{"id":254,"date":"2016-09-13T05:14:05","date_gmt":"2016-09-13T05:14:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/2016\/09\/13\/bespoke-salvia\/"},"modified":"2021-03-18T18:46:12","modified_gmt":"2021-03-18T18:46:12","slug":"thewhalesway","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/2016\/09\/13\/thewhalesway\/","title":{"rendered":"The Whale’s Way"},"content":{"rendered":"

This story, which won the Young Walter Scott Prize 2019, <\/a>was inspired by folk songs from the north-east of England \u2013 about the sea, Arctic whaling, and the press-gang. These set me reading nineteenth-century collections of songs, stories and poems in the dialect of Whitby and the North Riding. I was captivated by suggestive and onomatopoeic but now forgotten words and turns of phrase. The words had mostly Norse roots, and I realised that the dialect, like the weather and livelihoods of the people of this coast, had drifted to Whitby by sea from the far north.<\/p>\n

I drew on several nineteenth and early twentieth-century studies of the dialect of the area in my attempt to capture my main character\u2019s voice. It is obviously not a perfect transcription of how she might really have talked. Even if I had complete knowledge of the dialect and how to transcribe it, writing like that would make it very inaccessible. Authors like Emily Bront\u00eb and Elizabeth Gaskell who wrote in what they thought of as authentic dialect met with complaints from baffled readers. I compromised in favour of readability. I include a glossary at the end of the old Whitby words used, many of which I have only found in nineteenth-century studies.<\/p>\n

The whalers set sail for Greenland in March and returned at the end of the summer. I was fascinated by the inversion of the usual pattern of feeling and association that this suggested; spring would have been a time of parting and sadness, autumn of hope and revival. <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

2nd October, 1793<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m dreamin\u2019 \u2013 a soundless dream o\u2019 fallin\u2019 ice.<\/p>\n

A breath o\u2019 wind comes \u2013 a sweet waft that mun ha\u2019 come rustlin\u2019 through meadowsweet an\u2019 butter-cresses. Summat soft an\u2019 warm reaches through t\u2019snow an\u2019 melts t\u2019cold.<\/p>\n

A deary little hand, like a pubble shell, scrabblin\u2019 for my face \u2013 littler clingin\u2019 fingers. I always know when she\u2019s awake \u2013 t\u2019 way Jamie says he knows in his sleep if his ship has shifted course.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s curled up, warm and sweet as a brandered chestnut in my cold bed.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s go, my honey bairn!\u201d<\/p>\n

Down t\u2019 ghaut into t\u2019 lighter dark. My tread allays so loud on t\u2019cobbles. The stark pillars o\u2019 t\u2019 empty marketplace, an\u2019 past Henrietta Street. This wakin\u2019 world is chiller nor dreams o\u2019 t\u2019north, and t\u2019 shill wind that gowls through t\u2019streets is little like my bairn\u2019s sweet summer breath, still warmin\u2019 my neck while the rest o\u2019 me is set a-didder.<\/p>\n

Steps up into t\u2019 black.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne, two, three, four, five\u2026there, honey bairn\u2026\u201d Town gone now.<\/p>\n

Her little heart beatin\u2019 again\u2019 mine. Answerin\u2019.<\/p>\n

As my legs tire, them snarly gusts gain strength \u2013 t\u2019 edge o\u2019 winter in \u2019em.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere thee be, church, hirplin\u2019 under t\u2019 wind as be thy way!\u201d Them graves is sharp against t\u2019 sky \u2013 it\u2019s growin\u2019 paler.<\/p>\n

\u201cAn\u2019 one hundred an\u2019 ninety nine \u2013 top!\u201d<\/p>\n

Me feet find trod. I can hear the roughtin\u2019 o\u2019 t\u2019sea in t\u2019 mirk below.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere\u2019s our nest i\u2019 the hussocks, my bonnie! Mind yon morn when we found a mammy roe and her fawn, warmin\u2019 it for us? That were a lucky sight! An\u2019 how they twinkled away through t\u2019 mokey dawn\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

I lap us snug and set to watch.<\/p>\n

The lift brightens like t\u2019 apples on t\u2019wall at home, scud touched wi\u2019 t\u2019 same whisper pink that kisses babby\u2019s bonny neb and lugs.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere goes t\u2019last flittermouse! Down liggin\u2019 time for \u2019im. There be t\u2019sun, keekin\u2019 frae his black den. Risin\u2019 aloft. Sitha how t\u2019sea shivers and skimmers, silver like a glestrin herrin\u2019!\u201d<\/p>\n

