CHARTED WATERS
Lying back, Ryan let the knife fall and wondered how his emaciated, crisscrossed body must look to the seagulls overhead. Like an irrigated field, perhaps (assuming the birds had seen agriculture before), or a patchwork quilt (if they’d ever swooped down near a laundry line)…
He closed his eyes and hated the gulls.
Briefly, he considered trying to bring one down by throwing the knife. But aside from his recent…indulgence…he hadn’t had the strength for that type of violence in days. And since he was helpless to do anything but curse the birds’ existence, he simply blotted them and everything else from his thoughts…
The sensation of something hot and wet splashing against his face brought Ryan back. He reopened his eyes, wiped his cheek with the hand that still moved normally, stared at the white goo that came away on his index finger…and swore loudly at the gulls.
A parting insult—they must have sensed his intentions. Somehow, the winged demons knew they had scant time left to mock him…But the fiends would have to be quick if they planned anything more.
Motivated now, Ryan began the agonizing, multi-part process of standing: there were several stages before sitting, many more before crouching, and too many to count before he looked bipedal again. Then, after an even longer delay, he took a single, shaky step.
And then another.
And another.
Until finally—mercifully—he was only a few feet from the edge. Close enough to feel fragments of burst waves splashing against his chest…Near enough to revel in the overflow washing around his blistered feet…
Ryan’s concentration lapsed, and he stumbled. By some miracle, he managed to catch himself before his face smashed against the inky surface that had been his prison for what seemed like eons, the heinous structure he’d worked so hard to ignore.
But now the Thing was casting his pitiful reflection back upon him.
The haggard, pinched face.
The mangled nose.
The burned skin, jutting ribs, and protruding hips.
The deep red grooves gridding his torso into regular compartments.
The crimson compass inscribed on his right shoulder.
The dripping legend etched across his waist.
Suddenly frantic, Ryan jumped back to a stand, and…fell again, this time without catching himself. Disoriented by the impact, he scrabbled at random—first in one direction and then another—until by happy chance he found the precipice. On the brink at last, he hurled himself over without hesitation.
The sea swallowed him greedily, marking his passing with only a slight, bloody hiccup.
* * *
Forty-One Days Ago…
The rolling of the ship lends an eerie, amoeba-like quality to the blood sloshing around the planks in front of Ryan. Minute fissures in the wood direct the puddle’s flow as it ebbs back and forth.
So much blood.
He’d never realized his nose could be such a fountain, even broken as it surely was. But at least the swaying motion proved his Valiant was still floating in the water rather than sinking beneath it. Still standing after that horrible, jolting crash…
The cannon fire had ceased. Did the French consider them finished, then?
Gathering himself, Ryan eases to a standing position cautiously enough to avoid losing his bearings again, surveys the hold, and sees several of his crew scattered about in poses like the one he’d found himself adopting moments earlier. None of their injuries seems serious, but cursing is rampant nonetheless.
With slowly renewing balance, Ryan staggers to the ladder, doing his best to weave around his moaning men. Such force in that last hit…It felt like it came from a collision, not a shot. But there was nothing to run afoul of here in the middle of the ocean…
Still clutching the map he’d rushed into the hold to find, Ryan labors to climb the ladder and succeeds on his second attempt. Above deck all is chaos and shadows: the stars lend a ghostly illumination to the turmoil, but the veiled moon offers less light than a candle.
His eyes adjust quickly from years of experience, however, and he sees more men upright than there were below decks…but not by much. And the French are closer…Although they seem to have anchored and run in their guns.
Why?
“Damnedest thing, cap’n, damnedest thing…”
He turns and identifies the cook’s voice just as his face comes into focus. “What the hell happened, Davy? Did the bastards hit our powder?” Ryan gestures with his head towards the French.
“No, cap’n…Wasn’t the frogs. You best…best see for yourself…Take my light.”
Ryan hesitates for a second before accepting the lantern and stumbling after Davy to the side of the listing Valiant. Following his cook’s outstretched arm, he searches the dark.
And then he sees it.
“…What in God’s name is that?”
* * *
One Hour Ago…
The Thing’s surface wasn’t improved by the red veneer he’d added.
A day ago—just a day ago? Maybe days ago—Ryan would have rejoiced to find even the smallest flaw in the devilish structure’s perfect blackness, but now…Now he regretted perpetrating such an ugly stain, regretted being such an ugly stain. And the sun was so hot. So blinding.
So draining.
Ryan kicked his dangling legs, taking idle pleasure in the position he’d maintained since waking that morning…aside from the burst of activity some minutes back. But the water was calmer here than anywhere else along the Thing’s length. The gentle waves made being near the Split feel so soothing…So absolving…
So justifying.
The blood next to him began to congeal as it baked in the sun; the Thing was as icy-cool as ever, but its dark coloring attracted an immense amount of heat. It was like an oven…An impossible oven in the middle of the ocean.
And it was cooking him. Broiling him like a dumpling.
