Blood in the waters

To fear is human. To love is human. I do not fear, nor do I love so perhaps I am not human. Perhaps I am something entirely more sinister.

Now:

Time loses all meaning on the island. I kept count of the days and nights when I first beached here, I see the scratches in the wall of my cave; I run my fingers over the shallow and uneven grooves. I got to 834 before I realised that time is nothing, but a path laid towards death, I have no need for it.

Then:

He was merely a child living in a small Harbour Town with his mother. Time was like a sustenance to him; he watched the clock count away the seconds. He watched every sunrise and sunset and the way the sun broke and re-embraced the shining, rippling embrace of the ocean. He waited, waited for the day that damn boat would arrive. His mother indulged his little habit, thinking nothing of it but the naïve dreams of a growing, imaginative boy. The boy loved a father he’d met but didn’t know. His father had visited him once in his life when he was 7 years old. The boy remembered how tall he was, a giant who defied destiny and charted his own fate, a man with a hefty pouch attached to his waist. The fruits of his labour he’d told the boy as he reached in and plucked a gold coin with a star-like shine from it and gifted it to the child. His father was a sailor, the boy asked him what he did at sea and the man had told him he took from those that had plenty and shared with those that had little. The boy idolised him, a hero, his hero. His father, the pirate aboard the Mary Celeste.

Now:

I close my eyes as the sun rises from the watery depths. I feel its warm touch on my skin, caressing my body and all the small details of my face. The salty breeze stings my face a little, but I ignore the pain. I wiggle my toes in the sand and feel the grains slip between them like seconds slipping away from the dying. It serves as a reminder of why I reject the renege of time. I know I shall leave here soon, whether that be just this island or this life I have yet to decide.

Then:

The boy begs his mother to tell him stories of his father. She initially refuses but he begs and begs and how can she say no? What harm can it do? So, over the years she regales him with every tale he’d ever told her complete with the sounds and the hand motions and doubtless with some…parental edits. But it isn’t enough. Every time he sits cross legged before her with bated breath and eyes like moons, clinging to every word like it was that of the lord himself. The years passed by without another visit from his father and the stories had long run out, the boy didn’t realise at the time that his mother had started making up tales for him. She saw how happy they made him and couldn’t bring herself to dim the light in her dear child’s eyes. The boy would recount the stories to his friends as he brandished an imaginary cutlass and cut down greedy bankers, tax collectors and wealthy merchants and shared the stolen swag with the starving. The admiration and envy in the other children’s eyes settled something for him then, he would be just like his father. And just like that, his fate was written.

Now:

I walk to the water’s edge and look at myself in the water. I see a tall being, with a beard down to his waist, a trim, bronzed body that looks feeble but is conditioned to the peak of survival ability. I see a being without a name, it had one, once upon a time, but what that name had been was a thing of the past, irrelevant, gone. My body, etched with scars, each one a lesson. Something to prepare me for my ascent. My grand purpose. I ran my hands over my body, feeling each one, muttering each lesson to myself under my breath. A longing inside me leads me back to my cave. I immediately notice the cold as a I flee from the sun’s warm rays. Towards the back of the cave, I hear the crackling of the roaring, safety of a fire and walk towards it. Along the side wall stand my tools, I pick up a small knife made of fish bone, the first weapon I made that wasn’t a sharpened stick or a small rock in a sling and tuck it into the back of the loincloth I wore. I keep walking through towards the fire and the soul besides it that kept my sanity intact on the island.

Then:

Years have passed and boyhood is becoming more and more of a memory with each passing day. The curse of time grows increasingly present on his mother, his heart aches a little whenever he notices the greying roots and the sluggishness of her walk. He knows where he should be, where he should belong, but he can’t resist the seductive beckon of destiny and feels his soul being pulled towards the horizon with a strength that cannot be defied. He longs to find his father, he believes that’s the missing piece within himself, that he’ll at last feel complete if he conquers the oceans by the side of his father. The time for taking to the seas was long gone for his mother and either way, finding a boat for the two of them would be nigh on impossible. To go through with what his soul screamed for he had to cast aside thoughts of his mother, hold back the stinging tears that fought to break free when he thought about leaving. He signed up for a navy vessel and didn’t tell her until it was done.

