” Morwenna exclaimed. “It’s…it’s an empty picture frame.”

  She held her gift up, lining Robin’s big, round face in the gap.

  “I thought you could put the paintin’ o’ you an’ Barnabas in it. ’Ad it made special!”

  “It’s beautiful, thank you, dear. Duncan’s handiwork?”

  Robin wore a big sappy grin as he nodded.

  “And how does Edwin feel about you and Duncan spending time together?”

  “’E’s fine, they get along like an ’ouse on fire!”

  “Mmm, well, if you say so. But don’t take him for granted, Robin.”

  “I won’t, I won’t!” Robin chuckled. “I’m tryin’ not to make the same mistakes this time round, I promise. I’m sorry about goin’ away, I was lookin’ forward to visitin’ Dad’s grave with you this year, as a proper family, like. Well, not lookin’ forward exactly. You know what I mean.”

  Morwenna lay her hand on Robin’s knee.

  “I know exactly what you mean, Robin,” she smiled. “But don’t you worry, you do what needs doing. Would your trip have anything to do with Edwin’s mother, by any chance?”

  “’Ow’d you guess? She’s been upsettin’ ’is sister-in-law.”

  “Sylvia always upset Hester, backalong. From what I remember, they never saw eye to eye. She’s a terrible liar, is Sylvia. You can’t trust a word out of her mouth. They don’t like us Merryapple folk over there, Robin,” she said. “You look after yourself.”

  “I will; don’t worry yourself, Mum,” he chuckled.

  Mum. She still wasn’t used to hearing him say it, wasn’t used to being called it. It had only been a matter of months since the hurricane ripped through their village, through their lives. The one which had exposed the lie she’d told Robin for his entire life. So much time wasted. Even after such a deception, Robin had forgiven her. She never understood where he found the strength to do it, when she could never truly forgive herself. But now, of course, Robin also had Edwin to take care of him. In the four months the men had been together, Morwenna had witnessed the care and devotion Edwin had shown to her son. Blackrabbit could be a menacing place, and Robin was big enough to protect himself and his friends from any threat, but only Edwin could protect Robin’s heart.

  THERE WAS STILL a mist upon the waves and a bite in the air as the three men loaded up Robin’s beloved little boat, Bucca’s Call.

  Most of the village’s fleet of fishing boats had been hoisted out of the water for repairs and sat on posts in the harbour, looking entirely ill at ease and thoroughly out of place. Robin’s boat had recently been completely overhauled and so she sat happily on the dull waters, ready to depart at a moment’s notice.

  They set sail before dawn, waved off by Robin’s mother, Morwenna, Edwin’s father, Nathaniel, and his apprentice, young May Bell who would be caring for Duncan’s kitten, Bramble. She waved the cat’s stumpy, deformed paw after them and Duncan held his own stomach to ease a sharp pang.

  “What’s the matter, missin’ your cat already?” Robin teased.

  “No. What? Of course not. No,” Duncan said. “By the way, you can both consider this little excursion my Midwinter gift to you. Now, Edwin before we get too far out, did Robin give you his lesson in ropes? Wasn’t it simply fascinating? So many different ways to tie a knot, each one more unnecessary than the last!”

  “Oh, now, I’m sure he’s got a good reason for knowing them. All ten thousand of them,” Edwin said.

  “You may joke—”

  “Thank you, we will,” Duncan interjected.

  “—but they’re all useful,” Robin finished

  “Of course they are, of course. Mmmhmm.” Duncan nodded.

  “Don’t make me capsize this boat, little man.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Robin just laughed and waved to the keeper who stood atop the blue-and-white striped lighthouse as they passed by. An hour into the journey saw a flurry of snowflakes whip round them as they huddled together on the tiny craft for warmth. She was a unique design, based on the common lugger, and she sliced gracefully through the winter waves, her scarlet hull gleaming. Her immaculate white sails caught the faintest of breezes and pushed the men onwards. Duncan had suggested they book passage on a larger vessel for the crossing, but Robin had taken mortal offense at the very notion. His boat had been bequeathed to him by his father and became Robin’s home away from home, his best friend, his pride and joy. He’d even been born in it and he’d die in it if he had his way. He sang as they sailed. Songs his father had taught him, shanties he’d learned at sea. His singing voice was deep and hearty, if not altogether in tune.

