Jamrach's Menagerie - Carol Birch [78]
Proctor turned on his heel and walked round in a small circle that brought him back to face Dan. “Mr. Rymer,” he said, “you and your boys were responsible for the animal’s welfare. The animal has gone. You are the one who must explain this to Mr. Fledge. For myself, I thank God the damned thing is off my ship. Damn you, Skipton. Put him below!”
Henry Cash and Gabriel led Skip to the hatch, him blubbing and wiping his nose on his sleeve. The captain stomped away up onto the quarterdeck, where his plump figure could be seen motionless in morose contemplation of the eastern sea for more than an hour.
Early morning. A vast canopy of cloud covered the sky in the west, black and slate grey and white. Rough sea, dark grey. Upon the quarterdeck the captain and Mr. Rainey. Billy Stock aloft. Wilson Pride in the cookhouse soaking hardtack, Joe Harper carefully mending Simon’s fiddle, Felix Duggan yawning, Yan straddling a spar, a knife in his mouth and a rope in his hand.
First thing Dan told us Mr. Comeragh was still poorly from the bite. Bled a lot, he said. It had stopped now, and Abel had lanced the swelling, but he’d got a nasty fever. Sam was keeping an eye on him.
“Will he be all right?” I asked.
“I’d say so.” Dan looked tired. “I have to write a report. Know what he told me? Skip?”
“What?”
“Said he was taking it for a walk around the deck.”
“Jesus.”
“Here, Polly-dog,” said Tim, and laughed.
“Boys,” Dan said, “don’t worry, you’ll still do well out of this. We never thought we’d find the thing in the first place, did we? You both did well. I shall make that clear.”
Then he sent us off to muck out the cage. Its open-doored emptiness made me sad. There was the imprint of a long, thick body in the straw, the shedded debris of black scales. He was a messy dragon. Didn’t care where he shat.
“No one will ever believe it,” said Tim, and laughed. “That we really caught it. No one will ever believe.”
“Jamrach will,” I said, stooping to pick up Skip’s sketchbook. “So will Fledge. He’ll send another expedition.”
“Think so?” Tim leaned on his broom. “Will you go?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said, flicking through the pages. Dragons, demons, bars. “Depends. Depends what it’s like back home.”
“Back home,” he repeated dreamily. “Feels like a mirage.”
Oh I wish I was back in Ratcliffe Highway,
Ratcliffe Highway across the sea …
“Suppose we’ll never be rich, me and you,” I said, sliding the book into my pocket. It was an easy fit.
Tim laughed. “I don’t care about the money.” He resumed his sweeping. “I was sure I was going to die. I thought, Blow this, if I ever get off this damn island and get home, I’ll never ask for anything more—Jesus Christ, this stinks!—and I wouldn’t. I’ll not be going to sea again, Jaf, but you will, I’m sure. It’s not for me. I’m the man of the family now. I’ll go home and work for Jamrach and keep my dear old ma happy.”
“Still,” I said, “you’ll have some great stories.”
He snorted. “And no one will believe—”
“That we saw dragons feeding on one of their own on an island,” I said.
“You got a way with words, Jaf.”
“How far could it swim?” I wondered.
“Pretty far maybe,” Tim replied. “Not that I know,” and then he sighed. “Poor old Skip. Stuck down there. He can’t help being mad.”
I thought of the dragon in the sea, swimming valiantly back west towards its home. I saw its tough, bowed legs walking in the water. How far? Hundreds of miles. It was probably dead by now. All that ancient wildness and power gone. It was just a thing that can die. I saw things die at Jamrach’s. It’s always the same: a light dimming, going out. The only human I knew who’d died was Tim’s dad, and that was just as if an old chair that had stood in the same place for years had suddenly been thrown out.
“Think it’s dead?” I said.
“Maybe.” He drove dirty water out onto the deck. “I have no idea.”
I liked to think of it swimming on for days and days, ever westward, landing on a scrap of land here and there and taking nourishment, eating fish, swimming on and on and on, till