Authors: Mark Lavorato
"How?"
"I don't know. I guess - I don't know - I would... maybe I'd cut holes in it, and then wind the rope up the mast, threading the sail through the holes. I mean - we wouldn't be able to raise or lower it... and it would be hard to tack with, but... it would probably be enough to make it to land."
Some of the crew began to nod and mumble in encouragement, and a modest smirk spread across Knut's face. Even I began to nod. It was a great idea, and I wondered why he hadn't spoken up before, though it was probably just the lazy fact that criticizing is infinitely easier than offering solutions.
Mikkel hardly blinked before jumping into action. He took a few steps away from Knut and addressed everyone. "Okay then, we need two groups of four; one group working on the fishing line and tackle and the other on the sail. Let's see hands for who's interested in working on the sail. Perfect. So... Knut, Toivo, Niels and myself will work on fixing the sail in place, while Aimil, Solmund, Joshua, and Onni work on trying to braid a fishing line, making hooks, and hopefully even catching some fish."
Bodies moved to their respective places and soon there were three of us huddled around Solmund, and we bent down to help him get to his feet. He didn't seem to be any worse for wear; or at least nothing was bleeding or broken.
"You okay, Solmund?" asked Aimil, his bandages flexing with his words.
"What does it look like? I'm standing aren't I?" he spat.
"He was only asking," said Onni, with his sleepy voice.
"Look," I jumped in, hoping to move to another topic before things escalated, "if you're really okay, we'll need you to walk us through how you envisioned doing this." I chose these words to try and reassure him of his worth as well, as Mikkel might do in the same situation, but it didn't work. Solmund only rolled his eyes and limped off toward the place where we'd stowed the damaged sails. I think that he was limping more for the spectacle than for anything else, that he felt a need to demonstrate that there had been
some
kind of damage done to him. Because there had been: how we viewed him, and how we viewed his potential had suddenly changed. And how frustrating this must have been for him! To have finally been recognized as a valuable member of the crew, to have been accepted, appreciated, for only a few brief minutes before slipping back into his difficult role as the clumsy eccentric. And I think he knew, as did we all, that he'd missed his chance in the unforgiving world of group dynamics, to rise from that role; that he would have to stay there.
The truth is I felt sorrier for him than I ever had before, because he really was brilliant, he really could take things apart in his mind and put them back together again in a better way, as those of us who worked with him that day saw. He would show us - though always impatiently, snatching whatever it was from our hands and holding it up close to his face to inspect - the most efficient way to go about everything. In fact, after working with him that afternoon, I felt sure that if he hadn't panicked when finding out about the engine, he could easily have figured out a better way to raise a sail than Knut had, because in the end, he'd succeeded in directing the three of us through every step of every invented process; and in only a few hours, we'd created functional fishing equipment from almost nothing. And by the time the sun had set, and after losing several would-be meals to the barbless hooks, we actually caught a fish. Not a favoured fish, or even a substantially sized fish, but a fish nonetheless. (It's amazing the kind of sudden and remarkable gratitude misfortune can endow us with. Whereas before the storm, we would have scoffed at such a sorry specimen, tossing it back into the quick shutting lips of the sea without even thinking twice, suddenly, it had become a blessing, a prize, and we held it up with long, proud arms as it tried to breathe our alien air, shouting screams of joy into its face while its yawning mouth became slower, its silhouette dripping against the dull sky as we carried it away from the water, lest it find a way to slither back into its element.)
We weren't the only ones to succeed, either. The other group had figured out a way to climb the foremast and fix a sail to it using one of the ropes, exactly as Knut had suggested. And to add to our luck, we had a light tailwind, which gave us the advantage of testing its strength a bit before having to use it in harsher conditions; and it seemed to be working well, plump with air and moving us closer to land with every minute. This accomplishment had also produced a fit of hollering joy, everyone jumping up and down, patting each other on the back. Each group then congratulated the other in turn, and I remember this giving way to a wonderful ambience that lasted a few hours afterwards. People smiling and joking with one another, laughing louder than usual.
