The Sailor
Published by Shell Isenhoff at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Shell Isenhoff
Cover image taken from painting “Sailing Ships”
by Constantinos Volanakis
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1. The Sailor
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - I forget how many exactly - the sea drew me to itself, just as strongly as it gathers the tides. The greater part of a lifetime I spent swabbing decks and climbing rigging. Dangerous and backbreaking work it was, but I found satisfaction plying the world’s waters. Exotic places, intriguing cargo and the lore of ancient mariners held me captive despite the protest of aging muscle. But, alas, I was compelled to quit the sea.
I sailed through storm and gale, giving scarcely a thought to natural elements, but the supernatural terror of my final voyage proved my undoing. Blessed I am, indeed, to have survived to tell my tale, and I implore you, take it to heart. He is a wise man who will learn from the unspeakable horror of an angry sea, and the holy wrath of an angry God.
The voyage began in typical fashion. We docked in a large port city and took on ordinary cargo; salt, fish, sheep, goats, chickens, cloth, olive oil, wine, cedar. With the turn of the tide we would be bound for the far western reaches of civilization. We held our schedule with nothing amiss.
Except our passenger.
The man looked unimpressive; small of stature, middle-aged. He seemed normal enough, except for his eyes. They flitted here and there, like a sparrow among nettles, never resting anywhere for long. At first I thought he simply feared the sea. Many folks do, especially those hailing from inland regions. Surrounded by mystery, embellished with myth, and fraught with danger, the sea invokes fear in those who don’t understand her. Yet the man proved a decent sailor.
Had I been captain, he wouldn’t have set one foot aboard my ship. Call it a sixth sense, an animal instinct, but some folks just smell like trouble. Oh, personally, he wasn’t difficult at all. Mild mannered and polite, he was more pleasant than most of the crew. But I had no doubt trouble tailed him. And since I was not the captain, the man paid his fare and my life became irreversibly entangled with his.
We launched without incident. It was to be a standard trip, one I had made dozens of times. The journey was far, but we were usually within sight of land. The weather began in our favor. A nice breeze pushed us along so we rarely had to use the oars. Everyone was in high spirits. Everyone except our strange passenger.
Usually he stayed below deck and out of our way, rarely speaking. But sometimes I saw him at the stern of the ship, casting glances behind us. I suspected he was running from some clandestine secret and vowed to keep an eye on him.
Several days into our journey the weather broke. Well acquainted with the Great Sea, I knew what she could dish out, but this storm beat any I had ever seen in all my years sailing. It was as if the Devil himself had jumped into the water and the sea was doing its utmost to cast him out. The efforts of the entire crew were required to keep the ship afloat. Our sails shredded in the onslaught, the rigging washed overboard, and we took on wave after wave. The timbers groaned and shook, and we feared we were not long for this earth.
Sailors are a superstitious lot, and our crew was no exception. Diverse in national origin, each crewman claimed a different god, and it seemed as though every one of them was spilling its wrath on the sea at once. As the ship broke around us, we tried to appease them all. When one failed to curb the violence, we tried another. Meanwhile, the waves crashed over us and the timbers split apart.
The captain took matters into his own hands. He ordered the cargo dumped into the sea. With less weight, our ship would ride higher in the water. The trip would be unprofitable, but we valued our lives more than our wealth, so all hands that could be spared sloshed down to the hold to muscle up the cargo, and that is where we found that fellow, Jonah, slumped against the side of the ship, sleeping!
The frantic captain grabbed his collar and pulled him up from the floor. “How can you sleep at a time like this?” he bellowed. “Get up! Call on your god. Maybe he will help us so we don’t all die!”
At once Jonah took in our situation and his secretive manner disappeared. In its place came defeat, as though he had been found out in some crime and would resign himself to the consequences. It was then that I knew he was the one to blame for all our troubles, and it angered me.
I called to some of the sailors nearby. “The gods aren’t answering us, and we are all going to die. One of us has angered them and brought this punishment down on us all. Let us cast lots to see who the guilty one is.”
Casting lots is rather like drawing straws, and the accuracy of such a venture could certainly be called into question. But as I said before, sailors are a superstitious lot, and our condition had surpassed desperation. They readily agreed. So I called to Jonah, “You there! Come join us!” because I was sure the lot would fall on him.
It did.
I laid into him, “Are you responsible for bringing all this trouble on us? Who are you? What is your country? Where are you going?” I was spitting out questions far faster than he could answer them.