Сандрин Коллетт - Just After the Wave

Madie does not know that he is praying at least as hard as she is, praying to be spared any storms during their voyage. But the water was still rising when they left their island, and that was a bad sign. The elements continue to brim over; nothing can stop them, nothing can calm them. Hundreds of miles of water with neither rocks nor trees to oppose them. A clear field, open to every gust, every whirlwind. Yes, Pata too knows it’s an illusion to believe they can complete the journey without a storm. He just hopes it will come as late as possible, once the former prairies are behind them. He hopes the buttes will still be there, and that they might find refuge for a few hours. At dawn, when he raises the anchor, he looks warily at the sky. There is no hint of anything, just a light, gentle mist, which he doesn’t like much either. And with a sinking heart the father senses they won’t have to wait for long.

One day and one entire night. Hours to be afraid and feel the air pressure building. They saw it coming from a long way off, the storm. The clouds gathered on the horizon like a pack of dogs about to spring, growling for hours while they rowed until they were breathless, as if they could outrow the storm, praying that they would find land, while their panicked gazes swept over the sea and found nothing but water and the first waves. Madie can feel the power beneath them, something vast and contained, she knows the storm is strengthening. No matter which way she turns her head, the sky everywhere is yellow and black, and thunder surrounds them. The boat is solitary, tiny and laughable on the angry ocean. The mother looks at Pata with all her might. He is observing the world, he knows, too. He’s gauging their chances. They have stowed the oars on the side of the craft, they are useless now. A huge black wall is following them, a mixture of rain and wind, of turbulent waves; when they are inside it—when this gigantic gaping mouth catches up with them and engulfs them—there will be nothing they can do. Lowering his eyes from the heavens, the father’s gaze meets the mother’s. His lips murmur in silence. I’m sorry . And just then, the first waves rock the boat.

What they endure at the eye of the storm will mark them forever. Whenever they think back on it, they will pause mid-gesture, once again; their cries will catch in their throats. The memory, too, of those who—and their hands will squeeze, groping for ropes to catch on to, because that was all the father had time to say, Hold onto the ropes.

The waves rock the little craft, playing with it, tilting it up then pitching it down onto the bow, relentlessly. Screams: when it crashes down, it is as if it is headed straight into the bowels of the sea. Leaning into the oars, Pata tries to steer into the currents; in that moment he does believe they will make it. Wants to believe. He has to. If Liam helps him on the other side—and he opens his mouth to scream above the enraged waves, breathes deep, his eyes stinging with gusts of rain, but nothing comes out, nothing at all, because just as he is about to shout, a huge roller of spray catches him broadside, an ox, a vise, there’s nothing he can do, there is only the wave striking him, the water taking him. In a fraction of a second he flips overboard.

At the other end of the boat Madie is on her feet, screaming his name into the wind, his name and then the pain, No, no, no! She orders the girls to huddle at the bottom of the boat, to cling to the hooks, which give them some purchase. Tucking Marion tight beneath her coat, she steps over the supplies, caution to the winds, without a thought to the swell which threatens to capsize them, and she falls to her knees at the spot where the father disappeared. There, there! roars Liam, pointing his finger. So the mother plunges her arm in, thinking of nothing, neither the storm which is fighting with her for her husband nor the boat which is heeling to one side with her weight, nor even the beast which, beneath them, is just biding its time; it takes all her energy not to yank her hand back when something grips it under the water, ferociously, something holding her arm or tearing it, she’s not sure which, she resists whatever it is that is pulling her, gradually; Liam has hold of her on the other side to keep her from slipping, she hears his cries, Mommy, Mommy!

She knows she is too heavy for him, but the father, the father!

Mustn’t crush Marion at her belly.

She squeezes her fingers in the water, clinging to the rope on the boat, battered by the waves as they tumble, terrifying. It is nighttime in broad daylight. Curtains of rain blind her. Too much pain, as well: she pulls back her hand, with all her strength. The surface of the water is shattered with spray. There is something at the end of her arm—her arm like a gigantic fishhook, with a shape clinging to it, keeping her leaning dangerously toward the sea, and it won’t let go, she opens her eyes wide, suddenly panicking, trying with all her might to sit up straight, her knees propped against the hull of the boat, which is pitching ever more roughly; she is shaken by the waves and this thing that is trying to suck her down. She shouts, refuses, struggles. Like an animal being dragged toward an abyss she snorts, drawing on all her remaining strength to save herself, to pull away from this grasp, she’ll sacrifice her hand if she has to, Dear God, and the children, if I’m not here anymore?

And then she sees him.

Pata, clinging to her, emerges from the waves as she pulls back with a roar, his face white as death, a ghost, and if he hadn’t opened his mouth to breathe as he screamed, the mother would have thought he was dead, there at the end of her arm. A savage joy grips her. Pata! She slaps her other hand onto his.

“Get in!”

But he has no more strength, he has come back from deeper water, where he thought it was all over. On his face the mother reads the traces of the tomb, the horror she wants to pull him from and which has not quite left him, yet, the exhaustion spewed into the water— Get in, get in! He shakes his head, depleted. Every time the boat yaws, buffeted by the furious waves, he nearly lets go of the rope he is hanging onto. The boat rears up like an angry horse, hovers for a second, then plunges with a crash, a noise to make you think it will spill all its guts into the sea, and the mother sees the father’s fingers slip a little more each time the boat rises, and sees her hope fading. So she leans out again, and grabs his hands. She ties them clumsily, a rope fastened around the one that circles the boat, the same way she would tie a roast, she loops it around three times, a quick knot. The storm can always try and tear her man away, it will have to pull him apart—it doesn’t occur to her that if they sink, the father will be pulled under with no way to get free, there is too much wind, too much swell for her to even think about it, just the urgency of keeping him near her; only then does she glance behind her.

And behind her, Lotte is on her feet, crying, arms outstretched. Madie stands up like a madwoman. No!

The boat pivots to the left, into foaming white water.

All at the same time Lotte falls into the water and the mother throws herself in with her.

She bursts out of the water, her hands cling to the side of the boat. She puts an arm through the rope on the gunwale to support herself, coughing and spitting, a sharp wheezing in her lungs, until the air reaches her, she vomits bile. She calls to Liam. Begs him.

Liam.

Her voice so weak it could be a child’s.

Liam, I can’t hold on.

Her arm through the rope, the mother is tossed by the storm. She clenches her jaw, squeezes her fists. On one side she is holding Marion inside her coat. On the other, she is clutching Lotte by the hood of her jacket. That was all she could grab when the waves took them both, her hood, impossible to strengthen her hold, she prays the little garment will not tear, she holds her arm up high to keep Lotte’s face out of the water. The rope is rubbing the inside of her elbow, never mind, she needs both hands to save her daughters, the one pressing against her, who could slip down, and the one being tossed here and there by the waves. On her own, she cannot get them back onto the boat.