Now:

When I washed ashore on the island, I fortunately discovered I didn’t arrive alone. Another member of the crew, Edward Jonas, was perhaps quarter of a mile down the shore. I found him while I carried my weary body in the pursuit of shelter. At first, I believed him to be dead for he had a deep wound opening his brow and dried blood plastered over his face. I remembered him and felt a sadness in my chest. He was a good man, kindness in his eyes and honesty always the first thing from his lips. We drunk together some nights and found we were one and the same, both searching for something that always felt just out of reach. I told him I searched for my father, he declined to share what he searched for. I couldn’t bring myself to leave him broken and on display for the seabirds to pick at like leftover scraps of food. I had readied myself to bury him beneath the sand when I saw, in the corner of my eye, the shallow rising and falling of his chest. He lived! I carried him in my arms, vision blurring from the murderous heat for an hour or more, the sand constantly trying to engulf me. My feet had gone numb from how severely they had burnt and blistered yet I carried on. The cave came to us like a miracle, it seemed like a mirage but when we reached it, I stepped inside and felt the shaded rock cool my scorched soles and I wept out of sheer relief. Edward was still asleep, and I soon joined him, for I collapsed from exhaustion and came to rest next to him. When I awoke, I cleaned his wound and made him as comfortable as I could before tending to myself. Much to my relief he eventually awoke, groggy and queasy but alive, which is perhaps the best we could have hoped for. He asked me what happened, but it was a memory I could not bear to revisit…so I lied to him, told him I couldn’t remember. It hurt to betray the trust of one of my closest companions, to disrespect the honesty he held so dear. We nursed each other back to health as best as we could in the coming weeks, only really having the strength to crush passing by crabs for food and drinking the blood from within them. It was a miserable living, made tolerable by the company. Whether it was due to lack of choice or being free from the cage of population, we grew far closer and for a spell, I thought I had found the missing piece within me. We spoke of this when I reached the fire at the back of the cave, laying together for a while, watching the smoke climb to the ceiling.

Then:

The boy, now a man, felt out of place in his navy uniform, like he was wearing skin that wasn’t his own. However, this would likely be the only way he would be able to find his father, so he held his mother as she wept into his chest, terrified of letting him go. He forced down the lump in his throat, for he knew he would not be able to bring himself to leave should he weep with her. He stepped away from the embrace and crossed the gangway of the Royal Duchess. The winds billowed into the sails, the noise sounding like a war-cry for the vessel, preparing itself to do battle against the insurmountable forces of plunderers and scallywags. They raised the anchor and cast off, a second piece of him was left behind at the harbour…

Now:

Edward said my name…and it meant nothing. He said it again and I did not recognise it. He turned to look me in my eyes, and he saw nothing that he knew. He was alone on the island.

Then:

His sea legs took a long time to steady. With the thrashing, hostile waves tossing the boat around like a ragdoll, sleep was a hard to come by relic that was cherished like a soulmate. Often, the man would stumble to the upper deck, clinging to the railings like his life depended on it, and keep Edward company; Edward often was given the night watch. They would shy away to the out of sight corners of the deck and let the night roll on at their pace. Sometimes they would see a ship out in the distance but more often than not they flew friendly colours. On occasion there were vicious vessels, and the alarm would be raised. The man would pretend he had been the first up and immediately ran for the deck (which would explain away any questions about his breathlessness).

As they headed further to the South American territories those friendly colours became drastically less frequent, they would pass privateer vessels occasionally and while they wouldn’t attack a navy boat, they were less than accommodating as they believed that every Spanish ship the navy sunk was a payday swiped from under their noses. At twilight dusk on a summer evening the sun-kissed orange ocean waves carried a titanic boat from the distance towards the navy vessel. Its hull was made of rich; coffee coloured oak and its sails were a dark bloodlike crimson. The man and Edward awaited its indication of allegiance and as the alarm was about to be raised, the pair noticed the dilapidated state of the ship. Great big chunks had been torn through the upper hull and the masts were tilted at an angle that threatened falling. There were a few souls on deck, but they all seemed beaten down and worn. Edward was sent to wake the captain and crew to decide what to do with the crew in need. The man saw, while chipped away, what was left of an elegantly painted title bestowed upon the craft. He strained to see…the Mary Celeste.

