*
They came to a dilapidated pier two hours later.
In the shallow waters was slumped the carcass of an old ferry, rusting and at the mercy of barnacles. With only a breath of wind and lapping waves to accompany them, the island - as Mortehoe must to any who trespassed, seemed completely devoid of life.
A wedge of dark granite glistened above the sea-line, its lower half dank with undulating seaweed. The granite rocks gave way to open fields rolling with wild flower and waist high grass. On the clearest of days there could be seen green cliffs and the purple heather of late spring from the peaks of Rockham Bay, but the night had taken all colour from the island, which was now as bleak and charmless as midwinter.
‘So?’ Boen said, pulling Eryn up to the well-worn pier. ‘What now?’
‘Stop asking me like I’m some kind of bloodhound,’ she replied, brushing herself down as she stood. ‘We should make for the pub, it shouldn’t be closed yet.’ Judging by the moon it was close to eleven o’clock, and although they knew there was a pub on the island, when it closed was a mystery.
She looked beyond Boen’s shoulder. The place was hollow and ghostly, and it was impossible to discern the direction in which they should be heading.
‘Once we find it we tell them we’re looking for a room, right?’ Eryn said, wishing to break the silence.
‘To consummate our wedding?’
‘We’re not going to use it, you dog. We’re going to slip away before morning to get your pa's boat back. Once we’ve told them we’re married they’ll let us have a drink in the bar and we can start to ask some subtle questions.’
‘Let’s just hope it works out that way. Can you imagine what would happen if a couple of Lundians came to the Smuggler’s and started asking questions? We’d beat them off with sticks and make them swim back home.’
‘Relax…’ She said, though she was as nervous as he. They made their way along the pier and up to the muddy embankment before surveying the whole island. They pointed out the dark shapes of buildings likely to be pubs, and then descended on to the fields of waist-high grass, and clambered over stone walls in their search.
It was as quiet, undisturbed, and serene as Mortehoe, and yet there was a loneliness about this place that sent a shiver through Eryn. The trees were bent by the wind and spoke of the deformity in the myths of the island; they leered in a fashion that would have been quite unnoticeable during the day. At night, however, they seemed like an accompaniment of demonic figures. She tried to shake away her grim imaginings and stepped closer to Boen.
They walked along the cliffs for a few minutes, away from the derelict lighthouse of the South, hearing nothing but the rustling trees, hissing grass and breaking water. A black church pierced the sky a way off, and they turned towards it, following the deserted roads that were nothing more than tracks of sludge.
Boen pointed, but had to nudge Eryn to draw her attention. He was directing her to a roofless set of buildings a little way away, veiled by weeds and shadow. She squinted, and then turned to him. Silently they agreed they were heading in the right direction.
On the wind they were beginning to hear muted shouting and laughter, the same as Eryn had left some hours before.
They made for the sound; it came from a building set behind a cluster of barns and disused stables. They slowed their advance as they entered the old farmstead, making their way across a marshy courtyard to the farmhouse. The Marisco Tavern was scrawled on the wall in fading chalk. They remained at the front door for some time before Eryn elected Boen to step inside.
They were greeted by a surge of laughter as the door groaned open, though the merriment dwindled as quickly as doused flame.
Boen entered the stone building first, a faltering smile on his nervous face. Eryn stood behind him, a hand resting on his back and the other to her breast.
‘Hi,’ Boen blurted, his pitiful smile wobbling.
Eryn looked meekly over his shoulder, and pushed him forward. Once they had cleared the threshold she stood beside him and grasped his hand tightly.
They looked idly around the room, hoping to diffuse the tension by a show of nonchalance. Boen nodded at décor and pointed at ornaments, making pleasant comments that trailed off mid-sentence; Eryn picked up a walking staff beside the door and complimented the craftsmanship of the carved pommel.
At the end of their good-natured remarks, they turned once again to the gathered villagers, hoping to see any sign of friendliness – they found none.
‘Who the shite are you?’ A bow-backed man said gruffly, his fingers trembling under the weight of old age. Others turned to him, muttered agreement, and then returned to scrutinising the two, who nervously glanced at one another. Was this how they had come across to Selina and Priya? They both considered Semilion reaching for the shotgun under the bar, and looked up at the bar lady, a middle-aged woman with weathered features and hair almost brindle. She was looking sternly at them, though didn’t wear an expression of concern, only curiosity.
Eryn cleared her throat and smiled at the woman. ‘My name’s Eryn Waeshenbach, this is Boen, my husband – we got married yesterday... in Mortehoe. We wondered if it would be Ok to spend the night in a room for our honeymoon?’
The woman at the bar deflated with a smile and waved them over, baring her yellow teeth as she did so.
They stepped across the room, nodding greetings at the rapidly thawing faces.
Boen received a few slaps on the back, and the bow-backed man coughed heavily into his hands before smearing, intentionally or not, Boen couldn't decide, a streak of mucus across his shoulders. Young women kissed Eryn on the cheek and congratulated her. She felt strange, she had grown up to believe these people were backward and hostile, yet they were as pleasant -even more so - than those of Mortehoe.
The woman poured them each a tankard of a light brown wine. It smelt sharp, like fetid apples, though its taste was sweet and refreshing. ‘Eryn…’ The woman said, one eye half closed as she conjured a distant memory. ‘Your maiden name’s Tupper?’
Eryn smiled and coughed a laugh in surprise. ‘Well, yes… how did you know?’
‘I used to know your pa.’ She replied. ‘But that was a long time ago.’
