
Searching his reflection in the mirror, the sailor saw a subtle change in his own expression. What he saw was longing – a face of someone pursued by memories, haunted by a future he did not want. Now he could see that same expression in others. He thought at first it was enough to know he was not alone, but he realized he had to do something with the insight he had gained. He decided to leave behind his regular life – to put down his tools and to bid farewell to his co-workers. They were surprised but accepting. They felt concern about the lack of a specific plan and the approaching winter, but the sailor’s taciturn ways prevented those he knew from challenging the wisdom of traveling alone on the dark sea.
Merganser was a wooden sloop of about fourteen paces in length, built for small-scale trade between islands, with carrying capacity in a deep hold below decks for barrels, bales, or crates. Despite her age, the mast of spruce was straight and tall, and the sails in good repair. Before leaving, the sailor laid in fresh water, hardtack and smoked fish, root vegetables and apples. These he put in the hold, which had not seen use for trade since he and his friend acquired the boat long ago. He bought nautical charts for northern waters. He was not sure how far he might go, but he was mindful that the deep keel beneath Merganser would require him to take great care in unfamiliar waters.
Although he was quiet about his plans, he knew what he was about. His home community was too small, too insular. He needed to leave behind the spider-silk entanglements that bound him to his own long stable sense of self, to explore something new. Certain paths in life had now closed to him, in a way he was beginning to understand. After wasting precious time suppressing the pursuit of his dreams, he needed to set a new course. For such a methodical person, it felt both freeing and uncomfortable, to slip the dock lines mooring him to the past.
Thus, the sailor set forth without itinerary, without farewell party, in an old wooden boat on a misty morning. The harbour he knew so well dissolved behind him, as he sailed north, keeping careful account of bearing and speed.
- – ∞ – -
Two days later the winds abated. Rather than drift, the sailor dropped anchor off a village on a rocky island he had noted years before. The birds wheeling in the sky clamoured in the still air. After securing the boat, the sailor rowed his dinghy into the village, seeking sustenance and warmth.
The modest settlement had what an economy based on fishing might afford. Near the water was a boatbuilder and a net loft, lamps lit to allow work into the evening. On the main street, the sailor saw shops and rooming houses, a church, and a school with a generous schoolyard. The inhabitants headed home or were already there. Those he could see rushed, bundled up against the chill, reminding the sailor of the change in season. He thought to buy a pullover the next day.
At a rooming house, he found his evening meal: a heavy chowder served with crusty bread and ale, followed by small pears. The house was quiet, as the most frequent guests were fishing folk from outlying islands who stayed in season for the big catches. Afterward, he rowed out to Merganser in the fog, glad he had remembered to leave an oil lamp on the cabin top to light his way.
The next day, ripples on the water cast glittering reflections of the weak sun as the sailor rowed in. He tied up the dinghy to a scrappy willow. In the shop he found a heavy knit pullover, with a design of snowflakes against a dark grey background. The wool was fragrant with lanolin that gave it a greasy feel. Exiting the shop, he heard the spirited cries of children. It was the hour before school. They were making their way to the gate of the schoolyard.
The sailor walked to the fence to watch the spectacle, finding joy in the carefree way the children ran toward the school. He noticed a woman nearby. She said something quietly to her son, who left her and raced into the low building. The boy called to his friends and jostled into the narrow doorway with his books. The woman smiled, but her smile fell away quickly when her son disappeared. The sailor sensed the happy scene contrasted with a bleak interior. She lingered at the gate. In repose, her face evinced that same expression the sailor had noted in his own, in the mirror. The need to know well up within him, like the swell in a bed of kelp.
He said to her, they have so much energy at that age. Indeed, they do, she said – a mild smile once again playing across her features. The first wisps of grey at her temples, and the fine lines around her deep-set eyes suggested she had borne the child later in life. Does your boy like his school? He does. He likes his friends. He likes walking to the school. The sailor said, I think you may walk to school, but he runs. Yes, you are right about that.
