We Shall Sing a Song into the Deep

by Andrew Kelly Stewart

  I pull aside the heavy lead shield obscuring the porthole-sized window.

  Peering inside, a faint blue light emanates. His light. At the compartment’s center sits a tall metal cylinder, the top half only—the rest of the shape is clearly embedded in the deck. The reactor. All manner of small pipes and hoses sprout from it. What looks to be a pump wheel. But the post is unmanned. Empty. I turn, looking to the hatch at the far end of the compartment, on the other side of the hulking, humming engine.

  This will be the bottommost aft compartment.

  Where I’ll find Lazlo.

  I waste no time.

  Wheeling and swinging open the heavy hatch, a wave of reek assaults me.

  Human effluence. Rancid fish oil and sick.

  My eyes must adjust to the darkness. A few points of light here. Small grease wicks that seem to only accentuate the gloom.

  I step in, and my eyes begin to adjust. Shapes move in that dimness. Figures begin stirring from the canvas hammocks that hang between the tall main seawater tanks. My feet are damp as I step deeper into the reeking, narrow, low, place.

  The Forgotten.

  Not boys but lean, starved young men who must have toiled back here, in these recesses, perhaps since even before I was fished out of the sea.

  Shirtless. Ragged. Racks of ribs protruding like washboards. Gruesome and noisome, and hollow beings.

  Faces I have forgotten completely until now. Names that were almost lost to me.

  Edwin, with his brown eyes, his fringe of gunny-sack colored hair. Yes, of course I remember Edwin. A Demi sent aft years ago. Grown up now. But still alive. Perhaps too tall to work in the reactor chamber.

  Chamberlain, with the missing pinky finger on his left hand. He had such a rich, warm voice. Before it broke.

  And here is Francis, who could not remember his vocal assignments, no matter how many times we practiced them.

  Jarod, with his fringe of red hair that always seemed to grow back within days of shearing.

  Their names, their faces swimming back into memory.

  Some I do not recognize at all. Some that have been brought aboard only to serve in engineering. Not even Forgotten. Not known.

  They look at me as though I’m the ghost. As though I’m the one only half-living. Dark, lifeless eyes peering out at me from sunken sockets. I move deeper into the compartment.

  “L-Lazlo,” I call out.

  Some shrink back, as though they’ve never before heard a human voice.

  And, finally, one small, skinny figure approaches. The others part, making a path for him. No, it can’t be Lazlo. This boy is too frail. Too short.

  But, yes, it is. By the light, I see the gleam in his eye . . . the familiar face, though starved and warped almost beyond comprehension.

  And he smiles.

  Lazlo.

  Such brightness. Such light doesn’t belong here, in this place. But it tells me that this ghost of a boy is, indeed, him.

  My Lazlo.

  I rush forward. Clutch him. Squeeze his body so tight, his bones press into me.

  And he embraces me. Eventually. Carefully. Cautiously. And then fully, a grip so tight about my middle that my breath is almost taken from me.

  I fight back the tears.

  No time for that now.

  “You received my message?” I ask, pulling away to look at him.

  He nods, still bewildered. Still unbelieving. But he nods.

  “Is it time?” Edwin asks, stepping forward. Yes, I remember his voice.

  “It is! We’re going to get out . . .” I whisper. “All of us. We have to act fast.”

  “I’ve prepared them,” Lazlo says, nodding behind him. “We’re ready to help.”

  What at first seemed a weak rabble of figures now has transformed. Those who can, stand beside Lazlo in resolution. Stand tall.

  There’s also a flurry of activity. Several of them have stepped into action, one moving a large canister, pulling out a concealed bundle. Another, moving aside bedding, searching.

  “We’ve gathered a bit of food,” Lazlo says.

  “And a few tools—they might do for weapons,” Francis says, taking out a hammer, a piece of lead pipe, and a thin, rusted strip of steel.

  I almost want to cry. “You’ve all done . . . so well . . . okay—”

  “Shhh!” someone says. “He’s coming.”

  I look back to the hatchway, still hanging open.

