The Navigator Page 11

  They saw the wind catch him, heard the twang of the sennit rope as the stays tightened, the suck and splash as the outrigger lifted out of the water. They watched the old man stand, not painfully, but proud and confident, with the sheet in his hand, one foot braced against the steering paddle, riding the waves like a sea-god. Gunnar Thorkild felt salt tears pricking at his eyelids, and a great cry was wrenched out of him:

  ‘Ai-ee, Kaloni! Ai-ee Son of the Sons of Navigators!’

  As if he were another man, he heard the cry blown away on the wind, and saw Kaloni and his frail vessel fade into the darkness. Then a hand was laid on his shoulder, and Magnusson’s voice challenged him back to reality:

  ‘He’s gone Thorkild; and you’ve got a ship to sail.’

  Next morning, while Charlie Kamakau was at the wheel, Thorkild gathered the ship’s company around him on the deck, and told them:

  ‘… You understand now, what we are doing. We are sailing as the old ones did, without charts or compass. Whatever else happens, you will know you have done that…If the legends are true, and I have followed my grandfather’s sailing directions properly, we shall come on our island tomorrow. If we find a safe anchorage, we’ll stay there long enough to examine its features and record them. If it’s uninhabited, we establish possession of it. If it will support a human community, then some of us – or all of us – may be interested to establish such a community…Curious possibility isn’t it? All of us, at one time or another, have said or thought that we’d like to stop the world and get off. Suppose, tomorrow, we find we can do just that?…Now remember we’re free either way. The Frigate Bird guarantees that freedom. We can stay or sail away, some of us, all of us.’

  ‘Can we sail away Professor?’ Yoko Nagamuna asked the question in her small bird-like voice. ‘You said we’re not using charts or compasses. How will we know where we are?’

  ‘Of course we do – at least approximately enough for us to set a course and sail to New Zealand or Tahiti. I’ll lay even money, Lieutenant Lorillard has us pin-pointed on the chart right now.’

  ‘You’re damn right I have,’ said Lorillard, emphatically.

  ‘You see!’ Thorkild dismissed the matter with a laugh. ‘The frames of reference are different. The result is the same. We know where we are now. We’ll know where we are tomorrow.’

  ‘Even if we didn’t have the Frigate Bird,’ Hernan Castillo added his mite of encouragement, ‘we could still build our own boat, and sail her.’

  ‘Provided we had the tools, buster.’ Ellen Ching was sceptical. ‘And the skills, and the materials.’

  ‘Which brings up another point.’ Monica O’Grady thrust herself into the talk. ‘The professor talked about “some of us or all of us”. I don’t think it could work that way. We’ve fragmented our knowledge so much that we’re like…well, for Christ’s sake! – like flightless birds or three-legged horses, or – or Vestal Virgins in a whore-house. We don’t know how to do it any more.’

  ‘At which point,’ said Gunnar Thorkild with a grin, ‘I leave you, ladies and gentlemen. Question for discussion: how does a Vestal Virgin make out in a whore-house – or how do you win at Hialeah with a three-legged horse?’

  ‘Or what,’ asked Peter Lorillard with a rare flash of humour, ‘what do you make of a mariner who sails by the bones of his arse?’

  ‘You make him a cook, mister!’ Molly Kaapu stood over them like a great hen shepherding her chicks. ‘And if some of you girls don’t start peeling, no one gets lunch!’

  Later, while they were having a pre-lunch drink in Magnusson’s stateroom, Sally Anderton added a postscript to the discussion:

  ‘… I’ve never heard them so lively. After you’d gone, Gunnar, even the crew joined in. But here’s the odd thing. It’s still theory in their minds. None of them regards it as a concrete possibility …’

  ‘I’ll tell you why,’ said Carl Magnusson. ‘When you’ve been aboard a while, the ship becomes a womb. You’re warm; you’re fed; and, once you’re used to the motions, you’re so comfortable you never want to leave it. Watch any sailor. Two days before landfall, he’s rearing to get ashore. Two days after, when he’s had his woman and a skinful of liquor, he can’t wait to get back on board. It’s the only reality he knows …’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Gunnar Thorkild was suddenly moody and distracted. ‘I was just trying to bring them to grips with the idea. You see…’

  ‘What’s on your mind, Thorkild?’

  ‘Something my grandfather said. The rock that rises out of the reef is guarded by spirits …’

  ‘And that means?’

