Riverkeep Read online

  At first there was blackness and the needles of cold, then he turned, found light and the surface, and saw Remedie—her skirts huge and billowing around her, kicking for the upturned bäta, Mix close behind.

  He looked for Pappa as the air screamed in his chest and his heartbeat quickened. But he saw nothing, and rushed frantically for a grabbed breath.

  He swam down again, the water a thick, impenetrable swirl of silt and the scraps of river life, and held his breath until there were spots on the edges of his vision and the ice of the water had made cold stones of his eyes.

  Lungs bursting, he made to kick for the surface—and saw a hand waving above the split gunwale of a wrecked eel-skiff, the shape of Tillinghast’s head behind it.

  He swam over as hard as he could, his whole body tight with urgency, fighting the pressure in his throat.

  Tillinghast held out his hand.

  Wull took it and pulled. Tillinghast didn’t move. Wull heaved again, but it was like tugging on a rock. Tillinghast’s body seemed anchored to the riverbed, his feet barely lifting from the ground, as though Wull were pulling at a boulder.

  As his muscles screamed for oxygen, Wull’s head began to lighten, his skull losing its tether on his neck and floating, loose in the current’s swell. He felt the pressure of the water on his skin and allowed it to hold him, his mind just on the edge of sleep, the freezing cold softening into a welcome, safe warmth that massaged the pain inside him.

  Wull began to open his mouth.

  There was no fear, he realized, just peace . . . then a call for help interrupted him like a flash of lightning, and Tillinghast’s face was in his, shouting unintelligibly.

  The currents returned, and this time he felt them inside his body, felt their power and constancy and purpose alongside his own failing strength as he heaved at Tillinghast’s hand once more, felt the big body lift free, pulling tight to Wull, and in the space of a few rapid kicks they were on the surface, and Wull was pulling agonized stabs of air into his flattened lungs and leading Tillinghast’s hand to the bäta’s edge.

  “You took your time,” said Tillinghast, his voice slow.

  “Are you all right?” said Wull to Remedie and Mix, grabbing the bäta for support as he heaved in the frozen air.

  They nodded.

  “And Bonn?”

  He saw Bonn clutched in his swaddling, tight to Remedie’s neck.

  “Where’s Paps?” said Mix. “Is he gone? Where is he?”

  “I lost him,” said Wull, taking a huge breath, “but I’ll find him.”

  “He’s been down so long!” said Mix. “Hurry!”

  Wull dived again, his sodden clothes heavy on his limbs, peering into the darkness for a sign of Pappa.

  Where are you? he thought, closing his mind to Pappa’s bound hands keeping him in the depths, stopping him from swimming, drowning him.

  He began to fill with the early pain of airlessness. Pappa had been under the water for too long. Unless you got to someone in less than a minute . . .

  But then, Pappa wasn’t entirely Pappa, and Wull didn’t know what that would mean.

  He pushed out the last of his air and sank farther into the riverbed and the clouds of silt. Inside the skeletal wrecks of old barges and fishing craft, the weeds stuck up like an untended garden, and Wull saw in the belly of one shattered ruin, almost invisible in the waving fronds, Pappa—still and calm, his eyes closed.

  Wull kicked down to him as hard as he could, fighting his own buoyancy and the lift of the air inside him. He pushed out yet more bubbles, sinking himself deeper still and feeling the rising panic of light-headedness before grabbing Pappa’s hand and lifting his almost weightless body toward him, kicking them both to the surface as the need for air became a throb in his head, and his heart started to squeeze.

  He burst through in a breathless shout, his lungs rasping and sore, Pappa held firmly to his side.

  “It that speaks!” said Pappa, hitting him with bound hands. “Untie the arms, it that speaks!”

  “Pappa,” said Wull, “you’re all right! You’re all right!”

  “It that speaks!”

  “Paps!” said Mix, swimming over. “You found him!”

  “Take him, take him, he’s fine, he’s all right,” said Wull, resting his head on Pappa’s shoulder and slipping into unconsciousness.

