Authors: Mark Lavorato
He put every bit of his weight into the first punch, which sunk deep into my stomach, forcing the air from my abdomen. My body curled over, straining for breath, but Toivo pulled me back, straightening me so that my torso could be exposed again. Knut leaned into another blow. And another.
Then, all of a sudden, they dropped me; and I collapsed onto the floor, wheezing for air and holding my stomach. It took me quite a while to recuperate, my face pressed against the floor, breathing as hard as I could, waiting for the pain at the centre of my stomach to recede. And as it did, and I started to take in my surroundings again, I could hear them chuckling at me, giggling. I waited to recover a bit more before I turned my head to look up at them, my eyes focusing slower than I'd expected them to. All three of them were huddled together, smiling away, and stuffing what was left of my fish into their mouths. Niels, who must have been holding the knife for Toivo when he was restraining me, as he now held it in his hands, noticed me looking at them and nodded his head worriedly at the floor.
Knut turned and smiled, bringing the fish that was in his mouth forward and displaying it for me on the end of his tongue. And as this didn't seem to provoke the reaction he was looking for, he plucked one of the last pieces of the flesh from the bones on the plate and leaned toward me, holding it out in front of him as he crouched down to the ground. "Would you like some? Just a bit?" he asked, his words muffled by the fullness of his mouth. He jiggled the piece of fish in the air, "Here, you can have some," his voice was highly pitched, as if he were coaxing a timid animal. I didn't think to reach for it. It was clear I wasn't going to get any; and I certainly didn't want to give him the satisfaction of doing whatever he planned on doing when I tried to take it from his hand. But once he realized that I wasn't reacting a second time, his face grew serious, and suddenly, unexpectedly, he spat, smattering pieces of chewed and salivated food all over my face. I recoiled and buried my head in the darkness of my arms, facing the floor again, wiping the debris from my cheeks and eyes. The three of them chuckled.
I could hear Knut smacking his lips dramatically, cleaning his mouth to speak. He remained crouched beside me, unafraid. "Thing is, we know everything now, Joshua." Some more arrogant smacking and subtle licking sounds as his tongue wiped across the shining skin of his teeth. "See... we know who the Elders really were, and what the expedition was really for," his voice was composed, factual, "I think Mikkel called it 'the third phase'? No? And..." he said conclusively, as he stood up, as if he were coming to an important point, "we know all about what you were going to do. Don't we, gentlemen?" I could hear him wiping a hand across his mouth. He seemed calm, so I wasn't expecting it in the least; I even heard him lift one of his feet off the floor, but still didn't cringe. With a sudden ferocity, he brought his heel down on the back of my head as hard as he could. My face, or more specifically, my nose, slammed into the floorboards, sending a blinding pain through my head. My nose began to bleed right away; warm liquid streaming out of my nostrils, through the fingers cupping my face, dripping off my knuckles, and collecting in the cracks of the wood. I was moaning.
I didn't hear them leave the room, but I heard Knut poke his head back in after I'd recovered a bit. He spoke in a quiet, secretive voice. "You know - I hope Mikkel doesn't find out about this. Because that would make us mad. No?" He asked this almost kind-heartedly, as if expecting me to turn and give him a tender response. Then he closed the door, locked it, and left the key inside, probably for Onni to get it back without having to hand it to him, and risk Mikkel seeing the exchange. The three of them returned to the same room they'd come from, and closed the door, undetected.
I lay there for a long time, not even attempting to get up. I felt the blood in my nose and on my hands gradually cool and coagulate, and because I couldn't seem to fully catch my breath, I continued to take in deep gulps of air. I wasn't crying, but tears were uncontrollably streaming from my eyes and through my nasal cavity, mixing with the general medley of liquids collecting at my mouth: saliva, tears, blood, Knut's spit, particles of fish. I felt pathetic, and must have looked it; but I didn't care. I didn't care about anything. I just felt tired. So tired that I could have sunk into the wood, seeped into the grains like the disgusting mass of fluids dribbling from my lips. I had lost. I had lost everything; control of the ship, the tremendous faith that the Elders had placed in me, my purpose, my companions. I had lost it all. But most importantly, I had done this to myself. I was there on the floor, bleeding and sore with tears, because of my inadequacies as a leader - nothing else. Though, that certainly wasn't the only thing that I was falling short on. I understood that I was just as flawed as them, and knew that if I'd had the chance, if I'd had weapons and people standing behind me, I would have evened the score with Knut, Toivo, and Niels without a second's thought; and I would have done it with the same degree of callousness, or more.
