Salty Tales
Art-inspired Fiction
I love this study of two young boys paying rapt attention to the salty tales of a shorebound sailor.
The Tate includes these words about the painting ‘The Boyhood of Raleigh’:
Sir Walter Raleigh was one of the most celebrated explorers of the Elizabethan age. In Millais’s famous painting he is shown as a boy listening with rapt attention to ‘tales of wonder on sea and land’ told by a Genoese sailor. The toy ship in the foreground suggests Raleigh’s future adventures, while the sharp edge of an anchor on the right may allude to the final words he uttered at his execution: ‘Strike, man, strike’.
It is hard to resist the lure of a mariner’s storytelling as the prompt for a short fiction.
The keen onshore breeze ruffled the young man’s hair like an affectionate uncle. Even if they could barely understand the heavily-accented sailor his stories drew the young cousins to the quayside each morning.
The man would crack his knuckles painfully before stroking his bushy moustache. Their widening eyes followed the mariner’s faraway gaze across breaking waves, beyond the distant horizon to the lost worlds he spoke of. The longer they stared, the more vivid their imaginings became. The more enthused they became, the more his fractured English vocabulary expanded.
“As we entered the cave, the heat drained our strength, closing our eyes as sleep came upon us. The odious stench of sulphur was hellish. Rotting fish littered the rocks and the modest patch of sand we beached our small boat on. At first glance, it looked as though the fishbones offered clues, like arrows scratched onto a treasure map. The first sailor ashore, a giant of a man, slipped on decomposing entrails and his steadying hand plunged into a mucous mess. None of us laughed. A sense of foreboding weighed heavily and brave men quaked. The extra tots of rum from the quartermaster’s barrel carried us boldly to the cave’s entrance but no further. Trembling limbs proved unsteady masters as we inched forward, blades drawn and nerves frayed. The cabin boy was left with the boat, clutching a rope thicker than his wrist. At the sound of the first roar, he retched, no longer worrying about how to keep down the unfamiliar burn of rum. To a man we roared back, summoning false courage from the pits of stomachs twisted with fear. But the prize, boys, the promise of it was enough to inch us forward. That, and a prod from the first mate’s cutless. Maybe having just one eye halved the chances of seeing the worst of his fears manifest themselves. Maybe, more likely, the knowledge that his share would be three times greater than ours steadied his nerves. We pressed forward as the cave narrowed. Steam billowed out of the opening our crew was edging towards. All eyes focused on that crack in the poorly-lit bowels of this evil place”.
The two young boys held their breath as the storytelling sailor paused to catch his. Young Walter drew his knees tighter to his chest, a paltry barrier to shield him from the savage beasts rampaging through his imagination. “What then”, they squealed, childish excitement conquering any attempt to appear worldly-wise beyond their years.
The Genoese narrowed his eyes in the act of remembering. His gob of tobacco sailed over the dockside wall, adding a dark stain to a rock already spattered with the liquid insides of a thousand feckless seabirds.
“A call went up for the skinniest member of the landing party. For a moment, I could feel the eyes of the giant Marine boring into me. I took a breath, holding it, swelling my chest to twice the size. As they pushed the midshipman forward, his youthful frame selecting itself, I was grateful that the echoing roar emanating from the furthest reaches of the cave masked my sigh of relief. A rope was tied around his slim waist and the first mate pressed his shoulder reassuringly. Perhaps his huge paw pushed him forward, courage passed out in threatening fistfuls. The youth, barely older than you young pups, had to turn side on, exposed skin grazed by the abrasive surface of rocks glistening with fetid water oozing from its pores. We clung tight to the rope as if shipwrecked. Coils unfurled and we imagined the boy pushing forward. We had all stolen a glance at the map when it was unfolded on the quatermaster’s barrel, before we clamoured for the harshness of raw spirits. All of us had pictured that cleft in the rock, a narrow opening and a 10 foot climb up a chimney that opened to the shelf above us. We fed the rope through calloused hands, trying to ignore the stifling heat and the irregular roar of … of what?”.
The young cousins had heard tales of hidden treasure and fearsome creatures, half-dragon, half-sea-serpent. They had unrolled parchment maps illustrated with fire-breathing beasts overturning huge merchantman ships, whales the size of a lighthouse dragging terrified seamen to their watery graves. The man’s story awakened fears of Kraken and Leviathan, but their young eyes glistened with avarice at the thought of plundered treasures.
“What then, brave sailor … tell us more”.
A call went up from along the jetty, an angry yell from the fish market. A round, red-faced man brandishing a huge serrated blade shouted filthy curses in a language the boys did not recognise.
The sailor blanched, his weathered skin paling momentarily.
“I must hasten, boys, there is much work to do onboard as we prepare to sail. We will speak again”.
As the Genoese disappeared behind the lobster pots, scurrying low past crates and rope coils, the angry man lost sight of him as quickly as the young boys did. Just then, Raleigh’s father strode past. “You boys, get back home for your classes. I hope you haven’t been wasting time listening to the fishmonger’s tales. He’s never been beyond the end of the jetty”.
That unexpected ending was fabulous Barrie, so well done!
I’m glad you’re back, though I’m late reading this, my morning coffee benefited from your story!
I loved your art-inspired story, Barrie. Tales of the sea have always lured me right in, and I would gladly sit beside those boys to hear some more stories!