In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers (13 page)

Tugon didn’t care. He set off walking, and they had no choice but to follow.
 

“There must be fruit,” Jonah yelled. “Berries. Find them, if you’re so smart.”
 

Tugon stopped, pointed at the sun. “Spring, no fruit, no berries,” his voice scornful, and he went on walking.
 

By the time they caught up with the wildman he was perched on a rock, staring downstream, eyes intent on the water. He’d found his river, led them true. He held a stick in one hand, sharpened somehow. Then Conall saw a chisel, the kind Tugon used at the quarry, lying on the rocks. He’d brought it with him, all this way, for just this reason. Conall and Jonah sat on a fallen tree and watched. They waited, Tugon barely moving, for ten minutes, twenty.
 

All the time, Conall listened for the sound of dogs, or pursuit. “We lost them, you think?”

“Maybe,” Jonah said. “Feels too easy, like they might know the land around here. Might be waiting for us, up ahead.”
 

Tugon pounced, his arm sending his makeshift spear flying into the water. He leapt in after it and emerged with a salmon, skewered on the sharpened branch of a larch tree.
 

“Guess we eat,” Jonah said, rubbing his hands together.
 

Tugon made them wait until dusk before he’d light a fire. Hidden by trees, the firelight couldn’t be seen more than a few hundreds yards off, but smoke would be visible for miles in daylight. By the time the meat was cooked Conall was starved and he gulped it down, tearing at the cooked flesh with his teeth. They slept for a few hours close to the river in a hollow covered with branches and moss, and rose with the sun already high in the sky, to walk once more.
 

They followed the river. “Must lead to the sea, they all do,” Jonah said, but he was wrong. It led to a lake which it took them half a day to walk around, and no river flowed from it. But there was still no sign of pursuit.
 

Conall gazed across the lake, listening for sound carried on the wind. “The dogs must have lost the scent.”
 

“Or the guards got tired and gave up,” Jonah said. “Perhaps they expect us to die out here. They might be right.”
 

They might, if it wasn’t for Tugon. The wildman knew how to light a fire without a flint or match. He could catch fish without a hook and line, and set traps for hares.
 

Three days they walked, heading north, before they came to another river, wider, one they’d never cross safely without a boat. “We follow this river, then,” Jonah said. “One of them’s got to lead to the sea. Stands to reason.”
 

They journeyed downstream until the river plunged into a narrow gorge. There was no way around without heading into high mountains, a journey that would take days or weeks. They had no choice but to stick to the course of the river, scrambling over rocks and making slow progress. Jonah kept muttering about this being a good place for an ambush. Tugon was alert, constantly scanning the rocks above them, scouting ahead and urging them to be quiet. After an hour of walking through the gorge, with no way ahead but a single narrow path, they heard in the distance the barking of dogs. It could mean only one thing: a slaver ambush.
 

“They know the terrain,” Jonah said. “Knew where we’d end up. Took a good guess at least.”
 

Tugon told to them to wait while he went ahead to scout. He scampered like a mountain goat rushing across rocks, sure of his footing and moving soundlessly.
 

Jonah and Conall waited for an hour. Then another. Finally Tugon returned with news. Three men lay hidden in a cave, a hundred feet or more above the river, waiting for them with guns and dogs.
 

“Putting a deal of effort into catching us,” Jonah said. “Plan to make an example of the runaways, I’d say. Given the choice, I’ll not get taken alive.”

They talked round ways of getting past the men, whether they could sneak through in darkness, surprise them in the cave or double back and find another route. But in the end, they settled on an ambush of their own.
 

Jonah and Conall walked the river path, knowing they’d be seen and taken, while Tugon kept out of sight.
 

“You think he knows how to fire that gun?” Jonah muttered as the path wound below the cave where the slavers were camped. “Hope he can hit something. It ain’t easy, if you’ve never done it.”
 

A shout above them, and a slaver appeared on the rocks, a gun in his hands. Another in front, and the third behind. The slavers had sprung their trap and two of them advanced. Conall glanced back. One man was already gone. Tugon had struck.
 