  18

  Oracco Ironbank

  The estimable Captain Murdagh, when at last we were introduced, virtually burned with an excess of personality! The man was like an overstoked furnace, filling the room with his heat, dripping character wherever he went like shed clinkers. He seemed not to exist as a person but as an idea—the whole of his extraordinary energy was founded on the pursuit of his quarry, and for the outward appearance of his person he cared little. So it was that when one looked at him, one did not see a crunched, malformed little man with a shipwrecked body; one saw only his purpose, and the intensity with which it was pursued!

  —Gentling Norbury, The People’s Sea

  Wull opened his eyes. He was in the bäta, sitting on the stern thwart, his back on the transom. Pappa was in the keep’s seat on the center thwart, pulling the boat along with long, slow rolls of the oars.

  Sadness flooded Wull: the slender, light wood of the keep’s oars betrayed this instantly as an illusion. The broad, steady man was not really there at all.

  “Look who’s up,” said Pappa. He smiled, and Wull’s eyes roamed the fat cheeks and the laugh-creased eyes; the tooth knocked to gray deadness by a childhood tussle; the flat knuckles kneading the grips; and the overall sense of the big body’s peaceful strength. These were all the little fibers of the pappa Wull carried with him still . . . except his smell, he noticed—Pappa smelled of lakoris and tallow and the river. Nothing here smelled of anything.

  “Sleepin’ in the bäta’s a kind o’ sin, y’know,” Pappa said. “Once, I did it mysel’ an’ your gran’pappa gave me a right smack. Hand like a leather shovel, that man.”

  “You told me,” said Wull.

  Pappa nodded. “I remember,” he said.

  The river they were sculling bore no resemblance to the Danék—there were none of the low-hung trees, crumbling banks, or pale arcs of pebbled sand that made up Wull’s childhood. But this was their river in a truer sense than the real thing could ever be; this was the space they had shared in their private moments made solid around them, and Wull felt himself settling into it like he was slipping into a familiar boot. He closed his eyes again and found the feeling of belonging to this quieter, hidden seat, free from the weight of the oars, the press of guidance and responsibility—subordinate to Pappa, the real keep, rowing with constant, fearless strength.

  “What’s wrong with you, Pappa?” Wull said quietly. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life, and the pain in his shoulders and wrist and the wound on his face were as present here as they were in his waking world.

  Pappa chuckled. “Ye already know. Ye’ve looked at me enough; ye’ve seen my eyes an’ heard my voice. An’ ye’ve read it in that book! Jus’ as well I learned ye how, I’d say. Ye didn’t want to read, ever—moaned and wailed about goin’ oot huntin’ skirrils.”

  “I remember,” said Wull.

  “I know,” said Pappa.

  “I miss you,” said Wull, fighting against tears.

  Pappa nodded. “I knows that an’ all. No parent ever wants to outlive their child, so ye fill ’em up with everythin’ ye can give ’em. I hoped I’d see ye as an older man, a grown man. . . .”

  “Pappa, you can! You’re still with me in the bäta—I said I’d stay with you—”

  “But I’ve seen ye become a man already, a grown man in the body o’ this long streak o’ hollow legs—brave an’ proud an’ strong. The river’s started talkin’ to ye, givin’ ye her strength—an’ ye can feel it already. Soon ye’ll s
tart talkin’ back, an’ then ye’ll be hers yer whole life.”

  “Pappa, I don’t want—”

  “Ye’ll understand all o’ it before the end,” said Pappa. “There’s no weakness in facin’ the truth—or in lettin’ me go.”

  “I can’t!” said Wull, sitting forward and placing his hand on Pappa’s. There was nothing under his palm, nothing to hold at all but empty space.

  “Ye’ll have to,” said Pappa.

  “But I still have time, you’re still with me, I can tell it’s you in there! It is you! That thing’s not taken you yet!”

  Pappa smiled at him. “The thing ye’ll understand, my beautiful, beautiful boy, is that ye’ve always thought I was the river’s, its servant an’ its master—but that’s no’ who I am.”

  “It is!” said Wull. “You’re the keep; I never wanted to be! I was goin’ to run away! I wanted to be somewhere else, away from the boathouse an’ the river, even if it meant leavin’ you! I’m so sorry, Pappa. I’m sorry. I’ll stay now. I do understand, I promise!”

