Migrations(7)

I file skiff men away to ask about later. “And Dae?”

“God love him, he gets so seasick. I shouldn’t laugh, it’s not funny. But it’s part of his daily routine now—wake up, have a puke, finish the day, have a puke, and go to sleep. Wake up and do it again.”

I think Malachai might be making all of this up, but I’m certainly enjoying it. I can hear it in his voice, how much he loves them. “Léa?”

“She has a foul temper and she’s the most superstitious of us all. You can hardly burp without her spouting some warning and last week we were two days late to depart ’cause she wouldn’t set foot on the boat ’til the moon was right.”

“What about Ennis?”

Malachai shrugs. “He’s just Ennis.”

“What’s just Ennis?”

“Well, I dunno. He’s our captain.”

“But not part of the asylum?”

“Nah, not really.” Malachai considers, looking awkward. “He’s got his shit like everyone.”

I can believe this, since I found the man sitting in a fjord. I wait for Malachai to go on. His fingers are drumming furiously.

“He’s a wagering man, for one.”

“Aren’t all men?”

“Nah, not like this.”

“Huh. Sports? Racing? Blackjack?”

“Anything. I’ve seen him lose himself completely. His reasoning—it just goes.” Malachai stops speaking and I can tell he feels guilty for having said as much.

I ease off Ennis. “So why do you do it?” I ask instead.

“Do what?”

“Spend your life at sea.”

He considers. “I guess it just feels like really living.” He smiles shyly. “Plus what else am I gonna do?”

“The protesting doesn’t bother you?” Lately I feel like all I see on the news is violent protest rallies at fishing ports around the world—save the fish, save the oceans!

Malachai looks away from me. “Sure it does.”

Ennis returns with the drinks and hands me another glass of wine.

“Thanks.”

“So what does your man think of you being out here?” Malachai asks, nodding to my wedding ring.

I scratch my arm absently. “He works in a similar field so he gets it.”

“Science, right?”

I nod.

“What’s the bird one called?”

“Ornithology. He’s teaching at the moment, and I’m doing the fieldwork.”

“I know which sounds more fun,” Malachai says.

“Mal, you’re the biggest pussy this side of the equator,” Basil says, sitting down. “Bet you’d love to be holed up in some safe little classroom somewhere. Although that’d require you to be able to read…”

Malachai gives him the finger, making Basil grin.

“What does he really think?” Ennis asks me.

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

My mouth opens but nothing comes out. I sigh. “He hates it. I’m always leaving him behind.”



* * *



Later Ennis and I sit at the window and watch the stretch of fjord that swallowed us. Behind us his crew members are getting steadily drunker and have taken over the set of Trivial Pursuit, which has incited numerous arguments. Léa doesn’t participate in the ribbing, but smugly wins most of the rounds. Samuel is reading by the fire. Any other night I’d be playing with them, and I’d be pushing and prodding to see the make of them. But tonight, the task. I need to get myself onto their boat.

The midnight sun has turned the world indigo and something about the quality of the light reminds me of the land where I was raised, that special Galway blue. I’ve seen a fair helping of the world and what strikes me most is that there are no two qualities of light the same, no matter where you go. Australia is bright and hard. Galway has a smudgeness to it, a tender haze. Here the edges of everything are crisp and cold.

“What would you say if I told you I could find you fish?”

Ennis’s eyebrows arch. He’s quiet awhile, and then, “I’d reckon you’re talking about your birds, and I’d say that’s illegal.”

“It only became illegal because of the trawling methods huge liners used to use, which would capture and kill all the surrounding marine life and birds. You don’t use those anymore, not with a smaller vessel. The birds would be safe. Otherwise I wouldn’t suggest it.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

I nod.

“So what are we really talking about, Franny Lynch?”

I retrieve the papers from my bag, then return to the stool beside Ennis. I place the papers between us and try to smooth out some of the wrinkles. “I’m studying the migratory patterns of the Arctic tern, looking specifically at what climate change has done to their flight habits. You know all about this, I’d say—it’s what’s killing the fish.”

“And the rest,” he says.

“And the rest.”

He is peering at the papers but I don’t blame him for not interpreting their meaning—they’re dense journal articles with the university’s stamp on them.

“Do you know of the Arctic tern, Ennis?”