  “What’s this . . .” Brother Dormer begins as he barges in, but halts. He sees the tools—the weapons—hanging in hands.

  Sees me.

  Before I can speak, before I can even move, one of the Forgotten has sprung on top of him, clawing. Another, striking out with his fists. Brother Dormer, caught off his guard, is knocked to the deck in a stupor, fending off the attack best he can with his arms out in front of him.

  Others join.

  Chamberlain and Jarod. And then Edwin, with what must be a sack of bolts in hand. He raises the bludgeon, ready to swing, but I clutch his arm before he can bring it down.

  “No!” I say.

  They are all looking at me. Fury and hatred. Pain, all pouring from their eyes.

  “He isn’t . . . he isn’t bad,” I say.

  “They’ve starved us,” Edwin says, voice raw. Cheeks wet. “They’ve beaten us . . .”

  “We might need help from them in the end. Anyway, they’re trapped too.”

  Brother Dormer stares up at me, a dumb, shocked expression.

  “Trapped in a different sort of way,” I continue. “That’s why we’re going to save as many of the brothers as we can. Is that clear?”

  No one answers for a time. I worry that I’ve lost them—that they’ll push me out.

  “What’s next?” Edwin finally asks, easing the tension.

  “We have to shut down the engine and force the boat to surface,” I say. “Shut down the hydraulics. The power. Can we do that?”

  It’s Lazlo who answers. “Yes.”

  Others in the circle nod in agreement.

  “We need to seal off engineering completely.”

  “And then what? What are we waiting for?” Lazlo asks.

  “A rescue.”

  “A rescue? From who?” Edwin asks.

  “Topsiders . . .” I say.

  Perhaps a few concerned or shocked expressions, but I receive no resistance. They all nod. They’re ready.

  It doesn’t matter who it is rescuing them. Anything must be better than this.

  “You’ll need to take the maneuvering shack,” I say. “Brother Leighton should be on duty.”

  “We can handle him,” Edwin says.

  “Before he can alert the bridge,” I say. “Don’t kill him.”

  They all nod in response. Lazlo.

  “Okay. I’ll be back.”

  “Wait—” Lazlo says, latching on to my arm like a vise. “Don’t go. Not without me.”

  “There’s a prisoner. Someone who has been helping me . . . helping us. She’s important. I have to free her. . . .”

  “Then you’ll need at least two. I’ll go with you,” Edwin says.

  “And me,” Chamberlain agrees.

  “No,” I say. “It’ll have to be me alone. Anyone else walking through will be too conspicuous.”

  A deep thong resounds throughout the boat. Hammer against hull.

  Now is the hour for private prayer and reflection.

  Now is the time to act.

  “I have to go now,” I say to all of them. “The chapel will be clear. Keep the hatch sealed until I return. I’ll knock three times.”

  I ready myself, turn away, but Lazlo is still gripping my hand. Tears in his eyes.

  I embrace him again. Deeply. He is weak. So weak, in fact, that it is me who is helping to brace him. “They have treatments Topside,” I say. “They’ll be able to help you.”

  His frail body quakes.

  “I’ll return,” I say. “Soon.”

  I glance down at Brother
Dormer as I go, now lying bound on the deck. Not struggling. Not fighting. He tracks me with his eyes as I pass. As though I am some alien creature.

  * * *

  I pause at the hatchway to the chapel, peer inside.

  Empty—just as I had hoped. The evening meal is soon to be served.

  There, on the port side of the long chamber, on the other side of the missile tubes, a line of what were once former offices but are now used as cells. The third one is where Adolphine is being kept.

  “It’s me,” I whisper through the vents at the top of the metal door, then unlatch it slowly.

  With a grease wick in hand, I swing the door open, find a figure dressed in rags, huddled in the corner of the small compartment.

  “Re-Remy?” a cautious voice asks, confused, blinking away the light, unfolding herself from her curled position cautiously. Here, now standing before me, Adolphine. A face I have only seen in profile. But a voice I know well. My confessor these past weeks.

