The Coming of the Whirlpool by Andrew McGahan Page A
Authors: Andrew McGahan
Tags: Young Adult Fiction
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oars. Over the rain and the splash of the paddles Dow could hear the boom of distant surf; beyond the Rip the ocean was pounding against the outer shores, but around the barge the water was calm. East Head loomed through the rain, and they entered a small scoop of a harbour that lay sheltered on its inner side. For the first time, Dow beheld Stromner. There was a beach backed by dunes, a scattering of houses and sheds, a few boats drawn up on the sand, and a rickety-looking pier extending out into the water.
âReady?â asked the captain.
Dow nodded, lifting his bag over his shoulder. He felt that he should say goodbye to the crew and thank them, but abruptly everything was too rushed. The barge bumped lightly against the end of the pier and already it was sliding by, he had to jump or miss his chance.
Dow leapt, slipped as he landed on the wet timbers and fell to his knees. By the time he got up, the barge was already twenty feet away and the crew were labouring at the oars in an effort to swing themselves past the East Head rocks. Only when the barge was well clear and headed west into the channel did the captain turn and give one slow wave of salute.
âGood luck, lad,â came his voice over the water.
A heavy shower rattled down and it was full night. Dow stared out from the pierâs end, but the barge was gone. The wind gusted hard suddenly and rain stung his face.
He turned to face the village. In the darkness it seemed to consist of little more than a few broken-backed shanties strewn across a wet hillside. Not a light shone from any window, and there was not a soul to greet him.
The rain blustered again. Dow hunched his shoulders against it and trudged down the pier into his new existence.
I f he had arrived in an unfamiliar village in his home valley, Dow would simply have sought out the central Barrel House, knowing he would find the menfolk there, busy with the eveningâs drinking. But in the rain and darkness it seemed that Stromner had no centre and no Barrel House. There was only sand and grass and the leaning shacks strung out across the slope, their windows shuttered against the weather.
Dow stumbled uphill, tripping over wet heaps of rope and blundering into invisible nets suspended between poles. Bones and shells crunched underfoot and the stench of rotten fish was everywhere.
He stopped and stared about. Would he be reduced to knocking randomly on doors? But just then there came a lull in the rain, and in the passing quiet Dow heard a muffled chorus of male laughter rise and fall â somewhere nearby men were gathered indoors, telling tales around a fire and a whisky keg. And there, finally, he saw it; a glimmer of light, a glow around the edge of a shutter. The rain came down again and he hurried forward. A tall narrow building loomed ahead of him, the upper storey leaning awkwardly out over the lower. Dow smelled smoke and heard the laughter once more and knew it must be the place.
There was a dark door beneath the overhang. He hammered upon it, and the laughter within snapped off. The wind whistled bleak over the sudden silence. Dow waited, his ears straining for any sound from inside, but none came. He hammered again, then sought for a latch and found it; the door swung open. It led into a small vestibule lit by a single lamp, the floor crowded with muddy boots and the walls hung with jackets. Another door led further inwards, and, eager for warmth, Dow pushed on through it â and then stopped short.
His first thought was that heâd come to the wrong place after all. He had been expecting some equivalent of his own Barrel House, with its roaring central fire, its great crowded tables and its high shadowy roof. Instead he found only a small room, squashed low beneath a ceiling of heavy beams. And yet there was no mistake, for here, arranged behind a wooden counter, were the whisky casks, and here were the men, bent over a huddle of little tables set before a
âReady?â asked the captain.
Dow nodded, lifting his bag over his shoulder. He felt that he should say goodbye to the crew and thank them, but abruptly everything was too rushed. The barge bumped lightly against the end of the pier and already it was sliding by, he had to jump or miss his chance.
Dow leapt, slipped as he landed on the wet timbers and fell to his knees. By the time he got up, the barge was already twenty feet away and the crew were labouring at the oars in an effort to swing themselves past the East Head rocks. Only when the barge was well clear and headed west into the channel did the captain turn and give one slow wave of salute.
âGood luck, lad,â came his voice over the water.
A heavy shower rattled down and it was full night. Dow stared out from the pierâs end, but the barge was gone. The wind gusted hard suddenly and rain stung his face.
He turned to face the village. In the darkness it seemed to consist of little more than a few broken-backed shanties strewn across a wet hillside. Not a light shone from any window, and there was not a soul to greet him.
The rain blustered again. Dow hunched his shoulders against it and trudged down the pier into his new existence.
I f he had arrived in an unfamiliar village in his home valley, Dow would simply have sought out the central Barrel House, knowing he would find the menfolk there, busy with the eveningâs drinking. But in the rain and darkness it seemed that Stromner had no centre and no Barrel House. There was only sand and grass and the leaning shacks strung out across the slope, their windows shuttered against the weather.
Dow stumbled uphill, tripping over wet heaps of rope and blundering into invisible nets suspended between poles. Bones and shells crunched underfoot and the stench of rotten fish was everywhere.
He stopped and stared about. Would he be reduced to knocking randomly on doors? But just then there came a lull in the rain, and in the passing quiet Dow heard a muffled chorus of male laughter rise and fall â somewhere nearby men were gathered indoors, telling tales around a fire and a whisky keg. And there, finally, he saw it; a glimmer of light, a glow around the edge of a shutter. The rain came down again and he hurried forward. A tall narrow building loomed ahead of him, the upper storey leaning awkwardly out over the lower. Dow smelled smoke and heard the laughter once more and knew it must be the place.
There was a dark door beneath the overhang. He hammered upon it, and the laughter within snapped off. The wind whistled bleak over the sudden silence. Dow waited, his ears straining for any sound from inside, but none came. He hammered again, then sought for a latch and found it; the door swung open. It led into a small vestibule lit by a single lamp, the floor crowded with muddy boots and the walls hung with jackets. Another door led further inwards, and, eager for warmth, Dow pushed on through it â and then stopped short.
His first thought was that heâd come to the wrong place after all. He had been expecting some equivalent of his own Barrel House, with its roaring central fire, its great crowded tables and its high shadowy roof. Instead he found only a small room, squashed low beneath a ceiling of heavy beams. And yet there was no mistake, for here, arranged behind a wooden counter, were the whisky casks, and here were the men, bent over a huddle of little tables set before a
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