Thoughts: A wanderer's Story

The curtain is pulled back.....

As the Gibraltar twisted on the edge of oblivion my feet stood firmly on the bridge. As the world around tore itself apart, I watched the horrors unfold before me. The wet harsh wind roaring around me, the raven black storm clouds above spitting lightning, and a barrage of rain drops that descended upon the living and the dead. there bodies, rag dolls as they were carelessly flung on and overboard from the mast to the helm. I stood firmly next to the mast and watched my crew men battle a ravenous monster.

                The harsh reality of the world incarnate, as a massive pitch-black talon reached onto the deck, snatching my kinsmen, smashing them across the mast before pulling them out to its dark waters. I watched with hazed awareness, with shocked and intoxicated clarity as the monster ravaged the Gibraltar form both ends, twisting and smashing it, spinning it and ripping it apart as bit by bit; rope, wood, flesh and bone gave way to salt, water thunder and lightning.

My feet refused to move as I stood on the deck of the Gibraltar, the ship that could not be sunk. I watched helplessly as the dead mixed with the living. “Prepare your selves!” the captain shouted; a wet hose whisper as his final words of insertion competed with the roar of the monster of a storm that had been set upon us.  I looked over to him, his long burly pitch black beard, his dark green eyes that had never wavered in all the years I had known him had finally seen truth, finally come to term with his impressing mortality as the monster was set upon him, taking him and half of the main mast with him. In the defining thunder and the blinding flashes of death and lightning I looked around me and found a small comfort in the realization that this was the day I was going to die. A day I would not have chosen if I had been given one, but I found peace in the consolation that I would not be taking such a frightful journey alone. My men, my brothers would travel with me, all the way down into the black warm waters. I looked off the starboard bow and saw the monsters long concealed face, in the form of a wave it ascended form the depths to face all that remained, letting out one more roar as it fell upon us. I followed the final orders of my captain. I prepared myself for death.

                When I had discovered that I had survived I was bombarded with an overwhelming weight of mixed emotions. On one hand I had been given the greatest gift one may receive in the situation I had found myself, on the other hand the moment I had realized that I was not dead, the pain of being  alive had given me a rational and disturbing guilt and hatred for myself. I had survived. Why had the monster spared me, what had made me different?

                I awoke without needing to open my eyes; it was as if my consciousness returned to me, an awareness of myself that I had lost sight of once the crushing weight of the storm had taken me. Out of all the senses that returned to me, the sense of touch was the one the hurt more than the rest. The millions of damp and dry grains of sand I could feel on my fingertips, on the back of my tattered shirt, pressed against my scalp and drying across my brow. The discomfort intensified with each new feeling, raw and exposed. I wanted to jump to attention, brush myself clean and wash myself free, but my body refused my impulses, each and every apart of me tender and beaten. Slowly and with difficulty I began to open my eyes, the intense darkness replaced with unwieldy light as the small cracks in my eyelids gave way to harsh sunlight and reminded me of its overbearing warmth.

As the degrees of my vision came into focus my sense of smell returned and with it my dark curiosity. The smell of low tide, sea salt and other foul odors filled my noise and watered my eyes, the shock forcing me to sit up, forcing me to face the horizon, forced my eyes to adjust to the horror before me.

                I had not made the journey alone, my men, my crew had ventured to the shore with me, their bodies had survived the storm, but their souls had been claimed by the sea. I sat just beyond the reach of a crimson tide, the bodies of my crewmen scattered around me. Their bodies bloated with sea water and cooked by the unnatural heat from the sun. There was wreckage for as far as I could see, half-masts and figure heads beached the shores and bobbled with the tide, dead bodies snagged in mangled ropes and discarded debris.

                The shock of what my eyes had ingested made it impossible to maintain substance; the vomit quickly climbed up my throat and forced itself out of me, taking with it what little grip I held on to. My hands in the sand my only source of support, its damp sand so delicate that when I pulled my hands up, a hand print remained, tainted sea water filling up the impression. As I looked back onto the horizon, past the wreckage and the bodies, I saw nothing but clear skies, clear, cloudless crystal blue skies.

