by Paul Lynch
Hector bows his head and lets loose a sob that shakes his body. Then he speaks in a low voice.
I did not pass fully through. I see this now. The self must be rid of the weight within it before there can be a passing through.
He closes his eyes and stops talking.
* * *
Bolivar tries to keep Hector warm with body heat and blanketing seaweed. He tells him things about himself of which he has never spoken. Regrets from an older life. He speaks to him about his daughter.
He says, I’m trying to figure out, Hector, what day you will begin to eat. So we can tell them back home. Is it this day or tomorrow? Isn’t that right, Hector, it was today you began to eat and get well again.
Bolivar cuts some bird meat and tastes it. He tries to wake Hector but he does not stir. Bolivar shakes him. He begins to shout.
What right have you to do this? You have no right. I will kill you first before you die. I will kill you in your sleep.
Then Bolivar sits in the cooler, puts his head in his hands and weeps.
I am sorry, my friend, he says. I do not know what I am saying.
He lifts Hector carefully into a sitting position, puts an ear to his chest. It is difficult to hear if Hector is breathing or not.
* * *
Bolivar wakes to primrose light. The panga pitching on a south-westerly swell. He says aloud, we are really moving on the water today. We have turned again. Now we are pointing north-east by north.
Hector does not answer.
Bolivar tries fishing with the plastic bag. Then he crouches before Hector. He tries to remember what day it was when Hector last spoke. He can see the parched skin is now a dying colour. He leans closer until he can see a semblance of the life force under the skin.
A faint pulse beneath the ribs. A flicker in the throat. A trembling in the tissue upon the eyelids.
He stares at Hector’s closed eyes and folded hands. He believes he can see the mind willing against the life force. The self willing against that which gives it being.
He thinks, he belongs here. He is a part of all this. He is a part of you. The way he sits in this space. The light as it rests upon the body. The shadow made by the body. That is his also. The salt on the skin. The salt must rest on something, it rests on him.
Bolivar finds himself shaking Hector.
Hey! Wake up! Come on, will you. Let’s go for a run.
He pulls Hector out of the cooler and swings him onto his back. Then he begins to run around the cooler. Quickly his chest grows tight. He falls onto his knees and drops Hector beside him. The youth begins to stir a little. He whispers faint words, lies watching Bolivar with skulled eyes that give a pensive, sorrowful look.
Bolivar claps his hands and says, you are awake! What would you like for breakfast? I can make you some eggs.
Hector slowly blinks.
Bolivar puts Hector back in the cooler. He sits hoping for some sign of the living will within Hector. Wishing it to rise and renew. But what he sees is winter light, the will in repose, the will prevailing barely in the awry breathing, the will withdrawn and acquiescent to something else being unwilled deep within.
What is told in the eyes.
Bolivar stands up and slaps his hands together.
Maybe I’ll kill a chicken for dinner.
Hector slowly lifts an arm. He reaches out a hand for Bolivar who steps towards him and gives Hector his wrist. Hector grips the wrist for a long time. Then he tries to lean forward. Bolivar helps him into a sit.
An old smile alights the youth’s eyes.
He speaks in whisper.
Bolivar, you are my greatest friend.
* * *
Bolivar sits alone watching the dusk sea. He sees a distant diving whale. The tail taking the shape of a soaring bird, water dripping off vanishing wings.
* * *
The sea without sun. Bolivar covers Hector with seaweed and rises. He beats his arms about his chest, rubs his legs and stretches, begins to run. He half-closes his eyes. He is running from the strip. He is running over back roads towards the hills and then he is running the rutted hill road, the air is dusty here, you have a long way to go, it is good that you came with food.
He thinks, she will not remember you now, a long time has passed, it is ten years or so. You will have to wash your face before you go, clean your nails, wear a nice shirt, speak a few words to her mother, tell her, look, isn’t it better I came back a repentant man than not at all? I was a weakling back then for sure.
The joints of his knees creak and there is a low-pitched complaint in his bones. He stops and leans upon the trim and bends into the wheezing breath. In the sky behind he can sense the air whispering two birds, knows from their path and call they have seen the boat. He turns then and sees two black-footed albatrosses begin to circle the boat.
* * *
He goes to Hector and shakes him gently by the shoulder.
Hey! Wake up. Are you hungry today? I have some smoked fish. You look very cold. It is OK, I will let you sleep a while longer.
Later, he tries again to rouse Hector.
Hey! Hector, it is time for you to wake! I have prepared for us a great dinner, all types of things, the very best, all the things you like.
Hey! Why won’t you wake?
* * *
He sits watching the wind, how it passes over the water.
* * *
During the day Bolivar lifts Hector out of the cooler and sits him against the hull. At night he lays him in the cooler, arranges his arms and legs, asks if he is comfortable. Then he climbs in and wraps his arms around him and sleeps. What he dreams. A dark and tunnelling black until he dreams he is Hector, Hector trapped within some dead dream of things that used to be. Bolivar wakes screaming. He lies then unable to sleep, listening to the sea. The moon laid out, ashen upon the hull.
