Page 8 of Whale Harbor

THE STINK OF THE WHALE grew worse with each passing day, and the weather was only getting warmer, the wind quieter. Seagulls came in swarming packs to peck at the carcass. From a distance, the hundreds of white backs, heads bent to the task, gave the impression of one single, undulating creature. When humans approached, the gulls took flight with strips of flesh hanging from their beaks, and Mac found himself looking at the picked-over carcass with a feeling like sorrow. A rumor went around that the odor was strong enough to kill the blooms of bell heather. People made their way along the coast road with their arms thrown over their faces. The whole village was enveloped in rot.

The only one who stayed behind after the university group left was the anthropologist, Professor Browne, a scholar who found himself apologizing on behalf of the entire academic community and taking questions from villagers as if he had training in whale biology. It would take several years for the whale to decompose altogether, he said, before hurrying to add that the odor would dissipate long before that. The children dared each other to run up and poke it.

Professor Browne insisted on being called Vincent and made Mac a proposal. He was working on a book about the area and offered Mac payment in exchange for letting him follow Mac around on his daily tasks, asking questions. Easy money. There was no question about whether Mac would accept, but it was troubling not knowing exactly what the man wanted. Mac asked how many days, as if the answer might lead him to decline.

“I’m not certain, to be honest. Can we take it week by week? Would that be all right?”

Mac agreed but said they’d have to start on Monday. His father needed him for something on Sunday.

“Would it be possible for me to come along?”

“Ah, no. It’s a— I’ll just see you Monday.”

On Sunday, when Mac and Barry went to meet their father at dawn, Mac considered mentioning the arrangement to him, in case there was an objection he hadn’t thought of, but Cathal had no time for discussing anything but giving them orders. Back and forth between the boat landing and the still, the half-mile journey across land that was completely overgrown, they helped him carry four hundred pounds of grain. Once they had it all piled and unbundled, once they laid down a sheet, they hit the stalks off two protruding rocks until the kernels fell off. Then they gathered up the kernels in a sack, where Cathal would leave them to soak in the island’s small freshwater pond for a few days.

“So you’re making another batch then?”

“I am.”

Barry looked at Mac. The baby’s three-week day had already passed. Late at night, up in the loft, Mac, Barry, and Fearghal discussed in whispers whether they should come together and be forceful, tell their father it was time to come home. They discussed whether they should write to Sean for advice. But none of them actually did anything.

“You’re minding your brothers?” Cathal asked, as if reading their thoughts. “And your mother? Taking care of her?”

They nodded and continued their work.

MAC’S FIRST DAYS WITH VINCENT were tedious. The man asked what would be done in this or that situation, and what did Mac think. Mac couldn’t imagine what it was about his daily life that the man found interesting. He carried a notebook and was always jotting things down. Rian tagged along most days even though he should have been in school, and eventually Mac stopped shooing him away. Having Rian there made it less awkward.

“Your brother is very quiet,” Vincent said.

“He isn’t at all quiet. He’s just working up to it.”

Vincent explained to Mac what anthropology was and that Mac’s way of life—the village, his language, his entire way of being—was rare, even within Ireland. On the day that the whale washed up, Mac had translated for him a discussion among neighbors of St. Brendan the Navigator, how he landed on the back of an enormous whale on Easter Sunday, mistaking it for an island. The whale awoke when Brendan’s monks made a fire on its back.

Vincent listened closely, and then he asked: “Would you be surprised to know there’s a version of that story in almost every culture? Every religion? Especially in seafaring places?”

Mac was indeed surprised.

“Do you believe that happened, Macdara? I mean you. Personally.” Mac didn’t get the sense that the professor would think less of him either way. He only wanted to know. “Do you believe that St. Brendan and his monks made a fire on the whale’s back and the whale, feeling the pain of being burned, shook them off?”

“Well, I do and I don’t,” Mac said eventually.

Vincent was probably around the same age as Mac’s father, though he appeared younger. It was terrible at first, having this outsider follow him around all day with his endless questions, everyone they passed stopping their conversations to watch them, but after a few days Mac realized the professor was truly interested. He liked the Cuan and seemed to admire their way of doing things. He loved considering the translations of everyday things and told Mac that the lack of certain tenses and basic words in the Irish language had an impact, possibly, in how the native speaker experienced life.

In the Irish language, he explained, there is no simple “yes” or “no” like there is in English.

Mac considered this, but he didn’t quite understand.

“Do you enjoy walking?” Vincent asked after a while, changing the subject or so it seemed.

“I do enjoy a walk,” Mac said in English. They’d been wandering most of the day. Mac pointing out anomalies in the land, the places known for hauntings and drownings. He’d answered automatically, and then, realizing Vincent had been trying to prove something and he’d fallen for it, he blushed.

Another thing was how an Irish speaker experiences emotions.

“Emotions?” Mac asked.

Vincent laughed. “Do you not discuss your emotions in the Cuan? If you think you don’t, think again. Sing to yourself the ballads of this place, how full of hope and joy and sorrow they are. Now think about the difference between languages. In English we say we’re angry or sad or happy or what have you. But translate the Irish way of saying those things directly into English and it translates as ‘anger is upon me,’ or ‘sadness is upon me.’ Do you see the difference?”

Mac shook his head but all of a sudden he did.