Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

The splashing and shouting was diminishing beyond him. Alys, rigid with fright, stared as Nicol, faintly outlined by the lantern, settled himself at the stern of the boat.

‘It’s the tiller steers it,’ he remarked. The boat lurched, the sail flapped, and was corrected. ‘Aye, like that. And what wi the tide still running downriver, we’ll likely no go aground afore we can see the Sankt Nikolaas . And how’s our wee token doing,’ he asked suddenly, ‘our safe pass out o Scotland?’

‘She’s well enough,’ said Grace. Alys could feel the effort it took for her to sound so calm. ‘Nicol, how do we go aboard? We’ll never — we canny — ’

‘Ach, Gerrit will send a boat to bring us in,’ said Nicol easily. Akrasia , thought Alys, still staring at him, and began to recognize a real chance that she might not see Gil again.

The boatman had said it was half an hour to Dumbarton. It might have been a year, by the number of prayers Alys contrived to cram into the time. She sat tensely in the bow, not daring to draw out her beads, dredging her mind for all the travellers’ supplications she could recall. Grace had scrambled over the baggage and was baling as Nicol had been, though there seemed to be less water coming aboard now. The lantern at the masthead flickered, but the river had widened, there were no banks or bushes to show up in the tiny light, only an endless running of water and the occasional ripple of a sandbank. Nicol failed to run them aground; the sliver of moon slid in and out of the clouds.

Blessed St Christopher, pray for us, she thought, send that we may not drown. Was that a voice across the water? She tilted her head to listen, and a seabird called, was answered, set up a whole flight of high anxious peep-peep-peepings which soared above their heads in the darkness. What had disturbed them?

That was certainly a voice. It seemed to be behind them. Who else could be out on the river in the midnight like this? Long after midnight, her rational mind answered. Sunrise was after seven o’clock just now, there was no sign of the dawn, but surely it must be getting on for Prime. Please God let the dawn come soon, I don’t wish to drown in the dark — like the boatman, maybe. Did he find his way ashore?

‘There’s a light yonder,’ said Grace. She twisted to look, and saw one, two, a handful of lights, some higher than others. Some of them rocked gently, and one low down was fixed and seemed bigger, as if it was a lit window rather than a lantern like the one at their mast. Beside it, behind it, a huge black bulk loomed against the stars: Dumbarton’s great cloven rock, which guarded the Clyde.

‘It’s all the vessels in the roads off Dumbarton,’ said Nicol happily, ‘each one wi a star at its top. And yonder, I’d say, the baker getting the oven hot for the day’s bread. The folk o Dumbarton’ll no go hungry.’ He shifted the tiller experimentally, and the boat rocked. ‘I’m no wanting the sail now, I think.’

‘He said low tide was about four of the clock,’ said Grace doubtfully. ‘Will we not run aground at low tide? We’ll need the sail to take us to where the vessels are. We canny — we canny just go ashore and ask for aid. What if the boatman’s reached the town ahead of us?’

What if he never came ashore? thought Alys.

‘We’re no going ashore,’ Nicol said sweepingly. ‘We’ll find Gerrit, never fret, lass, and catch the day’s tide. At morn, when it is daylight, we’ll do us into the wild flood .’ Floris and Blanchflour again, Alys recognized. Nicol laid a hand on one of the ropes beside him, and tugged at it. The sail shifted, spilled wind, the boat danced a little sideways.

‘You’ll have us aground,’ said Grace on a high note. Alys realized the other girl was as frightened as she was. And beyond Nicol, was that a movement in the darkness? A flicker of light, something catching the starlight or the exiguous moon, a splash of oars? She stared into the night, heart hammering, half-certain she had imagined it. Could it be Gil?

Nicol suddenly tipped his head back and let out a great halloo which rebounded off the Rock and echoed across the river. There was a huge flapping and screaming, and Alys cried out in fear, cowering down in the boat, until she saw that it was a flock of seabirds startled by the noise, lifting up off the water. As the birds vanished into the night a spark flared under the nearest of the riding-lights, and a surly voice demanded who called, in almost unintelligible Scots.

‘ Cherche le Sankt Nikolaas ,’ Nicol shouted.

‘ Pas ici! ’ retorted the surly voice. The light was extinguished.

‘That’s no very friendly,’ said Nicol reproachfully. He must have tugged at the rope again, for the sail cracked, spilled wind, and the boat slipped sideways once more. There was a rasping from under the bottom, then a shuddering jolt and they stopped moving.

‘We’re aground!’ said Grace.

‘It wasny meant to do that,’ said Nicol, and giggled. He put his head back and hallooed again, the sound echoing round them from the Rock.

‘ Tais-toi! ’ roared the near vessel. ‘ Faut dormir! ’

‘Gerrit!’ yelled Nicol.

Behind him, two boats appeared in the circle of their lantern. Alys stared as they slid closer, the men in them reaching for Cuthbert ’s strakes. Grace turned her head and screamed, pointing, but one of the boats bumped alongside where there was still water under the stern, and two men scrambled over into a sudden fierce tangle with Nicol, and when Grace would have struck one over the head with the baler a third man seized her wrist.

Terrified, despising herself, Alys slid down into the bottom of the boat again, and was taken by surprise when a man climbed in over the prow, standing heavily on her wrist as he went. She managed not to cry out, and he trampled aft over the luggage to join in the fight. Waiting for the sea to come in and swamp everything, waiting to drown, Alys realized that Cuthbert no longer rocked on the water, must be well aground, that there must be sand or -

With the thought itself she had uncurled and was over the side, hauling wet skirts up out of her way, her feet in inches of lapping water, the sand under them firm enough to walk on. She looked about, located the light of the baker’s window, crossed herself, seized her skirts again and set off away from the struggle.

There were other voices, other boats out on the water. Oars splashed rhythmically, lights showed and were concealed. She waded on, hoping that the water was not really deeper, hoping the sandbank ran to the shore or at least that no deep channel cut her off, hoping they had not noticed she was gone -

‘Gerrit! Par là! Attrape-elle! ’

She stumbled in a hollow in the sand, righted herself, waded further. The water was certainly deeper, and oars — no, feet, a bigger body than hers splashing through the shallows, came after her. She threw a glance over her shoulders, but could make out only bobbing lights in the dark. The baker’s window seemed to be no nearer, and the sounds behind her were approaching fast -

She screamed as a hand fell on her shoulder, and another grabbed her arm in a punishing grip. A huge shape loomed over her, smelling of ships and stale spirits.

‘ Waar komms du, ma fille? ’ asked a deep cheerful voice. ‘ Dies ist niet goed. Par-là ist Tod. Live is dis way . Votr’ mari ist hier .’

Riding through the dark, as fast as one might with the lanterns held low, with two good men beside him and the horses shying at shadows and owls, Gil found his thoughts churning round and round in the events of the night.