That Which Should Not Be

by Talley, Brett J.

  It was a ship, a two masted brigantine. A cargo ship. Blue hull with a golden railing. It was at full sail, a fool thing in that storm. Its bearing was upon us, directly on us, and in that gale it could make no move, no turn that would avoid us. I stood there as if turned to stone and my men with me.

  We watched as death approached, watched as it sliced through the waves. No, not through them, but over them, as if its sheer speed were so great it no longer touched the water. It was in that moment I noticed something else — a peculiar glow — as if the very wooden beams holding the ship together reflected the now constant lightning.

  At the last possible instant, the ship turned. An impossible turn, as if the raging seas gave no resistance. That insane vessel was now abreast. I scanned its decks in the brief seconds in which it passed us. If there was a crew, I didn’t see them. Not a man moved on that deck.

  My eyes went to the wheel. A man stood there. I had spent enough years at sea to know the look of command that bespeaks a captain. This was the master of that ship. He was tall, six feet by the look of him. He wore a sailor’s great coat — blue with large brass buttons. He was clean-shaven but for a large tuft of hair on his chin.

  He didn’t look at me, not ‘til the last second, and in his eyes I saw a mixture of defiance, determination and hate. Then he looked away, spinning the wheel with the ferocity necessary to maintain some semblance of control over that hurtling beast. The ship passed. Written in great golden letters on its stern were two words — Lydia Lenore. Lightning struck, and thunder boomed through the sky, shaking the timber beneath my feet. When the flash had passed and the rumble subsided, the ship was gone.

  I held fast, locked by fear and amazement to where I stood.

  “The Dutchman!” Drake yelled, falling to his knees. “The Dutchman!” someone else cried as the murmurs of fear and desperation began to spread like the plague through the crew. I was losing them, and in my own terror, I hadn’t the heart to bring them back. We would probably have foundered then, a crewless ship with no captain, tossed about in a maelstrom.

  In all my days at sea before and since, I have never seen anything I would call an omen. But in that night, we had two.

  There was a hissing, buzzing sound — I remember that distinctly. Then, an explosion of blue light. I looked up, and the masts were on fire. But not a fire that consumed, not a fire that burned. It ran up and down the mast like a dog chasing game. The yardarms were tipped with it, a pulsating flame that seemed to ebb and flow as the sea.

  “’Tis St. Elmo’s Fire,” Drake cried.

  In that cry I heard a different feeling, one of hope and determination. Without a word from me, the men leapt into work. We fought back against the storm, against the sea. It was a battle that raged all night, but by the third hour of the day, we won. The sea quieted, as if Jonah had been tossed into the mouth of the ocean. We were exhausted, all. I relieved my men of their duties; we were safe for now. Sleep came quickly. It was dreamless and void of the fury of the sea.

  * * *

  When I woke the next morning, I felt, in my heart, a rising sense of panic. Have you ever awoken in a place not your home, and for the briefest moment forgotten where you are or how you got there? That was what I felt that day. I sat bolt upright in my bed. Nothing moved, and that was the problem. A ship is movement. But not that morning. I sat still, as if rooted firmly upon the ground.

  A few moments later I emerged from my cabin. The men stood about, as still as the ship they were on. I looked out at the waters. It was a sea of glass: flat, even, unmoving. No breeze blew. The sails were limp. No wind stirred their folds. But it was the complete silence that moved me the most, even as the ship did not. The waves did not lap against the boat. The mainsail did not snap taut. The rigging did not clank against the wooden masts. We were, as the poet has said, “As idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean.”

  I stood riveted, for how long I cannot now say.

  “Captain,” Drake said, the merest tremble in his voice, “may I speak with you.”

  “Of course,” I said absentmindedly, still not believing my own eyes.

  “Privately, sir?”

  Finally, I awoke from my stupor. “Ye-es,” I stuttered, and then “Yes,” more firmly. “I feel we have much to discuss.”