  She’s a lean and sinewy woman. Her black, braided hair, pulled back, featuring a gaunt face. Her eyes are the only thing familiar, other than her voice.

  “We have to go forward with the plan . . . now,” I whisper, glancing quickly at either end of the chapel hatchways and ladders. Still clear.

  “But . . . but it’s early,” she says, understanding now what is happening. “We’re a day early, isn’t that right? We’re not at the coordinates.”

  “There’s no choice,” I whisper. “No time to explain. We’ll be caught if we don’t act now. The Forgotten. They’re taking control of engineering as we speak.”

  She blinks in response, stares forlornly at the deck. As though she is confused. Lost.

  “You . . . you have the key with you?” she asks. Perhaps she didn’t hear me. “The missile key?”

  “Yes,” I say, removing it from my robe pocket, holding it in my hand.

  “Good,” she says, oddly, looking at me—or, perhaps through me.

  She’s dazed. Hungry. Exhausted.

  “Hurry now!” I turn to rush aft, but she doesn’t follow. Instead, she has seized my wrist tight.

  “What?” I ask as she pulls the key free from my hand.

  In her expression, both fright and fury. “It’s too soon,” she whispers. “I haven’t finished fixing the missile yet.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it? Come . . .” I try to pull her along, but she will not budge. She remains at the doorway of her cell.

  My heart sinks, looking back at her, into her brown eyes.

  “This is our only chance,” she says. “Our last chance to take out the Liánméng fleet. They’re all docked . . . in one place. If we act now, then it’s over. The war will be over.”

  I try to pull away now, but she won’t let me. She’s gripping my arm so tightly, it burns.

  Deep dread pours all over me. Seizes my bones. “I . . . I thought you said . . . you said there would be peace.”

  “There will be. I promise you that,” she says. Her eyes darken.

  “Liar . . .” I whisper.

  “I know, child,” she says, patting my hand. “This was always our mission. One missile left in the world . . . one last chance to end the war. We had to find the Leviathan, to make it operational again. To launch it. I could not have done it without you.”

  “Lazlo . . . we were going to save him . . . the others.” I finally manage to pull away, but she seizes my shoulders, fingers digging in, yanks me close to her.

  “You forget that boy, hear me?” she whispers now. “You can still save yourself . . . slip away from them when we are at launch depth . . . that will be no more than two hundred feet. You can ditch at that depth. Remember what I told you—”

  “No,” I say, breaking down, crying. Not believing it.

  She, too, is crying. This stranger. She kisses my cheek. Now she has taken both my arms, gripping them tight. Not to embrace but to restrain me. To keep me from fleeing.

  “Save yourself,” she whispers hotly into my ear. Then she shouts. “Here!” Louder than any voice has uttered on this boat. “He’s trying to escape!”

  8

  I WAKE TO DIMNESS. Smell of rust, rancid oil. Vision blurry, a figure takes shape. I am on the deck, in Caplain’s quarters, hands bound behind my back. Wrists at painful angles, numb.

  Marston is seated at his desk, parchment laid out before him, three oil lamps lit, flames guttering.

  He’s humming an energetic tune.

  I try to move. Can do little more than lift my head.

  “I’m finishing our final hymn,” he says, without turning or looking. He must have heard me stir. “What we shall sing as we descend. The final song we shall sing into the deep.”

  He turns in his chair. About his neck hangs the missile key. The real one. In his hands, folded sheaves of parchment. He blows on the ink to dry it, then shows me the cover of the folio. Penned there, in ornamental lettering, the words Cantio Maris.

  Song of the Sea.

  “I’ve known you can read for some time—Latin as well,” he says, setting the folio on the desk behind him. Then he leans in close. “I know many of the secrets you and Caplain Amita shared. But the big one—I only just sussed that out a few years ago.”

  “You knew?” I lick my lips. An arc of fire. I taste dried blood.

  “He didn’t tell me—Caplain Amita. I figured it out on my own. I heard it in your voice, eventually. There’s a . . . unique quality to the castrati voice. Beautiful, yes. But a shade away from natural. Not yours, though.”

  “And why have you kept me alive, then? So long after Caplain Amita’s death.”

