Draca

by Geoffrey Gudgion

  Harry didn’t like the atmosphere in that cabin. The hostility was all around him, not just in Jack, as if the boat itself was angry. ‘Look, I know we’ve had our differences, but can’t we try and find a way round them? Just spend some time together? You and me were going to go sailing together, and scatter Old Eddie’s ashes, remember?’

  Jack stared at Harry long and hard, and pushed himself upright.

  ‘OK. Let’s do it.’ His voice had gone sharp, a bit unnatural. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘What, today? I’m not dressed for it.’

  Jack lifted the seat of one of the benches and began pulling stuff out, flinging it over his shoulder onto the table. ‘Spare foul-weather gear. Rubber boots. Life jacket. Everything you need.’

  ‘Yeah, but…’

  ‘Half a day. I know just where Grandpa would want to be.’

  ‘Ain’t it a bit windy?’

  ‘You’re not going to wimp out, are you? Call Mum. Tell her you’ll be home for tea.’

  ‘Well, I suppose…’ No way was Jack going to accuse Harry of wimping out.

  ‘Good. His ashes are in the store with the rest of my gear. Change into that stuff while I fetch them.’

  The mood didn’t lift when Jack left. Harry was so uneasy that he found himself looking over his shoulder as he pulled on the waterproofs, as if there was someone else still with him.

  Weird that.

  II: GEORGE

  George stood at the office window, staring out over the marina to where Draca lay alongside a pontoon, and wishing there was some way she could keep Jack and his father apart. She didn’t know what it was between them, apart from the will, but she did know that, every time Harry appeared, Jack went darker, like an animal retreating into a cave and glowering at the world.

  When Jack came ashore from his boat he was on his own. He strode down the pontoon in a brisk, no-nonsense way that made George imagine him wearing a uniform, leading his men with a gun in his hand. His limp had almost gone, over the summer, so there was just a bit more of a clump as his foot went down, and a slight shifting of his weight. If she didn’t know better, he might have had a small stone in his shoe.

  And Jack could move fast. He came through the office door hard enough to have knocked anyone flying who was standing behind it.

  ‘Can I have the storeroom key, Chippy?’

  ‘How’s it going?’ George asked.

  ‘We’re going for a sail. Father–son bonding time.’ Jack’s voice was higher than normal. Like his shoulders.

  ‘Have you seen the forecast? The glass is dropping.’ Chippy waved the key at the barometer on the wall before handing it over.

  ‘I know, there’s a gale on the way. We’ll stay in the bay.’

  ‘And the tide’s turned. There’ll be a four-knot westerly flow in The Race.’

  ‘Better keep clear then, hadn’t I?’

  George followed Jack to the store. Like most of the owners, he had a personal locker, and his was jam-packed with stuff. He rummaged in the pile and pulled out a purple cube, heavy enough to need both hands until he held it against his body. When he tried to close the door it mashed against a pile of clothes and swung open again, releasing a tumble of books, a screwed-up winter jacket and an officer’s ceremonial sword.

  ‘Sod it.’ He kicked the door and left it swinging.

  ‘Grandpa,’ he explained, hefting the cube. ‘We’re going to scatter his ashes.’

  ‘Don’t go, Jack. Not today.’ George stood between Jack and the door, and didn’t move.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘High ‘spring’ tides and a storm coming. It’s going to be rough.’

  ‘Draca’s sound.’

  ‘And your colours are dark.’

  ‘Oh, not that again.’

  George tried to hug him, but it was awkward with the box against his body. Jack put one arm around her and squeezed, and with her face buried in his chest George sensed a flare of tenderness, but it was the kind of red you see at the base of burning oil or tyres, half hidden by thick, black smoke.

  ‘I wish you’d believe me. I think you might die today.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ He pushed past her.

  ‘Please, Jack.’ But he’d gone.

  No, he wouldn’t be fine. George watched him march back to his boat with that cube under his arm, and the blackness followed him like the shitty exhaust from Draca’s engine. As he went below deck it closed around him until that was all there was.

