The Ancestor

by Lee Matthew Goldberg

  The ship lurches like a dancer who had one too many. Then it dips so far that an imaginary heart leaps out of my mouth.

  “Good luck at catching some winks,” he says. “Piece looks to be from the old country.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your mirror.”

  Somehow, he’s inched close enough for me to tell that he chose fish for supper. Each breath has a wheeze at its end.

  “I’m going to guess it’s from Ireland or Scotland around mid-century.”

  “My wife came from Ireland. It’s her mother’s,” I reply.

  His whole face turns into one large grin. “Heirlooms sure are special. Connects us to history. To who we were. That’s why I have such an affinity for antiques.”

  “The mirror’s not for sale,” I say, and whip it back into my pocket. I press it deep down so the photograph of my wife and son covers it for protection.

  “I would never ask such a thing!” he declares, looking as if he’s been spooked.

  “I am closing my eyes now.”

  He’s still talking but I’ve tuned him out. The rollicking waves allow me to go under and I’m submerged. When I surface in my dreams, I’ve reached a land of ice unlike I’ve ever seen before, as if the Earth has been covered with large mounds of white sugar. The air crisp like biting into a cold apple. My beard has grown. My pack heavy on my shoulders. My eyes permanently squinting from the eternal sun. I’ve hunted for what seems like eons but have not discovered what I seek. And then, like God’s great finger points the way, the sunlight flashes against a cave. But as I peer closer, it isn’t the sunlight that causes a glow, but gold itself, mounds of it, sparkling especially for me. There don’t seem to be other men around, since my stubbornness has allowed me to last longer than any others in this barren expanse. I rush over, my legs creating windmills, adrenaline coursing through my body. I smell the sweet essence of my prize and I dig my hands into its warm center, but when I pull out, my right hand gets caught in a trap, a sucking void that clamps around my wrist. I yank and yank but to no avail. The cave too strong. The gold a tease. The sun sinks and night brings its fever chill. I can no longer feel my hand anymore as a blizzard brings its torturous camouflage. The snow climbs so high I cannot see anything. My world encased in dark white. My limbs crackling until they become frozen stiff. I am aware of this imminent evil death until my brain finally freezes, allowing me a sweet release, a soul never longing for the end as much as I on this tundra.

  When I wake, I’m chilled to the core believing this nightmare as truth until my gaze focuses on the surrounding mattresses and bunkmates. I’ve never been so happy to see a bevy of dirty men. I thrust my hand with brilliant wiggling fingers into my pocket to get a quick dose of my beloved Adalaide and Joe. Not only can’t I feel the photograph, but the mirror is gone too! I check my other pockets but all are empty. I check in my pack but no sign. That sneaky pickpocket with the snake eyes stole them. And he will pay dearly for his crimes.

  I look around the passengers’ quarters. Most of the men gone, probably having breakfast. A few missionaries huddle in a circle, their lips whispering silent prayers. I approach but they receive me with lecherous eyes.

  “You seem troubled,” one of them says, his voice steady unlike the ship that still beats against the waves.

  “My mirror,” I say, mouth dry from dehydration. “It’s been stolen.”

  They confer with one another like they’ve never heard of this object before.

  “Tell us about this mirror,” another one says.

  “My wife gave it to me before I departed.” I can feel the tears creeping. “It was from her late mother.”

  “Where did you have it last?” a third one with a strangely boyish face asks.

  “In my pocket! My bunkmate took it!”

  “Did you see him do this?” the first one asks, so skinny that his cheeks cave.

  “No, but he commented on it. He was eyeing it. I’m sure it was him.”

  “Brother,” the second one says. His hand on my shoulder. “We must be careful of false accusations.”

  I slap his hand away. “He’s the only one who could’ve taken it.”

  “Oftentimes, we misplace things,” the third one says. “And then we subscribe unfair blame. Look to God as to where you may have lost your mirror.”

  He points to the ceiling, as if God resides there. The ceiling drips a brownish muck.

  “Do you go to church?” the skinny one asks.