I had once sat with Dana, talking about something that I don't recall, when Anu, that terror of a child, ran screaming into our view. He was running toward Siri and yelling at the top of his lungs, his fists poised at the ends of his straightened arms like a battering ram. I remember that when she saw him, she only threw her arms over her head and braced herself, letting out a desperate little squeaking sound just before he crashed into her. She fell on the ground and started to cry. Anu, knowing that her crying was only going to bring the Elders, and with them some kind of scolding, tried to get her to stop by slapping her lightly on the head. But this obviously didn't work. And just as the first Elders were scurrying into view, he scowled and, picking up a fistful of dirt, pitched it at her, which, of course, only produced louder crying. The Elders, who had previously only been scuttling through the trees, found themselves breaking into a full out run, hollering and waving their arms. Finally, Anu turned and raced off into the forest, with several people in pursuit.
As the whole scene galloped out of our view, I shook my head and muttered that children were cruel; and not because of Anu, but because he'd reminded me of the things that we all do as children. However, Dana was quick to object. He had said that it had nothing to do with children at all, but that
people
were cruel, and the only difference between children's cruelty and adults', was that adults had the duty to perform theirs within societal parameters. They had only replaced the pummelling and face slapping with snide remarks and critical glares; the damaging ridicule that resulted was the same, the only difference was that a child's was more candid and obvious. Though, of course, when it became socially acceptable, adults were also allowed to lash out with open violence, strip themselves of their polite barbarism and get down to something more raw, more satisfying. If conditions were right, they could act like children again, only with the added advantage of having no grown-ups to keep them at bay, and more than sand to throw. (Come to think of it, maybe that's what a war was.)
And suddenly, it seemed like everything Dana had said was right. Maybe cruelty
was
simply one of those archaic weapons that we wield every day of our lives, a tool whose weight we grow so used to having in our hands that we stop to even notice it. And maybe, likewise, we had also grown accustomed to the daily ducking, dodging, and deceiving that we do to make sure we're on the least dangerous side of that weapon; all without ever really coming to appreciate the destructive power it has. Until, that is, the moment we happen to find ourselves backed into a corner, covering our faces from that swinging blade, the merciless metal finally sinking into our skin.
I sniffled some blood into my throat. Swallowed. I was being dismal, and I knew that. In the same way that I knew I could be more, that there was a way for me to shrug this all off and move on. And finally, after a long while, I put my palms to the floor and lifted my chest off the ground. Once I was standing, I touched my nose. It hurt. I touched it again; then shook my head at myself for doing it. I found my way to the bucket of water and washed my face until the liquid that dribbled to the floorboards no longer had a reddish tinge to it, and, patting my face dry with the bottom of my shirt and leaving some faint pink lines along the hem, I sat back on the bed and nodded at the door. I was okay. I was going to be okay.
Eventually, the light from my little circular window began to fade, then darken, then blacken, and I listened as most of the crew went into their quarters and settled into their berths before sleep. But not everyone disappeared into their rooms; Onni sat somewhere on the deck for quite some time, playing his flute. I don't know where the music came from - if he'd learned it before, or if he was composing it on the spot - but whatever it was, it was incredibly sad, a slow melody swaying back and forth through some obscure minor key. And I'm sure that a few people cursed him for playing it. They already had enough on their minds without Onni stirring things, pressing everyone further into their thoughts.