  George stood outside the marina office to watch them go, dreaming up bizarre scenarios to stop them. Chain Draca to a navigation buoy. Sink a ship across the harbour mouth. Anything. The sense of disaster was as strong as coming thunder, the way a storm could make her tense up and wait for the first crack. Jack’s boat needed at least two people to sail her, and if it was only two, they both needed to know what they were doing. Jack’s father didn’t. George could tell by the awkward way he moved about the boat, tripping over ropes and getting in the way because he didn’t know how to help. One pig-headed fool and a beginner setting off into a storm, like they were perfectly allowed to do.

  Jack turned Draca into the wind just off the marina to put the mainsail up, and he did that on his own, heaving the halyard with angry great jerks. Feck, but that guy was strong. At least he put in a couple of reefs. Already the wind was moaning through the rigging of the boats alongside, setting their halyards rattling against the masts in a tinny drumroll that said ‘Too much to sail’. No one else was setting out, so the marina was crowded with masts. George didn’t need an anemometer to know the wind strength: the boats sang it to her, and Jack was setting out into a force 6, rising 7. Later the moan would become a scream and it would be force 8 out in the bay.

  But it wasn’t the wind that worried George most, or the fact that Jack didn’t have a half-competent crew with him. Draca was built for rough weather. As Jack let her fall away from the wind, and her sails filled, she looked strong and ready for anything, even beautiful, despite that ugly figurehead snarling at the sea. The thing that really frightened her was the darkness around him, as thick as that frigging carving. It wasn’t engine smoke either. That was blowing away on the wind so fast it looked like an oily rag waving from the boat’s arse end.

  George hadn’t been joking with Jack. All the signs were that he was going to die that day.

  III: HARRY

  At first, Harry thought it was fun. Jack even made a joke about the gods being with them when the engine fired, which was a bit of a cheek after all the work Harry had done on it. Harry stood on the pontoon ready to cast off, and snarled back at the figurehead, happy. Him and Jack again, after all these years.

  Jack let Harry steer while he hauled up the mainsail. ‘Just keep her into the wind,’ he said, and Harry could manage that while this great sheet of canvas went flapping and cracking upwards. It looked like hard work.

  ‘We need to set the sails in the harbour,’ Jack explained. ‘It’ll be rough in the bay.’ That should have warned him, but Harry was enjoying himself too much to think. It was special, working together, like they were a team, and Harry didn’t mind the boy giving him orders. He knew what he was doing.

  Jack didn’t speak much, unless it was about sailing the boat, and then he sounded over-bright, as if he was still tense, so Harry shut up for a bit. Let it come, he thought. You don’t need to talk when you’re sailing. There are things to do.

  They shot through the harbour mouth like they had wings, with the boat heeling over and the water bubbling by. The navigation buoys marking the channel were tilted at an angle and trailing their own wake with the rush of the tide.

  ‘Nine knots!’ Jack pointed at one of the brassbound instruments by the steps down into the chart-room. It sounded as if that was good. Then a wave lifted the bow and dropped them back in a crash and a spatter of water, making Harry grab onto the edge of the cockpit for support. Another wave hit and it became a pattern: lift–crash–spray, lift–crash–spray. I
f it had been the same every time, he could have got used to it, but there were swoops or staggers that he wasn’t expecting and they caught him off his guard. It was maybe just a bit too exciting, but Jack seemed to be OK with it. He was watching the sails and showing Harry how to tighten them by heaving sideways on the line and pulling a bit more slack around the post as he let it go. Swigging, he called it. Harry got the hang of it quick enough to be pleased with himself.

  Jack was in his element. Harry felt quite proud, watching him push against the tiller with the wind in his hair. This was the man Harry used to know: fit and strong and confident. Then a lump of sea burst against the side, showering Harry, and Jack laughed.

  ‘Are you having fun, Dad?’ He made it sound like a challenge. Maybe Jack thought Harry was frightened. For a moment, Harry wondered if the boy wanted him to be frightened.

  ‘Great!’

  ‘Because it might get a bit rough further out. Let me know if you want to turn back.’

  That was definitely a challenge. Harry grabbed the edge of the cockpit and held on.