                It was futile but it was the least I could do. It took the rest of the day and well into the night but one by one I buried the crew of the Gibraltar and the Genteel on that unmarked beach, their burial the only fringe of sanity I could manage, the only humanity I could muster.  as I pulled each of them, one by one form the water, or from there spot on the beach I thought of nothing and said nothing, I saw only the hole, the hole I would place them in, the hole I had no memory of digging. There were no tears, there was no forethought, and there was no pause. It was as if I had shut down, as if I was as lifeless as the others, my body reacting only to the indescribable, over powerful impulse to complete this small penance, this final service to the men, this final duty that only I could perform.

                I remember no service, I only remember standing over each and every one of their graves, my body so coated with blood and wet sand that though I remember seeing my arms folded, I could not feel my hands touching each other. I do not remember their faces. I will never know if I buried friend or foe, but as I recall more about what I had done in retrospect, I do not think I would have done anything different, for when we die, are we not all buried the same?

                They now call it the beach of a thousand sailors, a peaceful resting place form all those that are lost at sea. When I awoke from what I could only infer was a coma several days later there was an odd calm that greeted my consciousness .I stirred in my soiled appeal and my sand dried face, I rose to my feet and bared witness to what I had done; A single row of small hills of sand that seemed to stretched on for miles. Being confronted with such a sight of that magnitude, seeing something so true, something so real and forged form my own hands, spoke to me in a way that words could never express. I looked past the row of unmarked graves and saw a clear sky, cloudless and as calm as the day I had arrived. It was then that the tears came, so overpowering it forced me to my knees and heaved out of me with every breath. So may lives had ended, so many deaths had been littered upon the shore by the monster of the storm, by the relentless danger of the sea. To see that the sun was still shinning, to see such a clear sky seemed to be nothing but a offence to their sacrifice, a belittlement that could not be measured.

                I do not know how long it took for the rescue convoy to arrive, so much of the voyage home and the months that followed were filed with ghost of nameless faces, whispers in the dark, nipping away at my sanity. I could not separate harsh reality form darkened nightmares. I was now changed, formed and sculpted in the shape of a new more monstrous design, my humanity, my soul, withered and smoked out by the waves as I forced myself to linger, forced myself to continue on.

                They gave me the medal of valor, and a commendation form the commodore himself. There was no greater honor for a man in my station, and under the unseasonably hot June sun,  cheered on by  the entire congregation of Capital city I discovered what the price of my fellow men’s lives were worth; A pound of gold, a parade and a lofty position.  After the ceremony I left Alpha colony and the Federation and never looked back.

…….

The room was silent, a hushed absence of sound that blanketed the occupancy of the seas side tavern in which I resided. The two fishermen that sat across from me, their eyes wide with intrigue, their mouths agape with astonishment and unyielding disbelief. I watched them with passive accomplishment as I finished my story.

                The company of fifteen surly, salted and jaded sailors, bounty hunters and wanderers like myself remained speechless; captivated by the words I had spoken to them. What had begun as a private adventure, a story meant to be shared within present company, reimbursement for free drink and food had silenced the entire tavern, one by one my story whispered its way through the sounds of free drink and food. Dimming them to silence, one by one my story whispered its way through the slurred and intoxicated songs of the company, found there ways into their hairy, bearded ears, one by one they quieted, bit by bit the tavern had grown silent until only my voice remained, until only I remained. The story had finished and once again their minds were returned to their bodies. In a confused and dispelling gaze, a small waiter boy, scruffy black hair, dirty and quiet walked over to us and refilled the drinks upon my table, I take a small sip as the residue of my story fades from their faces.

