Red Sky at Morning

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning. Those words rattle in my head. They tumble from ear to ear in time with the rocking of the boat. I’m sitting at the stern, hand on the rudder. The boy is kneeling at the bow, untangling the net. The boat is inching along. All sails are out with full sheets given, searching for any breeze. My eyes, squinting in the morning sun, scan the blushing horizon in search of any other signs of trouble. Nothing yet. We’re almost there, just a little further.

We shouldn’t be out, but there isn’t a choice. The spuds are gone. They come out of the earth stinking and black, crumbling in our hands. At first it was one in twenty, then one in five, now it’s the rare one that isn’t rotten. You can’t store the good ones anymore. If you throw them in the larder with last year’s, you’ll come back to a sagging pile of mush, reeking of death. This is punishment from God, or so the landlords say.

The landlords don’t help. After the harvest is in, they evict us from the farms. They revoke our licenses to hunt and fish and trap. Men are strung up on trees, bodies hanging over rivers we’ve fished for generations. A warning to all who dare steal from their land. Their land. This is the land that we and our fore-fathers worked, that we have lived on and loved on and built on, long before they came. Now their fields on our land lay fallow in open mockery.

The landlords close the harbors, they put frigates at the entrances. Giant, biblical things that float over a growing graveyard of ships who tried to escape. The hookers and yawls that can get us out to fertile seas stay docked, corroding. Just the currachs are left. Long and slender, covered in hide and light enough to launch from pebbled beaches. They have to stay close to shore, and can only be used in the calmer months. Soon the fish near land get hard to find. Some venture out deeper, some launch later into winter, fewer come back. Drowning isn’t the worst way to go. Less mouths to feed.

Families sell their lines, then their nets, and finally their boats. After the money and food runs out they head to the cities, where they sit in the streets grabbing at coat tails and coughing themselves to heaven. The children are sticks. Their knees and elbows jut so far out from their tight skin it looks as if their bones will push through.

It was pure luck our boat was out before the blockade went up. There’s an inlet, hidden by the rocks, where a handful of ships who escaped the frigates now float. It’s only a matter of time before the landlords find it and burn everything. They’ll eventually notice the families who aren’t moving inland. The ones who aren’t begging, who still have all their children. They won’t stop until we’re gone. Red sky be damned.

Saint Peter in pewter, protect me this day.

Fill my sails and my nets, please show me the way.

For as far as I sail, and as far as I roam,

You and God’s love will bring me back home.

The prayer replaces the warning in my head. It repeats over and over, in an attempt to override the ignored omen. I chew on my beard at the corner of my mouth, and rub the pewter medallion of Saint Peter in my pocket. I focus on the sky. Every hair stands up, trying to feel the wind, the pressure, the temperature, any hint of turbulence. Nothing yet. We’re almost there, just a little further.

We’re on my grandfather's boat. It’s usually crewed by three men, but today it’s just me and the boy. He’s the third born, but now the oldest. Almost a man, God grant him a few more years. He has his mother’s eyes, but my shaggy hair. He’s a good son. Says his prayers, keeps the mischief to a minimum, rides herd on his brothers, protects his sisters. He’s kind and gentle, slow to anger; the best of us. He’ll be a tremendous father of his own one day. The worst is that he can remember a time when the spuds were still here. He has known the fat years, which makes the knot in your stomach all the tighter. The little ones are blessed to have only known the lean.

We pull up to the reef. Finally. No time to waste. I start us in a large arc as the boy drops the net. I’m stretched out as far as my arms will go, fingertips on the rudder while my other hand trims the sails to keep us moving. The boy remains kneeling at the bow, carefully letting out line so the net doesn’t snag. The boat circles, hopefully pushing fish into the net. We finish the curve and drop the sails. The boat drifts to a stop and bobs on the waves while we stare into the water, trying to make out confirmation in a shadow or flash of scales.

