The Glass Ocean(34)

            So my grandfather has rescued him, for now.

            And my mother, what about her?

            Now she’s seen it. Now she knows. She’s gazing at my father contemplatively. He’s a pale, unshelled creature, laid out there on the table for her delectation, every bit of him, every scrap, every fragment of his poor disarticulated soul exposed. But she says nothing. Nothing. Only turns away.

            That’s not like her. Something has really happened, now.

            • • •

            When the rain has done its battering, they take him below. At seven he’ll wake, confused, asking Harry Owen if he’s dead. No, by no means. It was nothing; just a corposant, St. Elmo’s fire. A kind of electrical discharge brought about by the storm—quite harmless—

            Harry Owen can hardly bear to look at him now. He does everything not to look, his gaze averted, over my father’s shoulder, or down, in the direction of his feet.

            He is thinking about that night on the Embankment, the frightening absence. And this, the subsequent voiding. It is difficult to be a gentleman about this.

            My father, though, sees nothing amiss, sleeps again, for him there’s nothing but oblivion, despite the storm. Brief violent downpours, thunder and lightning that shake the ship, this continues until dawn. Probably nobody sleeps, except my father, who sleeps so poorly, in the best of times.

            • • •

            In the morning the sky is clear, it’s as if nothing has happened, nor have they moved. Punta Yalkubul is once again a purple ribbon dropped by a careless girl, tapering away narrowly, like a ribbon, to nothing at the ends.

            Lightning seldom strikes a ship at sea. But the saint’s body is a different matter. That means bad luck. My father is a marked man now. But, still sleeping, he doesn’t know it; and by the time he wakes, rather late, it won’t matter anymore.

            • • •

            Hugh Blackstone, on the bridge, observes, with his glass, the horizon’s edge. Land is there, lives being lived, though giving no sign: no lights at night, no sails by day, it is odd is it not, a mode of life difficult to imagine. As he stands one of his men approaches, speaking quickly, with a faint air of emergency. One of the smallboats is missing. Gone, sir, and the oars, too, sir, gone without a trace.

            Gone? What do you mean?

            The withering glance of Blackstone.

            I don’t know where it’s gone, sir, but it’s gone, and cook says a sack of his best salt fish is gone, too, an’ one of potatoes, and a cask of water.

            That’s impossible. I suppose the fairies done it? The faint derisive smile, this is something to be avoided. Even if Doyle does think the fairies done it, he will not say so now; and as far as Hugh Blackstone is concerned, that is a good thing.

            I don’t know, sir.

            Very well, Doyle. I’ll deal with it.

            Wisp of Doyle, running away.

            Blackstone at the rail now, smiling still. Smiling. Well, I’ll be damned. Training his glass at the edge of the earth.

            • • •

            By lunchtime it is confirmed that Felix Girard has gone. His bed has not been slept in; John McIntyre has found a note, pinned inside his Compendium of American Psittaciformes, which reads, I will show you, McIntyre, you bastard! You puny man, now you will see!

            Clotilde is in tears. She can’t find her dear Papa anywhere. And neither can anybody else. A search of the ship is fruitless, the import of the note clear: he has taken one of the smallboats and some supplies, and set out to row himself to Punta Yalkubul.