  We stepped into my stateroom, Drake carrying a rolled-up chart in his hand. He placed it on a table, unrolling it without a word.

  “Every night I’ve taken our bearings,” he said. “As you can see, nothing unusual.”

  I looked down at the map. There were small circles penciled in at regular intervals, starting at Boston and heading to the middle of the Atlantic.

  “This was our location before the storm, according to the last bearing I took.”

  He pointed to the last circle on the chart, sitting precisely where it should be. Then, he straightened himself and put his hands behind his back, waiting for me to make the inevitable conclusion. I stared at that circle for five minutes, my mind turning over that almost perfectly round marking and what it meant for our current predicament. Finally, I understood.

  “This can’t be right, Drake.” I said quietly. “It can’t be right.”

  “I know, sir. But I’ve been at sea all my life. Each night was clear before the storm. It’s no difficult thing to chart a course, and I would wager my life each of those positions is correct.”

  He spoke the truth. I knew even as I could not believe what the chart was telling me.

  “I know, Drake. I’d wager my life on your readings, as well.”

  “But you are right, sir. They can’t be right. I’ve seen something like this,” he said, pointing towards the door, “only one other time. Twenty years ago. We were carrying cargo to Brazil. We had just crossed the equator when we hit the doldrums. For four days the wind didn’t blow. I hoped I would never see the likes of it again.”

  “Drake,” I said quietly, “according to your last chart position, we were three thousand miles from the doldrums when the storm hit. Three thousand miles. We can’t have been blown that far off course.”

  “And I have never heard of anything like this at our present latitude,” he said, finishing my thoughts.

  I looked down at the chart again and nodded.

  “But if these positions are wrong, it wouldn’t just mean you charted them incorrectly. It would also mean I sailed us three thousand miles south when I meant to take us north and east. While I am prepared to admit possible mistakes, I doubt even a man on his first voyage could make such an error.”

  Now, both of us were silent. I looked down at the chart again, tracing that northeasterly path I had traveled dozens, no, a hundred times.

  “Tonight, take a new reading. Then we will know one way or another.”

  For a moment, Drake said nothing. I looked up at him and saw true fear in his eyes. Without speaking, I asked the question. He answered.

  “There’s more, sir.”

  “More?”

  “More.”

  “Worse?”

  “Worse.”

  We looked at each other, and he continued.

  “I took another reading. Last night. After you and the rest of the men turned in. I wanted to know how far the storm had blown us off course.”

  Of course he had. It was why he had been the one man I wouldn’t have set sail without.

  “We aren’t in the doldrums, are we?”

  “No sir, we are not.”

  “Drake,” I said as evenly as I could, “where are we?”

  “I have no idea. Sir.”

  * * *

  As the sun dipped in the western sky, or what I assumed was still the western sky, Drake and I stood on the deck, watching the complete absence of motion. I had released the men earlier to their own devices. Ordinarily a ship is constant energy, constant movement. Yelled commands and controlled confusion. Not that day. Nothing changed, and thus there was nothing to change.

  But I had another reason, a darker reason, for wa
nting the men occupied in pursuits other than those involving the ship. If what Drake said was true, and I had no reason to doubt it was, what we were about to see would have driven them to madness and mutiny.

  The sun was gone now, and the gloaming was upon us. Darkness comes quickly on the sea, and so it came that evening. It was a warm night, but as the stars began to peek out from the blackness, I felt a cold chill ripple up my spine, and a shiver answered it. Men speak of the void that is night, of its darkness, of its impenetrable blackness. At sea, alone and far from any artificial glow, it is all the worse. But there is peace in the familiar, and no matter how dark or frightening it may be, it is nothing compared to the unknown.