I pull on the net, but it doesn’t move. I yank again, no budge. I brace my feet against the railing, straining, cursing out over the ocean. The net is snagged on the rocks. We dropped too close to the reef, it’ll rip unless one of us dives in. But it’s too dangerous to dive with just the two of us, so we’ll have to leave the net. It’s our last net. The reality of our situation races through my mind and I look up at the sky, jaw clenched, tears pushing into the corners of my vision. Why? What have we done to deserve this? Are you on their side?

The boy yells to look down. Herring. Silver darts shimmering by the thousands. The net isn’t snagged, it’s heavy with fish. I leap to his side and we start heaving. Fish pour into the boat, flopping all around our ankles, then our shins, then our knees. We smile and laugh as the boat fills with heaven’s manna.

“Are we going to have enough salt?” the boy jokes. I don’t know, but it’s a good problem to have. He is king atop his throne of fish, beaming down at me shirtless and soaking up the rare sun. The sails billow softly as we make our way home. The boat is inches lower in the water than this morning, heavy with the first good fortune in an age. I look out at the emerald cliffs peeking up over the skyline. The families will love this, we’ll all feast for weeks. The boy starts listing off all the meals Mom is going to make, and which ones he is most excited for. Braced against the rudder, I lean back and close my eyes, absorbing the warmth of the afternoon sun. Warnings and prayers are pushed out of my head by the boy’s cheerful chattering, the occasional flop of a fish, the waves lapping at the boat, the sails gently fluttering in the steady wind. The tension in my chest releases, and I start to gain altitude.

I rise high above the boat and the waves. I zip between clouds, dive behind cliffs, skim across the ground, my fingertips brushing dew off moss. I breathe in the earth and mist and rocks of home. Our fathers’ unrelenting lands, battered, jagged, cold. Villages huddled up against cliffs and seas and sky, filled with family and music and warmth. A land that’s harsh, that’s greener than you could ever imagine, that’s ours. So beautiful your chest could burst.

A line snaps tight, and my eyes open. The cliffs have moved closer, now knuckles on the horizon. The sky above them is dark as pitch. The clouds look angry, vengeful. They are hatred made manifest, as black as the spuds. The boy looks to me for an answer. The only answer is speed; we have to get in quick. We spread out the sails as far as they’ll go, grasping for every knot of wind. The boy pulls out the reefs in the main sail to give us as much canvas as possible. We throw off every brake we have. Standing at the rudder, I see a wall of wind fly across the surface of the water, pushing a line of ripples as it surges towards us. I call out to the boy.

He’s supposed to drop. He’s always dropped, never once hesitated. But not this time. This time he looks back. The boom is stretched out far over the water, many pounds of hardwood in suspended leverage. The gust fills the back side of the sail in an instant. The boy’s arm is extended above him, mid-pull. The boom flashes across and catches him just below his armpit. There is a hollow crack, impossibly loud, and his body whips down. His feet are sucked in by the fish, which keeps him from flying overboard, but the side of his head catches a railing cleat. I drop the rudder and scramble to him. The boat turns into the wind and the sails whip back and forth above us, loose in the gathering draft.

The side of his face is split. Red and white and purple hang off his cheek, spill out of his mouth which now extends to his ear. His eyes are focused on mine. A horrible sucking sound comes with each breath, the side of his chest collapses every time he inhales. Bright red bubbles foam at his lips as he tries to speak. The words are trapped in his throat, exiting only as soft gurgles. I hold him and whisper that it’s going to be alright. I shush him like I used to, back when he could fit in the crook of my arm. The wind stops, and the sails hang limp. It’s silent except for my shushing. The boat rocks us back and forth, lovingly. My boy is in my arms, lying on a pile of our salvation, drowning in air. I look into the green of his eyes, his mother’s eyes, our eyes. I see the reflection of the wall behind me. The black marching towards us. We are powerless to stop what has become inevitable, the unknown fury of God come to swallow us whole. I ignored the warning, but the prayer worked. Saint Peter was bringing us home.