If he squinted hard enough, he could almost see the steam rising from his blistered limbs…The blood leaking from the still form beside him was cooking, too.
A gull winging out towards the horizon caught Ryan’s eye, and he watched its ascent, even when it lined up with the sun. Staring into the glare, he wondered if it would be better to end this madness on a full stomach. The fresh meat next to him should be close to well-done by now.
Why waste it?
* * *
Thirty-Seven Days Ago…
Ryan stands silently next to Martin, the squat French captain, as they watch the spot where the diver began descending. Repairs aboard their ships come to a standstill as both crews follow their commanders’ leads. After a fifty-count, one of the English sailors mutters an oath that sounds loud in the quiet. Normally Ryan would have reprimanded the man, but he can’t tear himself away from the tiny bubbles still foaming around the diver’s point of entry.
At the seventy-seven count, a gasping head breaks the water to resounding cheers. Few of these “hurrahs” last beyond the first seconds; the diver’s dejected body language becomes evident even as he swims to the waiting rowboat. Set against the ominous, black backdrop he was just investigating, the defeated Frenchman looks particularly insignificant. And by the time the rowboat thuds against the English ship’s hull, the crews are so silent that the sound of the small collision carries much further than it should have.
Impatience trumps decorum as Martin bellows a question in his native tongue before the diver has even climbed halfway up the ladder. His response is short, eliciting groans from the French ship.
Turning slowly, the French captain translates the news every one of the Englishmen has already guessed: “It pains me to report this, Captain Smith, but my man found no point of termination. The…Thing…just keeps descending.”
Ryan nods, mutters a “Thank you,” and clasps his hands behind his back.
It takes several minutes to persuade the crews to resume repairs.
* * *
Two Hour
s Ago…
“Martin? Martin?”
Ryan’s calls went unanswered, just as they had for the last few hours. The Frenchman simply sat where he was, unclothed, unresponsive, head lowered, legs limp over the side.
Motionless.
Lifeless.
Useless.
Turning away from his comrade, Ryan traced the horizon again with his eyes…Another boundary. It was supposed to recede as you drew closer, but how could you really know? Maybe it would rise as you approached, cage you in like the beast you were…
A gull flitted across his sight, and he screamed his hatred for its mobility, his jealousy of its freedom.
Shifting, he stared once more at his companion, the only other sentient being within a hundred miles: a bastard frog who lacked the courtesy even to respond.
Ryan’s arm ached.
Peeling it until he came to a fresher layer of skin, he amassed a large amount of shavings…and wondered if they could be used to tempt the gulls into knife-range. It might be done…He decided to consult Martin.
“Martin? Martin?”
No answer. Never an answer.
Ryan fumbled for the knife as anger blurred his vision.
* * *
Thirty-One Days Ago…
“It just goes, captain…Just goes.” His scout looks ashamed at returning with such sorry news.
“Thank you, George. It was brave of you.”
The man nods quickly and hurries out of his commander’s sight.
Ryan sighs and crosses his arms behind his back before beginning his customary pacing across the main deck.
So…No discernible end to the north. And he knew without asking that Martin’s scout had fared no better to the south; watching that poor soul walk back with bowed head and slumped shoulders had been confirmation enough.
What courage it must have taken the two men to volunteer not only to touch the Thing, but traverse its surface for as far as a day’s rations would take them…And what hardship to return with such a gloomy report: that the monstrosity had no breaks, no visible stopping or starting points, no weakness. It just stretched uninterrupted to either horizon…Eternal, implacable, and impossible.
Kyle’s news had been better (albeit expected, as the lookouts had already commented on it): west to east, the Thing was only about a half mile wide, with fresh ocean resuming beyond it. But that was little comfort when the behemoth blocked their passage on this side so totally.
Ryan stops to listen to the final stages of the hull repairs. In a few hours’ time, the patching will be done, and the Valiant will be mobile once more…And then both crews will have to be told, an ordeal he’s not looking forward to. But they were duty-bound to investigate; they couldn’t just flee.
They couldn’t just flee.
Sighing again, Ryan resumes his pacing.
* * *
Eight Hours Ago…
“Are you quite done discussing your damn whore, ‘Captain’ Smith?” Martin’s first words of the afternoon lingered like a fart in the scorched air.
Ryan said nothing, did nothing in response for several moments. Then he rose abruptly and stalked off to the south. Some hours later, he returned and flopped down ten feet from Martin, who seemed not to have moved an inch.
After sitting silently for several minutes, Ryan suddenly began giggling uncontrollably. Martin’s only comment was to bark out his own curt, bitter little laugh. Neither looked at the other once their mouths closed.
And for some time to come, the lapping of waves against the edge below them was the only sound to be heard.
* * *
Twenty-Eight Days Ago…
“Flogging’s what they need. Hard flogging, and you know it.” Ryan spits to emphasize his point.