We eventually found ourselves in the galley with the same elevated spirits, gathered around the table to eat. No one had mentioned Knut's attacking Solmund, and I didn't think that anyone ever would, but nevertheless, Knut's elevation in status was noticeable, his air self-satisfied, noble, people watching him forgivingly. Whereas poor Solmund was noticeably more withdrawn than usual, more subdued. But I tried not to think about him, and to just enjoy the general feeling of accomplishment that we all deservedly felt, for it is a wonderful thing to have succeeded in the face of desperation, to have attained something hard won. I can still remember every detail of that night perfectly: the smiles, the warm fluttering light of the lantern, Onni picking up his string instrument and plucking away at some contented little tune before our meal was set on the table, the enormous ceremony in which it was placed between us all, our trying not to acknowledge its blatant inadequacy, the reaching in and licking of fingers wet with the slimy oil of sea creatures, the jokes after we were finished eating, people asking if anyone had room for seconds, for thirds, the laughter that accompanied them and its tinge of solemnity buried beneath, the short pause before someone picked up a few bones and spines and started sucking them clean, and then everyone following suit, moving onto the skin afterwards, then the fins, until nothing was left but the head, which we needed to salvage for bait, our smiles trying to linger on, past the uncomfortable facts, beyond our hunger and the gravity of our troubles, but finding it difficult and feeling it slipping away, deciding to disperse to other parts of the ship to leave the sensation of success untainted, the few doubtful glances brushing over me as everyone rose from the table and filed out of the room. I remember it all, but I especially remember Mikkel, avoiding my eyes as he stood to take the helm. He had never done that before.
I didn't leave the galley for a long while. Instead, I sat there alone at the table, worrying. We'd had two enormous challenges to get through, but in both, we'd managed to succeed; and now they were, almost unfortunately, over, as was the celebration for having accomplished them. There were no distractions left. They would have time to think about the events of the day, about what had been said, about what hadn't. I heard some of them gathering into one of the rooms to chat. They closed the door, moved onto the bunks, and the indistinguishable murmuring began. I sighed. The Elders had always known about the peril that lurked in quiet conversations, that place where mysteries willingly unravel themselves to imaginative minds, where new information is haphazardly folded into an old story, and the swirling truth revises itself, is turned over, and then revises itself again. It is a precarious place where inaccuracies and discrepancies can be overlooked, ignored, ironed out with a few linking bonds of inventive rationale. Yes, they'd been lied to, that much was now clear to them, but the danger was in their theorizing exactly 'why' they'd been lied to; and to what extent the story that had been fed to them was factual, if at all. Yet, what facts did they have? From what certainties would they be building their story? They knew that we were all tired and hungry, that we were helpless, completely alone on the ocean without any possibility of assistance, support, or intervention, that we were on a broken vessel, limping to an unknown place for, what had become, an unknown reason. That was all they knew for certain; and with this kind of foundation, what could I really expect them to come up with?
I blew out the lantern and sat in the dark, listening to the ship creak, to the humming of voices, the liquid of whispers behind wooden walls. I must have sat there for an hour or two, trying to think of a solution, or even a vague plan of action. At some point, I looked through the tiny window of the galley and noticed a few stars pulsing between the thinning clouds, and decided to go up to the deck to check on the weather and our course. I thought that I might even take over Mikkel's shift, as I doubted I was going to be able to fall asleep.
I left the galley and crept into the gangway as quietly as I could, hoping to catch bits of the conversations that were going on behind the walls. I passed the room with several of the gathered crew, and pressed my head against the door to see if I could make anything out. The whispers were rising and falling, interrupting each other, overlapping one another. It was clearly a fervent discussion, which only made me feel worse. But after listening for a few minutes without being able to make out a single word, I thought about continuing down the gangway again, and I would have, had something not stopped me just before I lifted my head from the door. The hisses were becoming louder, many of them talking at the same time, someone hitting someone else to shut them up so that another could speak. Then it happened. One of the whispers became loud enough that it was almost on the verge of being comprehensible. I held my breath, listening. I managed to make out one word, but only because it was being spoken as a means of emphasizing a point. Of course, I had no idea who'd uttered it (why is it that a person's voice is so distinct from individual to individual, yet a whisper can belong to anyone?) but the speaker wasn't nearly as important as the one word I'd managed to catch. "...Asah... nn... es Peik sah..."
