Launch Today, Begin Again

Launch Today, Begin Again

by R.L. Farr

R.L. Farr, the author of LAUNCH TODAY, BEGIN AGAIN, lives in a fishing community on a small island that often appears closer to realms of drakons and seal-women than to the mainland of the present-day world. Recently one of Farr’s short stories has appeared in The Writers’ Journal and an ecological essay in From The Ground Up.

 

On the day I made my decision, Signe, told me, “I’ve sent Yrsa to market so we can talk.” Staring into my eyes, she warned, “Da, you don’t realize the risk you’re taking by mocking Troels’ ambition. He’s good for the shipyard. Good for you, if you would just stop demanding that he build vessels that you see as beautiful. It’s time for you to live your life in comfort. Finish your little boat. Troels won’t hold a grudge if you come back to work with him on one of his big ships.” Color had risen in her cheeks, but a shadow of fear in her gray eyes stopped my sharp reply before I began it. And besides I knew it was too late. Yesterday the raven spirits warned me.

My voice sounded only a little strained speaking the truth. “Despite what Troels thinks, I never meant our arguments to embarrass him.”

She frowned knowing that I had avoided making the commitment she wanted to hear. Seventeen, a year married, and already worry lines were cutting into my daughter’s forehead. Just then we heard Yrsa singing as she approached the kitchen door. “There is a place for you here, always,” Signe assured me hastily.

I nodded my thanks. Though Signe wishes that was true, she must suspect her husband wants me dead.

Half my shipyard I gave Troels and Signe as dowry, little imagining that all would not be enough for Troels. In the five years since I hired him as a woodwright, Troels has married my daughter and moved into my house. When he was first courting Signe, I opened my heart to him saying, “To build a beautiful ship pleases the Spirits by making wood live.” He smiled feigning agreement. Barely a year and a half later he tells me condescendingly, “Your ideas are out of date. You have no ambition. It’s time to give merchants the big ships they want.”

As hard as Troels worked as a woodwright, he has worked even harder at making himself agreeable to the merchants who are town councilors. So when rumors about our arguments spilled out of the shipyard, Troels feared the wealthy would mock him, that our yard would lose contracts. Month by month his vanity has swollen like a tumor. He believes any hint of my mistrust about how he manages the shipyard threatens his prosperous life.

Too late I saw my danger and tried craft a future in which I could retire as the quirky shipwright who builds beautiful boats in a corner of the yard. Although I knew Troels might see even this as criticism, I convinced myself it was something I deserved. Refusing to work any more on his bulging ships, I began building a four-oared boat that would ride the waves as lightly as a dovekie. For the first time in a year I felt clean.

My blond, broad-shouldered son-in-law was still in the shipyard when I arrived. Even at a distance I could see a glow on his face. Probably he had just made a deal to build another ugly vessel.

As Troels started toward me, three men followed him. The day before, when I witnessed them docking their old boat, I’d felt raven wings fan the air lifting hairs on my neck.

Troels introduced them, “Guthlaf, Orlaf, and Hrethrik, just arrived from Lochland. I’ve hired them to guard us … guard the shipyard.”

I nodded with my best pretense of goodwill.

“Have you found a buyer for your little boat?” The skin beside Troels’ eyes crinkled in false friendliness. “This week, I expect? Then you will return to important work.” He strode toward the street, a young man now so sure of his power he could say to his father-in-law, ‘Obey me or die.’ Troel’s guards lounged after him: Guthlaf, missing half his left ear – Orlaf, with a scar from cheek to forehead – and Hrethrik, who never smiled.

Tree-nailing my boat’s last joint, oiling the strakes, fitting mast and sail, and carving two pair of oars, I finished work on the same day the yard’s woodwrights were gripping capstan bars to launch the new ship.

Heave away! Haul away! Cut tree. Shape plank.

Heave away! Haul away! Strain muscle. Pull cable.

I heard the fat ship grumble as it began to slide.

Heave away! Haul away! Launch today. Begin again.

Waves sloshed. The ungainly hull rocked beside wharf pilings.

Later that morning, Njal, the first man I’d hired twenty years ago, helped me slide my boat on rollers to the river. Afterward Njal flexed his back and swiped at tangled gray hair. Gaze darting from my boat to the ship and back, he said stiffly, “I’d better return to the yard.”

I saw in his eyes that because of our past friendship he wanted to say more, but feared Troels. Rough fingers brushing my arm, he pleaded earnestly, “Now that you’ve finished your boat you should come back to work with us.”

