Another Port Brokeferry Piece

(This week I have been asked to do a public reading in December. By my old writers' group, which is nice. Here's another Saturday piece from Port Brokeferry.)

AND THERE WAS TIME

It had been a good day for business. Three trips to The Snag and back and seals came to the boat each time. And a dolphin was spotted, some way off so that Kerry wasn’t sure, but it caused some excitement on that trip.

Edwin was in a good mood. He called Kerry his lucky charm and the free pass he’d given her was, he said, his best investment. And being so high spirited, when he returned to harbour at the end of the day, there was Mad Martin waiting and Edwin gave the time to tell a Finn story, as he’d said he might.

‘What’ll it be?’ said Mad Martin. ‘What’ll it be?’

And Finn’s boat was far from land. As far away as it was possible to be. Sea and ice in all directions, as far as the eye can see, and further. And whales spotted at a distance some days, recorded in the ship’s log, and looked for and lost again. And once, a bird, with wings as wide as a man is tall, circled overhead and then left without coming near.

‘The story of Lagan MacNeill,’ said Mad Martin, and he pulled his jacket tight-closed about him even though the day was still warm.

So cold it was that words froze on the lips and men were disposed to sleep when they should have been awake. And Finn was at the wheel alone, a lit oil lantern giving small warmth to the air, small warmth and a sooty taste to each breath. And the sound of the sea against the rise and fall of the ship was a measured drumbeat that rose up through his feet.

‘Slow and slow and slow,’ said Mad Martin and Edwin pressed a finger to his lips for Martin to hush, for there were others listening to the story. Children there were, their first day in Port Brokeferry and this would be a memory they would take home with them. And Kerry had stayed to hear Edwin’s tale. And a woman who was rooming at the Victoria Hotel and seemed somehow familiar to Edwin, like he’d seen her before.

Slow the progress they made, slow the thoughts they had, and slow the cold blood moving in their veins. Everything slow, like time moved differently there, where the fishermen were. And they each one felt alone and cut adrift from everything. And Finn at the wheel, peering through the grey light, wiping the misted glass clear so he could better see.

‘And what he saw then,’ said Mad Martin. And Edwin threw him a look that Martin understood for he had had that look before.

And what he saw then! said Edwin. For out of the grey loomed a ship with its sails furled. An old ship such as Finn had only seen in pictures, and once such a ship berthed in a city port for visitors to walk on and wonder at how things stood in days that were gone. And here was a ship something the same, and a crew sailing her. Ten, Finn counted, and they were to a man singing, their voices deep as a growl.

Edwin growled when he said the word and Mad Martin put a hand over his own mouth and he made a small noise, like a whipped dog whining.

And at the wheel of that ship stood Death.

Moira smiled and the children that had gathered copied Mad Martin with their hands over their mouths.

As certain as I stand here before you: Death. All flesh stripped from his bleached bones and clothed in flowing black and grinning a toothy grin. Death, and a ghostly crew. Finn could see that now – the blank blank looks on the faces of the ten men who manned the ship, if men they could be called. And their song was all sound and no words, Finn could hear that too. Not really a song, but a rhythmic moaning that fitted well with the drumming of the sea against Finn’s boat. And Finn called on his own crew, called them out of sleep, rubbing their eyes and not believing what they saw.

‘But…’ said Mad Martin.

But, said Edwin, one man there was who could not be roused. A man who slept on. And Finn shook him and slapped his cheek and called his name, as loud as a call can be. And he did not wake. Not ever. For he was as deep in sleep as ever man was and as cold, too – out of breath and out of time.

And the Ship of the dead turned away from them and Death was laughing and the ghost-crew of the ship was increased by one. That’s what Finn wrote in the ship’s log and he swears it was true, every word. And the dead man was Lagan MacNeill.

Mad Martin said not a word. And the children listening did not know whether to laugh or clap and so did neither. And Kerry nodded. And Moira looked out across the sea as if she might see the Ship of the Dead moored somewhere close by.