  Blackrabbit lay northeast of Merryapple, between it and the coast of Cornwall. Duncan was glad to be avoiding the little deserted island to the west. Named the Isle of Forloren, Mr. Reed had told many a ghost story about how it had come to be abandoned and it had put Duncan off the place for life.

  The journey across the rough winter seas was hard going, but Robin loved every minute of it. Duncan had always thought Robin only truly came alive on board Bucca’s Call, with the constant checking of the lines, his little jug ears tuned to each flicker and flap of the sails, his sky-blue eyes following the break of the waves and always, always, the odd, faint, ghost of a smile of his pale lips. The one Duncan had only ever seen on the boat. Until Edwin. Then Duncan saw the same exact smile on land, always when Edwin was near.

  Robin and Edwin both wore flaxen smocks to protect them from the cold and spray.

  “I wish you’d worn ’eavier clothes,” Robin said. “It’s goin’ to get a lot colder out ’ere.”

  “These are the best I’ve got,” Edwin replied.

  Duncan hugged his plain charcoal overcoat tighter around himself.

  “How come you’re not wearing your fancy coat?” Edwin asked him.

  Duncan was renowned in Blashy Cove for the splendid midnight blue overcoat with gold filigree he wore day in, day out, a gift from Robin from back when they had been lovers.

  “I thought this one would be less conspicuous than the other. Wouldn’t do to draw too much attention to myself over there.”

  He nodded in their general direction of travel.

  “Are you really so worried about returning?” Edwin asked.

  “Best not to take chances,” Duncan shrugged.

  Though he tried to downplay it, he knew he couldn’t hide the worried expression on his face. Duncan rarely spoke of his time on Blackrabbit and had given Edwin and Robin only the sketchiest details. He’d been involved with a local politician and their relationship had ended badly, prompting his decampment to Merryapple. He’d never revealed more, not even when he and Robin were together. But circumstances had changed.
The nature of his relationship with Robin had altered significantly, and he’d grown closer to Edwin in recent months, was at ease around them both—a rarity for him. Perhaps Duncan could, at last, unburden himself.

  Edwin rummaged in a sack by his feet.

  “Anyone hungry?” he asked, as he produced a loaf of bread and a block of cheese, followed by hevva cake—small, raisin-filled squares which were Robin’s favourite.

  “Here you go,” Edwin said, handing one over. “Robin, pay attention, don’t drop it.”

  Robin’s mind was clearly elsewhere. He fiddled constantly with lines and checked knots. Robin was known to be clumsy, and unless he engaged his full attention, he had a tendency to let things slip from his grasp.

  “I won’t,” Robin replied. “I’ve been sailin’ and eatin’ since before you were born!”

  Edwin gave him a look. “Something of an exaggeration.”

  “Only a little ’un,” Robin replied, innocently.

  “You take such good care of us, Edwin,” Duncan said with a laugh. “You know Robin only loves you for your cakes.”

  Edwin squirmed in his seat a little.

  “Oh. Right. You two haven’t said it yet. Good job, Duncan, you blundering dolt,” Duncan said, cringing.

  Robin cleared his throat as he checked the main line again, for the hundredth time.

  “Um, may I ’ave another cake, please?” he asked.

  “Did you eat yours already?” Duncan said. “That was fast, even for you.”

  “You dropped it over the side, didn’t you?” Edwin said.

  “I did, yes,” Robin replied, sheepishly.

  Some hours later, they began to notice an increase in the number of vessels passing them by. Huge cargo ships, mighty schooners, whalers and even red-sailed luggers, all moving to and fro, their masts like a forest in the briny mist, their sails rippling and flapping, all going about their business, leaving little Bucca’s Call and her three passengers bobbing about in their wake. Finally, they began to see a shape forming from the mist. Gulls began to caw overhead and the noise of a harbour filled their ears.