A flurry of stones and the slaver above them stumbled and fell, crashing onto rocks. The remaining man shouted in alarm, realising he was alone, unsure what had happened. Before he could act, a gun fired and he collapsed dead in the river, his body buffeted against rocks.

“He’s good at killing,” Jonah muttered. “Trust him less than ever. Don’t let’s turn our back on him anytime soon.”
 

Jonah searched the bodies and took their guns. “Fed up with that wildman being the only one armed around here,” he muttered to Conall.
 

Tugon gathered the bodies and insisted on burying them, using loose stones to build a cairn over the corpses. The wildman knelt beside it, intoning a prayer for the dead.
 

 
Conall had seen burials on Shetland, the family grieving and performing rituals. But no one said prayers, kneeling by the grave, bowing to the sun, prostrating themselves on the earth.
 

“Makes no sense to me,” Jonah said. “He killed ‘em without blinking, now he’s praying for their souls. These wild folk got strange ways.”

Tugon sat in silence beside the burial, eyes closed, head held straight, showing no sign of moving.
 

“There’ll be people coming sometime.” Jonah paced up and down on the rocks. “A change of shift, bringing supplies.”
 

Two dogs barked from the cave above the river.
 

“Must be leashed,” Jonah said. “Best leave ‘em that way and get moving.” He shouted to Tugon, urging him to get up. The wildman opened his eyes and held up a hand, urging them to silence. He went back to his prayer.
 

Conall got to his feet, hands fidgeting. “I can’t leave the dogs. They’ll starve if no one comes. It’s cruel.”
 

“They’ll tear you to shreds if you let ‘em go.”
 

“I’ll go look. These men must have had food. There might be supplies we can take.” Conall skirted around Tugon and clambered over the rocks towards the cave. Two black dogs, waist high, thick-set and savage looking had been tied to a rock. They strained at their leather leads, barking at Conall, teeth gnashing and drooling saliva. He moved past them, careful to keep out of range of snapping jaws. In the cave he found a bag of food, dried meats and potatoes, flour and cornmeal, vegetables and herbs. A metal cooking pot lay beside the fire, along with bowls and spoons, a long knife, a flint and a pile of papers held down by a rock. He crouched to inspect them and flicked through hand-written notes in a language he took to be Russian. On the bottom of the pile he found a hand-drawn map. It showed the quarry where they had worked, the river, the cave, and the sea to the north, the inlet that would take them to the open ocean, if only they could get their hands on a boat. Conall grabbed the bag, the supplies and the map, took the knife in his right hand and inched past the dogs. He waved the knife at the animals, forcing them back.
 

If he released them the dogs would attack. If he even tried, he’d get bitten for his trouble. He cursed the animals and their blind anger, but he took food from the bag and scattered it on the floor of the cave. The dogs dived on it, snarling at each other. He filled a wooden bowl with water from a metal can and put it in reach of the animals. Then he backed away, the dogs watching him go. It was the best he could do for them. Someone should come looking, when these men never returned to camp. They’d have a chance to survive, at least.
 

He showed his haul to Jonah. “Good work, lad,” the first mate said, studying the map intently and tracking a route with his finger. “Look, on the inlet, there’s a port marked, a day or two of walking. But we’d better get going.”

As they walked away from the burial cairn, taking the path downstream along the river, Jonah strode ahead, full of renewed energy. Having the map put him back in control. He could see a way to the sea, and once they reached it, he would be in his element once more, master of his fate.
 

Tugon brooded. The wildman looked deep in thought. He glanced back as they rounded a corner, as if saying a final farewell to long lost friends. Conall loitered, giving Tugon time to catch up. “You did the right thing, saved our lives.”
 

“It’s hard to kill,” Tugon said, and walked on in silence. Conall fell into step beside him, neither of them talking, listening to Jonah up ahead, whistling a tune.

≈≈≈≈

A day and a half they walked, until they saw the sea. Jonah led the way, the map taken from the slavers in one hand and a gun in the other. He stood on a hilltop, pointing proudly, as the others climbed the slope to join him. “It’s a beautiful sight,” he said, his voice proud and joyful, as if about to be reunited with a longed-for lover.
 

