Free The Coming of the Whirlpool by Andrew McGahan Page A

producing only sinister undulations and swirls. But it was a deceptive calm – even Dow, in all his ignorance of the sea, could recognise that. It spoke of immense currents at work beneath the surface, forces so powerful that they stilled even the fury of the wind.
    Dow went chill suddenly in his wet clothes. A strange nausea was growing in his stomach, and his legs felt weak. This wasn’t right. He wasn’t ready for this. What were they even doing there? Staring about he could see no other boats; no one else had dared venture out in this storm – so why had they? Not to fish, surely. Indeed, when Dow looked back to the old man, he could see no sane or natural purpose in the fisherman’s stare.
    Nathaniel grinned at him. ‘You wanted to go to sea, boy! You’ve an admiral’s blood in your veins, I’m told. So why are you quaking and quivering? What danger could there be in chancing the Rip in a gale?’
    Such was the hatred in the old man’s voice it came to Dow that perhaps Nathaniel actually meant him harm out here. But it was too late for anything to be done. Dow could only watch on, frozen and helpless, as they scudded through the last chop of the channel and into the queasy swell of the Rip.
    â€˜Look, admiral’s child!’ The old man’s words were hurled through the wind. ‘Look over the side and see the ocean’s teeth.’
    The boat was moving at a terrific pace now. Dow stared over the side. To his horror he saw that although the surface appeared black, the water was in fact perfectly clear, and visible just a few feet below the hull were rocks – great jagged fangs of stone that rose up from the depths. The water raced across these teeth with terrible speed, and the boat was swept along too, powerless, under threat any instant of having its keel ripped out. Dow became aware of the sail flapping loose, and of the wind veering madly from one quarter to the next. He tore his gaze from the water and looked back to Nathaniel.
    More horror. The old man had let go of the tiller and released the ropes that bound the sail. He had surrendered them to the Rip. Now he stood upright in the stern, hands raised as if to offer proof that he had abandoned all control of the boat. He was grinning still, but tears streamed on his cheeks.
    â€˜Do you see them down there, boy? All the dead souls the Rip has dragged to the bottom? All the ships the teeth have gnashed to splintered hulks? Do you hear the lost sailors crying to you from the deep?’
    Dow stared in terror and disbelief. They had entered the Rip close to East Head, but already they had been swept halfway across the gap. It seemed that they must be dashed upon the West Head rocks, or worse, be carried out to sea, to where the truly immense ocean waves reared, ponderous and white capped and crashing continuously along a line of boiling water.
    But Nathaniel was heedless. He had fallen to his knees and was hunched over the side, staring down. There were no rocks visible now, only dark water, bottomless.
    â€˜Where are you?’ he cried, sobbing amid the rain and spray. ‘Where did you go?’ He seemed utterly mad, uncaring that death was close – or perhaps even craving it. He reached his hand down to the water, imploring as he wept. ‘I beg you, give them back to me!’
    Dow looked up again. Now the cliffs of West Head were starkly clear through the rain. But in fact the current had changed – it was sweeping the boat not onto the rocks, nor out to sea, but rather in an arc that led back across the channel. Hope rose in Dow and he gazed into the centre of the Rip. Yes, he perceived it now – the water was moving in conflicting directions, surging back and forth against itself. Almost there was a coherence to it, as if at any moment all the surges would resolve into one vast pattern, an immense circular motion . . .
    But suddenly stone grated and rapped against the keel,