  I went to the local church every Sunday with Adalaide. While she didn’t have a religious fervor like some others, she spoke to God often, pleading to Him for Little Joe.

  Asking for the chills to subside. For her baby to turn warm and rosy. But I found church belaboring. I’d try to tune it out but the singing of the hymns and postulations were distracting. I would find God, or whatever He may be, while fishing. The meditative aspect of lolling on the waters, not rollicking, but simple, still. The prize not being the actual fish but a day spent in thoughtful solitude, something I often found difficult to attain. My mind always zeroing in on gold, rarely losing focus. Fishing gave me that break from the constant thrum. And if that meant God had a part in it, then I’ll solely believe in Him; but if not, it’s the same by me. I don’t need a Bible as a guide, for that is a weakness most suspect in humankind.

  I wrench away from the trio of missionaries and locate my bunkmate’s pack. He has equipment for hiking in arctic conditions like I do, but I find no mirror or photograph.

  The missionaries watch while shaking their heads back and forth in judgment. I yell vile curses at them, then I bound up to the deck, delirious from hunger pains, nausea nipping at my belly, fearful that I’ll lose the faces of my beloveds if I don’t retrieve what’s been taken from me.

  In the mess hall, I find Frank. I tell him what has happened and we vow to make the thief pay for what he’s done. We roam the room but our man is nowhere to be found. I’m weak and starting to hallucinate, so Frank gets me a plate of eggs in cream with a slab of meat as a side. I gobble it up but the meal doesn’t nourish because I’m emptier than ever.

  “There’s nowhere for him to hide,” Frank says. “We are on ship, mind you.”

  “If it’s not in his pack, he must have it on him.”

  “Or he found another hiding spot.”

  “Why steal the photograph?” I ask. “It holds no value.”

  “Thieves tend not to be choosy.” He blows a long gust of snot into his handkerchief.

  “Sometimes they commit crimes for the thrill. It’s a compulsion.”

  “I’ll kill the rogue if I find that mirror on him.”

  “As you should. He deserves punishment.”

  “I see him!”

  I knock my plate over as I leap up and head to the exit. There’s a mass of people with the same plan in mind and I struggle to make it through the crowd. The thief’s slithery bald head shines like a freshly waxed floor and I’m determined to keep it in my sights.

  The crowd, however, starts to thicken and it becomes impossible to go any faster. He recedes farther and farther away. I try to reach out but it proves useless, he slips through my fingers like the slippery eel he is. When I make it out the door, he has vanished. Frank scurries up and slaps me on the back.

  “Ah Wyatt, we’ll get him next time. Like I said, nowhere for him to run except if he goes overboard.”

  Frank’s laugh is more phlegmy than usual. The sound like rusty gears grinding.

  I heave the creamy eggs over the side of the ship. My sickness floating, breaking up, and dissipating into the air.

  August 14th, 1898

  Midnight. The day has shown to be mostly fruitless. Frank and I scoured every inch of the cursed ship, but alas, no thief. We questioned other passengers, describing the rogue in full, but no one seemed to ever witness his presence. He’s like a ghost that invaded and stole off with a prize. Two members of the crew, Henry and Clark, proved to be just as useless. Half drunk and
slurring, they refused to produce a log of all the passengers, saying it was against regulations. Henry damn near suggested I created the whole farce for nefarious reasons. When I asked them what those could be, he eyed Clark like they were in cahoots, and told me that sometimes people make up stolen objects as a way of pilfer-ing. Someone on the ship bound to be carrying a silver mirror, and therefore, would be subject to hand it over because of my accusation. I nearly popped him in the mouth.

  Frank and Clark had to hold me back, but I’m strong like a wolf, always have been. Neither could restrain me, but luckily, I calmed down. If I hit him, the captain would probably boot me off.

  Speaking of the captain, I inquired about him as well. When I knocked on his cabin door, he seemed to be deep into a bottle of fine bourbon. He was nice enough to share a sniff and we sat by his lone window staring out at the waters that for once had quieted.