The town was a sprawl of houses and work-buildings thrown up around a harbour. The buildings were mostly stone and wood and little thought had been given to making the place look attractive or inviting. It had the hard, brutal look of the slaver camp.
 

“Reckon we walk into town, see what happens,” Jonah said.
 

Conall didn’t like the idea much. “Too dangerous, there might be more slavers. We should go round, keep clear of the town.”
 

“We need a boat,” Jonah said. “I can get us back to the Norwegian towns, Kirkenes won’t be so far, once we’re at sea.”

“Easier to stay hidden on land. We could walk it.”
 

“Too hard on my feet, lad. Too far. The land’s tough. And I’m sick of walking. Get us on water and we’ve a chance. A boat, that’s the thing. ”
 

“You sure you can find Kirkenes?”

“Things are easier at sea, follow the coast line. How hard can it be? Yes, I can find it, with the right boat. And the only place to find one is in that town.”

Jonah took the bag off Conall’s back and rummaged through it until he found the guns. He put his own handgun on the ground beside them, and examined the three weapons, checking them for bullets. “You still got your gun?” he asked Tugon. “How many bullets?”
 

“Three.”
 

“Here.” Jonah handed one of the guns to the wildman, another to Conall.
 

“You know how to fire that boy?”
 

Conall held the gun in the palm of his hand, the steel discoloured and stained over long years. “Pull the trigger. What more is there to know?”
 

“Ain’t that simple. Got to hit something to be any use. Gun’s no good if you don’t know what you’re doing. For that you need practice and we can’t spare the bullets. Don’t want to be heard either. Don’t use it unless you must and keep it hidden.”

Jonah tucked his own gun into his belt, hid it under his shirt. “Keep ‘em out of view,” he said. He handed the bag back to Conall. “And don’t lets go talking too much in that town either, letting people hear we’re outsiders. Come on, let’s steal us a boat.”
 

The town was eery quiet, barely a soul on the streets. They headed past an inn and down steep residential streets through the town towards the main harbour. Conall’s eyes flashed at the blankness of the windows, sensing eyes all around. An old lady carrying a bundle of firewood gave them a stare and crossed the street to keep out of their way. Two fishermen walked by, each with a bucket of crabs. They looked the strangers up and down, but Jonah and Tugon must have seemed mean enough and fierce enough that they didn’t risk speaking out.
 

They reached the harbour and worked their way along the seafront, examining the boats. “There’s plenty here might get us to Kirkenes,” Jonah said. “That ain’t so hard, close to land. But the open seas to Svalbard are something else. Four hundred miles, and if a storm gets up you’ll know it.” Jonah strode up and down, a frown on his face, muttering to himself. Finally he clapped his hands. “That one there.” He pointed to a boat, moored out in the bay, away from the main harbour, around a hundred yards from land. She was a two masted yawl, a jib at the front, thirty foot long, ten in the beam, with a cabin below decks.
 

“She’s fast, you can tell by her lines,” Jonah said. “And she’ll survive a heavy sea, in the right hands. She’s been well looked after too, even if she’s showing her age. Not too big for the three of us to handle. Reckon she’s perfect.”
 

Conall examined the boat. She seemed small, for the open seas, but he trusted Jonah’s skill. “How do we get aboard?”
 

“Row out to her.”
 

“We’ll be seen, for sure.”
 

“You’ve a point,” Jonah said, “and on a strange boat, one I’ve never sailed before, it’ll take a while to get underway. I’d say she’s got no engine. But other boats here might.” Jonah tugged on his straggle of a beard.

Conall glanced over his shoulder, back towards the harbour. A group of fisherman loitered by drying nets, aware of the strangers in their town. Keeping watch. He tapped Jonah’s shoulder and gestured with his eyes towards the men. “Wait till dark.”
 

“Aye, you might be right. Better than shooting our way out of town. But what do we until then?” Jonah’s eyes turned to the town, examining buildings, looking for opportunities.