Migrations(5)

I was taken from my mother’s home and sent back to Australia to live with my paternal grandmother. I didn’t see the point in staying in any one place after that. I only ever tried once more, many years later when I met a man called Niall Lynch and we loved each other with brands to our names and bodies and souls. I tried for Niall, like I did for my mother. I really did. But the rhythms of the sea’s tides are the only things we humans have not yet destroyed.

TASIILAQ, GREENLAND NESTING SEASON

Take two. There are no men outside the bar this time, only the dogs, who look at me sleepily and then lose interest when I stride past without offerings.

As I enter, an odd rustle moves through the patrons and then, almost in unison, they erupt into applause. I see him at one of the tables, smiling broadly and clapping along with everyone else. People thump me on the back as I head for the bar, and it makes me laugh.

Someone meets me there with a grin. He’s maybe thirty, handsome, with long dark hair in a bun. His bottom teeth are noticeably crooked. “The lady’s drinks are on us tonight,” he tells the barman, and he’s either a different Australian or the one who called out from the balcony earlier.

“No need—”

“You saved his life.” He smiles again, and I don’t know if he’s taking the piss, or if he actually thinks that’s what happened. I decide it doesn’t matter—a free drink’s a free drink. I order another glass of red and then shake his hand.

“I’m Basil Leese.”

“Franny Lynch.”

“I like the name Franny.”

“I like the name Basil.”

“You feeling all right now, Franny?”

I never like this question. Even if I were dying of plague I would dislike this question. “It’s just cold water, right?”

“Yeah, but there’s cold and there’s cold.”

Basil takes my drink and carries it back to his table without asking, so I follow. He’s with the “drowning man”—who has also managed to change into dry clothes—and a few others. I’m introduced to Samuel, a portly man in his late sixties with a luscious head of red locks, then Anik, a slender Inuit man. Next Basil points out a younger trio playing pool. “Those two idiots are Daeshim and Malachai. Newest and dumbest members of the crew. And the chick is Léa.”

There is a scruffy Korean guy, and a gangly black guy. The woman—Léa—is black, too, and taller than both the men. All three are in the middle of a heated argument about pool rules, so I turn to the drowning man last, expecting to be introduced, but Basil has already launched into a detailed complaint of the dinner he’s been presented with.

“It’s overcooked, heavy-handed on the oregano, and way too buttery. Not to mention the pitiful bloody garnish. And look—look at the piss-poor presentation!”

“You asked for bangers and mash,” Anik reminds him, sounding bored.

Samuel hasn’t taken his merry eyes off me. “Where are you from, Franny? I can’t place your accent.”

In Australia I sound Irish. In Ireland everyone thinks I’m Australian. Since the very beginning I’ve been flickering between, unable to hold fast to either.

I swallow my mouthful of wine and grimace at the sweetness of it. “If you want you can call me Irish Australian.”

“Knew it,” Basil says.

“What brings an Irishwoman to Greenland, Franny?” Samuel presses. “Are you a poet?”

“A poet?”

“Aren’t all the Irish poets?”

I smile. “I suppose we like to think so. I’m studying the last of the Arctic terns. They nest along the coast but they’ll fly south soon, all the way to the Antarctic.”

“Then you are a poet,” Samuel says.

“You’re fishermen?” I ask.

“Herring.”

“Then you must be used to disappointment.”

“Well, now, I suppose that’s true.”

“Dying trade,” I comment. They were warned, time and again. We all were. The fish will run out. The ocean is nearly empty. You have taken and taken and now there is nothing left.

“Not yet,” the drowning man speaks for the first time. He’s been listening quietly and now I turn to him.

“Very few fish left in the wild.”

He inclines his head.

“So why do it?” I ask.

“S’the only thing we know. And life’s no fun without a challenge.”

I smile, but it feels wooden on my face. My insides are churning and I think of what this conversation would do to my husband, who has fought for conservation. His scorn, his disgust, would know no bounds.

“Skipper’s got his heart set on finding the Golden Catch,” Samuel tells me with a wink.

“What’s that?”

“The white whale,” Samuel says. “The Holy Grail, the Fountain of Youth.” He makes such an expansive gesture that some of his beer slops onto his fingers. I think he’s drunk.

Basil gives the older man an impatient glance and then explains, “It’s a huge haul. Like they used to catch. Enough to fill the boat, and make us all rich.”

I consider the drowning man. “Then it’s money you’re hunting.”

“It’s not money,” he says, and I almost believe him.