Now t\u2019rosy glow catches o\u2019 the rahvin\u2019 manes o\u2019 t\u2019 billows \u2013 and on t\u2019 sails o\u2019 a ship comin\u2019 home.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s my heart, swellin\u2019 like a wave and crashin\u2019 into my mouth. I know t\u2019 build o\u2019 the Stranger<\/em>.<\/p>\n

My bairn will meet her father today.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s pacin\u2019 yon bruckle deck, lookin\u2019 to t\u2019 land, tryin\u2019 to see his bairn\u2019s face in his mind.<\/p>\n

Or he\u2019s lyin\u2019 beneath t\u2019 dim weight o\u2019 t\u2019 seas, or on some driftin\u2019 sheet o\u2019 clouded ice, t\u2019 snow-blossoms siftin\u2019 softly o\u2019er him.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Stranger <\/em>takes t\u2019 same course home as that she set. A clear mornin\u2019 \u2013 armogan, Jamie said. T\u2019 cold were givin\u2019, the rine brushed from t\u2019 fields like sleep-sand, an\u2019 only t\u2019 bones o\u2019 snow left on t\u2019 tops. I were so big wi\u2019 babby I could hardly climb t\u2019 stairs.<\/p>\n

They all said I knew tears I were buyin\u2019 when I wed him.<\/p>\n

When t\u2019 sun and t\u2019 shoots is climbin\u2019, when the rack runs afore t\u2019wind like a swellin\u2019 sail and t\u2019 bare twigs stretch out to grab t\u2019spinnin\u2019 snatches o\u2019 blue between \u2013<\/p>\n

then t\u2019 men mun go. When all hearts should be singin\u2019 wi\u2019 the blackbird, there\u2019s nobbut dree looks and dowly faces.<\/p>\n

Most whalers scarce ken how a primrose looks, let alone a rose. But my Jamie do. \u2019Twere summer when we was courtin\u2019, yon close season. Lanes white wi\u2019 drifts o\u2019 may, an\u2019 him crackin\u2019 on. O\u2019 skeleton wrecks, o\u2019 icebergs shaped like shadow-goers in a dream, o\u2019 fathomless seas, marbled wi\u2019 ice floes like t\u2019cover o\u2019 t\u2019 Bible in St Mary\u2019s \u2013 o\u2019 ships cracked to shivers like nutshells under a wagon-wheel. He told how he were saved for me, by God\u2019s will, when the Hope<\/em> were crushed in t\u2019 Davis Strait, another summer day when t\u2019 ling blew purple above Whitby town.<\/p>\n

Me standin\u2019 under t\u2019 fallin\u2019 blossom wi\u2019 dusk comin\u2019 on, thinkin\u2019 mesel\u2019 on a frosted deck listenin\u2019 to t\u2019 hush while t\u2019 ice snuck nearer. I weren\u2019t flayt then \u2013 to fear t\u2019north seemed foolish as fearin\u2019 dreams. Besides, Jamie smiled at me so broad when\u2019d done his tale that it drove t\u2019 cold away. Not a lass this side o\u2019 Middlesborough but were won by his lightsome smile, his heartsome tongue an\u2019 his liltin\u2019 free ways.<\/p>\n

Dog roses nodded their compliments o\u2019er t\u2019 churchyard wall when we was wed.<\/p>\n

Sweet and short were t\u2019 winter, and t\u2019 first snowdrop ended all. I said it worn\u2019t right for him to go, crossin\u2019 grey seas to lie in t\u2019 stiff arms o\u2019 distant lands o\u2019 ice \u2013 not wi\u2019 new life inside me, and stirrin\u2019 in t\u2019earth \u2013 his bairn and spring set to be born together. I said \u2019twas pride, this wish to tame t\u2019 waves and bend t\u2019 winds on sails, daring death. He said \u2019twas wantin\u2019 pay enow\u2019 to keep babby and me.<\/p>\n

So I watched t\u2019 Stranger<\/em> sail, strainin\u2019 my een to catch a glisk o\u2019 t\u2019gallants long after she\u2019d dipped behind t\u2019 sea. When again hedges grew heavy wi\u2019 dog-roses, I told my bairn about her father and waited for backend. She bonnier by t\u2019 hour \u2013 and he missin\u2019 bright times niver to come again. Missin\u2019 yon first laugh on t\u2019sands while t\u2019 wind chased sunny ackers o\u2019er t\u2019 Esk. Mell-supper at last, and we came home from long wanin\u2019 days on t\u2019 moors wi\u2019 hands black wi\u2019 blaeberries.<\/p>\n

