Perfect Circles

A Sorcerous Mist-3

“Thank you Caillagh-Ny-Ghueshag.”

“Very well. Now you must go if you are to catch the tide at Douglas Town, yes?”

“Yes.”

Outside the door, he picked up his lantern where he had left it. He turned to face the darkness, then turned back. “May I ask you a question?”

“Another favour, John Quirk? Well now. Let me see. You were wondering why I live where I do?”

“Aye.” He spoke quietly now, almost in a whisper. “I came to a rolling once. I was young. I saw the spiked barrel they put her in, a woman little older than me. I heard her screams, her pleading. I heard the cries stop part way down. I saw what was left of her at the bottom. I saw the lake where they drown those that survive, the place where they bury those that don"t. Why … why would you live here, here of all places on the island?”

“Many reasons, John Quirk. Partly to remember all those women who were killed as you describe. One or two of them Wycka, my sisters. Most ordinary women. Each and every one of them deserves to be remembered in some way, to be named aloud on certain days, during the rites and ceremonies. Also, this is a place of great power, There is rage and hatred here. On stormy nights the air seethes with it, with their spirits. This is where I need to be. One day soon there will be a battle between the old ways and the new, between Wycka and Druidh, and this is where it will start. Or maybe where it will end.”

He nodded at that and turned back to look at the dark. Away in the east, the first, faint lightening of the sky could just be seen, a faint glow over the hills.

“Remember what I have said and remember the price, John Quirk.”

“I will.”

He set off into the night, his fish-oil lantern burning brightly long after it should have flickered out. Three hours later he arrived back at Sheerwater, tired, sore, but greatly relieved.

McBride was at his usual post, watching warily. The other crew members were below. Only the stranger was on deck; he lay asleep there on the hard wood, his head resting on his leather bag. As Quirk walked back across the gangboard, he stirred and sat up.

“You saw the Witch Queen? You have it?”

“I do,” said Quirk, holding out the length of rope, a little uneasily as if it was likely to come alive and bite him.

“Good. Guard it well captain, we will have need of it.”

Quirk nodded, tied it around his neck with a fifth, loose knot of his own, a rough sailor"s necklace next to the small lodestone he wore on a chain.

“McBride, rouse the crew. We leave for the Western Isles immediately.”

The tide was already ebbing. They untied and pushed off from the quay with long, wooden poles. The flow of the river that emptied into the sea at the port, along with the pull of receding tide, carried them slowly away and out towards open water. The fog was as thick as ever and they lost sight of the quay within moments.

Soon they were caught in their own little world, a pocket of sea with mist walls. It seemed they weren"t moving at all although Quirk knew they must be. It was disconcerting not knowing exactly where they were, what was up ahead. He felt alarm rising; there could be rocks, currents, other boats, all sorts of dangers around them.

The stranger looked calm. He stood right in the bows, looking keenly out to sea, breathing in the spray and air as if he knew their position by smell or taste alone. After long moments, he turned and called to Quirk.

“We are clear of the bay. A south-wester now will take us up along the coast of the island.” The stranger pointed off to the port side as he spoke, indicating the direction they needed to travel.

“You are sure?”

“I am.”

“Very well.” Quirk untied the rope from his neck and began to unpick one of the Witch Queen"s knots. It was intricate and unusual and for a time he couldn"t see how to do it. Then, by pulling sharply on a particular loop, he found it fell apart quite easily.

There was calm for a moment. He was conscious of the crew looking at him expectantly. The air didn"t stir. He turned to face the south-west as if he would be able to see the wind coming. There was the slightest movement of cold air on his face, like some small sea-creature breathing on him.

The wind picked up rapidly, grew stronger. Quirk shouted for sails to be hoisted. They billowed out instantly, hauling the ship rapidly around and thrusting it forwards. The wind was strong now, strangely constant too, with no gusts or lulls to it.

Quirk nodded at the stranger. “Tell me, since it seems we are to be travelling to the Western Isles together, what am I to call you?”

The stranger smiled. “Lir was my father. Mac Lir would be a good name, I think Captain Quirk.”

“Very well.” Quirk turned and went aft to the great wooden tiller, where McBride already stood, holding the ship"s course with strong, gentle hands. Mac Lir walked to the prow and gazed out to sea as if following a trail he could see on the water, although the fog was as thick and impenetrable as ever.

They sailed like that for the whole morning, Quirk and McBride taking turns at the tiller and going below for a few hours sleep. Mac Lir stood there the whole time like a figurehead. They had to peer around the masts to see him. Occasionally he would lift one of his arms a little, which they took to indicate a slight course adjustment. The higher the arm, the harder they needed to turn.