He leaned on his elbows on the wooden fence, with his hat in his hands. What is his favourite subject? Natural history, she answered. Always collecting bits of shell from birds’ eggs, or flies mummified in spider webs, or glittering minerals embedded in dark stone fragments. He wants to know everything about these wonders. The sailor agreed, there is much to marvel at, in this wide world. Is he like his father? She started to answer but looked back toward the schoolhouse door and fell silent. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I am just making conversation. It is no matter. Forgive me, she said... his father passed some years ago, before the boy could lay down any memory of him. He does not know his father, beyond the sketches I made in those days, in the evenings. I see, said the sailor. I am sorry.
Leaning on a fencepost, she said – still looking at the school – it was a fishing accident. Lost at sea while heaving a heavy net, laden with fish. He fell overboard. Tangled, he could not surface, even as they worked to free him. Tragic, the sailor said. How utterly forlorn you must have been when you learned the news. Indeed, I was. I had always imagined growing old with him – my husband. He had such a gentle manner, nearly always in good humour. So attentive to me, and to our son.
He said, it lies beyond a casual conversation, but please forgive my question: how do you manage? She said, I have our son. I see my husband in his eyes, in his gait, in his curiosity, in his focus. The son himself is a consequence of the happy times. He will never replace my husband, but my son is a warm place where I can pour my affections and help him to grow well. That is how I manage.
You are not from this town, she said. I should not burden you with my troubles, but I suppose that is why I bared my soul to you on this innocent morning. She smiled. It was I who asked, he said. What brings you to our village on this island? He motioned toward his boat at anchor. I sailed here. I’ve left my past life and work to embark on a different journey. I need to learn about renewal. I need to understand how to accept loss. I need to find another way to live. Ah, she said, my turn, then, for the probing question... what is the nature of your loss? His gaze fell away, his eyes unfocused. I am not yet able to speak about it; it is too fresh. I am sorry. I have taken up enough of your morning. He stood upright, put his hat on his head, bowed slightly from the waist and bid her good day.
As he rowed out to Merganser, the sailor reflected on the exchange. That she could speak about her tragedy to a stranger was a marvel to him. His greying hair and silver beard had made him more approachable than in his youth... Because the boy had no direct memory of his father, it was easier for her to keep the loss in perspective, he thought, and work toward a brighter future. He tied the dinghy to the stern rail, and felt he must continue, farther north beyond the territory he knew.
- – ∞ – -
The sailor spent three days beating to windward under clear skies, along the coast of an extensive, sparsely inhabited island. He made progress on his wish to put more leagues between himself and his past. Merganser sailed well, with a reef of the mainsail in the afternoons so as not to overpower her. He overnighted in quiet coves, with inquisitive seals to keep him company, and crabs easily caught in his crab pot.
Passing the larger island, he came to a rocky archipelago he had not seen before. The fine weather had blown through, and he felt it would be good to rest. In the shelter of an inner harbour, he first heard – then saw – a lively town. There was a bonfire blazing in the waning light, and music playing in the square adjacent. A flotilla of visiting boats rode the small wind waves at anchor, so the sailor had to settle at a distance from the wharf. As he rowed in, the prospect of losing himself in the festive atmosphere was a welcome one.
Damp from the drizzle, the sailor climbed the stone wharf to the square. The crackling and popping of the bonfire competed with the music and the merry conversation around him. On long tables on the far side of the square, the neighbouring taverns and boarding houses served food. He found an empty spot to sit, facing into the square. From this perch, he could enjoy the crowd.
A nearly toothless older man was to his left, drinking a dark red wine from a heavy glass. He winked at the sailor and leaned close. It is a happy place today, eh? he said, with a warm glint in his eye. It was difficult to understand the man, given his lack of teeth, and the wine. Resisting an impulse to ignore him, the sailor said, indeed, it is. What is the occasion? It is the end of the fall market week, said man. They come from away to bring their wares. By now, no one has any more to trade. So, they make merry before leaving in the morning. The man became easier to understand, as the sailor grew used to his diction.
