Under the Burning Sky

The temperatures would fall, and spirits with them, as the Chapel steamed its steady course, ever northbound. The putt-putt of the engine and whisper of the wind were all that was to be heard, for the crew lay idle, and their Captain lay pensive.

He dreamed a dream, the Captain did, oh such a dream. A passage, you see, to the north and to the west. Beyond lay not just wealth - that futile dream of the common folk - but immortality, in fame. He desired this, more than he desired anything else. The Captain was a hubristic man, you see. It could hardly be helped.

The Liar stole up onto the bridge - easy, oh so easily, he stole, conscience as clean as a freshly-waxed scalp. His breath came away in clean, white, puffs, for frigid was the air, and pure were his words; those he whispered behind closed doors and under covers. The Captain trusted him, you see. The Captain trusted his clean, white words. He would help the good Captain find his dream of immortality, and it would be ever so easy.

“Cannot be helped.” he said. “Cannot be helped, you see.” and it could not be helped, for the situation could become very dire indeed, lest action be taken right away. Lest action be taken before it came to the worst. The Chapel was a greedy beast, oh, such a greedy little critter was she, and she would gobble up the last of our coal before we ever laid eyes on that passage!

“So you see, you see.” he said, and the Captain saw, that it would really be the most reasonable thing, to burn those supplies, that we may travel that eensy-weensy bit further, and lay eyes upon that passage after all!

The Cook marched up onto the bridge - firmly, and sternly he marched. The Cook was not a nice man, no. He had hurt oh so many little creepers and crawlers and skitterers and scamperers. The Captain did not trust him, not one bit, but he knew to keep him, for the Cook was a necessity, you see.

“The men are hungry.” he told the Captain. “and have nothing to eat.” Nothing to eat! Nothing to eat! The Cook knew nothing, you see. Nothing but the chopping board, the stew and the soup, the dry old biscuit and the moldy carrot. He could not possibly understand, no, he would have to go. He would have to learn to understand, or his sweaty, plump self would have to go.

The Captain waved him away. Of course he did. The Cook would not help him, with his chopping and his soup and his not-understanding, why, the captain would be better off alone.

The blizzard howled long into the night, swirling flecks of white in the inky blackness of the void. On the deck was a biting chill, and the icebergs loomed like portents of doom. The sea tossed her mane, and foam crashed against the Chapel. Deep within her belly though, deep in there were oh such important events transpiring, yes. They were showing their faith, yes, showing their loyalty, and showing their teeth. A flicker of knives in the darkness, the scraping of steel, the gurgling, the first moments of warmth in the freezing, howling wind. Nobody stopped him, nobody at all. They thought it was clever, you see. They thought he was oh so clever, and they danced and hollered and whooped with joy.

The Bosun sidled up onto the bridge - with such deceit and trickery did he sidle. “We should pause here, Captain.” he whispered in his dulcet tones. “We should pause, and hunt, and fish, and seek to replenish our stock.” The Captain was weak that day, he was, and he nodded and hummed and hah’d and declared that his dream be put on hold, for the Bosun’s disgusting, unfounded words.

The Bosun was wrong, and they hated him. They hated him so very, very much, and they wanted to show him just how much they hated him. He had no faith, no faith at all, and so faithless was he that they would not even show him how faithless he was. That very morning it would happen, he never saw it coming, and they tip-toed up behind him, and there was not a sound and they gave a little push, oh such a little push, and over he tumbled, deep into the ocean’s icy embrace, so he could be with his precious fish, far from the warm hearth of the Chapel.

The Navigator walked up onto the bridge - excitedly he walked, heel-and-toe. “We’re close, Captain! Ever so close!” he cried. “Oh the currents, the waves, the signs!” The Navigator knew the way, and he knew the way was close. “One day soon.” he would say, and the Captain’s head was filled with dreams, that he would have his glory, that he would have his wealth and his everlasting dream. The Navigator did not understand, either. He did not understand what the Captain wanted, but he had him fooled, yes, put under a cruel spell. So they pushed on. They pushed on despite the whining and the moaning and the naysayers, and one by one the whiners were silenced, and then the moaners, and then the naysayers last of all. The faithful crew, of course, were oh so happy with this turn of events. They would be famous, you see. They would be the ones who had found the Captain’s real dream, and they would live forevermore with him.