  Blackrabbit Island was in sight.

  Chapter Three

  BLACKRABBIT ISLAND STRETCHED for miles in either direction, filling the horizon as they moved closer or closer. The quickest way to their destination was to skirt around the east of the island, passing the huge, chalk-white cliffs, so blinding on a sunny day but were then bared like immense teeth amid the veil of mist. Once past the highest point of the island and its ancient circle of standing stones, Robin sailed Bucca’s Call westward, aiming for the local lighthouse. Then he made for the bustling harbour town of Port Knot. He expertly picked his way between the larger vessels surrounding them and navigated through the crowded port, going closer to shore than the larger boats dared. Edwin found it thrilling to watch Robin at work in his natural environment. He was so powerful, so commanding and so at ease.

  Finding a space on one of the many piers, Robin tied up Bucca’s Call before stomping off to negotiate a price with the harbourmaster. It was a busy place, not like the little harbour at Blashy Cove, and space was at a premium. Duncan stood by the waterside, rubbing his stubby legs which had gone numb either from the cold, or sitting too long, or both. He pulled up the collar on his overcoat and yanked the peak of his tricorne cap down low over his forehead. His eyes darted around his immediate vicinity.

  Edwin stood next to him, slack-jawed. He’d never seen anywhere so congested. There were likely more people in the harbour right then than on the entire island of Merryapple. All around the water’s edge, massive wooden cranes creaked under the strain of loads lifted from ships, their ropes pulled so tightly they were sure to snap at any moment. Dockhands pursed their lips, singing out to one another in their harbour whistle. Every harbour had one, Robin had once told him. A unique sound, the language of the port.

  Horses dragged packed carts through the crowd, itself an unending tide of people walking, running, shouting, laughing, crying, calling and even singing. Sailors scrambled high across rigging, bellowing at each other and hooting down at the sea of flat caps, cocked hats, bonnets and shawls rippling below. Gulls swarmed and fought over the tiniest scraps, children screeched, dogs barked, and somewhere in the distance bells were ringing.

  “I’d forgotten how hectic it can be at this time of year,” Duncan said. “Everyone’s trying to stock up for winter. It’s different to how I remember it. What’s…”

  He trailed off and Edwin followed his gaze to the cliffs.

  “There’s a chunk of it missing,” Duncan said. “It must have been the storm.”

  He explained how last time he’d been in Port Knot there was a cluster of buildings built into the cliffs themselves. It was named Pharebluff after its founder, an infamous local criminal named Thomas William Phare. What started as a simple covered bridge spanning a cleft in the rocks quickly became a hodgepodge of half-timbered structures built on top of one other and intermingled in a bewildering, haphazard way. No planning, no forethought, just a convergence of money, need and opportunity. It had been, in so many ways, Port Knot in miniature. The vast construction had housed all manner of merchants, traders and residents, but it was all gone, leaving only scars on the rock face. Edwin shuddered when he imagined the hurricane tearing the settlement from its roots.

  Robin returned from the harbour master’s cabin and bent down to pick up his bag when a young boy of perhaps six or seven years old approached him. He wore dirty, tattered clothing and had sallow cheeks.

  “Carry your bags, sir?” said the boy, reaching for the handle.

  “Carry them off, you mean!” Duncan said. “Get out of it, go on. Shoo! All of you!”

  Three other children of a similar age appeared from behind Robin and Edwin and all scarpered off through the crowd, laughing.

  “Duncan!” Robin said. “They were only lookin’ to make a livin’!”

  “You’re too bleddy soft, Robin. This place will eat you alive if you don’t toughen up.”

  “You’re exaggeratin’.”

  “Remind me again what happened the very first time you came here looking for the woman you thought was your mother?”

  “Ach, that were years ago!”

  “What happened, Robin?” Duncan insisted.