  I have sailed to every port of call in every half-civilized nation on this Earth, but never before and never since have I seen anything like that. The sun was long gone on to its next appointment, but the sky remained a dark crimson mixed with an inky purple. But it wasn’t empty. It seemed to move, to quiver and roll, to pulsate and change. The colors would shift, sometimes to an almost pinkish hue, then a dark violet or even a gentle lavender, then back to a glowing crimson. Yes, that was it. The sky glowed, as if it was a thing rather than the absence thereof, a glowing, moving, colored thing. There were still stars. But they were unlike any I had ever seen before. Gone were the familiar, the comforting, shimmering diamonds I had come to know and love. Can you imagine it? To a man of the sea, the stars are worth more than their beauty. Far more. They are guideposts, our ball of twine in an endless, undulating labyrinth of water. But Polaris was gone. Betelgeuse, vanished. No more Big Dipper. Orion had fled. The Great Bear was slain.

  But there were stars. Oh yes, there were stars. Just not the pin-points of light I had come to expect. No, these were great orbs of fire. Some shone clear and bright as the sun, and yet their light gave no illumination. Others seemed to pulsate, beating like the heart of some great beast. Still others seemed to dance together, twirling in great pinwheels as we watched. More would fade in and out, like the beam of a light house turning out of view, only to return a few seconds later. As I watched them, I had the feeling I was staring up through the sea to the sky, rather than sitting upon its surface. But one thing could not be denied — there was nowhere on Earth with that sky. Nowhere.

  “Drake,” I whispered, never taking my eyes off that ungodly vision. “Drake, are we dead?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” he answered solemnly. “But if we are, this is most assuredly Hell.”

  Chapter

  31

  I did not sleep that night, not really. How could you with that looming monstrosity above, when the very sky over your head was an enemy? The sun had only begun to stream through the windows of my cabin when there was a banging on my door. It was Drake. He didn’t have to say anything. The ship sitting on the horizon said it all.

  “How long has she been there?” I asked, stepping out onto the foredeck.

  “I don’t know, sir, but she was there when the sun rose. She hasn’t moved since, unsurprisingly.”

  It was yet another day of perfect stillness. I spied the ship through my glass. It was a two-masted brig. It was at full sail. Or at least it was rigged that way. With no wind, the sails made for an almost comic scene, hanging as impotently as ours.

  “There’s been not a breeze, Captain. I don’t know where she came from or how she got here.”

  There was something familiar with the ship, something that seemed to beckon to me. I scanned the decks. Nothing stirred.

  “Should we hail her, sir?”

  I closed my glass and said, “Try, Drake. But given I don’t see anyone on deck, I don’t know how much luck you will have.”

  Drake nodded sharply and then turned, barking orders to the men who stood gawking. Within moments, one of the mates was signaling with semaphore flags. I watched for some response, but there was nothing.

  The men were worried, I knew. The ship was an ill omen to some and a mystery to others. They knew well not a whisper of wind had blown for a full day and night. The ship had no stack, and it was clear it wasn’t steam powered. It had appeared out of nowhere, somehow drawing within sight-range without any obvious source of power.

  “Drake, come into my cabin for a second.”

  Once the door was closed behind him and we were well out of the hearing of my men, I asked him what he thought.

  “Well, sir, I don’t like it, but I can’t say it surprises me any more than anything else we’ve seen to this point.”

  “No,” I said, crossing my arms across my chest, “but I don’t think we can just leave that ship out there.”

  “What do you mean to do, sir?” Drake asked, though I could see in his eyes he understood precisely what I intended.

  “We can’t know how long we will be here,” I said. “I fear the men will notice the night sky eventually, no matter how we try to keep it from them. We can’t have that ship sitting at the edge of the horizon, unknown and unresponsive. Besides, they need something to occupy them.”

  “You mean to explore it then?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t like it, Captain. Everything is wrong here, and I do not think we should leave the ship.”

  “I don’t either. Which is why you are staying here.” I raised my hand as Drake began his inevitable protest. “There’s no point. I can’t send you in my place, and I can’t bring you with me. I’ll take Phillips, Jackson, and Stone.”

