William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

sight.
    The ferryman looked at him dubiously when he asked to be taken across.
    “There’s a fair wind, the day.” He squinted eastwards, frowning.
    “I’ll help,” Monk offered instantly, then could have bitten his tongue. He had no idea whether he could row or not. He had absolutely no memory of water or boats. Even when he had gone back home to Northumberland, as soon as he was out of hospital after the accident, and woken in the night to find his brother-in-law with the lifeboat, it stirred no recollection of boats in him.
    “Aye, well that’ll maybe be needed,” the ferryman agreed, still not moving from the spot.
    Monk could not afford to anger the man. He had to cross the straits today; riding around the long coastline by Beauly, Muir-of-Ord, Conon Bridge and Dingwall would take him an entire day longer.
    “Then shall we begin?” Monk said urgently. “I need to reach Tarbet Ness tonight.”
    “Ye’ll be having a long ride.” The ferryman shook his head, looking at the sky, then back at Monk. “But ye might make it. Looks like a fair day, in spite of the wind. Might drop when the tide turns. Sometimes does.”
    Monk took that as an acceptance and made to step into the boat.
    “Ye’ll no be wanting to see if there’s anyone else, men?” the ferryman asked. “It’ll be half the fare if ye’re willing to lend a hand yourself?”
    Monk might have argued, closer to home, that the fare should have been less if he were prepared to row, whether there was anyone else or not, but he did not wish to provoke ill feeling.
    “Aye, well, come on then.” The ferryman extended his hand to help Monk. “We’d best be going. There’ll maybebe someone on the Black Isle who wants to come to Inverness.”
    Monk took his hand and stepped into the small boat. As soon as his feet touched the boards and the whole thing rocked with his added weight, he felt a wave of memory so sharp he hesitated in mid-motion, his balance spread between the boat and the quay. It was not visual, but emotional; a fear and a sense of helplessness and embarrassment. It was so powerful he almost withdrew.
    “What’s the matter wi’ ye?” The ferryman looked at him warily. “Ye’re no seasick, are ye? We’ve no even set out yet!”
    “No, I’m not,” Monk said sharply. He forbore from giving any explanation.
    “Aye, well if ye are”—the ferryman was dubious—“ye’ll please throw up over the side.”
    “I’m not,” Monk repeated, hoping it was true, and let himself down into the boat, sitting down in the stern rather hard.
    “Well, if ye’re going to help, ye’ll no do it there.” The ferryman frowned at him. “Have ye never been in a wee boat before?” He looked as if he doubted it severely.
    Monk stared at him. “It was remembering last time that made me hesitate. The people I knew then,” he added, in case the man thought he was afraid.
    “Oh, aye?” The ferryman made room in the seat beside him and Monk moved over, taking the other oar. “I may be daft doing this.” The ferryman shook his head. “I’m hoping I’ll no regret it when we’re out in the current. But I don’t want you trying to move over then, or we’ll likely both end up in the water. An’ I canna swim!”
    “Well, if I have to save you, I’ll expect my fare back,” Monk said dryly.
    “No if ye’re the one that upsets us.” The ferryman looked him squarely in the eye. “Now hold your hush, man, and bend your back to the oar.”
    Monk obeyed, principally because it took all his attentionto keep in rhythm with the ferryman, and he was intent not to make more of a fool of himself than he had already.
    For more than ten minutes he rowed steadily, and was beginning to be satisfied with himself. The small boat skimmed over the water with increasing ease. He began to enjoy it. It was pleasant to use his body for a change from the pent-up anguish of mind over the previous weeks, and the necessity of sitting in the crowded courtroom, completely uselessly. This was not so difficult. The day was bright and the sunlight off the water almost dazzling, giving the sky and water a unity of blue brilliance which was curiously liberating, as if its very endlessness were a comfort, not a fear. The wind in his face was cold, but it was sharp and clean, and the salt smell of it satisfied him.
    Then without any warning they were out of the lee of the headland and into the current and the tide sweeping in from the Moray Firth and into the