Sail of Stone

the sea; it would take millions of years to get them to change, to wear away. He walked up and down Richmond. It took four minutes; the street wasn’t even a hundred yards long. He had lived in number four. The windows were black. The door was new, of a type of wood he didn’t recognize. It could be from a ship. It ought to be. The wind from the sea that swept through Richmond Street was the sea, as damp as the sea. Anyone who walked here became wet and cold. Not right now, the wind was from the south, but often otherwise.

The street was one of ten identical ones. Without the names no one would be able to find their way home. The shipyard workers had been too drunk to remember which street was theirs. Even though most of them could read, at least the names of their streets, their birth certificates; the family had been able to read the death certificates. It was a hard life; it was cold. He hadn’t been here during the terrible years, and yet he had been so close. He had burned away most of the memories. It hurt to return. He knew how it would feel.

At the Marine Hotel, a single room cost twenty-five pounds. Back then, that had been his livelihood for a month.

He walked around the building. The bar had been moved. There was a notice about the “Cunard Suite” by the entrance. It had been there then, too.

He stood in the cramped hallway to the reception area.

It was the same smell.

Jesus.

“Can I help you, sir?”

She wasn’t from that time. Her hair was blond. Her skirt was long; that was unusual on a young person. She didn’t look at him, really. It was surprising that she had seen him at all.

“I just wanted to…,” he said, and that was all, and he turned and went out again, and up past Forsyths and Moray Seafoods, up the hill to the square.

The old hotel looked untouched. No bombs had fallen on it. He had to sit down on one of the benches in front of the city hall. It wasn’t a city hall anymore, he could see that much. Old folks were going in and out; some seemed to be fifty years older than him. An old person was sitting on the bench across from him, sitting and sleeping in the pale autumn sun.

It was here. It was here. He had panicked and never returned. This was where it started.

It was all the people, thousands, tens of thousands.

The war was over. What was it, the twentieth anniversary of the monument? Yes. Maybe. They had celebrated peace, and that monument, which was twenty years old. It had been so crowded that he thought it might become hard to breathe.

He looked at the monument; naturally, it was still there, in front of the city hall in the old part of the square. You could touch it.

The War Memorial.

The memorial for the dead of the first great war.

In Proud and Grateful Remembrance.

Their Name Liveth For Ever.

That’s what it looked like. But that’s not how it was.

He got up with his memories and crossed the street. He had stood here, among all the others. Then he had turned around. There was a sound. A clicking sound.

They had stocked up a few times in Buckie. Maybe it was only twice. Arne had wanted to stay. Not this time, they had said. We’ll come back. That was the last time. The Buckie boys are back in town, Arne had said when they docked. He repeated it as they drank beer at the Marine.

They had gone out at the same time as the Monadhliath. It was the next day.

The Monadhliath had run into drifting mines. That was another day later. He might have heard the explosion. He had seen a light in the night.

Two hours later the Marino had gone under.

He had convinced Bertil not to come along. No. He had forced him not to! That was in Fraserburgh. They had received their final instructions.

Arne wasn’t coming along anyway. He had a meeting in the mountains. He traveled hidden under a tarp in the bed of a truck. More weapons. Always more weapons.

Arne didn’t know German. Others knew German.

Egon came along out to sea. He couldn’t force him to stay on land. He tried. Egon forced himself along on the last trip.

He didn’t speak to Frans. They weren’t speaking to each other anymore. Only when necessary. Only if the worst happened.

“John, you are lost,” Frans had said.

“We’re all lost,” he had said.

Frans had talked about Ella. Crazy talk, insane. Frans had accused him. Don’t try to take her, he had said. Ella is mine. It was insane. It was lies. Frans drank. Frans talked like a madman. Frans was careless with the weapons. Frans was afraid.

Egon looked afraid. Egon stayed away. Egon kept to himself in the mess. Egon was afraid.

He stood in the cabin. He drank. He froze. He listened to the wind. He was afraid. He had a premonition. He hadn’t been able to explain it to Egon.

A gale was blowing when they went out, sheltered by the cliffs of Clubbie Craig.

The meeting was outside of Troup Head. He couldn’t see the village in there under the cliffs. Everything was dark. Suddenly they could see the signal above Cullykhan Bay. The other boat came out.

They went north. They unloaded and loaded up again. They kept going. They unloaded. They kept going. The wind increased. They couldn’t go home yet. They went into the storm.

He wasn’t afraid now. Egon was afraid.

Frans wasn’t afraid. Frans came into the cabin. Frans was waving a German army pistol.

“Should we shoot the haddock?” he screamed.

He didn’t answer. There was a strong gust. Frans reeled.

“We have lots of these!” screamed Frans, waving the pistol. “And bigger ones too!” He waved it again. “We can shoot whales!”

Frans had stolen weapons. How much had he stolen?

It was punishable by death. It didn’t matter how little you kept. Or how much.

Almost everything was punishable by death.

“Put that down,” he yelled.

“Should we set the trawl?” Frans screamed. “Ha ha ha!”

“Go belowdecks,” he yelled.

Frans lost his balance in the rough sea. The Marino fell, fell twenty yards, thirty. The sea was crazy. The water was a wall. The water was hard as stone. The water was a stone wall. The water was death.

Frans dropped the pistol, then picked it up. Frans lost his balance. Then Frans was on his way out, a yard from the door. He reeled suddenly.

Egon was on his way in. The storm threw him in.

A shot went off. Another shot.

Egon exploded. Egon’s head split. Egon’s body fell.

Frans was still holding the pistol in his hand. He dropped it. He ran out through the cabin door.

Egon was motionless on the wet floor. The water rushed in through the doorway.

He turned the rudder. He dragged the body to shelter. He looked for Frans. He called his name through the storm. Frans didn’t answer. He knew that he was still on board. He found him. Frans tried to say something. He didn’t listen. Frans looked at him. He closed his eyes.

Jesus!