he’s still alive.
“I’m coming!” I call again. “Don’t be frightened!”
I run forward until I reach the rocks. I don’t think the groan came from here but the best way is to search backwards methodically, from the tide-line to the dunes. The sand here isn’t clean and shining. It’s covered in bits of wood, seaweed, twine, a dead mackerel and a tangle of weed and crab legs. The flotsam and jetsam spreads all the way up the beach here, and right over the dunes which are anchored with tough marram grass. The sea’s come up much higher than normal. Maybe the storm produced freak waves.
Suddenly the skin on the back of my neck prickles. I have an overwhelming feeling that I am not alone. Someone is watching me. I turn quickly, but the beach and the dunes are empty. I turn back to the rocks, and scan along them. Nothing. But my back still prickles. Very slowly and casually, I bend forward and kneel down as if I’ve spotted something in the sand. I’ve plaited my hair because of the wind, and the plait falls forward. Cautiously, I peep round. Even if someone’s watching, they won’t notice because my thick plait hides my face. I shuffle round a little way on my knees, and pretend to be digging. Whoever is watching will be off-guard by now. They will think I’m concentrating all my attention on what is in front of me. I am quite sure now that there is someone there. My heart is thudding. I want to leap to my feet and race for home, but I can’t. If there’s an injured man lying there, then he must be even more frightened than I am. That’s why he’s hiding. Maybe he’s had a bang on the head when the ship went on the reef, and he thinks he’s in an enemy country or something. Me shouting out in a foreign language won’t help.
I turn my head a fraction, still looking down. I shake my plait right forward so there’s a gap between it and my shoulder, and, very stealthily, I steal a glance behind me.
Yes. A movement. A tiny flicker of movement behind the dunes. Maybe a hand, or the side of a face. There is someone there and whoever it is must be very scared. He knows I’m here and he’s in pain or he wouldn’t have groaned like that. But he won’t call back to me. That means he is much more afraid than I am.
I think for a moment, and then very slowly I get up and brush the sand off my hands and the knees of my jeans. I take the plastic bag out of my pocket and pretend to put something in it. I slip the bag into my pocket, shield my eyes and stare straight ahead, towards the rocks. After a while I shrug my shoulders, as if I’ve given up looking. Maybe I don’t believe I heard anything. It must have been my imagination. I hope that my body language is saying these things to the watcher behind the dunes. With luck he’ll relax, reassured, and sink back into his hiding-place.
I take a careful note of where the movement was, and how far down the beach I need to walk to be parallel to it. I stroll casually along the sand, stopping once or twice to pick up a tiny shell, and put it into my pocket. All I am is a girl out for a walk on the shore.
I am parallel to the spot in the dunes now. I slide my gaze sideways for a second. No sign of life. I walk forward a little more. He won’t be able to see me now, because the bulk of the dune will hide me from him just as it hides him from me.
Suddenly, I change direction. My feet make no sound in the soft sand as I run to the dunes, scramble up the sifting slope, and over the top.
“I won’t hurt you,” I say, and drop to my knees, keeping a distance. Surely he’ll see that I am not a threat.
Slowly, slowly, the hand gripping the stone relaxes. Even more slowly, he lowers his arm.
“Who are you?” I ask, keeping my voice soft and level, but then I remember that he probably doesn’t speak any English. His shirt and jacket must have been torn off in the struggle with the sea. He’s half-buried in sand, but I can see his bare arms and shoulders, in fact most of his body down to his waist. He is surrounded by flotsam and jetsam. Suddenly I realise what must have happened. There was a freak wave. It must have lifted him, hurled him over the beach and the dune, and half-buried him in the sand. He’ll be freezing cold. It’s amazing that he hasn’t died of hypothermia.
“It’s all right,” I say again, “I’m a friend. I want to help you.” Then I have an idea. I point to myself and say, “Mor-ver-en,” very slowly. Gradually, so as not to alarm him, I shuffle forward. His eyes stay fixed on my face. He doesn’t seem to blink. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such glittering eyes. His skin is a strange colour: it’s brown, even darker brown than mine, but it has a blue tinge to it that I’ve never seen before. It scares me. I think he must be badly hurt, or maybe blue with cold.
He struggles to move as I come closer, as if he wants to get away, but the movement ends in a groan. I stop dead. He’s definitely injured.
“It’s all right. I won’t come any closer. Please don’t be frightened of me.”
He looks young. I don’t think he’s a man, he’s only a year or so older than I am. Do they have crew that age on Polish ships? He could be a passenger, the son of the captain maybe. Then I see something that really scares me. The sand around where his legs must be buried is rusty brown. He’s bleeding. The stain on the sand is wide. He must have bled for hours.
I glance round desperately. I’ll have to leave him and run for help. He could bleed to death if I don’t. But what if he thinks I’m abandoning him? I’ve got to make him understand. “Listen, I’m going,” I point at myself then over the dunes, “for help. Someone to help you, you understand? A doctor.” Maybe the word for doctor is the same in Polish? He watches me intently, then suddenly puts out his hand, as if to hold me back. Or maybe he wants me to feel his pulse or something…
I reach forward, and take his hand. It is cold, but the grip is surprisingly strong. He seems to want me to come closer. I edge forward, until I’m beside him. If he’ll let me uncover his legs then I can see how badly injured he is. But probably he’s embarrassed, if the sea has torn off all his clothes.
That stain on the sand is definitely blood. The thought of seeing the wound makes me feel sick. He is still looking into my face, and this time his lips move.
“Morveren,” he says.
He’s understood! I feel warm all over with relief. “Yes! I’m Morveren.”
He lets go of my hand, and points to his own chest. “Malin,” he says.
“Your name is Malin?”
“Yes, my name is Malin,” he says, in perfect English but with an accent I don’t recognise. I’m so stunned that I drop his hand and rock back on my heels.
“You speak English!”
“Yes, I speak your language. Morveren, you must help me. You must help me to go back to the sea.”
Now I know for sure that he is very ill. Probably having delusions or whatever people get when they’ve had a blow on the head. “Don’t worry, I’m going to get help for you. You’re hurt and you need to go to hospital. Will you… Will you let me try to move the sand away, so I can see what’s happened to you?”
He frowns sharply. His eyes