He fought the temptation to leap overboard to reach the Celeste quicker but soon enough the Duchess’s captain came, and he confirmed it was a privateer ship, the Mary Celeste was offered aid and they pulled alongside and leapt aboard the man’s boat, relieved to be off their sieve-like lump of slowly sinking wood. The man couldn’t fight the trembling that overtook the his body as he bustled through the crew scanning faces for likeness. Dread started to set in when he had no success and even embarrassingly tears pricked his eyes.

“What’s got ye weepin for lad?” asked a croaking voice from behind him. He turned and saw a near spitting image, long black hair that caught the wind in a dreamy fashion, icy blue eyes and a large build that looked like it could easily shape one’s own fate.

“You-you-you” the man stammered like a lovestruck schoolboy, “Did you have a child, some years ago, with a barmaid in a harbour town in the southernmost region of England?”

“Aye lad. I did.” He hung his head forlorn and raised it with a suspicious glare in his eye, “How did ye know of such things?” he interrogated. The man’s confidence spiked a little remembering all he’d been through to get here and remembering his dear mother. “Because I was born to a barmaid and a pirate in a harbour town in the southernmost region of England.” A stunned silence fell over everyone who had overheard.

They sat and talked as the newcomers were fed and prepared sacks to sleep on. They discussed the man’s journey, his life, his mother until finally he was asked why he came all this way. “I love my mother, but I long for a life I can’t have at home.” The father simply nodded, his hand gently caressing and twirling his long greying beard. The son looked at the ever more waterlogged wreck of the Mary Celeste stubbornly floating nearby. “What happened to the Celeste? To your crew?” The father sighed deeply, the sigh of a tired old man. “We’re at war with the Spanish my boy, the Crown might be lookin for peace but make no mistake we’re still at war. Took a hell of a pounding our last crossing with em, outnumbered and outgunned. Without Royal support we ain’t got the funds to fix ol Mary.” He looked at the wreckage with a mournful demeanour, “Well…best be off to sleep, Goodnight son.” The man went to bed with a joyful heart.

He awoke in the night to a series of sounds like rushing air and dribbling water. He pretended to roll over in his sleep to face the sounds and half opened one eye. The Celeste’s crew were filing through each row of the crews bunks and slicing their throats open. They hadn’t seen him yet, so he slipped from his bunk and crawled under the beds towards the stairs leading to the upper deck.

As he broke into the open and felt the bitter wind against his skin a rough grip yanked him away from the door, it was Edward. “The Captain’s dead.” He told him clearly distressed, “There’s so many we can’t save the crew, I thought you were gone too.” The man grabbed Edward forcefully by the shoulders and shook him, try as he might, he couldn’t convince Edward to leave without him, but the man couldn’t leave without his father. He couldn’t believe that he was involved in this, not when they’d just been reunited. The naïve optimism of a boyhood dream, he clung to it so desperately, he never saw his father approach them from the shadows with the flintlock in his hand. The father pulled back the hammer and held it to his child.

“We need the ship, boy, wouldn’t want ya to take this to heart.”

“I came all this way to find you.” The man said with a choked breath

“I don’t concern myself with children or stupid lovestruck barmaids.” The father said with a venom that spat knives through his child’s heart, “Now, as you can see, we are rather busy.” The pirate fired the pistol. Edward lunged at his companion to cover him, they both felt the searing assault of the bullet and they plummeted overboard into the pitch-black depths.

The man awoke on an island. His heart scattered to the winds and replaced with a seething, fiery hatred. His soul ached for something else now. Blood and suffering. The man died and was reborn as me.

Now:

The time for my new journey was upon me. I had come to Edward to say goodbye, he just didn’t know it yet. In my current condition, the journey would consume me, out of guilt or heartache. I wouldn’t be able to be apart from Edward, and the journey would reveal things about me to him that would repulse his kind heart. So, I pulled him closer to me, whispered my goodbye and slipped the fishbone knife from behind me and plunged it into his heart. His eyes betrayed his confusion, like a lost puppy; the light slowly faded from his eyes as he went limp in my embrace. Blood poured from his quivering chest, sprayed my face, plastering my hair down. The blood trickled over my being, like a baptism into my new life. I buried Edward but kept his skull. When I assembled a raft to escape his head was tied to the front. When pirate vessels would see my craft emerge from the mists of the night, see the skull glistening with a fresh coat of blood, they would know the price for their sins was to be paid in full. And soon, the man who was once my father will be at the mercy of my blade.