The Rain Heron Read online

  Zoe’s aunt’s laughter was as common as wind and as regular as the tides. So when her aunt wouldn’t let her bleed, Zoe was not hurt by the laughs that came with the refusal. And although she chafed at the decision, she obeyed her aunt. Zoe had no father—the man had been a trader who docked at the port for a night and never returned—and her mother had died when she was four. Her aunt was the whole of her world. To be like her, to bleed like her—that was all Zoe wanted. When she thought of the scars she would own, the beasts she would summon, her face would heat and her mind would swell and shake. She was willing to be patient.

  They went on short, early morning ink trips before school, at an hour where the sun had not yet lit a glow in the granite hills. On weekends they took longer trips, ones that resulted in huge hauls of ink and the occasional purchase of a blood transfusion for her aunt. At school Zoe used a blunt biro to draw blue premonitions into her elbows. Out at sea she watched the knife slide open her aunt’s salted skin. She studied the flow of blood, how long it took for squid to appear, how long for them to gorge themselves senseless.

  The sea wind cut her sharp and hard. Bright-dark ink slopped their bottles full. For two years Zoe rode the boat and pulled the nets, her skin full of hunger, her ears full of laughter. Then the uncommonly cold winter hit.

  As if borne on the weather’s cruelty, the northerner came to the port.

  23

  HE HAD SHORT black hair and a face the colour of sour milk. His size and features were all unremarkable, and his clothes were the kind one would usually see in the north: denim trousers, thin shirts, jackets full of buttons. He didn’t wear any small, expensive hats, but he seemed like the sort of man who would. There was nothing about him that suggested danger. He was just a visitor, and he was paid little heed.

  He came to the port at the start of winter. Like most visitors, he arrived on a boat. The town was accessible by a highway, but it meandered circuitously through the swamps and mountains that lay between the port and the north of the country, so it was far quicker to come via the sea. The northerner’s boat was an old, once-sleek speedboat, the sort used for towing water skis or hosting on-water picnics. Nobody at the port liked the look of it. It was a leisure boat, unsuited to their tastes, their work, this part of the country. When they met the owner, their impression did not improve, although that had nothing to do with his appearance or foreignness.

  The day he arrived he steered his speedboat into the dock, tethered it to a salted pylon, disembarked and strode down the pier. He smiled at the few people he saw, but did not stop to speak. He walked a slow lap of the town, threading through the small network of cobbled streets and alleys, before entering a large pub that sat on the waterfront, overlooking the harbour.

  Inside, his attention was snared by a large painting that dominated the rear wall of the room. It was a simple image—a dark, empty ocean meeting a clear horizon. But there was something in this painting that was impossible to look away from—a depth in the colours and textures that the northerner had never seen before. The murk of the sea was salty and wet to stare at, and looking at the point where the water met the pale, cloudless sky filled him with a sense of dread, as if dry land would forever be out of reach. He shivered in the warm room. It was the first time he’d seen an artwork laced with ink, although he didn’t know it at the time.

  Eventually he dragged his eyes from the painting and ordered a beer, which he sipped over the course of the evening, letting the golden tide lap at his lip as the boats came into the dock, as the pub filled with patrons, as the seabirds called through the windows, as the sun dropped and disappeared.

  When the room heaved with people he lifted his beer and began moving around the room, although he didn’t talk to anyone; he just wandered, studying the painting, as well as the shark jaws and nautical apparel on the walls, pretending he wasn’t listening to what the port people were saying to each other. None of them were fooled. They had seen out-of-towners like him before—ones who had acted the same way, with the same intentions. So they kept drinking, and kept speaking about everything they would usually speak about in public, and waited for his questions to come.

  When they did, the pub was about to close. The northerner was nearing the bottom of his beer, while most of the locals were finishing their sixth or seventh. As the barman rang his bell, the stranger downed his watery dregs, slid onto a stool by a group of young men and addressed them.

  I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you knew where I might get my hands on some south-sea ink?

  The young men, red-cheeked, loose-limbed, all nodded. One of them acted as spokesman.

  Us. Meet us here tomorrow. Bring cash.

  Thanks, but what I meant was: where can I get it myself?

  Yourself?

  Yes. Myself.

  With your own hands?

  Yes, that’s it.

  The young man drenched his throat with the rest of his beer. You said south-sea ink, right?

  Yes. South-sea ink.

  Ah. That’s the problem. It doesn’t exist.

  Pardon?

  It’s a trick. One we play on northerners. It’s not real.

  He left. The door swung shut behind him. The other young men drained their pints and, without acknowledging the northerner, followed their companion into the lightless street. The northerner turned around, a smile drawn onto his lips, and looked for someone else to speak to. But the rest of the patrons were also leaving. Within a minute the northerner was standing alone at the bar, trying to make eye contact with departing drinkers who would not look at his face, even as their shoulders bumped his chest. Behind him, the publican coughed. A light was dimmed. The northerner left, and slept under mounds of blankets in the cabinless prow of his speedboat.