One thing was certain: I didn't envy the crew, or what they probably found themselves thinking about while they stared into the darkness in front of their faces. Because it wasn't just that every one of us, whether directly or indirectly, had been responsible for the death of one of our companions that day, there was also the uncomfortable fact of knowing where we were really coming from, and where we were supposed to have gone, which they would have to grapple with as well. Though, it might have been that with such heavy thoughts bearing down on them, they simply chose to push them away, squishing their hands against the sides of their heads to block out the music, curling into embryonic balls, and straining to find sleep before any of the implications could filter through their skulls. But whether they acknowledged it or not, some serious responsibilities had just fumbled into their hands. After all, the Elders, the very people who had cared for them, raised them, and sent them on this inauspicious errand in the first place, and who had always known considerably more than them, suddenly, perversely, knew something less; which was that everything about the expedition had changed, and would never be the same again. The power to manipulate and change the future of the world had, unbeknownst to them, been whisked out of their hands and shoved into the fingers of a few simple young men.
I wondered if any of the crew were going to have nightmares of reaching for something that they couldn't touch, or of trying to give away something that they could touch, but didn't want to; their bodies flexing in their sleep, arms straightening into the space at the ends of their bunks, hands opening wide in the dark.
I have to admit, there was a part of me that hoped they had nightmares. And, considering the way I was woken the next morning, they probably did.
27
I didn't even hear them unlock the door; nor had I heard the creaking of the floorboards when they gathered in the gangway before bursting in. I was just suddenly awake, the doorknob crashing against the wall as it flung open. I shot bolt upright, my arms raised defensively in the air, looking around, trying to understand what was going on, how, who, why. The entire crew was streaming through the doorway, scattering throughout the cramped space with loud footsteps, filling every corner with their urgency. Before I had time to say anything, Knut and Toivo came rushing toward me with knives in hand, and, stopping at the edge of my bed, pushed their blades into my face, ever closer, until I was cowering on top of the sheets, covering my head with my arms, leaning away from them and against the wall.
I was waiting for hands to grab onto my shirt and wrestle me to the floor, or for the tip of one of their knives to be poked into my back followed by a stern command, but nothing came. And as the seconds passed without anyone even brushing against me, the thought crossed my mind that they might have come into my room for something other than me. I turned my head just enough to peek under my arm and saw Onni wobble past me, obviously carrying something heavy; and that was all I needed to understand. They had come for the cases.
There were four cases in all, three of them containing verified mixtures, and the fourth, lab equipment and instruments. They were made of a thick plastic and were waterproofed with a gasket and a hefty levering mechanism that sealed them shut. I could hear people unfastening them from where they were fixed, dragging them off the shelves, and taking them out of the room, one person per case. Mikkel was one of those people, and I watched him through the space under my arm as he disappeared around the doorframe, the load stretching his arm straight. They were carrying them to the upper deck. And once all of the cases were out of my room, Knut and Toivo backed away from my bed, closed and locked my door, and followed the others up the stairs.
I took my hands slowly from my head, as if someone might still be there, standing over me, ready to pounce; and then got off the bed and stepped into the centre of the room, gauche on my early morning feet. I noticed a scattered soreness in my chest for the first time, which wasn't the only reminder of the beating I'd received the day before; I still couldn't breathe very well through the swelling in my nose, and if I touched it, the sting crawled up to the bottom of my eyes. Though, all things considered, the pain in both areas was dull, tolerable.
I had only been standing there for about a minute before I heard the volley of splashes to port. The cases. I squinted up at the ceiling. Because I have to admit, at first, the crew's logic didn't really make a lot of sense to me. Considering that we were a limping vessel in the middle of nowhere, and were heading to a place that we knew nothing about in terms of its available resources, why would they throw
anything
away? I'm sure they could have found a few uses for the things inside: the small amount of fuel that we'd made for the burners, the vials, even the cases themselves; and their uses could have been essential: the making of medicines, the boiling of water to purify it, or even, if need be, the boiling of water to trap the steam of seawater and channel it into a cup to get freshwater. They could have been throwing away their survival, or at the very least, some of their comfort; and this
must
have crossed some of their minds. Yet they had still felt the need to throw them overboard. Why?