* * *
He weeps as he carries Hector gently from the cooler. Weeps as he props him against the hull, arranges the arms and legs. Look, Hector, I have some chicken for you to eat. It is the loveliest day. Look at the sun, it is having a low day, for sure, but still you must see it. I wish I had the words to explain how lovely it is. It is a kind of lemon colour. You can see the same colour glistening on the water. I know you are sick of seeing these things, but still, the world is very beautiful. If only everyone could see this.
* * *
Bolivar tries to eat food but cannot. He watches the weather. Looking and looking until he cannot see what is seen. He tries to fish with bare hands. Then he just sits. A voice from long ago whispers a song and he begins to hum under the breath. It is a song he has not heard since childhood. The words come half-remembered and he sings along, tears falling down his face.
* * *
He sits talking aloud. He still cannot eat. He takes a few small sips of rainwater and rinses his mouth then swallows.
He says, we are running out of water again.
Then he says, I thought you were some sort of insect. What do you think of that? Now you are my closest friend. How strange life is, no? It is always trying to trick you. To make you do the wrong thing.
Do you know, the first thing I will do when I get home is I will go see my daughter. Then I will go see Rosa. Or maybe I will see Rosa first because I will have to return to the strip. Maybe those animal urges will return to my body. It has been a long time. She will be happy to see me, for sure. Then I will go see Alexa. I will be calm, yes, very calm going to visit her. Maybe Rosa will come with me, she will help, she will know what to do.
* * *
Look, Hector, I think you have made a bet. I think you have made the biggest bet that can be made on this earth. But I have made a different bet and I will prove you wrong. You will see, it is going to happen.
* * *
The sun rounds and rounds again. He sleeps or does not sleep, he does not know. He sits and watches his hands shaking. He grabs hold of Hector and shouts, this is all your fault, not mine! Then he turns upon h
imself, shouts at his hands to be still. He sobs uncontrollably, closes his eyes and slumps against the hull.
When he wakes he begins to scream, whirls with flailing arms upon seabirds that sit feeding on Hector’s face.
The birds flurry and flutter upward then settle on the sea.
Bolivar staring at Hector’s pecked-out eyes.
He begins to pull his own hair.
He says, I am so sorry, Hector. I am so sorry about this. It is all my fault. I was not looking out for you. Please forgive me.
He lifts Hector like a child and holds him to his chest. He cries and yells at the sky. Then he begins to curse himself. You are an ignorant fool. A buffoon. A simpleton. You should never have been born. You are not good enough to have even been a fisherman.
He sits still for a long time. He thinks he sleeps. When he wakes, Hector is still in his arms. The sea and the sky unbinding with light. He studies Hector’s face. The skin has relaxed and taken on a grey pallor. The trace of a smile on the lips.
Bolivar stares, unbelieving.
What is this? he says.
He drops Hector and storms about the boat.
He stands over Hector and shouts.
Look! I have had enough of this. I know you are not dead. So please, stop pretending.
He shakes Hector, drops him again and continues to shout.
I am better off without you. You have been nothing but trouble since the start. Look at you. You are a waste of life. You could have done so many things. I will tell them what you have done. I will tell them all the trouble you caused me. You are nothing but an insect.
He hauls Hector up by the armpits and reverses against the gunwale. Then with a swing, he lifts Hector over the side of the boat, stands hugging the body.
He cannot let go.
The wind blows Hector’s hair into Bolivar’s face and he spits the salty hair taste out of his mouth.
He wills himself to let Hector go but his arms remain locked around the body.
Then he screams.
He screams again and lets go.
Scarcely a sound as the body slides into the water.
He stares at his empty hands.
Bolivar lies within the cooler sobbing for his friend. He has forgotten to eat. Now and then he drinks a little water. Watching the shadows fall. Watching the shadows edge across the boat. The shadow as the life force of a thing. This is what he thinks. The life force trying to escape the fate of the thing, the body or the object. The shadow fleeing the barrel, fleeing from the knife. Staring now with horror at what issues from his own body. The shadows fleeing his darkened feet. The shadows fleeing his calves, his knees, his thighs. Soon, he thinks, there will be nothing left.
* * *
His hands are wet with sweat. He sits up and leans forward trying to breathe. He climbs out of the cooler, moving with the shadow, heavy and breathless and clutching at his chest. His eyes meet the sea and the sea carries his sight across the wastes of waning light towards some immense and unseen thing. A scream building inside his body. He turns and stares at the empty boat, his chest tightening, he is suddenly dizzy, he grabs onto the trim and sucks air.
For a long time he is afraid to move.
He tells himself not to look out upon the sea.
He looks out and the sea takes the thought to its farthest reaches until the thought falls inward upon itself.
He finds himself on his knees as though winded, his eyes squeezed against the light. He beats the hull with his fists, roars out Hector’s name.
You stupid insect! What have you done? How can you leave me alone?
He pulls himself up, kicks the hull then howls and grabs his foot, hobbles about the boat screaming Hector’s name.
