The Coming of the Whirlpool by Andrew McGahan

headland. Everything here felt flattened – the sky, the waters, the very air – and the small chop splashed ineffectually against the logs of the raft; there were no waves rearing, no white-caps glinting on the horizon. A few gulls squabbled over the mud flats, but otherwise it was as lifeless a world as Dow had ever seen.
    Dusk came on, with sunset lost behind the clouds. The air grew chill, and Dow huddled into his timberman’s jacket. The crew lowered the sails and rowed the barge close in to the silent shore to anchor. A cheerless night passed, black, with showers of rain. The morning dawned leaden and wet; but at least the breeze still blew, having swung around overnight to come from the north. They soon raised sails again and were underway, now following a coastline that ran directly south. By midday, however, the shore had angled to the south-west. The arms of the Claw were drawing towards each other once more.
    â€˜Wind willing, we’ll make journey’s end by nightfall,’ said the captain, sounding pleased.
    Journey’s end. Dow had almost forgotten, in his five days upon the barge, that there was any purpose to the journey at all, other than the journey itself. But ahead now, and close, waited the fishing village that was to be his new home – and waiting also was the man who was to be his new father. A nervous sensation started to grow in Dow’s stomach, and even the cold wet deck of the barge began to feel like a familiar home that he found himself reluctant to leave.
    A steady rain set in as the afternoon lengthened, and the waters of the Claw rolled in low undulations that were pockmarked with raindrops. Visibility dropped to barely a mile and the shore became only a murky shadow on their left. But as dusk approached Dow saw a greater shadow looming ahead, in fact a twin shadow, two hills rising upon the shrouded horizon.
    The captain pointed through the twilight. ‘The promontories. West Head on the right, East Head on the left, and the Rip in between. East Head is where you’re bound. Stromner lies at its feet. We won’t stop at the pier, so be ready to jump.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Sorry lad, but we’ve no time to linger if we’re to offload in Stone Port tonight and be away again tomorrow.’
    Dow made sure that all his gear was stowed in his bag. He stood in the bow and peered forward into the gathering dark. Then the rain lifted a little, and he saw the two headlands more clearly. The closest, East Head, marked the end of the peninsula they had been following all day, and from this angle it formed a rounded scrubby hill. But there was no sign yet of any village.
    The western peninsula, having curved far away out of sight for so long, now came striding out of the mist to terminate in a blunter, rockier height. This was West Head, and upon its slopes was built a town.
    In fact, it was a fortress. The main keep was set high and proud upon the headland, and streets and houses spread downwards from its walls to the shore. Lights already shone out from many windows, and atop the highest tower of the keep a great bonfire was just beginning to blaze up. Down at water level the town was mostly hidden behind a sea wall that reached out in an arc, but through a massive set of gates, presently thrown open, Dow caught sight of the harbour waters within, and a blur of docks and warehouses. This was Stone Port, no doubt. And no doubt too the keep on the hill was the seat of the Ship Kings governor.
    But for all that, Dow’s gaze was drawn away from either East Head or West. For between the two promon- tories was the channel of restless water that formed the Rip, swirling with strange patterns and currents. And beyond that was a tantalisingly open expanse that extended away into the night, free of all land or constraint.
    The true ocean, at last.
    Then the rain thickened again and the prospect was lost in gloom. The wind fell. The crew set to work with the