Some time in the early afternoon, Quirk was back at the tiller, his eyes alternating between the figure of Mac Lir and Sheerwater"s sails. The fog was as thick as ever. Thicker perhaps. It seemed to Quirk now that they weren"t moving at all, even though the wind was constant and strong, holding the sails in taut, rippling curves. Still, they seemed to be nailed there to the water.

If Mac Lir had their course right, it would be a swift journey after all. He was thinking about the money they could make on their cargo at the Western Isles, how to pitch the trading, when Mac Lir rapidly held up both arms. The meaning seemed clear. Quirk called to the men to haul in all the canvas; stop the boat.

He lashed the tiller straight and hurried forwards to where Mac Lir stood peering overboard. There was something down there.

“What is it?”

The water all around them was strewn with debris. A raft of wooden splinters and timbers bobbing and blinking in the swell. Quirk fished out one of the long catch-nets stowed in the bows.

They were ship"s timbers, no doubt about it. He picked out a large piece. Clinker built, poorly maintained and in need of tar. They hadn"t been in the water long though, the torn edges were still sharp and clean.

“A local boat I think. Hit some rocks maybe?”

“This one is burned Captain.”

He hadn"t heard McBride come up behind them. The tall man was standing next to him, examining another of the fragments of wood. “See.”

Quirk took the piece of wood. Its edges were charred black. It was, he knew, surprisingly hard to set fire to a wooden ship at sea, even when the air wasn"t so sodden with fog. He handed the piece on to Mac Lir.

The stranger turned the blackened shard of ship"s timber over and over in his hands, as if searching for some answers there. He said nothing for a while.

“Do you know this boat Captain?”

“Aye. It"s Phynnodderee, I"m sure of it. Captain Crellin. He left Douglas Port two days back, on the same course as us, boasting he could find his way through a bit of mist.”

“You knew him well?”

“We"d sailed alongside and against each other for years. But he was no friend. A cruel and stupid man, I"m surprised he lasted as long as he did. I wouldn"t go to sea on any boat he was the master of. Whether he burned alive or drowned first, I can"t say he didn"t get what he deserved. That"s harsh maybe, but only the truth.”

“So he may have sailed onto rocks?”

“Aye. But the burning, Mac Lir. That I can"t explain.”

The stranger continued to turn the piece of timber over and over in his hands. “No.”

“What"s going on here Mac Lir? You expected something like this I"m thinking. You must tell me what it is you"re asking my crew to face. We"re sailors, and good ones, but we"re not warriors and we"re not heroes.”

Mac Lir smiled, regret clear on his face. “I know nothing Captain Quirk. I have heard some rumours of something out here, it is true, but I do not know what. That is why I took passage with you; to see what I could find.”

“What have you heard?”

“Vague … rumours of danger.”

“What rumours?”

“You must understand that some of what I hear is very unclear. Gulls and Storm Petrels come off the sea screeching about threats and dangers. Maybe they really have seen something, or maybe they have just caught sight of a Sea Eagle or a shadow upon the face of the sea. Or I catch a faint scent of something on the wind, or the Wycka tell me of some portents and signs that have come to them. I hear all these things and when it seems there is some substance to them, I come to see. I can"t give you anything specific Captain Quirk.”

He sighed. “Very well. Maybe Crellin was fool enough to set fire to Phynnodderee before he sailed her onto some rocks. Or maybe something did the damage for him. I suppose we might as well sail on as back, but it must be clear between us that you tell me everything you know, or even suspect.”

“Very well.”

Quirk called to his men to start putting the canvas back up. Smoothly, they pushed on, nosing their way through the shattered remains of Phynnodderee.

They sailed on as before, Mac Lir at his post in the bows, Quirk and McBride taking turns at the tiller. The wind showed no signs of fading or turning. Sheerwater skipped sweetly along, her stays and sheets creaking with pleasure at the speed they made.

They must have been somewhere near the northern tip of the island, Quirk reckoned, somewhere near the place where they would need to turn north-westerly, when Mac Lir held up both his arms once again.

He called for the sails to be pulled in. Mac Lir immediately turned back to the boat and put one hand firmly over his mouth. Silence. There was danger near at hand.

He weaved his way back around the masts and coiled ropes and up to the bows. “What is it?”

“Boats out there.” Mac Lir looked distracted, as if concentrating hard on trying to hear a faint sound.

“How many? Who are they?” They spoke in hushed voices, almost whispering. He was aware of the crew watching them from all over the deck and the rigging, bearded faces peeping out of the mist, waiting to see what would happen, what he would do.