I longed for t\u2019 flowers to be a-dyin\u2019. How my heart did quiver and hop wi\u2019 t\u2019 first yellow leaf on t\u2019 birk! T’ swallows makin\u2019 ready for journeyin\u2019, gatherin\u2019 on t\u2019 shrouds o\u2019 t\u2019 few ships left in harbour, flyin\u2019 dark against t\u2019 sunset to their song o\u2019 lost summers \u2013 that tune as allus makes me think mesel\u2019 a bairn again, seekin\u2019 elfbolts and snakestones on t\u2019shore, labberin\u2019 in t\u2019 foam.<\/p>\n

While t\u2019 skies grow wan and t\u2019 woods weary, the hedges sear as t\u2019 sinkin\u2019 sun saps out t\u2019 green \u2013 then all Whitby stirs wi\u2019 hope.<\/p>\n

The last weeks were wor nor ever. Watchin\u2019 and seein\u2019 naught but yon dree sea, t\u2019 tide wirdlin\u2019 in and wirdlin\u2019 out – sometimes a sail that was not his, to make me sorrowful e’en when the rest o’ the womenfolk were singing for joy – and every day I did not see the Stranger, the fear growing’ that I never should. So many langsome tide-turns o\u2019 empty water rollin\u2019 on between my bairn and her father.<\/p>\n

And yet she ever blithe and bonnie as t\u2019 summer, growin\u2019 and thrivin\u2019 wi\u2019 t\u2019 other saplings o\u2019 t\u2019 year like all were reet enow.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s naught ails thee<\/em>, is there pet? Weel smon thee!\u201d She\u2019s grippin\u2019 one o\u2019 my fingers \u2013 her pubble little fist pearchin\u2019. I croodle it in my breast.<\/p>\n

Them sails, skimmerin\u2019 under t\u2019dawn, mun be a dream. I know I shouldn\u2019t hope, but I can\u2019t help it. Jamie were always more venturesome nor any wife could wish; but mindin\u2019 t\u2019 bairn, he mun have taken care o\u2019 hissel?<\/p>\n

He lives \u2013 I know it \u2013 I can feel it. Under them glancy sails his heart beats in time wi\u2019 mine and babby\u2019s.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so sure I\u2019ll even spare a thought for t\u2019 other men \u2013 Nancy\u2019s sweetheart, and little Davy \u2013 and t\u2019 first mate as were so kind when we was courtin\u2019.<\/p>\n

The Stranger<\/em> drags t\u2019 moments behind her, tharfly as t\u2019 white line o\u2019 wake.\u00a0 How desperate slow ships do move. How has a crowdlin\u2019 creepin\u2019 shell like yon braved waves that lick high as t\u2019 masts, and ice that closes round timber like t\u2019fingers o\u2019 death?<\/p>\n

\u201cSoon thou\u2019lt see thy daddy. We\u2019ll be there to meet \u2019im.\u201d<\/p>\n

She\u2019s coming up-river now, but there\u2019s this shadow fright on me that if I stop watchin\u2019, when I turn back there\u2019ll be naught but grey water. We\u2019ll stay up here till t\u2019 last, and then run \u2013 down an\u2019 down\u2026!<\/p>\n

Time sykes by. I\u2019ll think how his face will look when I put my bonnie into his arms, and that will pass it well enow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cNow, my connie \u2013 ar\u2019t ready? Let\u2019s fly!\u201d<\/p>\n

The church-garth a blur, fast as t\u2019blake sau\u2019t wind \u2013 red stalks o\u2019 briar snatch, but I rykke free \u2013 down, down, town spun out anunder, t\u2019 roof-tiles hot to my een as stirred embers, glowin\u2019 leaves.<\/p>\n

The streets is full \u2013 eager faces in t\u2019 gentle sunlight. I don\u2019t know yon lass, but I smile anyhow\u2026 there\u2019s Annie, and Esther whose youngest went off to sea for t\u2019 first time in t\u2019 Stranger<\/em>. They all stand out o\u2019 t\u2019way for me. Times like this, Whitby is courteous as gentlefolks\u2019 watering-places.<\/p>\n

Down to t\u2019 sands where t\u2019 boats is pullin\u2019 ashore.<\/p>\n

And there he be. Smilin\u2019, dark een bright as ever. A few flyin\u2019 footsteps distant. Naught but clear mornin\u2019 air betwixt us.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s no dream.<\/p>\n

