1 Life on the mainland
Today, the battered, grey craft was crashing through the tidal run and damaging waves, in a desperate bid to enter the bay without maiming and destroying itself on the rocky teeth hidden just below the roiling surface. This crossing had been fraught with danger from start to finish. The launch had been precipitous, throwing the small craft sideways, reeling to port so violently that the rails dipped into the waves for a heart stopping moment. The small crew threw themselves to starboard, their combined weight barely enough to right the ship without sending it crashing into the waves again as the captain wrestled with the wheel against the push of the vicious sea. The deck lurched fore and aft, port to starboard and irregular enough to turn the stomach.
Crabbing their desperate way across the race, by the time they reached close sight of land, the faces of the seamen onboard were fixed in a rictus of fear and dread as they prayed and begged to be ashore once again. A ragged cheer went up when the keel touched sand, not back breaking rock, and the frantic cries of relief were echoed by those on shore.
Merrin joined the rush to haul the small, sodden ship up the narrow stretch of beach and then to grab, lift and carry bale after finger scraping bale of cloth up to the waiting wagons. Speed was essential - the waters could still rip the craft away as the relentless waves attacked the stones of the beach, a continuous threat to life and limb. As each wagon filled, it set off to the west and its unspecified destination. There were rumoured to be larger settlements, even a town, off to the west, but those that went, did not come back to tell. The cart drivers were a sullen lot, just plying their trade to and from the first village, where they lived in near poverty. From there, they admitted, larger carts arrived and departed with the goods.
Sullenly keeping count of every trip, each ragged soul worked tirelessly until the bundles ceased to appear. The relieved crew leaped free of their death trap of a ship and joined those still standing to take hold of the craft wherever they could to push it further up the beach, lighter now it was free of its load, just beyond the reach of the waves.
Pausing for breath and a mouthful of tepid water, Merrin gave her tally to a messenger boy and sank down on a convenient rock. Dressed roughly in greys and browns, Merrin huddled small and inconspicuous. Stronger than she looked and used to working long hours at physical tasks, she did so as often as the opportunity arose, but rest was needed and she was hoping not to be noticed for a few minutes.
The life of a lone female in a remote, seaside village was one of fear, hard work and often not enough food. She could turn her hand to many jobs, roof patching, weaving, pot making, digging the soil and loose rock, even parts of the boat building tasks that were deemed suitable for a female. Getting by had progressed to actual saving of small coin from time to time and Merrin had dreams.
Ansell should pay her well today, perhaps even enough to finally move away from this drudgery and misery. Maybe this time she would find herself a small factory or mill that would see she was physically able and take her on. Merrin dreamed of having a dry job, a day job, anything rather than this! Finishing up the jobs finally she stepped up to receive her pay. It was not enough, not nearly enough.
Dropping to the thin grasses above the tide line, Merrin panted in recognition of once again surviving the unloading without being flattened or swept away. Her hands and feet, water sodden and bleeding from hundreds of tiny abrasions standing testament to the damage she had done to her body, once again. Then feeling began to return and made her weep in her exhaustion and pain.
Merrin was slight, short and emaciated from years of malnutrition. However, she was as strong as she needed to be. Years of toil had given her the ability to endure far beyond her appearance would suggest. Having been born to poverty and watched her family members die of malnutrition or disease and left her with nothing and no one to protect and feed her. This had driven her to extreme levels of persistence, honing body and mind to one end: survival. She sought out work and did so as often as the opportunity arose.
Ever hopeful, she even dreamt of acquiring her own place, if given a chance and basic training. Finally staggering away with her meagre but meaningful pay, she sighed as she trudged further inland to her wretched hut. Staying awake long enough to consume her remaining kelp and dried fish, she rolled into her scratchy blankets and fell asleep.
All around her were the lean-to huts and larger, stone built, houses of the residents of Landing. It was so poor and mean a place that its name was purely descriptive. Ships put to sea and landed here.
These huts and shacks were mostly built of grey driftwood, claimed at great personal risk from the reluctant sea, tied or pegged together in a haphazard fashion. They offered minimal shelter from the weather, dug into the rocks and banks of the cruel coast, aiming to keep alive the poor souls stuck there. Most were trying to leave, who would want to live here? Only the earliest houses were made of stone. Maybe they were built in kinder times, when a home by the sea was something to indicate achievement, not a means to an end.
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Ansell lived in one of the biggest stone houses, three small rooms, closest to the raging sea. Time and persistence had given him the right to claim the house and the leadership of the motley crew living, or rather existing, there. Strong and hearty, he had previously helmed a ship of the pathetic fleet serving the owners of the island prisons. Grey, ruthless men who seldom visited this awful place, planning and reluctantly paying for the lowest possible rates to ship prisoners and goods to and from the desolate island. Squeezing the last possible fraction of coin from a business few would even think of taking on. Getting off the ships after an injury to his back had been a godsend. He was grateful to be working at all as he liaised between the workers and the owners.