  ‘Specifically, I don’t know. Neither did he. But every legend has its base in fact. So I have to think of possible hazards. The problem isn’t the hazard, but the haunted area that surrounds it in one’s own mind. Reason falls out of gear and tribal memory takes control…How did you make out with Lorillard?’

  ‘He was upset. That’s natural. I pointed out that your experiment in primitive navigation could be of value to the Navy. I urged him to record it; which he’s doing. However, he’s got troubles of his own.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s moved in on Martha Gilman.’ ‘I know.’

  ‘He thinks you’re jealous.’

  ‘I hoped she’d do better; but I’m not jealous.’

  ‘You tell him that.’

  ‘Why should I bother?’

  ‘Because,’ said Carl Magnusson, ‘now that you’re skipper, you get to see his personal record. It shows he’s married, with a wife and two children in San Diego.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’

  ‘Exactly…Try picking the bones out of that stew, Captain Thorkild.’

  ‘If you take my advice,’ Sally Anderton was emphatic, ‘you won’t say or do anything about it. Let them enjoy each other while they’re on board and sort the rest out for themselves, later.’

  ‘But if Martha doesn’t know …’

  ‘She won’t thank you, Gunnar Thorkild, for telling her.’

  ‘And that,’ said Magnusson with cheerful malice, ‘that disposes of Lieutenant Peter Lorillard U.S.N. Now, what about you two?’

  ‘What about us?’ It was Sally who asked the question.

  ‘Are you going to get married?’

  ‘We are married,’ said Gunnar Thorkild. ‘I’ve spread my mat. The elders have approved. The woman has walked to my house. That’s the old way. Do you know a better one?’

  ‘No, I guess not. I’ve tried four times: twice with a minister and twice with a judge. Your way seems as good as any.’

  At three in the morning they were running westwards, before a ten-knot wind under a sky full of stars. Adam Briggs was at the wheel, and Gunnar Thorkild was on the foredeck, watching the te lapa, that strange luminescence, which flowed, deep down, with the eastward current. Even through the broken water he could see it, long streams of greenish light like flashes of lightning, flaring and parting under the bows.

  The spectacle was hypnotic; and, every little while, he had to avert his eyes and refocus them on the familiar objects of the deck. Then, gradually, he became aware of a change in the pattern. The sharp flashes began to shimmer and break up, as though a shock wave had passed through them. It was a phenomenon he had never seen before, and his grandfather had never mentioned it to him. It puzzled him, but it gave him no cause for alarm. The wind was fair, the glass was high and the sea was comfortable. All he felt was a sharp pang of loss, because Kaloni the Navigator was not there to explain the strangeness.

  When the sun rose, he could see, far down on the western horizon, the shape of the promised cloud, the pile of white vapour formed by the updraught of sea winds over a land mass. An hour later, he could make out the land itself: a high truncated cone, bright under the climbing sun. He felt a wild surge of elation, and he yelled to Adam Briggs:

  ‘We made it, brother! We made it! Go below and rouse ’em all up! Magnusson too! This is what we came for! Let ’em all see it!’

  They
came tumbling up, excited and chattering, to crowd the foredeck, and watch the distant shapes grow and harden, until they could make out the folds and fissures on its flanks, and the first hint of colour from the reef and on the land. In the wheelhouse Sally Anderton was like a child, caught between tears and laughter. Magnusson was flushed and stammering with triumph:

  ‘I can’t believe it! This…this is the best moment of my life!… Dammit! I’m only the carrier. You did it Thorkild!…’

  As they came close, Thorkild could distinguish all the features which his grandfather had described; the break in the lip of the bowl, through which a cascade of green foliage poured down to the beach, the sentinel rock, and the channel which ran past it into the lagoon. The tide was low and the swell was light, both good omens for a safe passage. He called Charlie Kamakau to the wheelhouse.

  ‘Let’s have the sails off her Charlie. I’ll stand in to about a quarter of a mile, then I’ll heave her to. You take the whaler with Malo and Tioto and sound me that channel. It looks narrow; but with water under us, we should make it easily enough…Also see what water we’ve got in the lagoon. It’s quite wide; but I want to be able to lay out enough chain to hold us in a blow …’

  Half an hour later Charlie Kamakau was back with his report. ‘The channel’s about twenty yards wide, deeper towards the rock…You’ve got at least eighteen feet of water all the way in. The current’s about two knots. As you go in, you’ll get a lift from the swell that swings you towards the big rock, so bear away from it a bit. Once you’re inside the lagoon you’re O.K. It’s low tide and you’ve still got eighteen feet and enough swinging room for a long chain. The bottom’s sand and coral…’

  ‘You saw no hazards round the rock?’

