The View from Castle Rock by Alice Munro Read Free Book Online Page B

cabins?” she says.
    Walter says, “No. I am not.”
    “I knew you were not. There are only four of them and one is for my father and me and one is for the captain and one is for his mother and she never comes out and one is for the two ladies. You are not supposed to be on this part of the deck unless you are from one of the cabins.”
    “Well, I did not know that,” Walter says, but does not bestir himself to move away.
    “I have seen you before writing in your book.”
    “I haven’t seen you.”
    “No. You were writing, so you didn’t notice.”
    “Well,” says Walter. “I’m finished with it now anyway.”
    “I haven’t told anybody about you,” she says carelessly, as if that was a matter of choice, and she might well change her mind.

    And on that same day but an hour or so on, there comes a great cry from the port side that there is a last sight of Scotland. Walter and Andrew go over to see that, and Mary with Young James on her hip and many others. Old James and Agnes do not go-she because she objects now to moving herself anywhere, and he on account of perversity. His sons have urged him to go but he has said, “It is nothing to me. I have seen the last of the Ettrick so I have seen the last of Scotland already.”
    It turns out that the cry to say farewell has been premature-a gray rim of land will remain in place for hours yet. Many will grow tired of looking at it-it is just land, like any other-but some will stay at the rail until the last rag of it fades, with the daylight.
    “You should go and say farewell to your native land and the last farewell to your mother and father for you will not be seeing them again,” says Old James to Agnes. “And there is worse yet you will have to endure. Aye, but there is. You have the curse of Eve.” He says this with the mealy relish of a preacher and Agnes calls him an old shite-bag under her breath, but she has hardly the energy even to scowl.
    Old shite-bag. You and your native land.

    Walter writes at last a single sentence.
    And this night in the year 1818 we lost sight of Scotland.

    The words seem majestic to him. He is filled with a sense of grandeur, solemnity, and personal importance.

    16th was a very windy day with the wind coming out of the S.W. the sea was running very high and the ship got her gib-boom broken on account of the violence of the wind. And this day our sister Agnes was taken into the cabin.

    Sister,
he has written, as if she were all the same to him as poor Mary, but that is hardly the case. Agnes is a tall well-built girl with thick dark hair and dark eyes. The flush on one of her cheeks slides into a splotch of pale brown as big as a handprint. It is a birthmark, which people say is a pity, because without it she would be handsome. Walter can hardly bear looking at it, but this is not because it is ugly. It is because he longs to touch it, to stroke it with the tips of his fingers. It looks not like ordinary skin but like the velvet on a deer. His feelings about her are so troubling that he can only speak unpleasantly to her if he speaks at all. And she pays him back with a good seasoning of contempt.

    Agnes thinks that she is in the water and the waves are heaving her up and slamming her down again. Every time the waves slap her down it is worse than the time before and she sinks farther and deeper, with the moment of relief passing before she can grab it, for the wave is already gathering its power to hit her again.
    Then sometimes she knows she is in a bed, a strange bed and strangely soft, but it is all the worse for that because when she sinks down there is no resistance, no hard place where the pain has to stop. And here or on the water people keep rushing back and forth in front of her. They are all seen sideways and all transparent, talking very fast so she can’t make them out, and maliciously taking no heed of her. She sees Andrew in the midst of them, and two or three of his brothers. Some of the girls she knows