I am on a boat, adrift on an endless ocean. I am at once afraid of the infinite sea that stretches before more, and revelling in my freedom. No more will I have to worry about the future, for my future is the ocean and nothing else.
The boat has a captain, a grizzled old man who has been sailing these waters for as long as I can remember. He speaks with a strong london accent that seems unusual for a man who has spent his life on the waves, and only speaks in riddles. I ask him what lies ahead every day, and every day he has the same reply:
“More beautiful than your love,
More terrible than your fear,
The dead eat it always,
But should the living eat it they must die.
The poor man has it in abundance,
But only the richest of men wants for it.”
I try to ignore him, but I have a feeling of dread every time he answers.
We sail for weeks, the captain making wild adjustments to our course based on observations of the stars, the shifting of the winds, and whatever humours possess him. The sea is calm and flat in all directions, and the sun is never visible behind the wall of fog that lines the horizon, the day distinguishable from night only by the dull grey light that obscures the stars.
The ship is a hulking behemoth of a galleon, wooden decking, canvas sails and hemp rigging that creaks and moans with every movement. There’s no sign of a crew beyond that captain but in moments of silence between the sloshing of waves and the crash of the bow I think that I can hear voices calling from the distance. The captain never leaves the wheel, his figure a sentinel in the dull light, ever peering to the horizon and some far off destination that only he knows.
We sail for months, the repetition of my daily life a comfort in the featureless expanse of sky and sea. I don’t sleep, and time passes in a daze that I cannot fathom. How long we’ve been at sea I cannot tell, nor does the captain provide any kind of clue. Our conversations are fruitless, and so I take to standing at his side for hours at a time, trying to divine from his actions where we’re headed, but without success. The future is shrouded in mist, and I can do nothing but wait.
We sail for years, and at the same time it may just be moments. I try to climb the rigging, to make my way to the crow’s nest and gain a different perspective on our voyage, but am foiled by the intricacies of the rigging, the complicated weave of rope, sail and spar that makes progress impossible. Frustrated I simply hang there, suspended in space, my body swinging with the motion of the ship.
The captain calls out, “Land ho!” I see nothing, but follow his directions as best I can. Sails are furled and rigging braced. Then a thunderous crash splits the skies, and lightning blinds me. With no warning we’re sailing through the heart of a storm, the ship tossing and bucking in winds that threaten to capsize us. Sail cloth vanishes in the wind, and in the flashes of lightning I can make out the swirling mass of a tornado ahead of us. The captain screams instructions but his voice is lost in the tumult. I can hear voices calling to me from across the void, and I know that they are the dead, calling me home.
The ship lies broken on the shore, and I pull myself to me feet. Of the captain there is no sign. I wander the length of the beach, afraid to strike out into the forest that stretches out inland. Out to sea the storm rages on, lightning striking across the sky, clouds pulled and warped into the spout of the tornado.
A voice calls to me, calls me by name. It’s the first time I’ve heard my name in an age, the sound of it is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
A woman steps from the edge of the forest, her curly hair framing perfect features. She is wearing a black ball gown, and carries a small child in one arm.
“It’s okay Brian,” she tells me, “you’re home now.”
I know she’s right, and I follow her into the forest.