  ‘None, except the way the swell skews into the channel…But with today’s sea, there’s no problem.’

  ‘O.K. We go in!’

  ‘See those three palms on the beach? Line yourself up on the middle one…’

  ‘Got it Charlie!’

  Thorkild swung the Frigate Bird in a wide arc and headed at half speed, towards the entrance. A cheer went up from the watchers on deck and he waved a hand to acknowledge it. They were about a cable’s length from the channel when Charlie Kamakau gave a warning and pointed astern. Thorkild looked back and saw a great wall of water, like the surf on Sunset Beach, rolling down towards them. Recognition was swift, and terrifying. It was a freak wave, like those which the Japanese called tsunami, the product of some underwater upheaval.

  He could not turn back. If he did, the wave would broach him on to the reef. If he could get through the channel he might have a chance, because the reef would fracture the wave and dissipate its force. He slammed the throttles up and headed straight for the entrance. For one wild moment, he thought they were through; then the swell lifted under the hull and they were slammed hard against the rockface. He heard the timbers rend, saw the decks buckle, and bodies tossed and tumbled like dolls in a water-chute. Then he, himself, was caught by a giant hand that plucked him from the wheel and flung him against the bulkhead. The last thing he remembered, before he slid into blackness, was the green light of the te lapa and how it had shattered under the water as if a shock-wave had passed through it…

  When he woke, he was lying on green leaves, with Sally Anderton and Adam Briggs bending over him. His scalp was split in a long bloody furrow. His hands were torn. But he could see and hear; and, after a while, he could sit up and begin to understand the dimension of the tragedy.

  The Frigate Bird was a total wreck. Her back was broken; her ribs were stove in. Her decks were awash and she was wedged sidelong in the channel, where the surf would batter her to pieces. Malo was drowned. Monica O’Grady was dead too, her neck snapped when she was flung against the mast. He himself would have died had not Tioto hauled him, unconscious, to the beach and pumped the water out of his lungs. Magnusson was alive, but with a broken shoulder. The rest were scared and shocked but safe! The great wave had come, and gone; and, most monstrous of ironies, the sea was calm again.

  In spite of Sally’s warnings about concussion and collapse, Thorkild made them hoist him to his feet and steady him until the first dizziness had passed. Then he made them walk him inland, through the break in the island wall, until they found a place where a cascade of fresh water flowed down over moss-covered ledges into a small rocky pool. They rested a moment and drank, and then went back to the beach to join the others.

  Some were huddled under the palm trees, in abject misery, staring out at the twisted hulk of the Frigate Bird. Others were prying aimlessly among the debris on the beach, or bathing their cuts in the shallows. Magnusson, grey and listless, was propped against a pandanus bole, with Molly Kaapu fanning his face. He gave Thorkild a grimace that was meant to be a smile and said:

  ‘Well, Thorkild! You couldn’t have made a better job if you’d scuttled her yourself. What happened?’

  ‘Tsunami – like the big one that hit Hilo. They come out of nowhere.’

  ‘So we’re stuck here.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘We made a mistake Professor. We should have let Lorillard have his way. At least the Navy would have known where we are.’

  ‘We made the mistake. We live with it! Round ’em up Adam. I want to talk to them.’

  They came, shabby and straggling, stunned by the spectacle of each other’s misery. Thorkild snapped at them brutally:

  ‘Wake up! Pull yourselves together! You’re alive! Be glad of it! That wave could have killed us all! Where’s Hernan Castillo?’

  ‘Here, Professor.’