  Captain Willis Thistle, a beast of a man, with hands as big as baseball gloves and a ropey body full of muscle and sinew. He had a beard he tugged on when in deep thought and eyes that had clearly seen parts of the world I couldn’t even imagine.

  “After gold, are you?” he asked, smacking his lips after a heavy snort of bourbon. “We should reach Sitka by the end of the week. What do you do then?”

  “Likely make my way by foot.”

  “Long journey. Yes. Even though it’s summer, winter sneaks up before you know it.”

  “Unfortunately, my concern right now is about this thief you have on board.”

  “Took your silver mirror, say you? ’Tis a shame. Should warn passengers of bringing valuable objects on board.”

  “My wife snuck it in my pocket as a memento.”

  “Ah, women know how to please our hearts. Yes. I was married but lost her to tuber-culosis. Awful way to go. Still, I spend most of the year at sea, so we rarely saw each other.”

  “I’m often gone too.”

  “After that gold?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, we all have our compulsions. I, for one, don’t feel settled unless the ground beneath my feet is made of water. Don’t like feeling steady.”

  He tugged at his beard and then stopped as if he was displeased with his deep thought.

  “I asked your crew member for the passenger log so I could locate this thief,” I said. “I know his initials. CFL. But the crew member was very disrespectful.”

  “Asked Henry, did ya? Well, there’s a sumbitch if I ever knew one. I tell you what…”

  He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a large book. Licking his finger, he opened to a page of last names that started with the letter L.

  “Langford, Carl Finnegan. There’s your CFL.”

  He snapped the dusty book shut and picked up a glass half full of bourbon.

  “Although I don’t know how the name will help. If this man became a ghost as you say.”

  “I appreciate the effort, Captain.”

  “Think nothing of it, my friend. Now go, find your mirror!”

  I left his quarters elated. With a name plus a physical description, at least I had more to go on. Yet still no one knew of this man. People started to get angry as I accidentally asked them twice. I almost got in another fight, this time with two fishermen, which Frank had to aid me in subduing.

  “Ya can’t fight the world over this,” Frank told me. “We’ll keep trying, but we’ll reach our first port soon and your man might hop off there.”

  “No, he’s after gold. I looked through his pack. He’s not a fisherman. He’ll stay on like me till Sitka.”

  Now long past midnight, I scribble all this in my journal instead of sleeping and gearing up for my adventure like I should. Frank snores a few mattresses away. I understand his advice, but I will not heed. I will fight the world until the mirror returns because I am never one to back down.

  I turn to my left. The thief’s mattress stays empty but his pack remains in its place. In the alluring darkness, I go through it again searching for any kind of clue as to who this man might be. Long johns, heavy boots, a tiny hunting blade, a similar coat to mine, but nothing personal or revealing. I slide the blade out of his pack and slip it under my shirt.

  Eye for an eye, of sorts.

  Because I am restless and sleep seems like a fantasy, I make my way up to the deck to witness the moon. The moon has always been a savior when I’m the loneliest on my quests, for Adalaide could be looking up at the same moon at the same time, bringing us nearer together.

  Sure enough, the moon beams in its glory, not full but close to it and bathing the ship in illustrious blue. The sea laps dark and the waves are pointed. The sky tar-black and never-ending. The Earth seeming so grand yet so small at the same time. Limitless yet our ship feels encased in our own tiny globe. It is then I spy a man sitting by the stern. He is alone, and in the night appears like a phantasm, not quite real but more than imagina-tion. I pursue this entity. Sleeplessness and sickness from the food aboard along with the constant rocking of the ship has caused delirium in me, and I wonder if this is a creature from my past come to pay a visit. I imagine my father’s ghost willfully descending to im-part advice for my upcoming jaunt. A stern man with round glasses and always a neat part in his hair, burly shoulders and palms full of cuts and grit, a life of traveling and never idling. He’d be proud to know I’m headed to Alaska to seek what alluded and eventually killed him.

