Wow! eBook
The Accomplice
Author(s): Kathryn Heyman (Author)
- Publisher: Headline Review
- Publication Date: 7 April 2003
- Language: English
- Print length: 320 pages
- ISBN-10: 075530215X
- ISBN-13: 9780755302154
Book Description
THE ACCOMPLICE describes one of the most shocking events of the seventeenth century: the wreck of the Dutch ship Batavia off the coast of Western Australia, and the extraordinary events that befell its stranded survivors. Combining a gripping narrative with vivid historical detail, THE ACCOMPLICE is a beautiful, terrifying, deeply moving novel of love and anarchy.
Editorial Reviews
Review
‘A powerful and heartbreaking novel’ — Tracy Chevalier, author of FALLING ANGELS and GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING
‘A superb mixture of lyricism and economy’ —
Sunday HeraldHeyman is in tune with the etiquette and nuances of the age. It’s a shocking story but she has a real gift for it’s telling —
MirrorAbout the Author
Kathryn Heyman grew up in Australia where she worked as an actor, playwright and, briefly, a deckhand. The Accomplice has received an Arts Council of England Writer’s Award and a Wingate Scholarship. It is her third novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Birth. It is always best to begin with birth.
Here is my mother. The doctor beside her, his long thin hands rubbing at his cuffs. I am beside him, watching the bony fingers. My father pacing downstairs, smoke curling from his pipe, his mouth in a tight-drawn line. Screams. Wails. Lashing about. This is what I expected, is that a wrong thing?
My father took me aside, when my mother was still round with the child, said, Judith, be strong, for your mother will be unable. She will be crying, even wailing. You must not fear, not for her, not for yourself. Do you understand me, little Jude?
Yes, I told him, yes, I did understand. But he was wrong. My mother is able to be strong and she is not weeping. All is still but for deep breathing. Her forehead creased with concentration, her hands stretched out, the veins blue and raised.
The doctor picks at his teeth, then raises my mother s gown. Yes, he says, you will soon be ready. Perhaps, Judith, some ale?
Downstairs, I pour the rich red brew. My father takes my wrist, spilling a drop of the ale onto his shirtfront. It spreads, like blood. His voice is anxious, desperate. Judith, he says, tell me how she is, tell me. Don t spare me.
Laughing, I say that really my mother is so well, she is adored by the angels and the saints. For a moment my father s face goes shadowed. For we have neither angels nor saints in our house; they do not belong in the house of God, and to speak of them is godless papist sport. My sisters are asleep, knowing nothing of my mother s pains which have called to her in the night. Knowing nothing of this vigil. It is true that it is not usual even for the eldest daughter to be present for this moment. But I am seventeen, and this is my mother s gift to me, this moment. Allowing me my presence. For I have waited for the arrival of this new child for long months. I have even felt his feet as he swelled within her. I feel sure that it is to be a boy, although my mother insists that the child is carried high which is a sure sign for a girl, being as each of we three girls were carried so high as to be almost below her ribs. Deep in the nights, I have whispered to him, as though he were in the very heavens waiting for my words. Fanciful, my father calls me. He jokes that I am to be kept away from the papists, for all their fluff is sure to fill my head. Which only makes me wish to meet one.
My mother is truly well, I tell my father. Now please, let me take the ale to the good doctor, or he will faint away and be no help to your wife at all.
He releases my hand and I run upstairs, hearing the wood clucking beneath my feet and the water beneath the wood whispering. The door to the chamber is dark and heavy, takes much of my weight to push and I spill another drop of ale. Silence inside, except for the deep, deep breathing of my mother. She is on her side, eyes tight shut and her body shuddering.
Dr Volkerson waves his hand, calls, Come.
He is going to tell me she is dying, that her shudders are unnatural indicators, that her very silence is a sign of death I am sure of these things and full of repentance for my calling on angels.
Hush, he says, he is coming. The child is coming. Wipe her brow, she is wet with strain.
I sprinkle ale on her head, for it is what I hold in the cup and I cannot bear even to cross the room for the water pitcher, not now, not with him coming.
My mother s eyes open wide, so that I think she has an entire sky forced between the lids. Her lips pull back and she does not look like my mother, but rather like an old and ugly horse. Her chin is thrust forward and I am thinking about these things, about her chin and the grotesque horse and such because I know that something terrible is coming. Her face tells it to me, her body shaking tells it to me, the doctor bowing over with his face frowning tells it to me. The whole impossibility of the thing tells it to me. My mother s thin body with her white gown twisted about her knees. Hair sticks to her face, and I pull it back carefully.
Don t touch, she yells. Want. No one. Damn. God. Uh. Creasing up her body, leaning down into herself.
Hush, Dr Volkerson says, all is well, hush. Looking at me, eyebrows up near his cap.
Get damned away, she snaps out. Damned away.