They had found it - the key to unlocking everything they shouldn't know. And as much as I'd always known that Peik's words might someday be recalled, rehearsed, or reinvented, that there might come a point in time when his last fumbling sentences would suddenly make sense, I'd always assumed that I wouldn't be there if it happened. But I was; I was in that very place where everything would be pointed at me when it came time for staking the blame. And what was I supposed to do? How could I have stopped it, how could I have put an end to their destructive mumbling? Give them the real truth? Walk into the room, sit down in the centre of it, and let them in on the cute little secret that they were on this ship to unknowingly assist in putting out the destructive flame of our kind? No. Just like there was no intricate lie that would ever be swallowed again, there was also no degree of honesty that would appease them. There was nothing I could do. Nothing. Except run - if there were only a place to run to. Even if I wanted to escape, to disappear from the ship in the middle of the night and never be seen again, I didn't even have the
option
to do it until we were in sight of land.
And how far was that? How long would it take us to get there with only the sorry foremast functioning as our main? I didn't know, but I could find out. Knut had already taken a reading from the blurry sun as it pierced through the clouds at one point throughout the day, and I could take a second reading, which, with a few calculations, would indicate our speed and progress, and with this, I could estimate how long it might be before we arrived at the coast.
I gently crept up the stairs to the deck and walked to the navigation table where Knut kept his sextant. Mikkel was at the helm in the cabin, a lantern swaying back and forth over his shoulder like a pendulum, creating a cavern of light around him with his swaying shadow in the middle. He gave me a quick glance as I approached, and then looked away. I paused for a moment behind him, feeling strangely guilty for wanting to know exactly where we were, and then continued to the sextant and picked it up as casually as I could.
He began with his back to me, "Okay - look, I'm sorry. I know I wasn't thinking when I laughed at Niels' suggestion, okay? It was just that - I don't know - things seemed a little too serious to be wasting time chatting about imaginary gadgets." He sounded sincere, yet also a bit impatient, as if he were being forced to answer some thorny question that I hadn't asked.
I looked at the table as I spoke. "Yeah... well, we sure didn't waste any time on it."
I stepped out of the cleft of light and walked into the centre of the deck. After finding the star that I was looking for and taking a measurement from it, I returned to the charts and pinpointed where we were on the map. I then compared our position with where we had been a few hours before, scribbled a few numbers on a slate, and then erased them with the side of my hand when I was finished. I left the room for the last time. Mikkel didn't say a word, but was watching me carefully.
Out on the deck, I leaned against one of the dented rails, eyeing the makeshift sail, which was shivering and tight. I could only hope that it would carry on functioning as well as it was, because we were making better time than I would have guessed. If the calculations that I'd done were right, then we'd sight land in about three days time. It wouldn't be the best land, and nowhere even close to our destination, but I didn't need a place to land the ship, in fact it would be best if we
couldn't
land the ship. All I needed was to get close enough to a shore to escape and continue on my own. Three days. I nodded encouragingly at the sail, honestly believing that I would find some way to slither through the hours, the minutes, the seconds between where we were and the peninsula we were creeping toward.
And while I was standing there on the deck, Solmund was somewhere below me. He was in a room by himself so no one can know what he did, but I like to think that he was having a hard time finding sleep, and that he might have pressed his face against his quarter's window to see the first pulsing stars that had exposed themselves in a couple of days, framing the clouds in sweeping arcs of speckled light. I like to think that beyond all of the contempt and disappointment that he must have felt about the events of the day, that he'd experienced
something
beautiful that night.