  “I ‘ad my money stolen ’alf an ’our after I arrived and nearly got stabbed twice, but…”

  “But nothing. Eyes sharp and follow me. The sooner we get off this island, the better.”

  FARTHER ALONG THE docks, a circle of people were gathered, shouting and calling and laughing. In the centre of them were two men with their fists up, pacing around one another. The younger of the two was brawny, sweaty and wore a soiled undershirt. He sported a moustache which curled up at the ends and twitched nervously. The other man was taller, older and stronger. Silver haired and short bearded, his extensively tattooed torso was shirtless. Money changed hands among the spectators.

  “Go on Vince, get ’im!” called one woman.

  “Lay ’im out!” called another.

  Vince, the older fighter, was distracted. He’d caught a glimpse of three men arriving in a little red boat and was peering to see through the crowd for a better view. The younger fighter took the opportunity to land a couple of punches on Vince’s generous-but-firm stomach. Vince staggered back a step. Then, still trying to see through the crowd, he laid a single heavy blow to his opponent’s jaw, knocking him to the ground. The crowd cheered. Vince walked out of the circle and took his top shirt from an associate—a spindly man named Percy Penhallow—and stood facing the docks.

  “Cart’s almost loaded up,” said Percy. He followed Vince’s gaze. “Who’re you looking at?”

  “Someone who shouldn’t be here,” said Vince.

  There was a loud crash from a cart in an alley behind them. Vince spun round to see a barrel on the ground.

  “Watch it, you dimwit!” he bellowed, his voice deep and hoarse.

  He darted over and
shoved a hugely muscular young man out of his way as he checked the barrel for damage.

  “Get these loaded quick as you can, and be more careful or you’ll get my boot up your arse,” he growled.

  “No need to get nasty,” Percy said. “Where’s your Midwinter spirit?”

  Vince glowered at him and then stormed off in the direction of the dock. He stomped past the sailors uploading their cargo, his attention never leaving the newly-arrived men. From a safe distance, he watched them head towards the town. Vince followed them along the cobbled streets, pulling his battered tricorne cap down over his eyes and tucking his chin low, his short, grey beard rubbing against the rough wool of his claret overcoat. So intently was he watching his prey he didn’t notice the elderly woman until he almost tripped over her.

  “Watch yourself!” he growled.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His eyes widened and his shoulders slumped. “Oh. I didn’t—”

  “Didn’t what? Didn’t mean to knock me over? Didn’t mean to almost kill me?” the woman said, her eyes like steel and her tone sharp.

  “Don’t exaggerate, Mum.”

  The little round woman straightened her bonnet and fussed at her skirts.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry?” his mother asked.

  He glanced halfway up the street. The three men were still in sight.

  “Nowhere. Business, that’s all.”

  “Oh yes, business. I know all about your business, boy. It’ll be the death of you.”

  Boy. He was fifty-two years old and she still called him boy.

  “I have to go, Mum.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” she called out after him.

  “You never taught me how!” he shouted back.

  THE TOWN OF Port Knot, with affluent Barley Hill to the south and run-down Gull’s Reach to the west, lay mottled with snow and spread out before them, curving upwards as if set to tip back upon itself. Roads ran in a topsy-turvy, haphazard fashion, doubling back on themselves, running over on bridges, through tunnels. It was possible to walk the entire length of a street and by the end find yourself high above where you started, or far below. Indeed, it was the tangle of roads which gave the town its name. The tan-hued buildings—half-timbered and jettying wildly—were made with blocks of sandstone hewn from the islands quarries and sat at every angle. They sat neat as pins, side by side. They sat facing each other, so close a person could stretch out from a window on either side of the road and touch hands. They sat turned and twisted, big and small, new and old, squished in wherever there was space and all threaded with copper pipes on every corner from road to roof, rattling and banging as the hot water they carried battled against the cold climate. And perforating all of these cramped, bewildering streets was a series of mostly covered, entirely cobbled laneways named the Entries. The skinny arteries of the town and no place for decent folk to walk at night.