But then, the troubles, you see. The troubles would come, for it was all a little too easy, and when the whiners and the moaners and the naysayers were all done and gone, who could be left? Who else would be there to help them push on to the end? They knew, you see, they knew that another would have to go, and so when the frost settled low on deck and sun sank below the horizon once more they crept, carefully, carefully, past the maps and the charts and the excited scribblings, and once more there was a knife in the dark, and once more the crew hooted and hollered with joy.

The Traitor hurried up onto the bridge - quickly, before anyone could see him. On the horizon, a ship! The bleakness would be no more. The Captain’s dream would be found, and it would be even easier than they’d thought! They would have plenty of coal, plenty of food after all. The Chapel’s hungry tummy wouldn’t be hungry any longer.

The Captain shook his head. “No.” he said. “You are a liar.” and were he a liar, he would not have been a very good one, you see, he would not have been nearly so clever enough to be a liar, for the Captain did not want to hear what he had to say, for the Captain’s dream was the Captain’s dream, and would not be shared with anyone else.

The Traitor was no liar. The Traitor was a fool, and when he hurried back below deck, thinking he’d been ever so sneaky, they grabbed him quick, and they showed him just how foolish he had been.

The Captain sat alone on the bridge. No one was coming to see him. The dim dark night was ever so close, and the putt-putt of the engine had long since faded, with no more coal to gobble. He was cold, and he was so, so very hungry. He pleaded, he begged, he prayed that he would find his dream yet, but deep down he knew, as did they, that he simply did not have enough faith. Not enough faith, you see, and so he took his lantern, and put on his warmest coat, and The Captain trundled down from the bridge.

The frosty wind nipped and bit at his hair, hungry for a taste, and he looked to the sky, searching for an answer. The lights! Yes the lights of the burning sky! They shone so brightly, they did, greens and oranges and yellows, they lit the sky with such beauty that they might bring a tear to the eye of the Captain, that they might cause him to reflect on his dream, and his journey. So he reflected, and as he reflected, he lost it, he did, he left it behind in the swirling snow and the icy cold. His old dream was gone. The fake dream, the dream that the Navigator had propagated, that the Cook had facilitated, that the Bosun encouraged, and the Traitor admonished. The wind screamed, the ice cracked, the ship heaved, and the sky burned.

He tore his gaze away, and did not make to pause until he was below deck, where it was just that little bit warmer, for all the faith that shone from within. He raised his lantern, he followed that warmth, followed that faith to the heart of the Chapel, where another light shone, another light of such brightness that he might have been blinded from it all.

There the Liar sat, upon his fleshy throne, and laid around was such a feast to behold. Lungs and livers! Red meat! Fillets and flaps of flesh in oh such a number. The crew, those faithful crew ate of the bounty, and they praised the Liar for his cleverness, how he would help the Captain find his true dream, how he would help the Captain live on in fame.

The Liar bade the Captain sit, to eat of the flesh and drink of the blood, and he did, and the Captain too found his faith in the heart of the Chapel, the Captain too realised the Liar’s genius, so that at his behest, the Captain might accomplish his true dream, living on eternally in every last one of that faithful crew. The Captain was a hubristic man, you see. It could hardly be helped.

They dined long into the night, chortling and dancing and filling their bellies with such exotic delicacies as no man would ever dare to try, a product of the howling wind and the frigid ocean, a product of such genius, such incredible genius. For weeks the Chapel floated, bobbing across the waves, the cold ever assailing her, but they had faith enough. All that faith, borrowed from the Captain and the Cook and the Navigator and the Traitor and the whiners and the moaners and the naysayers that they could have floated until they were all shriveled up, and still they would have been able to fill their tummies. Why, when they finally drifted onto land, and Liar came down from his fleshy throne, not one of them would deny their cravings! Not a single one would renounce their faith, so powerful was their congregation under the burning sky, and that is the simple truth, you see. The whole and entire truth, not a single lie, and you should believe all of it. For with words so clean, white, and pure, how could you possibly consider me a Liar?