I put out one arm to steady t\u2019 world. Too many folk around us, a router on t\u2019 spinnin\u2019 sands. Somehow I\u2019m being pushed back, mafted wi\u2019 t\u2019crush. I hold babby out to him \u2013 high o\u2019er t\u2019 heads \u2013 and she\u2019s dancin\u2019 in his arms.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s a right go-to behind \u2013 t\u2019 lasses look frightened. It doesn\u2019t matter. Naught matters now.<\/p>\n

He lifts her high into t\u2019 sun, and she looks back at him wi\u2019 a funny, muddled little face, een wide.<\/p>\n

Strange hands snatch her from him.<\/p>\n

The throng closes and I can\u2019t see her \u2013 but I can hear her cryin\u2019. My own voice skrikin\u2019 \u2013<\/p>\n

\u201cNo! No!\u201d<\/p>\n

I see her arm, her head, her foot through t\u2019 crush \u2013 and I have her! \u2013 deary, warm, femmer love. I gasp in her meadow breath like I were half drowned.<\/p>\n

Only now I make t\u2019 words out from t\u2019 roar. All too sharp now, bruisin\u2019 t\u2019 air.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe press gang!\u201d<\/p>\n

These bodies is a wall o\u2019 ice and I\u2019m clawin\u2019, fingernails tearin\u2019 through t\u2019 cold.<\/p>\n

Now I can see Jamie \u2013 een black holes, mouth set in a line, arms twisted behind him. \u2018I\u2019ll come back \u2013 forgive me! Don\u2019t let t\u2019 little one grow too fast!\u2019<\/p>\n

His face burns itsel\u2019 onto my brain and his een swallow me. Black. Deep as seas, sucking me down into t\u2019chill.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

None but childer in t\u2019 streets this lantern-time. I\u2019m worn wi\u2019 greetin\u2019, a pool at low tide left howle\u00a0by t\u2019 sea.<\/p>\n

From one o\u2019 t\u2019 darker ghauts, I hear sobs \u2013 \u201cThe war will be long \u2013 I know it \u2013 they a\u2019 say so! And he may be killed afore tis o\u2019er.\u201d<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t heed t\u2019 mother\u2019s words o\u2019 comfort.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t care what length it takes to reach t\u2019 cliff top now.<\/p>\n

Jamie will niver know my bonnie seven month pet. Next year she\u2019ll be another bairn \u2013 and he won\u2019t be back next year, nor next. There\u2019ll be no peace. Back in t\u2019 winter, t\u2019 French killed their King. I didn\u2019t mind it then, for Jamie were home and my belly swellin\u2019.<\/p>\n

Her eyes is deep blue, gleamin\u2019 like wet pebbles under t\u2019 wave.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s smilin\u2019 \u2013 t\u2019 way that only bairns can smile, fair like a lall o\u2019 joy. I mun smile back, whether or no. She gurgles and squirms on t\u2019 grass between t\u2019 graves, crawls to where one o\u2019 t\u2019last clockflowers is shinin\u2019 and picks it, crushin\u2019 it in her little fist. She\u2019s not learned to pick flowers without spoilin\u2019 \u2013 but clockflowers grow strong.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s nowhere thy daddy won\u2019t see now, honey bairn. India, an t\u2019 Cape, and t\u2019 coast o\u2019 Barbary… Africa where there\u2019s no backend nor winter, only one long summer all year round. We\u2019ll wait here \u2013 we\u2019ll work, and we\u2019ll live \u2013 on this cliff \u2013 in t\u2019 churchgarth, in town, in fields, on t\u2019 moor\u2026 an\u2019 one day t\u2019winds\u2019ll blow him back to us. Happen he\u2019ll cast up here wi\u2019 an epaulet on his shoulder gold as them clockflowers, an\u2019 enow prize money so he niver has to flit again. He\u2019ll bring thee a parrot that talks from t\u2019 isles in t\u2019 west, and the sharpest spices from out o\u2019 t\u2019 east. Don\u2019t grow too fast.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/h3>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Glossary\u00a0<\/strong><\/h3>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This story, which won the Young Walter Scott Prize 2019, was inspired by folk songs from the north-east of England \u2013 about the sea, Arctic whaling, and the press-gang. These set me reading nineteenth-century collections of songs, stories and poems in the dialect of Whitby and the North Riding. I was captivated by suggestive and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3023,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"image","meta":{"spay_email":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[55,72,54,9,38,58,77,76,71,57,73,39,62,59,68,66,65,64,60,75,61,74,70,69,53,56,63,67],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/09\/738A1E78-C4B7-46A4-9D47-1F4B47AFF857_1_105_c.jpeg","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/254"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=254"}],"version-history":[{"count":19,"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/254\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3443,"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/254\/revisions\/3443"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3023"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=254"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=254"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idecrawford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=254"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}