The Line Between

Henry Lee didn't laugh. He looked startled, and then he leaned so close I could see where he'd lost a side tooth and picked up a scar right by his left eyebrow — made him look younger, somehow, those things did along with that missing bit of ear — and he dropped his voice almost to a whisper, no matter there wasn't a soul near us. «No," says he, «no, Ben, he did better than that, a deal better than that. He taught me the making of salt wine.»

Aye, that's how I looked at him — exactly the way you're eyeing me now. Like I'm barking mad, and Jesus and the saints wouldn't have me. And the way you mumbled, «Salt wine?» — I said it just the same as you, tucking me head down like that, getting me legs under me, in case things turned ugly. I did it true. But Henry Lee only sat back and grinned again. «You heard me, Ben," he says. «You heard me clear enough.»

«Salt wine," I says, and different this time, slowly. «Salt wine … that'd be like pickled beer? Oysters in honey, that kind of thing, is it? How about bloody fried marmalade, then?» Takes me a bit of time to get properly worked up, mind, but foolery will do it. «Whale blubber curry," I says. «Boiled nor'easter.»

For answer, Henry Lee reaches into those dirty canvas pants and comes up with a cheap pewter flask, two for sixpence in any chandlery. Doesn't say one word — just hands it to me, folds his hands on the table and waits. I take me time, study the flask — got a naked lady and a six–point buck on one side, and somebody in a flying chariot looks like it's caught fire on the other. I start to say how I don't drink much wine — never did, not Spanish sherry, nor even port, nor none of that Frenchy slop — but Henry Lee flicks one finger to tell me I'm to shut me gob and taste. So that's what I did.

All right, this is the hard part to explain. Nor about merrows, nor neither the part about some bloody fool jumping on the back of a bull shark — the part about the wine. Because it were wine in that flask, and it were salty, and right there's where I run aground on a lee shore, trying to make you taste and see summat you never will, if your luck holds. Salt wine —not red nor neither white, but gray–green, like the deep sea, and smelling like the sea, filling your head with the sea, but wine all the same. Salt wine…

First swallow, I lost meself. I didn't think I were ever coming back.

Weren't nothing like being drunk. I've downed enough rum, enough brandy, dropped off to sleep in enough jolly company and wakened in enough stinking alleys behind enough shebeens to know the difference. This were more … this were like I'd fallen overboard from me, from meself, and not a single boat lowered to find me. But it didn't matter none, because summat were bearing me up, summat were surging under me, big and fast and wild, as it might have been a dolphin between me legs, tearing along through the sea — or the air, might be we were flying, I'd not have known — carrying somebody off to somewhere, and who it was I can't tell you now no more than I could have then. But it weren't me, I'll take me affydavy on that. I weren't there. I weren't anywhere or anybody, and just then that were just where I wanted to be.

Just then … Aye, you give me a choice just then, happen I might have chosen … But I'd just had that one swallow, after all, so in a bit there I were, me as ever was, back at that tavern table with Henry Lee, and him still grinning like a dog with two tails, and he says to me, «Well, Ben?»

When I can talk, I ask him, «You can make this swill yourself?» and when he nods, «Then I'd say your merrow earned his keep. Not half bad.»

«Best you ever turned into piss," Henry says. I don't say nowt back, and after a bit, he leans forward, drops his voice way down again, and says, «It's our fortune, Ben. Yours and mine. I'm swearing on my mother's grave.»

«If the dollymop's even got one," I says, because of course he don't know who his mam was, no more than I know mine. They just dropped us both and went their mortal ways, good luck to us all. I tell him, «Never mind the swearing, just lay out what you mean by our fortune. I didn't save no merrow — fact, I halfway tried to

save you from trying to save him. He don't owe me nowt, and nor do you.» And I'm on me feet and ready to scarper — just grab up those mangoes and walk. Ain't a living soul thinks I've got no pride, but I bloody do.