  The following night he returned to the pub, bought another beer. This time he downed it quickly, ordered another, and began speaking to anyone who would turn his way. His questions were similar to the one he’d posed to the young man the night before—about the ink, where he could get some, how it was collected. Earnestness shone in his face, an enthusiasm that the port people found as unseemly as his questions.

  Most of them ignored him, but some found the manners to answer. One bearded seafarer told him that he was in the wrong town, that the ink came from a different port. Another repeated the young man’s claim from the night before about the ink being a trick, while another swore to him that it was a myth, like a unicorn or a rain heron. One woman told him that the ink was actually inside us all, like love or kindness or friendship. At least three people said they’d never heard of south-sea ink, and five or six made confused, miming signs, as if they did not understand the language he spoke.

  An hour passed, then another, and still the northerner received answers that were cryptic at best, insulting at worst. He drank three more beers, then another. The earnestness in his face wobbled into exasperation, then annoyance, and finally into desperation. When that happened—when a look of ragged despair settled onto his off-white features—he drained his sixth beer, turned to face the room, pushed his back against the bar and began speaking in a loud, faltering voice.

  Excuse me. Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening. I won’t take up much of your time.

  Then, in sentences that at first were short but became longer, he began taking up their time. He understood why they didn’t want to tell him about the ink, he said. He knew that others like him had come to the port seeking quick fortunes, to plunder the town’s resource in harsh, destructive ways. But he was not like that, he assured them. That was not his aim. He wanted to help them. He had plans to build a sustainable fishery that produced greater yields of ink, yields that would benefit them all. Sensible expansions; larger contracts with trusted wholesalers; long-term security for their industry. In these times of strife and uncertainty, he said, we need to be prepared for change. He wanted to walk with them into the future, he said, hand in hand, or something to that effect. By then his face and neck
were red, and sweat was popping through his skin. After the bit about walking hand in hand, he stopped talking. He looked around the room, his face glowing with exertion and passion.

  The patrons had shown him respect by listening. They hadn’t muttered or stared into their beer. But as soon as he stopped speaking they turned to each other, resumed their drinking and their conversations, and made no sign of having heard his speech, or having noticed him at all. He waited another moment, still expectant, but as the chatter built and the room kept ignoring him, he realised he had failed. The talk swelled louder as he pushed away from the bar. Nobody spoke to him. Nobody looked at him. There was no sign that his existence had been noted—no sign but for a peculiar sound ringing out above the chatter.

  It was a loud, gleeful sound, rich in timbre and full of humour. A torrent of laughter, built with huge exhalations that rolled over the room, coming from somewhere near the end of the bar. The northerner had already begun to leave, but on his way out, his despair replaced by sorrow, he pinpointed the source of the noise.

  It was Zoe’s aunt. The other drinkers were still pretending he didn’t exist, but she was staring straight at him as she slapped at the bar, her chest, her knees. Beer splashed from her lips as she laughed, and anyone who looked at the northerner would have seen his soul plunge. Before the night swallowed him, they locked wet eyes—hers leaking mirth, his streaming shame.

  24

  IT WAS AROUND this time that the severity of the weather began to be commented on. The season was only just beginning, but the air already held the deep chill of midwinter, a cold that dried eyes and sprang nosebleeds. Winter mornings were usually still, with angry gusts building in the afternoon. But the days were beginning with fat bursts of wind, thumping at windows, ripping up conversations, slapping the ocean and curdling its waves. Frost was expected in the mornings, but at this time of year it would usually melt soon after sunrise. Instead it was lingering, even when unhidden by shadow, staying slick and hard until lunchtime. The port people shivered, complained, swung their numb arms, and when they saw the northerner they wondered if he knew how cruel the days were being, if he had any idea what he’d walked into.

  If he did, he gave no sign. He was regularly seen walking around the docks at first light, his eyes locked on the water or clouds as if deep in thought. He seemed to have recovered from his embarrassment at the pub, although he’d stopped asking questions. He didn’t speak to the port people as they went about their work, didn’t even look at them, didn’t respond to Zoe’s aunt’s giggles as the pair strode past him towards their boat. They and the other harvesters motored out to sea, and the northerner spent his day strolling through town, failing to climb the granite hills, sleeping in the cold, unprotected cabin of his speedboat. But when the ink boats returned to the dock he was always back on the pier, wandering—in a manner obviously intended to appear aimless—in vague circles that led him closer and closer towards the docking boats.

  Zoe and her aunt weren’t the only ones who noticed him peering nonchalantly at their decks. But like the other harvesters they ignored him, even as he, pretending he’d seen something in the water by their boat, used a little disposable camera to take photos of the ink they carried ashore.

  Over the next week Zoe, her aunt and the other harvesters continued to ignore him. They ignored his wan smiles and polite nods every time they passed him in the street. They ignored the way he sat on the end of the dock sketching pictures of their boats and nets and the equipment on their decks. They ignored his offers of help in unloading their cargo, and they ignored the way he’d shadow them as they spoke to wholesalers.