My words had done far more then interest the occupants of the tavern. When I was young I discovered I had the gift of speech, the talent of being able to make others see what I had seen, folding and shaping my words into vivid murals that would unfold within the minds of those that indulged my acquaintance. As I paused for a moment to take another sip of ale, the two in front of me, the first ones to receive the full story remained speechless, a amalgam of interest ,disbelief and awe that could only be expressed through the captivated stare they directed towards me.

                “You were on the Gibraltar?” the fisherman to my right exhaled, braking the silence.

                “I was. Before the federation and I had parted ways I had been on three journeys, all to the same destination, all hopeless failures.” I acknowledged as a waiter boy continued to pour our drinks, the iron pitcher of ale heavy in his hands as he continued. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, his dirtied impoverished  face met mine, his serious, dulled expression across his face reminding me of all that I had lost, and all I would gain.

                “Where were the federation’s ships heading?” the other fisherman asked hurriedly, slightly annoyed in my sudden lag in my story. I smile mischievously as my eyes took hold of him.

                “Beyond the dead sea,” I stated as I took another sip. I watched their eyes take on the same expressions as the rest of the company that could hear my voiced.  I placed my cup on the table and leaded forward slightly, my voice much softer and enticing. “The Algian, the Contour, and the Gibraltar; All of them were alpha class war ships, all of them expertly crafted, sufficiently stocked and outfitted with the latest weaponry the thirteen islands could offer. Upon all three of those warships I was stationed as a named officer; first as navigator, second as helmsmen, then as quartermaster. On all three of these voyages I watched as my friends, my crew, and my ships fall victim to savage storms that terrorized the waters beyond the thirteenth island.” I continued on, knowing that though I spoke softly over a whisper the entire tavern was listening. “My crew gave their lives for what they believed awaited them on the other end of that sea; the federation willingly sacrificed the lives and the capital of three expeditions believing the same.  The Federation believed that travel beyond the thirteen colonies was possible. The crew of the Gibraltar, the Algian, and the Contour all sacrificed their lives and died believing that their lives would not have been sacrificed in vain. But they were wrong.” a new and fresh anger rising in my voice as I continued. “There was no monument to commemorate their sacrifice. There was no memorial to etch their names into history, there was no stature erected in their honor, a testament to their sacrifice, each time I was rescued, each time I came back to my home, to my federation and found nothing. Nothing but hushed names and concealed sailing charters!” my anger was infectious and I watched as it spread through the tavern. “As I stood on that beach the morning after I had buried my crew, I said goodbye to those that would sacrifice others and stand on the backs of their dead bodies to achieve greatness. I looked to the unchanged crystal blue sky. I watched as the wind blew slightly, how even the wind made the small qwazi-formed clouds spread and stretch. I found myself weeping, not for my life, not for the case! I wept for my men, the names that would be lost to time, names that lived and died unnoticed! It was that day I swore I would never be one of those names, it was that day I stopped believing in the cause, and started one of my own.”  My voice though directed towards the two in front of me had captured the hearts of the entire tavern, held on and refused to let them go. As I spoke my words abandoned my ownership and flourished into something far more powerful, a declaration, a stand of independence that the entire tavern had taken hold d of, Except for one.

                “I’ve heard of you!” one man in the corner next to the piano shouted out, diverting all the attention upon me towards him. A small smile found itself on the corner of my mouth as my eyes moved towards the surface of the table. “This man is no martyr! He is a murderer!” the man's voice drew closer, now on his feet and making his way towards me. my eyes rose from the table and fell upon him. He stood a confidant six foot three, his darkened skin covered in muscles, his face stern and filled with malice and aggression; he wore a black vest jacket with no shirt underneath, allowing everyone in the tavern to properly appreciate his various tattoos across his chest and his arms. I notice one in particular, a silver skull entrapped in green snakes ,a badge of honor appointed only to a certain few who stood aside from the rest; an officer of the Silver pirate crew. “There are stories in alpha colony about a man who can't be killed. Who weathered three ships wrecks and survived unsaved.” As he spoke my smile grew, I slowly rose to my feet to meet him, the other two in my company rising to my aid blocking to way to me by inches. A futile gesture should he decide to act. “A ground pirate every silver pirate is looking for calls they call him the cursed quartermaster.” His eyes burned upon me so fiercely I could feel its heat.