Her words are short, short as her breaths, and I back myself towards the door. Before I am there, though, at the door, there it is: her whole secret self widened out, dark on the edges, but wide and round and through the middle, holding tight, a slippery shining surface. Flat as a table and wet as an eye. Then somehow not flat, but round, tilted, though still wet. As round as a head.
Aaah, Lord, Lord, Lord, says my mother. Ahhhh, my Lord, oh, oh.
The sound is of water, of the slap of water, and he slips out so fast that I think he will fall, but he does not fall, he is held by the long hands of Dr Volkerson, Saint Dr Volkerson. Small and red and his lips like bubbles, he is my brother, he is born and I do not care what my good father says, there are angels and they are singing a deafening, wonderful tune.
Here is my mother. The doctor beside her, his long thin hands rubbing at his cuffs. I am beside him, watching the bony fingers. My father pacing downstairs, smoke curling from his pipe, his mouth in a tight-drawn line. Screams. Wails. Lashing about. This is what I expected, is that a wrong thing?
My father took me aside, when my mother was still round with the child, said, Judith, be strong, for your mother will be unable. She will be crying, even wailing. You must not fear, not for her, not for yourself. Do you understand me, little Jude?
Yes, I told him, yes, I did understand. But he was wrong. My mother is able to be strong and she is not weeping. All is still but for deep breathing. Her forehead creased with concentration, her hands stretched out, the veins blue and raised.
The doctor picks at his teeth, then raises my mother s gown. Yes, he says, you will soon be ready. Perhaps, Judith, some ale?
Downstairs, I pour the rich red brew. My father takes my wrist, spilling a drop of the ale onto his shirtfront. It spreads, like blood. His voice is anxious, desperate. Judith, he says, tell me how she is, tell me. Don t spare me.
Laughing, I say that really my mother is so well, she is adored by the angels and the saints. For a moment my father s face goes shadowed. For we have neither angels nor saints in our house; they do not belong in the house of God, and to speak of them is godless papist sport. My sisters are asleep, knowing nothing of my mother s pains which have called to her in the night. Knowing nothing of this vigil. It is true that it is not usual even for the eldest daughter to be present for this moment. But I am seventeen, and this is my mother s gift to me, this moment. Allowing me my presence. For I have waited for the arrival of this new child for long months. I have even felt his feet as he swelled within her. I feel sure that it is to be a boy, although my mother insists that the child is carried high which is a sure sign for a girl, being as each of we three girls were carried so high as to be almost below her ribs. Deep in the nights, I have whispered to him, as though he were in the very heavens waiting for my words. Fanciful, my father calls me. He jokes that I am to be kept away from the papists, for all their fluff is sure to fill my head. Which only makes me wish to meet one.
My mother is truly well, I tell my father. Now please, let me take the ale to the good doctor, or he will faint away and be no help to your wife at all.
He releases my hand and I run upstairs, hearing the wood clucking beneath my feet and the water beneath the wood whispering. The door to the chamber is dark and heavy, takes much of my weight to push and I spill another drop of ale. Silence inside, except for the deep, deep breathing of my mother. She is on her side, eyes tight shut and her body shuddering.
Dr Volkerson waves his hand, calls, Come.
He is going to tell me she is dying, that her shudders are unnatural indicators, that her very silence is a sign of death I am sure of these things and full of repentance for my calling on angels.
Hush, he says, he is coming. The child is coming. Wipe her brow, she is wet with strain.
I sprinkle ale on her head, for it is what I hold in the cup and I cannot bear even to cross the room for the water pitcher, not now, not with him coming.
My mother s eyes open wide, so that I think she has an entire sky forced between the lids. Her lips pull back and she does not look like my mother, but rather like an old and ugly horse. Her chin is thrust forward and I am thinking about these things, about her chin and the grotesque horse and such because I know that something terrible is coming. Her face tells it to me, her body shaking tells it to me, the doctor bowing over with his face frowning tells it to me. The whole impossibility of the thing tells it to me. My mother s thin body with her white gown twisted about her knees. Hair sticks to her face, and I pull it back carefully.
Don t touch, she yells. Want. No one. Damn. God. Uh. Creasing up her body, leaning down into herself.
Hush, Dr Volkerson says, all is well, hush. Looking at me, eyebrows up near his cap.
Get damned away, she snaps out. Damned away.
Her words are short, short as her breaths, and I back myself towards the door. Before I am there, though, at the door, there it is: her whole secret self widened out, dark on the edges, but wide and round and through the middle, holding tight, a slippery shining surface. Flat as a table and wet as an eye. Then somehow not flat, but round, tilted, though still wet. As round as a head.
Aaah, Lord, Lord, Lord, says my mother. Ahhhh, my Lord, oh, oh.
The sound is of water, of the slap of water, and he slips out so fast that I think he will fall, but he does not fall, he is held by the long hands of Dr Volkerson, Saint Dr Volkerson. Small and red and his lips like bubbles, he is my brother, he is born and I do not care what my good father says, there are angels and they are singing a deafening, wonderful tune.