“I know the English see these matters differently,” Martin demurred, “but I can think of no more appropriate situation for leniency. The men are on edge, and understandably so; the results of their transgression were punishment enough.”
Leaning against the rail of the French ship, Ryan shakes his head as the argument makes it easier to remember that Martin was his sworn enemy just a few days ago. The fact that the incident under discussion is prolonging their anchorage at this damnable spot only adds to the tension. “If we don’t punish them severely, there will only be more stupidity to come, and disaster after that.”
Martin shakes his head as well. “It won’t go over well with the men. They look to us—now more than ever—for leadership. Not tyranny.”
Ryan laughs incredulously. “This isn’t about your revolution. It’s about survival: the fools fired a cannon without orders. They wasted shot and endangered all of us. And they didn’t accomplish a damn thing.”
Shaking his head again, Martin mutters something in French before responding. “Granted…granted. But the sight of that ball disintegrating into dust without so much as scratching the Thing’s surface? Punishment enough, no?”
“No. Not if we intend to get through this without a mutiny.”
Ryan stares at Martin until the Frenchman concedes with a heavy exhalation and a wave of his hand. The Englishman acknowledges the victory with a nod, and the two fall quiet.
Despite his best efforts, Ryan’s gaze wanders back to the source of their troubles, the black monstrosity they’ve only managed to move a hundred yards away from. Seeing the stars reflected in the Thing’s inky sheen quickly becomes too much, however, and with a few low-toned words of parting, he heads for his quarters.
* * *
Twelve Hours Ago…
Ryan punched the water emphatically. “‘Like a compass,’ she said. Like a bloody compass…So prophetic, she was, if only she’d known it.” He further underscored his amazement by whipping his sock as far as he could fling it.
Turning, he found Martin still crouched ten feet back, pondering his bare legs and occasionally staring at the ocean as if in search of the pants he’d cast off earlier. Nonplussed, Ryan looked back at the waves.
“A bloody compass…Forwards, backwards, left, right…It’s all relative…Never really sure which direction you’re going when west is east for one man and east is west for another. Damned arbitrary…All you know is that they meet in the middle, and then it’s madness from there…” Ryan leaned over, suddenly fascinated by the way his now bloated sock was being knocked back and forth by the churning tide.
“You see? Look there, how it flows to and fro! Taken in with one wave and out with the other.” He splashed the water again. “Is it progressing when it comes this way? Or is it that way? How do you tell? How do you bloody tell?…If we can’t determine the orientation of a blasted sock, then how—”
Ryan was cut short by the sounds of Martin struggling to his feet, taking a deep breath, and beginning a stumbling sprint. Bracing himself, the Englishman whirled and tackled the charging Frenchman to the Thing’s surface. Martin struggled wildly until Ryan finally yelled out, “The damn thing’s sunk! It’s gone! It’s gone, damn you!” After verifying that the sock had indeed descended below the waterline, the frog lay still.
Breathing heavily, Ryan rolled off his companion and collapsed. “You know…You know you’ll die if you go out there…Neither of us has the strength to make it back.”
Martin snorted derisively. “And if I prefer a natural death to baking on this abomination?”
Ryan glared at Martin for several seconds and then turned away.
The two only stayed within arm’s length of each other until they recovered enough strength to move farther apart.
* * *
Nineteen Days Ago…
The room swims with smoke, permeated by a fog thick enough to give rise to currents and whirlpools. Ryan can only just distinguish the source of the haze, a wizened seadog already on his third pipe bowl.
“In all honesty, cap’n, the crew’s in a right black mood. Right foul one.” The old man pauses to breathe out several more tobacco ghosts before continuing. “We were all lookin’ forward to headin’ home after
the repairs was done…not followin’ this damn devil’s ridge—”
Ryan holds up his hand in warning, and the old man nods an apology.
“Sorry, cap’n…Know you banned that name…Just fits, is all…But like I was sayin’, the crew’s right discontented. Mad. Damn mad. And scare. Scare’er than they’ve ever been.”
Sighing, Ryan leans back in his chair. “Thank you, Meyers. You’ve always known their mood better than I…Do you think they’ll stay the course?”
Meyers considers this over another four smoky breaths. “Hard to say, cap’n, hard to say…You know I hate to tell you that. But…the crew’s damn uneasy. And a bit disgruntled about the floggins,’ if you don’t mind me sayin’ so…That Williams boy isn’t helpin’ any, neither. Spoutin’ nonsense about how this was meant to happen. How we’ve outgrown the world or some such foolishness…Caged ourselves, he says. The windbag…But several other fools are startin’ to pay him some heed…Or at least his calls for turnin’ back.”
Ryan’s eyes narrow to slits. “Outgrown the world…A cage…Are these his ramblings or those of someone wiser?”
Meyers seems to sense his captain’s sudden tenseness and responds much more promptly than before. “Hasn’ said, cap’n. Just assumed it was his own drivel, sodden rotten as is he is.”
Outcasts: Short Stories by Nick Wisseman Page 12