Sadly, profits were constantly dropping and the prospect of paying for yet another craft for the task made their cruel faces crease and frown. Ansell could see the writing on the wall, his latest post was likely to end with the next sinking, and, like Merrin, he was already planning to escape with the little he had made. Had he been able to afford it, he would have liked to take over the commissioning of the new boat in the next bay hoping to sail away to seek his fortune elsewhere. That, however, was going to be beyond his reach and he begrudged every penny he had to pay others. There was no room for sympathy or care for his workers. The life was too hard for all those in this chilly region of the known world.
Early next morning, Merrin grabbed nets and a water flask and made her way back down to the edge of the race. Ansell was already there, shouting as usual, directing the small task force to clean and scrub the vile hull of the ship. Barnacles and wood parasites needed clearing away today, using far from ideal tools or just sharp rocks, they scoured the hull, checking seams to see if further caulking was needed. This information would be sent over to the next bay in the hope the ship builders would come over and fix them. Merrin then went back to searching the coastline for anything remotely edible. Mussels, limpets, the odd crab, washed up carcasses of anything vaguely fresh, seaweed, sea greens, anything, just anything.
Some foolish souls were attempting to fish the race, highly likely to be swept away to certain death but risking it anyway in the hope of catching larger food. Merrin stopped to watch them for a moment, wondering at their foolishness. Danger was ever present here in the bay, so to do anything that increased that risk seemed to her like they were daring the waters to claim them. This time they survived, but the catch was meagre. Almost certainly there would be none to trade.
Always on the horizon, the stark, yellow rock. Something of a mystery to many, unless they had been there with the human cargo sent to the prisons that were reported to be out there. They told their tales and hurried to leave, unwilling to run the risk of a watery death. Crews to sail across the race to the rock had to be beaten and bullied aboard the wretched ships, knowing that chances of a safe crossing and return were dismally slim. In the next bay, work had already been started on a replacement hull in the sure knowledge it would soon be needed. This time there had been no prisoners to be transferred which was somehow reassuring to Merrin, she had never seen any of them return.
No boats were likely for the next several weeks, so Merrin joined the others searching for edibles or trades. Eating was patchy at best, but they all agreed to trade if they found something shareable. Today, someone found a nest of gull eggs and brought them to the beach hoping to trade them for shellfish. He didn’t care for the taste of the eggs and would only eat them if no one would trade with him.
No one wanted to trade their hard gathered protein, so Merrin offered her greens hopefully, protein was what everyone needed most. The taste of the gull eggs was awful, but Merrin could care less. Food was food. She couldn’t understand why Dex was so fussy, if it didn’t make you ill, you ate it! Still, she could find tasty greens better than anyone and was popular at the beach trading point.
The next day was again an empty day, work wise, as she had nothing set up or planned. With no more food in the hut, she took off foraging, this time away from the coast and into the trees clumped together in dips and ravines along the paths leading into the empty land to the East. Trees meant nuts, seeds, edible roots, brambles and all kinds of possibilities. As always, Merrin trekked to the furthest point before searching for food, so that she had the shortest distance to carry the final load. At first, as was often the case, pickings were scarce. All the berries had been picked or eaten by birds, mushrooms were not in season yet, and evidence of digging proved that the ground had been worked over already by other, equally hungry, foragers. Pushing forward Merrin moved towards the cliffs and the hope of more eggs. One. She celebrated the small success and scaled the steep sides of the next ravine cautious but with raised spirits.
Scanning unsuccessfully for rock samphire or sea beets, she was forced to clamber back up to the cliff top and continue towards home. Slim pickings indeed. Grabbing some more fresh shoots she knew to be edible, Merrin tracked back to the beach by her hut for a last desperate scan for shellfish and seaweeds. What she found would have to do for today’s meals. Not much, not enough by far. Staring out at the sullen yellow rock, she ate her meagre meal and sat empty, alone and solemn. Merrin’s resolve to leave this place gained more traction day by day.
She spent the next few weeks seeking work on sails and rope ends in the next bay and roaming far and wide for sustenance from the reluctantly productive mainland. Her dreams of a farm to work on dwindling with each patch of barren land she passed through. The future looked bleak, depressing and starvation continued to threaten her life and those of the coastal workforce. More people left, seeking something better. More people arrived, desperate enough to try the life by the sea. Bands of ever more desperate people roamed free, seeking to take from those better off than them. Merrin hid often and well, all too aware of the risks and dangers.
One of these was the risk of being finally drafted aboard a ship. Although there was little risk of this normally, women being considered very unlucky in an already uncertain occupation, but the time could come when numbers available dropped so low they became desperate enough. That was a future Merrin dreaded the most.