                “You may call me Yaseen.” I respond with ease, my eyes looking back up at him without fear or caution. My response insulted him further, the frustration he felt, unable to make me afraid amused me, I unconsciously smile, taking away the last of his patience.

                “captain silver sends his regards!” he snapped, his words were followed by swift motion as his muscular physique moved with the agility of a snake, snapping his fist into the face of the fisherman to his left and charging forward. As he roared he smashed past his blockade and charged towards where I stood, rushing to his untimely death.

                The shot rang out like the harsh clapping of thunder, shocking the entire company, frantically looking around for the origin of the gunshot. I stepped back slightly and let the pirate fall face first to the floor, the vacant display of surprise and confusion, a hollow clean hole tunneled through his temple.as his body crashed to the ground, much harder than a living person would, the tavern began to panic, reaching for their weapons and searching for the source of the gun shot.

                “Killing him was not the plan, Samson.” I exhale in slight disapproval as a figure rose from his table in the corner near me.

                “Oops.” He responded passively as he slowly walked to my side, holstering his single shot pistol.

                “Get what we came for.” I instruct him as I maintain my focus upon the fisherman who had been struck to the ground in my defense. I extend my had towards him as he rubs his jaw, his raven black hair out of his ponytail and scattered across his face.

                “I suggest we continue this conversation elsewhere” suggest with a small smile. The man paused for a moment. His dark green eyes, exotic and captivating, he looked up at me, a intriguing seriousness, his eyes piercing through me rather than at me.

                “Lead the way, “he exhaled as I pulled him to his feet. Form the panic of the shot the tavern had taken a turn for the worst. The shot had sparked uproar of violence and indiscriminate brawling. Fueled with unfocused anger they let out there aggression on any and everything in their path, shouting and grappling, stabbing and punching until it had consumed the entire company. Samson stood a foot away from me, a haymaker punch to the face of one of the approaching assailants sent him spinning onto another two bandits who tossed him aside like a rag doo and charged directly at us.

                “Right, stay close.” I instructed the fishermen as my stance slightly widened, placing one hand on the hilt of my side blade. The two rushed us with sloppy accuracy but enough momentum to compensate, I drew my blade, he had taken a total of two steps before I cut him, once across the chest and another into his stomach, burying the blade deep enough to stop him where he stood.  I paused for a second as the second one swung a punch towards me. I watched in slowed time, his mouth open his eyes livid with rage as he swung towards me and was stopped by the fisherman. Knife in hand he had placed himself in-between us in the last second, back to him as he buried his hunting knife up through the bandit chin, halting him where he stood.

Another shot rang out and the entire tavern ducked instinctually, with the exception of us two, in that split moment I saw Samson near the bar, a bottle of wine in one hand, and his pistol in the other.  Without hesitation I grabbed the fisherman’s hand and rushed through the crowd, dodging and dipping my way in and around all intrusive knifes and hands until we reached the bar. “The exit is on the other end of the tavern!” the fisherman yelled in protest as I pulled him forcefully into the back room, the door slamming shut quickly Shrouding us in complete darkness; the muffled sounds of the brawl proceeding outside, followed by the sudden sound of the door being pulled savagely against the lock.

                “I always plan an exit strategy.” I inform him as the sound of a match striking laminates the back storage room in a dull orange hue. As my eyes adjust to the light my heart rate lowers enough for me to take in my surroundings; the room smelled of wet dog and sea urchins, the planked floors of the tavern had not followed us into the room. We stood upon soft earth, black and smooth. The walls were stacked with barrels of wine; dried meats and what little bread they had were stacked upon a shelf on the far wall. My eyes fell upon Samson, reloading his gun next to the small waiter boy holding the lantern. “Did you get it?” I ask Samson, pulling his attention away from his weapon of choice. He reached for the shelf and pulled the bottle of champagne off the counter and handed it to me. It had never been opened, without label, and covered in dust, the lid of the bottle encased in red candle wax. I smile slightly as I hold the warm bottle in my hands, with delicate haste I handed the bottle over to the boy who put it into the large satchel that slung across his chest.

