The Sea Runners - Ivan Doig [69]
Wennberg stared at Karlsson. Then he brought up from behind the firewood the map case, open.
"Tomorrow, yes, that's what's to be studied on here. Braaf and I want to know of tomorrow. Where the goddamned map of it is, say. Yes, whyn't we start with knowing that."
...So it's come....
Karlsson drew breath, heard the surf contend against the wall of seastacks. Heard his own silence.
Wennberg's glare to him was joined by a gaze from Braaf. "Karlsson," Braaf said distantly. "Where is it?"
More silence, silence so strong in Karlsson it covered the surf's crash, lifted him inside his ears back to where he stood numbed by the sentry's query into the New Archangel night...
"You both know the where of it." His own voice; make it work, silence was testimony for Wennberg. "Back somewhere in New Archangel, where Melander judged it could stay."
Wennberg stood, faster than such heft should have been able. "Then you don't know fuck-all about where we are! You're running us blind down this coast 1"
"I know Astoria is ahead. That's enough."
"Hell take you, it's enough! You think you're too goddamn keen to be among us, Karlsson. You've had that about you since we touched away from that Russian dungpile. Afraid maybe I'll smudge off on you, or long-fingers Braaf here'll pick your pocket, you act like. But play us the fool like this—we're hopeless as Methusaleh's cock, without maps to go by! This coast'll —"
"Wennberg, I can't have maps when there aren't maps, Melander reckoned we could make our way after the steamship's maps gave out and that's what we're doing."
"Whyn't you tell us?" Braaf, the question soft. "Melander would've."
"Because I'm not twin to him, Braaf. Can't he. And what was the gain in telling? To have Wennberg here every hour declaring us dead, might as well have climbed in the grave with Melander? To have you give up, too, maybe? Take a sharp look at telling. Melander held off from telling, when he couldn't lay hand to all the maps."
"Melander, double-damn Melander!" Wennberg had sidestepped, was clear of the tire now instead of across it from Karlsson. "Melander was so fucking clever he jigged his way in front of a bullet. And you're the whelp of him—I'll finish you, you fucking fox of a Sin a lander—"
Wennberg rushed.
Karlsson had an instant to fling up a forearm against the blacksmith's throat, then they were locked. Wei in berg's arms around Karlsson, seeking to crush: Karlsson's forearm in pry against the front of Wennberg's neck. The both, grunting: staggering: Karlsson bending like a sapling to stay upright, Wennberg tipping him, "tipping him: desperately a Karlsson hand exerted to a Wennberg ear, maybe twist will slow...." At its target, the hand came against ... metal? rod, some sort? How could...
The grip lifted from Karlsson's ribs now, lie and Wennberg stock-still, face to face. But not eye to eye: Wennberg was trying to see around the side of his own head, not to Karlsson's hand which yet was beside his ear as if ready to stroke there, but to Braaf and the rifle.
The mouth of the rifle barrel stayed firm against Wennberg's ear as Braaf spoke.
"Not the first one to jig in front of a bullet, Melander wasn't. Or last, maybe."
"Braaf, wait now." Wennberg labored to suck in breath and spill out words at the same time. "It's Karlsson, played us fools—running us blind down this hell-coast—"
"'Right fit or not, he's our only fit.' Melander said that once about you, didn't he, Karlsson?"
Karlsson nodded, tried to think through the ache of his ribs, work out what he ought to be saying. But Braaf was doing saying of his own:
"Let's think on that, Wennberg. Melander maybe had truth there."
"Braaf, the bastard's been diddling us along—pretending he knows what the fuck he's doing—"
"So far, he has," murmured Braaf. "Blacksmith, you only ever had a thimbleful of sense and now you've sneezed into it. Back there, after—Melander. You said it needed be Karlsson to find the way for us. He's done it. How, I don't