Damien Broderick - Strange Attractors by Original (pdf) (no david read aloud txt) 📕

spare this linger, the middle one. It had been a mighty long time

since anyone smoothed me. The Elders agreed; took the finger off

clean as a city doctor. I was a fully-fledged member of the camp.

And I chose a certain green female creature I liked the looks of.’

Hilo Hill hummed a song we could all recognise as a love song.

For the first time a tear stole down his cheek.

‘That was a sweet, friendly being,’ he said. ‘I was not allowed to

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Cherry Wilder

say her true name. I called her Jade. For the first time in her

embrace I let myself think of home. O f Derry town, of Ruby’s poor

Ma, my long-lost Janie . . . Dry hell, I knew how those first poor

castaways felt, coming from the stars with no way home . . .

I had given up all hope of a news ballad by this time. I could offer

nothing about the Gnai . . . it was pure legend. If I came to Hilo

Hill it was out of friendship and yes, I’ll admit it, because I liked to

walk with Ray Mack in the garden. During the winter I kept an eye

on the harbour shebeens and sure enough 1 found what I had been

seeking in the ‘Pot o’ Gold’.

It was a tough, snug, secret place; the wine and food were of the

best; there were brass lamps giving off a haze of golden smoke. The

Pot was never noisy; fights were brought under control and drunks

were rolled away into the alley. The customers were mainly hardbitten sailor women plus the younger gals and pretty-boys who frequent such places. I sang for my supper, avoiding the embrace of

some brawny arms, and came at last to my goal. For the crowd

thinned out after midnight and there, queening it in a deep alcove,

was a trader captain on shore leave.

‘Tall and fine with hair of flame,’ the old song had it, but the

words stuck in my throat. Even for the ‘Pot o’ Gold’ Vera Swift was

an ugly customer, bulky and grey-haired. When she smiled her

hard grey eyes sunk into cushions of fat. She had frightened Hilo

Hill when she was in her prime, now she frightened me. She had

the power of command and a bunch of shipmates and shore toadies

to do her bidding.

I sang the most sentimental and flattering of all the ballads that

mentioned her by name. It is called ‘Brave Hearts’ and goes to the

ancient tune o f ‘Derry’, a popular air in these parts. Jup Star him self wrote the words but he will not own to it.

‘The years are long since last we kissed and parted,

Good shipmates all who sailed into the west,

The day will dawn when all our seas are charted,

O then, brave hearts, the Seahawk’s crew may rest.’

A few sailors wept and a few pretended to weep for Cap Swift’s

benefit. She herself gave a sigh and threw me a piece of silver; I

caught it and, for once, did exactly the right thing. I gave the

money back and saw her fingers close greedily over the coin.

‘Captain,’ I said, ‘a few words!’

H er voice was mellow at this hour of night.

‘W hat d’ye want, sweetheart? This is ancient history.’

/ hi' ballad o f H ilo H ill

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I had my answer ready.

‘The anniversary of’your sailing, Captain. It comes up in twenty

days. We’re planning new ballads for Gline and your good self.’

She moved a hand and suddenly a bench emptied so that I could

sit at her side. I would sooner have cosied up to those mighty

wonders the Vail than to this old sea-monster but I gritted my

teeth. I ran a short, standard interview and Cap Swift answered

promptly. Her eyes were cold and watchful. I did not dare bring the

conversation around to a lost seaman named Hilo Hill. I could picture her swooping like a seahawk on the least hint of his survival. I consulted my tattered jocca scroll and said:

‘Nan Born was cook then, and came with you on the cutter?’

‘Second cook,’ said the Captain, ‘the cook was a man named Hill.’

‘H a . . . yes,’ I ran a finger shakily down the scroll. ‘He was

missed from the beach, Captain, along with Kettle, Kelly and

Adma. What became of these poor souls, Captain, missing

between wreck and rescue?’

The Captain’s