                “I remember you” the fisherman announced as Samson and I quickly tossed the contents of the bottom shelf onto the floor to reveal a tunnel leading into darkness. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, making all three of us paused for a moment.

                The sound of the brawl grows louder as the door to the back room begins to shake violently.  I turn my attention to the boy, his dark brown eyes serious and determined. “You were great Tom, now lead the way and we'll be right behind you.” I praise softly as I place a comforting hand on his head. He nods in compliance, puts the lantern on one of the Ale barrels and races down the tunnel, Samson looks back at me for a moment then follows. “There are moments in life where we lose footing.” I address the confused fisherman, his dark green eyes cautious as I stepped closer to him.” We can go for years thinking that life is manageable and predictable, and then we are bombarded by a wave of events that places us in peculiar cross roads. We can fight the current and face the debris bravely, but futilely, or we can let the current take us.” As I spoke the thunder that crashed against the door to the back room began to make the wooden frame whine with stress. “Can you hear it; can you hear the crushing wave on the other side of that doorway? You can face whatever debris that comes through that doorway, your fast, your trained, or…”

                “..or what?” he asked the first plank of the doors giving, the shouts of frustration and rage growing louder as the light from the outside tavern shines upon the fisherman’s back.  “Escape with you, become a pirate?” he exhaled in disbelief, my smile grew slightly.

                “..Or you can see where the wave takes you, and what new shores it might bring you to.” I offer with a smile extending my hand between us. The fisherman paused for a moment, his face unreadable. Then as if he understood the stakes of what I was offering a devilish smile arose as he took my hand and shook it. “Very well cursed quartermaster, let’s see how deep this snake hole goes.” He chuckles as he rush to the tunnel, kicking the barrel of ale over in the process, ale spilling and catching flame, ceiling our escape.

                “Call me captain.” I tell him as we disappear into the darkness of the tunnels.

Reviews

[Hatter57]

Yaseen,

Congratulations on the beginning of what promises to be an interesting story. In these few pages, you've managed to raise a slew of questions that demand answers, and I look forward to reading future installments to get the answers.

Two points. First, I would urge you to stay with past tense throughout the story. Even after the cursed quartermaster finishes his initial tale, you are relating the story in past tense, but then it shifts to present for no apparent reason. I had to mentally edit what I was reading to correctly cast the tense of what followed, which distracted me from the story. The characters can speak to each other in present tense, but the narration should remain past.

Second, the setting (13 islands ruled by a power-hungry federation, separated from the rest of the world by a storm-tossed and monster-infested sea) seems to be decidedly foreign to Earth. Yet the fisherman, on deciding to follow the protagonist, says "Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes". This draws upon "Alice in Wonderland", a work very specifically tied to our reality (at least insofar as being a work of literature that influences our speech when we talk about events that take us far out of our comfort zone). You'll want to change the way he expresses himself at this point.

I hope you find this helpful.

[Yaseen J Malik]

thanks for the tips! i will be sure to make the appropriate changes as the story progresses

[Lydia Shutter]

I hope your upcoming chapters take us on the adventures you have set up in this first chapter. I like the idea of people having moments in life when they lose footing....we all are on shaky ground now and then.

I can tell English is not your first language so I will give you a few edits here. “What the hell is doing on here?” he demanded, making all three of us paused for a moment. This should read, “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, making all three of us pause for a moment.

You are a good story teller and I hope you continue writing. Lydi**

[Yaseen J Malik]

lol yikes! a typo.. how embarrassing >_

[Lydia Shutter]

Not at all.....sometimes reading your work over two or three times before posting helps.