  Pappa shook his head and smiled again. “I knows all that, ye daft tumshie. Ye think I didn’t see ye, sittin’ up in bed an’ lookin’ oot the window at the light on the clouds?”

  “I’ve been in the city now,” said Wull. “I didn’t know what it was. It just meant . . . somewhere else. People. More lights than a few lanterns.”

  “What more light could man need than the fire on the end o’ a lantern?” said Pappa. He laughed and started rowing again. “Yer gran’pappa said that to me when I was yer age, an’ I thought he’d lost every marble goin’—I know what it’s like to want somethin’ different, even if ye don’t know what it might be. An’ what I mean is I never belonged to the river, Wulliam—I belonged to ye. The moment ye opened yer eyes, I gave mysel’ over to ye. I’d have let the river freeze a thousand times if it meant keepin’ you from harm an’ helpin’ ye become the man ye are now. My beautiful boy. My boy who does the right thing. My boy who puts other folk afore hissel’.”

  Pappa let the oars slow in their locks again and looked at Wull. “My boy who loves me,” he said, “an’ who thinks I’m a good man.”

  Wull fought tears. “I do, Pappa,” he managed. “I love you.”

  “An’ I love you, Wulliam. Ye’re my boy, an’ I’m proud o’ ye. I know ye’ll do the right thing. But ye’ll have to wake up now—there’s folk needin’ help, an’ ye’re the Riverkeep, after all.”

  “Why can’t I stay here?” said Wull.

  Pappa’s fist tightened on his, and this time Wull felt its pressure, felt the strength of Pappa’s hand.

  “Ye’ll find yer way back here,” said Pappa. “Don’t worry about that. Wake up now, Wull, wake up. Wulliam!”

  Wull woke just as Mix was about to slap his face.

  “I’m awake!” he spluttered, coughing up river water.

  Mix slapped his face.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I had it all ready to go. It’s good to see you. I thought you were dead, then Miss Cantwell said you were still breathin’.”

  Wull leaned on his side, over the edge of the righted bäta, and fought back the acid of vomit.

  “Well, thank you,” he said.

  “Are you feeling better, Wulliam?” said Remedie.

  Wull groaned. He thought his pain had been there all along, but here it was, returned in all its force, shrinking him like a coat of iron.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Who righted the bäta?”

  “We all did,” said Mix, grinning. “Are you impressed?”

  Wull looked around. The docks’ spires were in the distance across a sea of gray stone buildings and teeming roofs, and the bäta sat in an area of shining jetties at the city’s other edge. The jetties were noisy with people, bustling with passenger ships and the black-puffing stovepipes of steam craft.

  They were floating motionless at the edge of a broad expanse of sunlit, golden water leading to the wider estuary and, beyond that, the sea and the rest of the world. Seeing the water begin to spread its banks toward the coast gave him a jolt: they were nearly at the brackish straight that led to Canna Bay.

  “How long have I been out?” he said.

  “An hour or so. Perhaps more,” said Remedie.

  “But you knew I was all right?”

  “Oh yes,” said Remedie. “You were even talking. About your father.”

  Wull flushed. “Then we’ve been drifting all this time? Why is nobody rowing?” he said.

  Remedie and Mix looked embarrassed.

  “We can’t move the boat,” said Remedie. “Even with one of us on each side, we couldn’t get it moving much at all. And, well, Bonn,” she added, looking at Tillinghast.

  “Tiny little girl,” said Mix, holding up her hand.

  “An’ I’s dryin’ out,” said Tillinghast. “Takes a while for my straw to get rid o’ all that water once I’s had a swim.”

  “So you knew I was out cold,” said Wull, “but waited for me to wake up rather than row for a little while? You still won’t help me with the rowin’, even when this happens?”

  “In my defense,” said Tillinghast, “I knew you wasn’t dead. Stubborn little bugger like you’s not goin’ to roll over that easy. Rowin’s your job. An’ what’s the hurry? Be glad I din’t row in to shore an’ go for a drink.”

  Wull rubbed his eyes, steadied his breathing. “You are unbelievable,” he said. “I could’ve died savin’ you!”

  “True,” said Tillinghast, “so we’s even, I reckon. Remember the ursa?”