He stares fiercely at the dark. Screams at it until his voice is hoarse.
This!
What you have done to me! Goddamn you!
What am I supposed to do now?
He sits against the hull nursing his foot. Then he folds his arms and does not move, sinks within himself.
He tells himself he will sleep like this.
He tells himself if he does not move he will not have to think.
The thought that presses from the darkest place.
What it says.
To stare directly at it. What it might mean.
You are alone.
* * *
From blackest sleep Bolivar snaps awake. A hand has touched his elbow. He opens his eyes into airless heat, turns to meet the sun’s meridian, his arms, his legs are burning. He senses another in the panga. He sits up bewildered, bats at the sun with his hand. He is searching for the remnants of a dream but there was no dream. He has slept like this, sprawled on the deck, the fierce sun flaming the hull to a dry and polished bone.
His dry tongue searches his mouth.
He climbs onto his knees searching for water.
It is then he sees Hector.
He screams, his hands clawing the air, the scream dying in his mouth. His mind willing the body to move backward but he stands rooted, only his arms can move, the thought screaming through the heavy heated blood.
Hector remains calmly seated by the stern, his hands resting on his lap. He is watching Bolivar with pecked-out eyes.
Hello, Porky.
* * *
Bolivar crouches with shut eyes refusing to look. Behind him the screeching aviary. He whispers, you are dreaming with open eyes. He opens his eyes and takes a look then shuts his eyes again.
He whispers, you can will yourself to wake if you do not look.
His hand slides quietly over the knife.
The heat resting in the hull is burning the skin and soles of his feet. He presses his body into the burn and wills the pain to wake him. Slowly, heavily, with shut eyes he sits himself up onto the bow seat. The hot air crawling in his throat. He pulls the knife towards his body. He opens one eye and then another.
There is Hector on the stern seat, his hands now resting with open fingers on the knees, the hair strewn over the face. A faint smile creasing the corners of the lips. He leans forward as though trying to force sight through the pecked-out eyes. Then he leans back.
He says, I know you are there, Porky.
For a long time Bolivar is unable to speak. He sits biting his tongue, staring at Hector as though willing what he sees to belong to a dream he can wake from.
Hector smoothly purses his lips and blows the hair out of his face.
Then he begins to move, his gaunt yellowed body hinging upward, his hand reaching blindly for the gunwale. He follows the trim around the back of the cooler and Bolivar crawls around the opposite side barely able to breathe. He cannot look as Hector feels his way to the bow, Hector bending to the aviary, the sound of teeth tearing into meat, then the sound of water being poured overboard, the sound of the empty barrel being dropped onto the hull.
Then Bolivar can feel Hector turning towards him.
The body moving.
He opens his eyes and waves the knife, roars for Hector to stay back.
What he sees is Hector stopped with a smile, a mess of blood and feathers behind him. Then the youth begins to move towards the cooler where he feels his way in and takes seat. He leans out and stares with blind eyes.
Relax, Porky. I only want to talk.
Bolivar tries to speak, his tongue upon the words but the sound will not come. He forces a dry swallow. Finds a whispered voice.
What are you? Some sort of devil?
The smile falls from Hector’s face.
He says, whatever do you mean? I am Hector, your greatest friend.
* * *
For a long time Bolivar crouches against the hull willing his eyes upon Hector. He sees in his mind his hands letting go of Hector’s body. The body sliding into the water and sinking into the deep. He studies now the ravaged body spread with ease in the cooler. The corrugations of skin over the ribs. The boil gnawing upon the neck.
He takes the knife and pits his own hip with it. Wat
ches the pinprick of blood and tastes it.
He studies the sea.
He tells himself, all this is real.
The heat as it tremors upon the water.
The sun rent upon the water in filament light.
The hull’s sudden groan as he lifts himself up.
He whispers, these things are real, yet you are losing your mind.
He sucks deep upon the leaden air, leans over the boat and breathes the salt air off the sea. He watches and sees ray fish deep down, shadowbirds in slow flight.
Just then Hector puts a hand on Bolivar’s shoulder.
He leaps back and screams and drops the knife.
Hector says, relax, Porky.
Bolivar stares at the knife. He stares at Hector’s pecked-out eyes watching where the knife might be. Bolivar moves then, grabs the knife, scrambles towards the stern, sits with the knife pointed.
Hector climbs back into the cooler.
He says, really, Porky, you should join me in here. It is hot as hell outside.
* * *
During the night Hector begins to call for Bolivar who lies uneasy and cannot sleep. In the dawn, Hector slides out of the cooler and looks towards Bolivar.
He says, there has been plenty of time to think, Porky. There is much to discuss. What type of man you are. You are not as simple as you contend. Surely, Porky, you understand this.
Bolivar presses the blade into the palm of his hand.
An unknown white bird lands upon the trim. Hector leans suddenly forward, the eyes upon the bird as though it can be seen. Bolivar watching the testing black bill. The quick wing-flick as it webs forward onto the deck.