  Drake nodded. He knew debate was pointless. For my part, I felt rejuvenated. After twenty-four hours of sitting on our hands, now it was time for action. I could see in the men’s eyes the same fire. The weapon’s locker was opened, the yawl was prepared. Before I stepped into the boat, I turned to Drake.

  “I would tell you not to leave without us, but it appears that is not going to be a problem.”

  “I would tell you,” Drake said with a smile, “if the wind picks up, we’ll be gone before you feel the breeze.” Then, his smile faded. “Be careful, Jonathan. Whatever happened on that ship is unholy.”

  I nodded once and stepped into the boat. I immediately felt strange. The water was just as silent and unmoving as before. The boat didn’t rock, except in response to our own movements. The waves did not lap against its side. Stone pulled the oars back, and his mighty stroke moved us away from the ship, but not as far as it should have. I looked down into that Stygian water. It was thick somehow. Viscous. Like oil, but not. It seemed to cling to Stone’s oars. I looked at the other men in the boat. These were my bravest, my strongest. But now I could see the fear in their eyes. All except Stone. His temperament matched his name.

  We pushed through the sludge, the thick, mucus tide. Slowly, the ship on the horizon grew larger, while the haven of our own fell farther and farther behind. Closer we drew, and with every stroke of the oars, I felt my heart sink. Soon, it could not be denied. I turned back and looked at Stone. His eyes remained hard, but there was a quiver there, a tremble. He knew the same thing as I, and it had shaken even him.

  * * *

  It was a brig, alright. Two-masted. A cargo ship. Blue hull with a gold railing. We pulled the yawl up to its side. For once, and only once, I was glad for the flat, unmoving water. A rope ladder lay hung over the edge of the ship. Stone handed me a pistol. I put one hand on the ladder and yanked it three times. It held fast, so I pulled myself up and over the railing onto the deck. The other three followed.

  You are expecting, no doubt, that I will tell you the horrors I saw on deck, that I will speak of carnage and bloodshed, of death and destruction. If I had such to tell, you would know it now. But what I saw that day was all the more horrible.

  The deck was pristine. It looked as if it had been cleaned that very day. The sails were perfectly set, the rigging expertly tied. But nothing moved. We stood still, listening to the silence.

  “Jackson, Phillips, the crew’s mess. Stone, check the cargo. Meet back here with what you find.”

  The men disappeared, Jackson and Phillips th
rough a door on the far end, Stone into the depths of the ship. Meanwhile, I waited. A graveyard isn’t that quiet. There the breeze rustles the trees, the birds sing, a dog barks. Not on that ship. I felt the heaviness of silence, the weight of absence. My mind began to wander, and as it did, the images it created grew progressively worse, more morbid.

  I wondered if I would hear a scream from below, see Stone emerge half eaten, face ripped off, chased by some heretofore unknown and unseen monstrosity. But there was nothing. I turned, looking back at the Captain’s cabin. It was then I saw the name of the ship, exactly as I had expected, printed in gold lettering: Lydia Lenore.

  All three men returned exactly as they had left, except Phillips carried what appeared to be a cup of tea. His hand was shaking.

  “The mess was empty, sir, empty of the crew that is. A meal had been set. Dinner by the look of it. It was half eaten. It was still warm, sir,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “That’s not possible,” I replied without thinking. That’s when Phillips held up the cup. I took it. Hot to the touch. I felt myself sway where I was standing, but the sound of the cup smashing against the deck snapped me back to my senses.

  “Are you alright, Captain?” Stone asked.

  I looked at him dumbly. “What of the cargo?”

  “Intact, sir. No damage I can see, and nothing missing. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t about the cargo.” I nodded. I would only learn later Stone was wrong.

  “What’s more,” he continued, “the ship’s yawl is still on board. A ship this size wouldn’t have more than one.”

  “So, they didn’t leave?” I said.

  “Not on their own, they didn’t.”

  “There’s nothing for us here,” I said. “We’ll check the Captain’s cabin and head back.”