  “We’re not even! You only did that for the fun o’ fightin’ it!” said Wull. “Draggin’ you off the bottom nearly made me lose Pappa! What if I’d lost him to save you?”

  “Now, Wulliam,” said Remedie, “perhaps we should leave this conversation a while until you’ve calmed down. . . .”

  “Don’t tell me you’re defendin’ him!” said Wull. “He wouldn’t have cared if Pappa had died!”

  “Well, he din’t, so there’s no use cryin’ about it, is there?” said Tillinghast.

  “You know there was a moment when I saw you down there,” said Wull, “when I thought of leavin’ you an’ jus’ lookin’ for Pappa, but that’s not what he’d have wanted. He’s a good man, an’ he’d have wanted me to save you.”

  “I doesn’t actually breathe, you know,” said Tillinghast a little sheepishly. “I’d have been all right for the rest o’ time. I jus’ couldn’t get myself off the bottom. Too heavy with all the water, see?”

  Wull closed his eyes. “So you let me take you when you could easily have waited?” he said quietly.

  “Well, yes. I din’t know you’d not found your old man, mind. . . .”

  “Get out o’ my boat!” said Wull, taking up the oars and turning the bäta for the bank. “You selfish gudgeon! I’ve never met anyone who lives the way you do!”

  “That’s ’cause you’ve hardly met anyone!”

  “That doesn’t matter! I know my pappa an’ my grandparents: they gave me all I need to know about what’s the right thing an’ the wrong thing, and you’ve only ever come down on the wrong side o’ that, Till. You’ve put all of us in danger jus’ by bringin’ that bloody mandrake with you when there’s folk after it who’ll kill us jus’ for bein’ with you! An’ instead o’ helpin’ us, you just keep ahold o’ that plant an’ your damn hat? An’ what d’you even want that thing for? The mischief o’ takin’ it?”

  “No! I wants it for . . . Never mind what I wants it for! It’s none o’ your damn business!”

  “Well, I bet you’re lookin’ after yourself again, jus’ like always. You’re a selfish, selfish thing!”

  “A thing an’ not a man?” said Tillinghast, his eyes narrowing. “I c’n see it in all o’ you. None o’ you thinks o’ me as a real man, even her with that doll.”

 
“Bonn is not a doll!” shouted Wull, pulling harder on the oars. “An’ maybe we don’t think o’ you that way because you act the way you do. You ever think ’bout that? That maybe you’re not a real man because a real man, a real person, lives a good life by livin’ for other people, an’ you only live for yourself! You don’t appreciate what you’ve been given! Do you want pity for what you are? You’ve been given what you’ve got an’ you could use it however you like, but you waste it trawlin’ round the world’s gutters an’ pickin’ stupid fights!”

  “That sounds all right to me,” said Mix, rubbing Pappa’s back. Remedie shushed her.

  Tillinghast’s face was impassive. “What I’s been given,” he said. “An’ what is it you think I’s been given, young Master Keep who knows everythin’ about life now that his voice has broken?”

  “You’ve been given life!” said Wull. “You’ve been given the thing I’m tryin’ to hold on to for Pappa an’ the thing Remedie’s baby lost! An’ what do you do with it?”

  “I’s not a human bein’!” said Tillinghast, sitting up angrily and leaning toward Wull. “Don’t think a boy like you can tell me about how I lives! Miss Cantwell, you asked me what makes us human but compassion. Let me tell you: human bein’s is memories. Once the memories are in there, there’s no gettin’ ’em out again, an’ all the little moments you’s lived is everythin’ that goes into makin’ a whole person, all the little lessons an’ feelin’s that come with ’em. I ’in’t got no memories. I got nothin’ but the scraps I’s made of, bits o’ sinners an’ murderers, an’ all the time I’s fightin’ back against little twitches an’ horrors o’ these blackhearted men screamin’ at me. I can’t even drink to force their silence. You, Wulliam, who understan’s life so well, what do you remember?”

  He looked at Wull through his brows, and his voice was toneless.

  “What do you mean?” said Wull.

  “O’ your life. What are your memories?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wull, keeping his attention on the oars’ grips. “Everythin’, I suppose. Faces, smells, feelings. Pictures of things that’ve happened, but still . . . like in a woodcut.”