  ‘Show me what she can do then!’ The wind was strong against his cheek, and wet cloud scudded overhead, low enough to touch the top of the headland before it rushed towards them. The motion was still manageable at that point, just enough to make Harry slightly queasy, but then he wasn’t going to show Jack he had a problem.

  ‘Shall we scatter the ashes then?’

  ‘They’re in the saloon. Port side, forward. In the rack with the books.’

  Harry made it down the steps into the chart-room and stopped, gripping the door frame into the saloon. It was a weird feeling, looking at things that didn’t seem to be moving while he and they were being thrown about. For one thing, everything was half on its side, with the steps angled over so far that Harry would have slid off them if it weren’t for the non-slip treads, and his feet were no longer beneath his chest but way out to one side. Down there, everything looked cosy. The table and benches in front of him were solid enough, bolted to the deck, and even the books were in their proper place behind their retaining bars, but in the little galley area a dishcloth hung at an angle, swaying over the edge of the bowl. Outside, the world had gone mad. A grey and white horizon would appear and disappear in the skylight, and it felt like being trapped inside a child’s toy boat that was being kicked down the road. Harry’s gut heaved and he knew that, if he tried to cross the saloon to the box of ashes, he’d spew. He made it back to the cockpit, crabbing sideways up the sloping steps, and groped for the seat.

  ‘You OK?’ Jack had to shout against the wind.

  Harry nodded. It didn’t seem so bad when he could look at the water, even if it was dancing around all grey and ugly. Up in the cockpit, he knew it was the boat being thrown around. Down in the cabin, the whole world was moving.

  ‘I’ll get them later.’

  ‘We can turn back, if you like?’

  Harry shook his head. No way was he going to admit defeat.

  ‘Are you pleased with her?’ Harry was making conversation. It took his mind off his guts.

  ‘We understand one another. We both like wind.’

  Jack made it sound like the boat was alive.

  ‘This was a good solution. You keeping the boat, I mean.’ Harry shut his eyes, swallowing. Bad idea. He needed to look at land. ‘I’m glad you saw sense.’

  Jack’s hands flexed around the tiller. ‘You didn’t give me any choice.’ He sounded angry enough for Harry to look up, and he didn’t like what he saw, either in Jack’s face or in the scene around them. They were still in the shelter of the land, but beyond Anfel Head, directly ahead of them, the sea was grey–white with breaking waves.

  ‘We’re moving at quite a rate.’ Harry was starting to get nervous. The cliffs were slipping past rapidly, even though the wind was almost in their faces.

  ‘The tide’s pushing us west. We’ll have four or five knots behind us once we’re round the headland.’

  Harry could see a line across the water ahead of them, and coming closer. Even in the bay, where they were, it was choppy enough for the tops of some waves to be blown off in little avalanches of foam. Out there, it was like there was a fight going on just under the surface, turning everything into heaving lumps of grey and white. And the waves weren’t moving the way they come into a beach, all in regular lines and going the same way; these waves were big and ugly and chaotic.

  ‘You sure about this?’ Harry tried to keep his voice level. To him, it was as if they were about to jump into a raging torrent.

  Jack just laughed. It was a weird, high-pitched laugh that made Harry look at him closely and wonder.

  A blast of wind threw them so far over that Harry’s feet scrabbled for support on the deck and he was only saved from falling by grabbing the edge of the cockpit. There was a moment when they were weightless as the boat fell sideways off a wave, before they hit the trough in a great, shuddering thump and the next wave broke over them. It came sluicing down the deck, spraying upwards as it hit the cabin skylight, and washed over them. This wasn’t spray, it was solid water that hit them with so much force it felt like a fire hose had been pushed up Harry’s sleeve, and all Jack could do was laugh. He sat there hauling at the tiller with his feet braced against the lockers on the opposite side of the cockpit, and as they went airborne again and crashed back, he let out a ‘yee-hah’ whoop like a rodeo cowboy.

  ‘OK. You’ve proved your point,’ Harry shouted.

  ‘Come on, Dad.’ Jack threw words at Harry in short, disjointed bursts as he wrestled with the tiller. ‘What was it. That you used. To tell me. On walks. When I was a kid?’