Boen was whisked away by a group of young men who were taking a long flute-shaped glass from the wall. ‘This here’s your wedlock challenge!’ one of them laughed, the others grabbed him and pinned him to the floor. Boen looked too shocked to resist.
‘What are they doing?’ Eryn asked, trying her best to sound indifferent.
‘Ah! A tradition for all newly married men,’ as she said this she hoisted a small demijohn to the bar and one of the young men took it to fill the long glass.
‘That there’s a yard-glass, it’s an old game.’
‘He’s got to drink a yard of ale?’ Eryn put her hands to her lips, appalled.
Boen’s eyes widened as he saw the glass being filled, and was then warned that if he spilled any the glass would be refilled until he could consume it all.
The four boys holding his limbs guffawed and jeered, encouraging Boen to open his mouth wider. Then the lip of the glass was put to his lips and gently tilted so that he had time to gulp down two mouthfuls before it was tipped so quickly that he didn’t stand a chance. Ale rushed over his face and up his nostrils – and the pub roared with laughter.
‘Oh no!’ The boy holding the glass exclaimed. He stood and began to fill it again. ‘You know, a marriage is doomed if you don’t drink a whole yard!’
Boen coughed, and someone was kind enough to rub his face with a cloth. He opened his stinging eyes. ‘What the bloody hell was that for? I almost had it there!’
‘Dear me,’ the boy said loudly, so the whole pub could hear. ‘He’s getting rowdy, we might have to keep him restrained all night! Then he’ll have no fun with his lovely new wife.’
For a second time the long thin glass was placed at his lips, and three more draughts were consumed before
the glass was upended.
Eryn had found it comical the first time, but she made to stand forward and protect Boen. If this carried on for much longer he'd be of no use later. The woman at the bar grasped her arm gently. ‘It’s just a bit of fun, dear.'
Eryn smiled, and a grim looking man beside her got from his stool and offered it to her. ‘Many happy years.’ He doffed his cap, and she felt a sudden surge of guilt for coming to trick them all.
‘I’m surprised your father conceded to your marriage,' the woman said, 'Guliven comes by here every now and again. He gives the impression that neither of your parents get along.’
‘Love conquers all,’ Eryn said, shrugging.
‘Well, good luck to the both of you.’
‘Thanks, er…’
‘Joan.’
‘So, you know Guliven?’
‘Yes, he’s a good man – got a bit of a temper on him when he’s drunk – but then again, what man doesn’t?’
‘Have you ever been to Mortehoe?’
‘Once… when I was a little girl, but after all the troubles, well,'
‘Troubles?’ Eryn frowned. She had never considered that the animosity between the two communities had occurred during her grandfather’s tenure
‘Just a difference of opinion is all.’ She poured another tankard for Eryn. ‘Your grandfather, Carrick, if you don't mind me saying, was a megalomaniacal tyrant bastard.’
‘I didn’t know he affected Lundy at all.’
‘They don’t talk about it much, I suppose? Well, he wanted to oversee with an iron fist. We weren’t used to it and people were… hurt. Maybe after his death we should have tried again, but some thought the damage had been too complete.’
‘I didn’t know.’
Joan shrugged, ‘It was for the best… Lundy feeds us well, we're mostly happy here. We want for nothing.’
‘I’ve never met a Lundian before. We were told all kinds of things when we were younger – like monsters live here and everyone drinks pig’s blood.’
Joan smiled. ‘Well, we do eat pigs’ blood – Pig’s Pudding.’
‘Never had it.’
‘Never had Pig’s Pudding!’ Joan shook her head in dismay. ‘We’ll sort that in the morning. A certain cure for any hangover!’
Eryn looked over her shoulder and saw that the yard glass was being refilled. Boen was laughing now, and spluttering ale all over the place. Around him people were shouting his name as though he were some tribal deity: ‘Boen! Boen! Boen!’ She knew already it had been a wasted journey and resigned herself to the fact she must try to probe without him. Maybe he could be of use as a distraction.
‘Do many people come over our way? Any elicit liaisons, so to speak? There was a rumour a while back that a man from Lundy came to visit one of the millers on moonless nights.’
Again Joan smiled. She had an amicability about her that made Eryn feel as though she had known her for years. ‘People come and go sometimes… for the odd supply of tobacco or cloth. I said we want for nothing, but we sometimes treat ourselves – and it’s possible someone might come past your way, but they rarely say so if they do.’ She stared into the middle-distance for a moment, frowning, then said, ‘Old Mickey Dean and Graham Weston went away a month or so ago, and Red Sawbone made a dash for Iceland with his boys a couple of weeks ago… Mickey!
A large man turned to Joan from the far side of the room. ‘Do you ever stop off at Mortehoe?’
He wiped a froth of ale from his thick beard.‘Not for some years now, why you askin’?’
‘Mrs. Waeshenbach here was wondering?’
‘Sorry, ma’am…' he pulled a glum face at Eryn, 'I don’t know of anyone who’s been your way for quite some time.’
‘No, it’s Ok… I was only curious whether anyone would like to visit?’ She cursed herself for saying it, her questions were more blatant than they sounded internally.Inquiring about people’s toing and froing was going to get her nowhere.
‘Ah, well now… I don’t think we’d be overly welcome,’ Mickey said in a low voice before turning back to his drink. 'Not after all the trouble,'
‘People don’t forget easily,' Joan said, 'your parents probably feel the same. '
Eryn nod and sipped her wine, wishing she could grab Boen and make for home.
Chapter Nine.
South-easterly wind:
Fifteen knots.