  But as I step closer, I see not my father, but the man I’ve been pursuing since yesterday. His bald head shines against the moonlight like some crystal ball. The tattoos smear-ing his body tell stories of his life. There’s a bear I assume he killed and marked himself for glory. A couple of skulls proving he’s witnessed more than one death. A sword that might indicate he was responsible for taking a life. His lizard eyes blink in my direction,

  regarding this battle he knows is bound to occur. I feel the blade’s handle pressing against my abdomen.

  “Sleepless as well?” he asks, his voice calm and surprising. I am caught off guard.

  “Where is the mirror?”

  A growl to my tone, purposefully threatening. He regards me with those lizard eyes, carefully blinking.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Stand up!”

  I’ve reached beneath my shirt, clutching the blade. My body shakes but my hand remains steady for what I may need to do.

  He complies, getting his balance. It’s difficult since the ship bats around in the night more than during the day. The dark sky a scourge.

  “Those beds,” he says, rubbing his neck. He’s trying to deflect.

  “Where is my mirror?”

  “You’ve lost your mirror. What a shame.”

  I cannot tell if he’s being facetious. His face offers a wry grin that could be apologetic or damning.

  “When did you have it last?”

  “When you commented on it!”

  I’ve bared my teeth now, fangs digging in to my bottom lip.

  “I do not have it, friend.”

  “I’m not your friend!”

  He’s looking over my shoulder, possibly for assistance. I swivel around quickly but there is no one. Just the two of us in this defining dance.

  “I didn’t steal your mirror. I am not a thief.”

  There exists a quiver at the end of each of his words. A palpable fear, either from being caught or the uncertainty of the lengths I will go to reclaim my treasures.

  “My photograph as well. You’ve taken my family.”

  “I am not that man.”

  “Empty your pockets!”

  His eyes go wide. I do not realize why until I see the hunter’s blade has been directed at him.

  “That’s my—that’s my knife,” he says.

  “I won’t tell you to empty your pockets again.”

  He turns every one of his pockets inside out. Nothing.

  “Your boots, take them off.”

  “Do you really think I’d hide a mirror in my boot?”

  “I do
not know what you are capable of.”

  “Nor I you, sir.”

  He slowly removes each boot and shakes them out.

  “It could be tucked in your pants,” I say, indicating him to remove them too.

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “Take them off!”

  “I will not.”

  I jab the blade in his direction, slicing through air, showing how serious I can be.

  “I did not steal anything from you!”

  The two of us are yelling at each other now, hard to discern what we are saying. I’ve left my body, become a wild animal, the wolf within. He guides my choices. I’m tearing at the thief’s clothes, patting him down to locate my mirror. He’s twisting and turning and making it difficult. He reaches for the blade, grappling my wrist. We push and pull, the ship dipping and rising, and then somehow, through force of nature or plain frustration, the blade cuts into flesh. I step back to witness what I have done.

  The thief staggers with the blade stuck in his stomach all the way to the handle. Blood pours forth, slicking his body in red.

  “What have you done?” he asks me.

  “Why did you do it?”

  I’m crying now, begging for him to give me answers. But he is silent, numb. His brain shutting off, lizard eyes rolling to the back of his skull.

  The ship dips again and nearly flings him over. I do what must be done and help him along. He spins over the edge with a flip and flops into the water, a dark circle forming around the body before it’s swallowed entirely by the night. I cannot see him anymore, convincing myself it was all just a horrible dream. There’s a little blood on the deck but I smear it with my boot until it’s camouflaged into the wood.

  Then I descend to the passengers’ quarters, lie flat on my back, and sleep better than I have ever since I arrived on this cursed ship.

  August 15th, 1898 (continued)

  We stop in Victoria, Nanaimo, and Tongas today. I am at peace since Carl Finnegan Langford could very well be getting off at any of the ports if he was still alive. Therefore, no one should inquire about him. When I wake in the morning, his pack has mysteriously vanished too, as if it’d been attached to the body. I slept through breakfast but Frank is nice enough to bring me down a plate of more creamy eggs. I think I have no appetite but I lap them up.