  “Because of your voice, child. Faith needs nurturing . . . our little flame, here in the darkness, in need of stoking,” he says, peering up, to an unknown height. “You have lifted us up for so long. That is why Caplain kept your secret, no doubt. He knew your . . . utility.

  “My, my, but you have kept your own confidences and kept them well.” He looks down at the key hanging about his neck. “This, I did not know about. That Amita had kept the real key hidden all this time. That he gave the real one to you.”

  “He didn’t trust you . . .” I say, throat dry.

  “He was the one not to be trusted, Remy,” Marston says, standing now. So very tall from this position. Crooked. “He knew all along the missile would not fire. He had no intention of delivering the Last Judgment.”

  “There is a world out there . . .”

  “Sinners.”

  “People. Good people . . .”

  “People like this woman. Adolphine. She who lied to you, who took advantage of you to serve her own whims? She’s told me everything. About your plan for escape, for rescue. The message you sent.” He shakes his head.

  “What happened to her?”

  “You care? After all she has done? After her betrayal?”

  Survive, she whispered to me.

  “I do,” I say.

  “She finished repairing the Last Judgment. Then she was returned to the sea. Where she belongs. God will decide the fate of her soul. Whether she redeemed herself.”

  I close my eyes.

  “She reprogrammed the missile,” I say. “It won’t strike where you want it to. It isn’t even targeted at Sydney any longer. Without her, you won’t be able to reprogram it.”

  Marston laughs gently to himself, oddly.

  “You think it matters where the missile strikes? It is the last. Blessed by God. It will usher in the end of days regardless.”

  These words. I once believed them. How, now, is it that they sound so unfamiliar?

  “There will be no rescue, dear Remy,” he says with a mock sympathy. “Even the closest Coalition ships are days away. And the Liánméng submarine that attacked has not followed us into these waters.”

  I fight the urge to cry, even though a heat is building. A stinging.

  “I see in you the same weakness as our beloved Caplain,” Marston says, staring down at me fixedly. Disappointed. “The
same I saw in Brother Calvert’s eyes. Yes, I know he was the one who turned on us. Divulged the secrets of our order to the Topsiders. Oh, how you’ve been seduced . . . how easily, by his lies. The lies of your friend, Adolphine. You were ready to leave us . . . to abandon our order, after we have given you everything.”

  “You’ve starved us . . . beaten us . . . mutilated us. Lied to us,” I say. I know now these are words I’ve wanted to speak out loud, to utter, for longer than I even knew.

  “To try and purify you . . . but I can see that has not worked. Not for you or for Lazlo.”

  “Caplain Amita gave me the key for a reason,” I say. “He wanted me . . . me to decide. To be able to say that no . . . the time is not right. Perhaps it would never be right. He knew that.”

  “And he was a fool who had lost his faith in the end. Thank God I am here to enact His plan for the world. And we must ready ourselves,” Marston says, nodding, reveling in his own righteousness. “Your heart is corrupted, but you are too important to be rid of here . . . in these final hours.”

  “Utility,” I say.

  He nods.

  “You should ask St. John to sing your hymn. He is very eager.”

  Caplain Marston gives a short, dry laugh. “He is that. But even if he was in a place to sing, after you unleashed your . . . fury upon him, he does not have your gift. No, I wrote this for you.”

  “But why would I sing now?” I say, trying to sit up. “Sing for you?”

  “Not for me . . . for your brothers. For Lazlo. Don’t you want to give them some comfort before we descend . . . an exaltation of the spirit?”

  I don’t answer.

  He frowns.

  “Sing the Cantio,” he says, “and I will let you see Lazlo again. I will bring him back from Engineering. You will spend your last hours with him.”

  I search Marston’s face for sincerity. Indeed, he has said these words with the same intense conviction in which he has said everything else.

  Lazlo. If he is with me, then perhaps we could still flee together. Find a way to escape. Like Adolphine said.

  “But . . . I don’t believe anymore,” I say, honest as I can. Strong as I can. “I don’t know if I ever really did.”