Ledger

Against my better judgement, I died on a Thursday. There was no fuss about it; one moment I was looking across the sea, there was a blackness, then I was eternal. I barely even noticed. It was a beautiful scene though - me standing there bundled in my winter jacket, clutching my little black book, looking out over the endless expanse of water and ice. The book had been my travel companion up until here. Where “here” was I wasn’t entirely sure, somewhere in the north Atlantic, hundreds of miles from shore.

Sunday.

I found the book on someone’s front lawn on Orange Street the previous Sunday morning, in one of those cardboard boxes marked “free” so that other people can come and take what they want. A buffet of someone else’s garbage, if you will. I flipped through the pages, it was a journal of sorts, with drawings, some hand scribbled notes, but mostly I liked the look of it. A sturdy black leather binding, with an image of a horned cow’s head embossed on the cover.

When I returned home that day, I took a more detailed look at my find. The first page looked to be ripped in half, but was drawn on, an undulating crack in the page. The rest of the page was a map, seemingly of North America, Europe, Greenland, Iceland, etc, with the “crack” running vertically from top to bottom. The following pages were lists and lists of names, with the header of “Naut”. The book itself seemed ancient, the pages yellowed, and the corners tattered, though the ink that was used to write the names came in different colors, handwriting, and visibility, presumably written at different times by multiple people. As simple as it was, it kept my attention for the better part of that evening – searching the names on the internet, why they were listed, if they were connected, but nothing was immediately apparent.

Monday.

I gathered the book and my laptop that Monday morning on my way to “work”. My makeshift office at the coffee place, on the same Orange Street I had found the book, had been my workspace for the past few months since businesses started to reopen during the COVID-19 pandemic. My actual office hadn’t opened, but the one-bedroom apartment I was currently in got smaller and smaller every day, and I needed a change of scenery.

My company (not mine, but the company I worked for), had not been hit too hard by the virus, our sales had dropped during the beginning, but had steadily picked up in the second half of the year. Apparently, the demand for fishing equipment had skyrocketed, as other people were very anxious to get out of their houses and do something. Though ironically, as the senior lure designer (opulent title, I know), I spent my days inside in front of a computer making computer models of fish. Who knew that dead-eyed stare of a fish was extremely judgy of its fellow fish.

Fortunately, we had secured a large contract with a foreign manufacturer, whom unexpectedly had offered to pay to have me come over to their facility in Norway to live and work there for the next few months. A brand-new environment and a $20,000 stipend is hard to pass up. Though not much of a choice when the CEO decrees you are to pack up and head off. Unfortunately, I would be traveling by boat, as air travel was still very restrictive. Not to say I don’t enjoy boats, but the idea of being on a working oil tanker for an entire week, traveling from New Haven, across the Atlantic, and up to the tumultuous North Sea in December seemed a bit foreboding. As travel options were limited, and my expected arrival was even more limited, the Norwegian oil tanker "Hymir" was my only choice.

I spent that morning booking my ticket, calling credit card companies, and going through a mental checklist of what I would need to pack that night. The rest of the day I got lost in the book, again searching for the names, starting from the very last one, and going backwards. Most didn’t exist, a few of the more recent ones were either long dead, or ceased to exist in record.

Tuesday.

I had my marching orders, so boarded willingly and curious the next morning. Apparently, they do allow passengers if you pay enough. The boat was surprisingly inviting, with a smooth ride, and a fresh breeze, I felt relatively safe.

As there was little to no cell service, I hadn’t much to keep myself occupied other than my book. I carried it and a pen in a plastic bag in my jacket pocket. The pen as a makeshift bookmark, so as not to dog-ear the pages - the most egregious thing you can do to a book, as taught by your second-grade teacher.

Wednesday.

Onward. Northward.

Thursday.

I woke up early that morning to see the sun rise out of the ocean, and headed on-deck. The water beneath the bow vacated as we were lifted above the water. The land appeared all around us, slick and black, almost flesh-like. The crew shouted, and the alarms rang. Just as quickly as the land had appeared, it was swallowed up by the water, and our boat slapped back down to the surface. Visibly shaken, a wandering deck hand explained it was a rouge wave, which are infrequent, and I should not be worried, this was a giant boat, and could handle it.

As the morning aged, I felt more comfortable. I ventured up to the bow, and securely placed my hands on the rail and looked out to the blue universe. I took the book and pen from my pocket and flipped to the end of the list. Writing my name, I thought, this book had it made its way to me after so many others, I should join the roster. Returning the book and pen to the bag, I took the other hand to the rail.

Again the boat shook, and I lost my footing. My precious little book had flew from my hand and took to the sea. With head slamming against the rail that I so intently held to, my consciousness also flew from my grip. My untrustworthy footing had landed my ankle wrapped in a deck line, and as the boat was tossed about again, my limp body was thrown overboard, still tethered by the line.

The land rose again, larger than before, encircling the boat in all directions for miles. The giant maw closed in, swallowing all souls.

Friday.

A plastic bag, like so many others, had washed ashore waiting to be found. This one contained a little black book, and a pen.