  ‘Can’t remember. “Don’t dawdle”?’ Another wave broke over them and Harry tried to find shelter in the corner by the chart-room steps.

  ‘Nah. “Man up”. I’d be trailing behind. Tired and crying. “Man up”, you’d say. “Got to be strong. That’s my little soldier.”’

  ‘Well it toughened you up, didn’t it?’

  ‘Kept my nose out of a book, you mean?’

  ‘So I pushed you a bit hard. Point taken.’ Harry decided to humour the boy. This wasn’t fun any more. ‘Now let’s throw Old Eddie overboard and go home.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Jack smeared water from his eyes. He was wide-eyed, maybe a bit manic, and staring forward into the storm. ‘Let me show you where Vikings go to die.’

  ‘You’re mad.’ Harry meant that. It dawned on him that Jack wasn’t rational any more.

  ‘It runs in the family. Brace yourself.’

  He bellowed the last words at Harry in a way that made him twist to look forwards, over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh shit.’ Harry rarely swore, but the sight of this wall of water frightened the hell out of him. All around them was chaos, and then there was a wave that didn’t seem to move, just sat there in the ocean the way a torrent will flow up and over a boulder. It was high enough for the boat to come more upright when they were underneath it and lost the wind, and then be pushed over as they climbed its side and the sails caught the gale again. By the time they reached its crest they were almost horizontal. Around them the sea stretched out in jagged points. Had they taken a photograph it would have looked like a landscape of the Alps, a horizon that wasn’t a horizon but a series of peaks and valleys. The cliffs had become just a menacing smudge in the rain, with a white line of surf at their base. The boat seemed to hang in the air, twisting away from the wind, and Harry could still think enough to realise that so much of the hull and keel were clear of the water that the wind was taking over, spinning them.

  They fell into the trough in an explosion of foam so loud that Harry thought the boat was breaking up, and he watched Jack fight to bring her head around, pointing her as close into the wind and the waves as he could before the next wave rolled them over. Maybe even Jack was scared. The scene in the trough was worse than the crest. They were surrounded by moving hillsides of grey water whose tops were whipped away in hissing white.

 
; ‘Here,’ Jack shouted, as they crested the next wave and the wind threw them sideways again. ‘Here! This is the oath-breaker’s graveyard.’

  Oath-breakers. That word made Harry look at Jack, hard, and he was staring at Harry, eyes locked on his face even though he was fighting the boat and the world was moving in every direction. Jack mouthed something at him that might have been ‘Remember? Cross me heart and hope to die?’ but some of the words were lost on the wind. For a moment, Harry even wondered if Jack was trying to kill him, but Harry answered as if he hadn’t understood, shouting each word to be heard.

  ‘If you. Mean. This is where. We scatter the ashes. Then you f… You get them.’ He’d nearly sworn again. Harry had wedged himself in a corner, gripping on to whatever handhold he could find. Even if he’d been prepared to spew all over Jack’s cabin, he wasn’t going to make it through. He’d be thrown over and break a leg or worse. The bit of Harry’s brain that was still able to think had just wondered how he’d steer the boat if Jack went below, when two rifle-shot cracks in quick succession made them both look upwards.

  Jack screamed a single, foul expletive as the part of the rigging that held up the mainsail whipped away on the wind, with pieces of rope unravelling through the pulleys and whipping loose from the mast. The sail folded diagonally across its middle as the upper spar swung downwards towards them, pivoting from a point high on the mast. As Harry threw himself into a ball in the bottom of the cockpit, he had a glimpse of the spar arcing downwards at them like the sweep of an axe, with a half-opened parachute of loose sail billowing behind it.

  * * *

  Exeter. ↵

  Chapter Eleven: Dauða-dagr

  (Old Norse: a day of dying, or the day of one’s death)

  From the Saga of King Guthrum

  The storm drove the Viking fleet back towards the land. So great were the winds that the sails ripped asunder like banners that have been too long exposed, and so high were the waves that the oars swung at air or bit deep enough to break a man’s arm. There are in those parts great cliffs, and the sea made war with the land and made the sound of thunder, bursting high as an eagle flies as the gods unleashed their wrath for the breaking of the oath.