of heat. It’s cold we fear, they said, and snow and frost and ice. Already we are cold. Our fingertips are dead. Our toes. Our ears. If we can reach the sun then we’ll be free of fear. Show us where to sail to reach the sun, and we will heap on you rewards that have no name, that are magic, that are as old as time.
And if I cannot? father asked. What then? Then we will turn you into ice, they said. To demonstrate their panic and their power, one of the women sailors lightly touched a tress of oarweed which hung from rock into a pool. One touch and it was ice. A frozen shore-crab toppled free and skated, slid, ten limbs brittle, on the crisp and glinting surface of the rock-hard pool. An anemone which had been red and sinuous became a snout of ice. Its thousand snakes shivered one last time.
‘What could I, should I do?’ my father asked his audience, enacting every shiver. ‘I was too cold with fear at what I’d seen and heard to help them on their journey. Does anybody know? What is the best way to the sun?’ The children did not know. Up, up, they said. The sky. But father shook his head, for ships don’t fly. The routeway must be sea. The children shook their heads as well.
‘Come on,’ my father said. ‘Speak up! The sailors are impatient. They have to reach the sun. Their fingers are stretched and ready for the task of touching me and turning me to ice. Come on. Come on. I’m going to catch a chill!’
He beckoned with his arm and made the children gather close. He whispered the solution. ‘The sun was going down upon the sea,’ he said. ‘My time was running out.’ And then … of course! The sun … Was going down … Upon the sea … And soon the two would meet! The answer was so simple. He told the sailors to be patient. Stand upon the beach, he said. Each night the sun must sleep. It rests inside the sea. The fishes are its dreams, the tide its breaths. You’ll see it fade. And drop. And settle on the water. Sink. You then set sail until you reach the point where you saw the sun go down. You’ll find a gaping hole with steaming water all around. Put down your anchor. Wait. And, when the sun goes down that second night, your journey’s at an end. Your boat is anchored at the spot where once there was a steaming hole. The sun comes down upon your deck. I promise that you’ll never freeze again.
The women watched the sun go down, they watched it bathe and wallow in the sea and throw a cloth across the sky. They thanked my father for his help. We give to you the gift of turning life to ice, they said. And this we give you, too. They tipped a little perfume from a jar into a scallop shell. He smelled it – but the skin upon his nose touched the arc of liquid. It froze. Dissolve it in your mouth, they said, and make a wish. My father sucked. My father wished. He wished he had a healthy arm, four fingers and a thumb. It will come true, the women said.
The children in the ring looked at my father’s elbow stump. They saw no magic there. My father looked at it and them, intently, as if he expected the frowning tucks and scars to burst apart and a new arm to emerge. When nothing happened, my father shrugged. ‘I got it wrong,’ he said. ‘Look here.’ He held his good hand out. ‘You see? I already have one healthy arm, four fingers and a thumb. I should have asked for two!’ The children laughed, but they’d been fooled. They wanted proof that father’s tale was true. ‘I have the proof,’ my father said. ‘I have the gift of ice. Which boy, which girl, will step out here and touch me on the hand? Come on. Be brave. If anyone is turned to ice, we’ll melt them on the fire.’ He made as if to pick a child from amongst the crowd. They backed away. They screamed and giggled. They hid. There wasn’t one who’d take the chance of proving father’s lies were lies.
We do not need to hear my father’s other variations, the bespoke stories that he told to tease and stimulate his aunt,
And if I cannot? father asked. What then? Then we will turn you into ice, they said. To demonstrate their panic and their power, one of the women sailors lightly touched a tress of oarweed which hung from rock into a pool. One touch and it was ice. A frozen shore-crab toppled free and skated, slid, ten limbs brittle, on the crisp and glinting surface of the rock-hard pool. An anemone which had been red and sinuous became a snout of ice. Its thousand snakes shivered one last time.
‘What could I, should I do?’ my father asked his audience, enacting every shiver. ‘I was too cold with fear at what I’d seen and heard to help them on their journey. Does anybody know? What is the best way to the sun?’ The children did not know. Up, up, they said. The sky. But father shook his head, for ships don’t fly. The routeway must be sea. The children shook their heads as well.
‘Come on,’ my father said. ‘Speak up! The sailors are impatient. They have to reach the sun. Their fingers are stretched and ready for the task of touching me and turning me to ice. Come on. Come on. I’m going to catch a chill!’
He beckoned with his arm and made the children gather close. He whispered the solution. ‘The sun was going down upon the sea,’ he said. ‘My time was running out.’ And then … of course! The sun … Was going down … Upon the sea … And soon the two would meet! The answer was so simple. He told the sailors to be patient. Stand upon the beach, he said. Each night the sun must sleep. It rests inside the sea. The fishes are its dreams, the tide its breaths. You’ll see it fade. And drop. And settle on the water. Sink. You then set sail until you reach the point where you saw the sun go down. You’ll find a gaping hole with steaming water all around. Put down your anchor. Wait. And, when the sun goes down that second night, your journey’s at an end. Your boat is anchored at the spot where once there was a steaming hole. The sun comes down upon your deck. I promise that you’ll never freeze again.
The women watched the sun go down, they watched it bathe and wallow in the sea and throw a cloth across the sky. They thanked my father for his help. We give to you the gift of turning life to ice, they said. And this we give you, too. They tipped a little perfume from a jar into a scallop shell. He smelled it – but the skin upon his nose touched the arc of liquid. It froze. Dissolve it in your mouth, they said, and make a wish. My father sucked. My father wished. He wished he had a healthy arm, four fingers and a thumb. It will come true, the women said.
The children in the ring looked at my father’s elbow stump. They saw no magic there. My father looked at it and them, intently, as if he expected the frowning tucks and scars to burst apart and a new arm to emerge. When nothing happened, my father shrugged. ‘I got it wrong,’ he said. ‘Look here.’ He held his good hand out. ‘You see? I already have one healthy arm, four fingers and a thumb. I should have asked for two!’ The children laughed, but they’d been fooled. They wanted proof that father’s tale was true. ‘I have the proof,’ my father said. ‘I have the gift of ice. Which boy, which girl, will step out here and touch me on the hand? Come on. Be brave. If anyone is turned to ice, we’ll melt them on the fire.’ He made as if to pick a child from amongst the crowd. They backed away. They screamed and giggled. They hid. There wasn’t one who’d take the chance of proving father’s lies were lies.
We do not need to hear my father’s other variations, the bespoke stories that he told to tease and stimulate his aunt,
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