  The only time his presence was difficult to ignore was at the end of the week, when he climbed into his speedboat at dawn and followed one of the ink boats out to the squid grounds. The harvester he’d followed dropped his anchor, pulled out a thermos and spent the day at sea drinking tea, reading a paperback and eating sandwiches, before returning at dusk, followed again by the northerner’s speedboat, which had been floating by his side all day. At the dock he explained what had happened to five or six other harvesters, who each poured a few fingers of fresh ink from their own bottles into his empty one.

  When the bottle was half-full the northerner had just made it back to port. As he exited his speedboat the harvester he’d followed approached him, waving the bottle. The northerner looked confused, although this confusion did not stay long. It was wiped away by the harvester’s free hand, which curled into a fist and slammed into his jaw.

  The northerner’s legs were already wobbly from the day on the water; at the connection of the punch they gave way, surrendering his body to the hardness of the pier. At the meaty thud of flesh on timber, the harvester shoved his fist into his pocket and walked away, a tuneless whistle pushing through his lips. The other harvesters secured their boats, collected their ink, moved towards the lights of the town.

  Only Zoe, too young to fully commit to this performance, paid the northerner any attention. Only she saw the bloody phlegm he spat through the slats in the pier, saw it hit the water and mingle with the wash of a wave. Only she heard the sobs, harsh and heavy, that came from him. Only Zoe saw the pistol he pulled from the back of his belt to hold flat against the wood, pointed at nothing and no one, as his sobs broke apart.

  25

  THE NORTHERNER CAME to their house a few days later. It was a weekday evening, an hour after dinner. Winter’s grip was tightening: the wind outside was thick with ice. Zoe’s aunt let him in, chuckling as he shook and shivered.

  As he sat at the table Zoe thought of the gun, and her pulse leapt, her breaths halted. They didn’t start again until her aunt spoke.

  Tea?

  He nodded.

  Yes. Thank you. And thank you for allowing me the time to speak with you.

  Who said anything about speaking? I just offered you tea.

  She filled the kettle, fished around in the cupboards.

  Yes. Well.

  They waited for the kettle to boil. Zoe was sitting on their couch, a small two-seater that was pushed against the far wall of the little room that served as their kitchen, dining room and lounge. She had a book open on her lap, but had stopped reading. She stared at the page, letting the letters blur. Her aunt leaned against the sink, humming. The northerner looked at his blue hands.

  When the kettle clicked off her aunt poured water into three cups and handed them out, before settling into the seat opposite their guest.

  So, how can we help you?

  The northerner cleared his throat and sat up straight, although he didn’t make eye contact with either of them.

  I would like to reiterate my thanks for your kindness and hospitality. I truly appreciate it.

  Her aunt snorted. The northerner blinked, but did not stop.

  I believe you were in the pub on the night I recently visited? The night I spoke?

  Good pub, isn’t it? Great steak.

  Yes, I’m sure. He took a breath. Then you must have heard what I said. How I am here to help revitalise the south-sea ink industry. To modernise it. To help you all safeguard its future, to guarantee its supply.

  Her aunt leaned back in her chair, still smiling.

  Yes, I remember some of that. How interesting.

  The northerner’s eyes swung upwards as Zoe’s aunt sipped.

  You’re interested?

  I said it’s interesting.

  What is?

  That you don’t know anything about this industry—ink, did you say? I’m afraid I haven’t heard of it—but you plan on, what was it you said? Revitalising it? Safeguarding it?

  A chuckle slipped from her lips. The northerner did not flinch.

  I have certain expertise in this area. In many areas of business.

  I’m sure you do.

  She sipped again, a long draw of liquid.

  I can’t be the first person you’ve come to for help. You’ve been here for over a week.

  I’ve enquired with many o
f your colleagues and neighbours.

  And what did they tell you?

  I think you know what they said to me. Or have a good idea.

  Maybe. But who can be sure?

  The northerner leaned forward onto the table.

  Who can be sure of anything around here?

  Zoe’s aunt kept sipping her tea.

  No idea.

  The northerner rubbed at his face. Some seconds dripped past. He pushed his chair back.

  Well, this was worth a try.

  He looked at Zoe.

  What about you?

  Zoe flinched.

  Me?

  He looked into her face, fixing her still.

  I’ve seen you go out on the boat. Can you help me? Help me help you all?

  His expression was forlorn. Zoe felt frost in her stomach. Her mind snapped open the image of him on the pier, flattened, gun in palm. But her aunt beamed, seeming to grow more teeth as she turned to face the couch.

  Zo, love, any idea what he’s on about?

  Zoe gulped.

  Nope. Then, in a flash of inspiration, she said: We catch fish.

  Her aunt’s laughter burst through her teeth.

  We sure do!

  She turned back to the northerner.

  Do you want some? We’ve got a whole freezer of, ah, what do you call it, flounder? Haddock? We’ve got it all.

  The northerner’s expression turned even more morose, and he pulled his eyes back to his shoes. He seemed to be thinking of something to say when Zoe’s aunt pressed him further.

  You don’t just want to upgrade some old boats, do you? There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?

  He hesitated.

  Yes.

  You owe people money? You gamble?

  It’s really nobody else’s business…

  Or it’s a family thing? You need cash, and this is the only way you can think of getting it? Sick wife? Sick kids? Dog? There are easier ways to make money, son.