  ‘A hundred yards inland, you’ll find fresh water. Just near it, there’s a flat open space. We’ll make a camp there. We need a wind-break, shelter and a fire-pit. Franz, Yoko, Martha, you go help him. As soon as the shelter’s prepared, make a place for Mr Magnusson. Ellen Ching?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘You’re a botanist. You know fruits and plants. Take Charlie’s wife and Molly Kaapu and see what else is growing around here, besides coconuts. We need a big meal as soon as we can get it Now you, Charlie and Adam and Tioto…If you’re ready for another swim, get yourselves out to the ship and see what you can salvage before she gets her first battering. Fire axes and tools first, canvas, cordage…after that whatever you can lay hands on or dismantle. Wrench off the hatch covers and use them as rafts to float things back…Simon, you take Jenny and Mark and Sally and scour the beach. Pick up anything that’s been washed overboard – I mean anything – bits of wood, cans…Pile it all in a big heap near the campsite. Don’t overlook anything. Willy Kuhio, you’re the fisherman. You and your wife start prodding round the pools and see what you can find that’s eatable. Lorillard and I will be the burial party …’

  It took them two hours to scrape out the shallow graves in the coarse sand at the head of the beach, to lay out the bodies, cover them with stones and sand and build a small cairn. By the time they had finished their backs were aching and their hands were raw and bleeding. Lorillard said:

  ‘We ought to give them a prayer.’

  ‘May they rest easy,’ said Gunnar Thorkild. ‘May they speak for us, wherever they are.’

  ‘Amen …!’ Lorillard sat down on the sand and buried his face in his hands. ‘What a mess! What a bloody stupid mess!’

  ‘We’ll survive.’

  ‘So what? We’ve dropped off the edge of the world. We’ll be reported missing – they’ll search for a while and then they’ll write us into the book of the dead.’

  ‘You can say that to me.’ Gunnar Thorkild’s tone was threatening. ‘But not to the others. We need hope – not a doomsday man!’

  ‘You don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you Thorkild?’

  ‘Mr Lorillard, I don’t have a high opinion of myself…Look! We’ve just buried our dead. Let’s call a truce, eh?’

  ‘Fine! A truce! Now what?’

  ‘For the moment everybody’s busy. Tonight the reaction will hit –
and they’ll be deep in the miseries. We’ll have to keep jolting them into action.’

  ‘You take it all on yourself.’ Lorillard was bleak. ‘You assume no one else is as fit or prepared as you are. That’s a mistake. If you’d listened to me, we’d have the Navy steaming out to find us right now …’

  Thorkild was seized with a sudden nausea. He turned away and retched and then pitched, face down, in his own vomit.

  … There was smoke and there was fire. There was a wind that chilled him to the marrow and a heat that burned him. There was earth under his hands and then a sea that lifted him up and carried him away. There were stars, and then a blackness. There were ghost voices and bird-cries and the sibilant wash of waves on the beach. There was a foulness in his gullet and hammers beating at his skull, and then a vortex that swirled him, like a leaf, into nowhere. Then, there was a woman’s breast and his cheek against it, and water, cool on his parched tongue and, after it, a long tranquillity. When he opened his eyes, he could see nothing. Panic-stricken, he struggled to sit up; but Sally Anderton’s hands forced him back to the sand and her voice admonished him in a whisper:

  ‘Lie quiet! You’re all right.’

  ‘Where am I?’ It was not his own voice but a crow’s croak out of nowhere.

  ‘You’re here with me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing…A touch of concussion.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘After midnight …’

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘All here. They’re asleep.’

  ‘Was there food?’

  ‘Plenty …’

  ‘Briggs and Charlie…Are they back from the ship?’

  ‘Yes. They found useful things. Lie quiet now. You’ll be better in the morning.’

  ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘I’ll make you warm.’

  When he woke at first light, he was himself again, weak but clearheaded and in control of his faculties. He eased himself away from Sally, sat up, stood and surveyed his tatterdemalion tribe, huddled in sleep under the windbreak which had been their shelter for the night. The fire-pit was still warm, and the remains of the evening meal were scattered around it; scraps of coconut, shells, banana peelings. A little further away was a pile of what looked like rubbish, the scourings of the beach, and the first salvage of the Frigate Bird. He did not stop to examine it. There would be time enough later – interminable time. He walked to the spring, sluiced his face, drank a few mouthfuls of water and walked slowly down to the beach to void himself, native-fashion, in the shallows. The surf was higher this morning, and the waves were tossing over the decks and around the broken spars of the Frigate Bird. Then he saw a thing that left him gape-mouthed with shock. At the far end of the lagoon, where the reef swung in to join the land, he saw Charlie Kamakau and Adam Briggs sitting in a canoe, fishing. He shouted to them and ran, weak-kneed and stumbling, along the beach. They saw him and came paddling inshore, using their bare hands for propulsion.