next to the well-oiled shotgun whose twin triggers have a very light action.
The boatmaker walks away feeling the soreness right through his body. On Big Island he has been to places he did not know existed when he put his boat in the water. He doesnât know whether he has found what he came here for. He does know he will need to get himself some work and a place to sleep. He thinks he will return to the Hostel. This stay will be different. For the first time since he saw the woman of the town in front of the Mandrake, sending her barely visible plumes of smoke into the summer air, the need for drink is gone.
A few weeks later he is sitting in the big room of the Hostel, where food is served on rough wooden tables. The hall is filled with the crews of the two ships that are in port, a whaler and a trader. Both are big sailing vessels, the whaler with three masts, the trader with four. All around the boatmaker comes the buzz of three languages: the language of the Mainland and the islands, including Small Island, English and the whistling, clicking speech of the natives.
It is said that no white man has ever mastered the native language, never been able to use its clicks and popsproperly to tell a story, which is all the natives seem to do in their own culture: sit and tell stories. Stories of the origin of the world, the wrestling of the mighty twins whose struggle created the world, stories of the spirits of the ancestors, of whale, seal, walrus, bear and salmon, stories of the endless expanse of winter ice, the way the world was before the white men arrived with their mechanical movements, their stilted language, their gunpowder and alcohol. Drink has changed many of the natives. The Mainland mostly holds them in contempt, though the king has established missions to bring them the Good News about Jesus Christ. They often sail on the big ships and are good sailors: strong and willing, unafraid in storms, though very drunk in port.
The crews of the two ships have been in port a few days and the worst of the drunkenness is over. In his sobriety the boatmaker is quiet, almost invisible. He wonders how many of these sailors, whose voices, rough as saws, fill the dining hall, have been up to the Mandrake to visit the woman of the town. Many, no doubt. She isnât hard to find. Itâs still more than warm enough to sit outside the Mandrake with her box of matches, a drink in hand, advertising more vividly than the faded sign with its mandrake root ever could.
As always, it has been easy for the boatmaker to find work. As soon as one person hires him, the word spreadsthat he has a gift for wood. And there are always things that need building or repairing: houses, furniture, barns. People are used to work being done half-right, a quarter-rightâor even mostly wrong. They are pleased to find the boatmaker does his work so that everything fits and everything lasts. He does this with the tools at hand and the wood that is available. He never haggles: He does the work and accepts the offered pay. Sometimes his employers think he is slow, since only children and half-wits are indifferent to money. Yet he is rarely cheated.
Because he is working and not drinking, money silts up in his sealskin bag. He sleeps at the Hostel, in the big room upstairs, for almost nothing. The mattresses are rolled down and filled with sailors who stink and dream in their three languages. Although it was not easy, he has learned to sleep through the commotion. It is the first time he has lived, eaten and slept among many men. He has learned to manage the smells, the dreams, the arguments, the talk, the songs, the scrimshaw, the cribbage. He slides through it all and remains alone. By the time the Warden settles heavily into the chair across from him, his scratches have healed. His color is better and his breath is good. His mustache is bushy. His animal spirit has returned.
The boatmaker has no trouble picking up the heavy white mug in one
The boatmaker walks away feeling the soreness right through his body. On Big Island he has been to places he did not know existed when he put his boat in the water. He doesnât know whether he has found what he came here for. He does know he will need to get himself some work and a place to sleep. He thinks he will return to the Hostel. This stay will be different. For the first time since he saw the woman of the town in front of the Mandrake, sending her barely visible plumes of smoke into the summer air, the need for drink is gone.
A few weeks later he is sitting in the big room of the Hostel, where food is served on rough wooden tables. The hall is filled with the crews of the two ships that are in port, a whaler and a trader. Both are big sailing vessels, the whaler with three masts, the trader with four. All around the boatmaker comes the buzz of three languages: the language of the Mainland and the islands, including Small Island, English and the whistling, clicking speech of the natives.
It is said that no white man has ever mastered the native language, never been able to use its clicks and popsproperly to tell a story, which is all the natives seem to do in their own culture: sit and tell stories. Stories of the origin of the world, the wrestling of the mighty twins whose struggle created the world, stories of the spirits of the ancestors, of whale, seal, walrus, bear and salmon, stories of the endless expanse of winter ice, the way the world was before the white men arrived with their mechanical movements, their stilted language, their gunpowder and alcohol. Drink has changed many of the natives. The Mainland mostly holds them in contempt, though the king has established missions to bring them the Good News about Jesus Christ. They often sail on the big ships and are good sailors: strong and willing, unafraid in storms, though very drunk in port.
The crews of the two ships have been in port a few days and the worst of the drunkenness is over. In his sobriety the boatmaker is quiet, almost invisible. He wonders how many of these sailors, whose voices, rough as saws, fill the dining hall, have been up to the Mandrake to visit the woman of the town. Many, no doubt. She isnât hard to find. Itâs still more than warm enough to sit outside the Mandrake with her box of matches, a drink in hand, advertising more vividly than the faded sign with its mandrake root ever could.
As always, it has been easy for the boatmaker to find work. As soon as one person hires him, the word spreadsthat he has a gift for wood. And there are always things that need building or repairing: houses, furniture, barns. People are used to work being done half-right, a quarter-rightâor even mostly wrong. They are pleased to find the boatmaker does his work so that everything fits and everything lasts. He does this with the tools at hand and the wood that is available. He never haggles: He does the work and accepts the offered pay. Sometimes his employers think he is slow, since only children and half-wits are indifferent to money. Yet he is rarely cheated.
Because he is working and not drinking, money silts up in his sealskin bag. He sleeps at the Hostel, in the big room upstairs, for almost nothing. The mattresses are rolled down and filled with sailors who stink and dream in their three languages. Although it was not easy, he has learned to sleep through the commotion. It is the first time he has lived, eaten and slept among many men. He has learned to manage the smells, the dreams, the arguments, the talk, the songs, the scrimshaw, the cribbage. He slides through it all and remains alone. By the time the Warden settles heavily into the chair across from him, his scratches have healed. His color is better and his breath is good. His mustache is bushy. His animal spirit has returned.
The boatmaker has no trouble picking up the heavy white mug in one
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