Ha ha, but that is not allowed. That has never been allowed.
You need to forget about it, boy. Rise above it. His father’s voice echoes in his head. Remember—you are not a fish. You can beat this. Mind over matter.
He tries, he really does, but even his brain feels dried out.
Dry? You call this dry? The Kalahari, the Sahara—now that’s dry. We traveled through the desert for seven weeks to reach the other coast. We drank sand for seven weeks, and we laughed about it. That’s what men do.
He tries to laugh, but it just hurts his throat. Sand, what does that taste like?
Outside, the sea splashes, very gently, at the foot of the cliff. He crawls into the darkest shadow under the bed. Will anyone ever come upstairs again?
Probably not.
Because they’re scared, of course.
So they should be. If they come, he will bite them. He’s a terrifying monster, that’s what he is.
No, you’re not, lad. I know you. Joseph shakes his head.
Stop interfering, old man. You’re dead.
Who knew people could drop dead, just like that? It wasn’t his fault, it really wasn’t.
Joseph suddenly fell onto the floor. He was talking, explaining something about wind directions and the compass. Edward already knew it all though, as he had finished all the books ages ago, but Joseph was coming upstairs less and less often, so he let him talk. It was nice just to listen and nod and to say something clever every now and then.
That’s good, the old man would say. That’s good, Edward. You’re making progress, lad. Before long you’ll know more than me. Or something like that.
But they did not get to that point, because in the middle of north-north-west, his voice faltered and he sighed, sighed out his life. He was gone, and what was left slid onto the floor beside Edward, scaring him half to death.
It wasn’t his fault. It really wasn’t.
He shouted, shook him, screamed, but a hailstorm had started outside. The sea down below banged against the rocks, and he could not even hear his own voice. Joseph had stopped moving. Edward had put a blanket over him, because he was so cold, but that did not help, and he already knew that it wouldn’t. Once the blood stops flowing and the heart stops beating, everything becomes cold and stiff. It’s called rigor mortis.
That’s good, that’s good, Edward. You’re so well read, lad. Next time your father comes home, I shall tell him; you can be sure of that.
But not anymore. Not anymore.
What are those? Tears? his father scoffs. Is that a runny nose? I do hope not. Men don’t cry. You know that.
After the storm had died down, it was an entire day before they came. He had almost given up hope, but then he heard them on the stairs. They were scared.
“You go first!”
“No! You! You can go first!”
He thought they were coming to help him. He put on his friendliest face, so that they would not be scared. He still believed they would feel sorry for him, that they had come to bring him something. Water. Something to eat perhaps. Ha ha.
They came with sticks, such big men. Two of them, both with sticks. And they just started hitting him.
He wanted to shout out: it wasn’t my fault, it really wasn’t, he just died! But they hit him and chased him away from Joseph’s body.
He wanted to say: my food’s nearly all gone, and my water, and every day I need…
But they just yelled: “Get back, you monster! You freak!” And they laid the old man on a blanket, as quickly as they could. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! That monster was trying to eat him!” They both drew big crosses on their chests.
Of course I wasn’t, he wanted to shout. I just wanted to make sure that he really wasn’t moving, I would never…
But they kicked him, and again, because he did nothing to defend himself.
So then he started hissing and shrieking and biting. He bit them in the ankles where it is soft. They bled and shrieked, and that felt good.
But then they took away the blanket with the old man on it and slammed the door. He heard the bolts slide, and they were gone.
And then nothing, for a really, really long time. Longer than ever, until that old woman this evening, and now…No one will ever come again, of course. Now it is all over, and he will die up here, of hunger, thirst, dehydration. He will never learn to walk, never stand on a ship, never get his sea legs.
He closes his eyes and falls into the darkness.
stink
“Stop getting under my feet, will you?” Martha raises her hand, but Lampie ducks out of the way in time. She’s used to it from home, of course.
She has never seen Martha like this before. There is a bandage on her leg, and she keeps limping around, sitting down, standing back up, letting the tea water boil dry, jumping at the slightest thing: a dog barking, Lenny giggling, and then she lashes out. A slap for the dog and a snarl for her son, who sits at the table with his lip trembling for the rest of the morning.
Lampie strokes his head and brings him tea and sandwiches, because Martha does not do that today either. The girl stays in the shadows as much as possible. In the afternoon, she heads upstairs with her buckets. Not that downstairs is clean or that she has nothing else to do there, but no one is paying any attention to her today, or telling her that it is not allowed.
It smells really bad upstairs in the corridor, just as bad as in the pantry, and it only gets worse as she turns the corner. The doors are wider here, and the walls are covered with antlers on wooden plaques. There is also a rhinoceros’s head, all gray and wrinkled. It has sad little eyes—and a long strand of cobweb on its horn. Lampie quietly opens the door beside the rhinoceros. She sees a room lined with shelves of stuffed animals and glass cases full of butterflies and beetles, all stabbed through with needles. Not a wing is moving. An empty tiger skin lies on the floor, and on the wall there are portraits of men in uniforms. They stare at her with angry eyes. What is that child doing in here?
Quickly, Lampie closes the door again.
She walks on, following her nose, to where the stink gets worse and worse. At the end of the corridor is a door with a staircase behind it disappearing into the darkness. That is where the smell is coming from. And somewhere up there must be the room she is not allowed to enter.
But shouldn’t she go upstairs to clean? To mop up whatever’s rotting away?
One time, when she was much younger, there had been a boat drifting just outside the harbor, a boat that was being bounced around by the waves and was going nowhere. It couldn’t go anywhere, because its captain had died at sea and his body now lay in the hold, while his catch was stinking on deck. It had been a magnificent haul—mountains of fish in the burning sun. The town’s seagulls went crazy, flying in clouds above the ship and filling their bellies.