I nodded as if that was something I could consider, but I didn’t fool him. Njal’s face closed in farewell.

As I was checking to be sure my boat was tied securely to a piling, time seemed to blow away like mist. Twenty years ago I had landed at this spot in my skiff built from the planks of a wrecked ship, still in a daze of good fortune because a seal-woman had rescued me from the wreck. Still tangled in what already felt like a month-long dream of loving her in her cave. And still stung by her good-bye. “You cannot stay with me nor can I come with you,” Narul insisted. “To be revenged on Warlif for his brutality to my sister and his attempt to murder me, I have to remain here where I am just beyond the edge of his attention. He doesn’t suspect I escaped. But if he hears there is an unknown man living within his lands he might sense a threat. He may begin to wonder about the woman in the Healer’s Cave.”

As always, before leaving the wharf, I asked the Spirits and any seals who might be listening, to speak to my seal-woman. In answer I heard only small waves warning, ‘ssshss, ssshss.’

That night I took a few last things from the house, topping off my sack of clothes and provisions that I had hidden in the shipyard’s log pile. Stars ducked in and out of clouds. A west wind chilled me. Feeling alternately sad and joyous, I rowed away from Pennalport, seabag and toolbox at my feet. After more than twenty years as a shipwright and ten years since the death of my wife I was starting over again.

Clouds thickened covering the stars. Behind me, almost at the harbor mouth, I heard the unmistakable thud of a hull glancing off a log. Someone cursed. An oar squeaked against a thole pin. My pursuers were close, no doubt rowing faster than I in their old six-oared boat – Guthlaf, Orlaf, and Hrethrik. Troels would be steering, would want to witness my death, ending the threat he believed I posed to his prosperous life.

Since I hadn’t fooled Troels by fleeing at the dark of the moon, I gambled on another plan. They would expect me to stay close to land. Quickly hoisting sail, I steered away from the coast. My boat swooped over waves. By gray dawn land had faded to a blur on the horizon, though not quite far enough. I spotted their sail and at the same time their boat turned toward mine. A southwest wind behind them ruffled the sea and drove smoky clouds across the sky.

Their larger boat gained quickly. All too soon I could hear water rushing around its prow. As tall and firm as any raider chief, Troels gripped the steering oar. Guthlaf held an ax, Orlaf a sword, and Hrethrik raised a spear to his shoulder. For the first time Hrethrik smiled, a flash of teeth that said more clearly than words, ‘Dodge or veer away – whatever you try – my spear will taste your blood.’

I nerved myself for a desperate lunge against the steering oar which would send my boat stem smashing into their hull. Before I could act, seals leaped onto the rail of the pursuing boat, their heavy bodies bearing it under water. Guthlaf, Orlaf, and Hrethrik toppled against the mast. Troels lunged forward, his knife slashing at the halyard to prevent a capsize.

Close beside my boat, gleaming in waves, a seal lengthened to a woman. I reached out grasping her hand and pulled aboard a lithe body I had known almost as well as my own, more mature now, dripping on the thwart. From the top of my seabag I snatched Signe’s warmest winter dress and her fleece-padded cloak. With graceful movements, as much seal as human, Narul slipped into the dress. As soon as she had settled the cloak around her shoulders, she arched her eyebrows. “You expected me?”

“I never stopped hoping …”

Lips, cool and salty brushed mine. I saw a woman like the one I had remembered at night for more than twenty years but whose hair was cut shorter and streaked with gray.

Ambushing my joy, bitterness surged over me. “Are you free now of your revenge?” I demanded.

Head tilted up, voice thick, she said, “Warlif is dead. His heart gave out fighting to control his daughter. I stayed long enough to rescue her from suspicion of Warlif’s death and from the surety of her brothers sending her to a wretched marriage. In return for my hiding her, Aro has replaced me as healer to the farm folk. It’s time for me to start again. And you? Have you no regrets at leaving your respectable life in Pennalport?”

“Only that I will miss my daughter who, despite her desire for comfort, is smart and stubborn and kind. But … exchange life in town for a future with you? In an instant.”

“It won’t be easy. We must sail so far that no merchant is likely to carry back rumor to Troels. And it must be a place where I can leave my past behind.” She answered my question before I spoke it. “I’ve heard of islands, lightly settled, off the tip of Nordland. Those homesteaders will need your skill in building boats and a seal’s help in finding fish.”

Heart full, hand on the tiller, I pointed our boat north.