The sailor said, did you come here with your wares? Me? No, I am a simple man. Not a trader. Do you come here for that reason? Neither, said the sailor. I am traveling through. The man said, I was once set to be a trader, long ago. It was treachery that denied me that chance. The sailor saw the man’s face flush with anger, or with disappointment that he had broached the subject.
What would you trade then? Lead, that soft metal so useful as flashing to proof against the rain. I found on a rock, leagues away, a clear and easy deposit of the stuff. The richest ore, and in quantity... Was it difficult to mine? No, that’s just it. The lead came easily to hand, on the surface. With the right tools and transport, it could readily go to a metal smith for smelting and preparation for trade at just such a town as this.
You said treachery dealt you out. What happened? The man leaned close and touched the sailor on his arm. My damnable partner stole my map and tools. I searched everywhere. He vanished with the lot, and I can find the place no more. Now I tend to the horses here, so a celebration such as this is a welcome change. I see, said the sailor. Are you not consumed with bitterness? I am, said the man. I would be. I have been. It does no good. He is gone, with my map and my tools. My ore is gone too, even if I could find the rock where it lay. Surely excavated by now.
How would your life be different without that treachery? I do not know. I’d be a portly gentleman, I suppose, in a warm house off this square, enjoying finer wine, and worth marrying as well. I curse my fate when I am deep in horse dung... The man had depressed himself recounting his woes. He finished his wine in a gulp. I’m off, he said with a heavy sigh.
In five minutes, in the man’s place and that opposite the sailor, sat two women of about his age. They carried heavy plates of roast octopus and potatoes, with large glasses of an oleaginous white wine. The one opposite nodded to the sailor as she swept her curly hair out of her eyes and sat down on the long bench. The one next to him had difficulty stepping over the bench but succeeded in planting herself with a lurch. She covered her embarrassment by addressing him: I hope I didn’t spill my wine on you, friend. No, no, not a drop wasted, he said.
It’s been a long day – no, a long week visiting this town – and we’ve only just had the chance to relax. The sailor asked, what brought you here? We came to sell the boat hardware and fittings our people produce: blocks and tackle, line and speed logs, quadrants, and sextants. Useful items, he said. Our work went well but we are beat. The woman opposite drank from her glass and proceeded to eat. You really should, she said, when she saw his eyes drawn to her food. We’ll hold your place.
He rose and followed their suggestion. Inside it was hot and noisier than in the square. The crush of people was unfamiliar to the sailor, who had grown accustomed to quiet days. He managed to order the same as the two women and returned to them. They were in close and earnest conversation about something but stopped and leaned back in their seats when he approached.
As he sat on the bench, he said, I came here in my sailboat. She has been sailing well but she is suffering a minor leak near the keel. In your stores, do you have any resin? We do not, said the woman opposite. There is a chandlery near the net loft west of town that does. There’s a good stretch of sand on the other side of the northeast island in this group, where you can go aground at low tide to apply the resin.
What manner of craft do you sail? she asked. A sloop, sturdily built, fourteen paces. A trader boat now used for pleasure. He saw the woman next to him was clearly relishing her octopus. Do you seek amusement here in this town? No, I wouldn’t say quite that. Things changed for me and now I yearn for new horizons. They looked at him. It is possible I have finished my work; I am not sure. He drank from his glass. The lighter wine he had bought was bright and fresh tasting.
That is a nice thought, said the one opposite. I would gladly embrace an easier life at my age! She brushed the curls to the side of her forehead, then sprinkled salt on a potato. The sailor thought, she looked carefree, in contrast to her friend. How long will you stay here in this town? Two or three days while this weather passes. I’ll lay in supplies and make light repairs – apply the resin on the hull if the weather allows. And you, I think you said you leave tomorrow? Yes, but not too early, said the one next to him as she drank from her wineglass. I will sleep nine hours tonight!
I’m not looking forward to rowing so far to Merganser in this drizzle. There was no space to anchor closer in... I am in deeper water, but still in the lee of the headland. He pointed toward his boat, which he could discern from the lamp on the cabin top. We are nearby, said the one next to him. She motioned toward a larger trading vessel with space to tie up alongside. There is a little crew on board – mostly family. They are already preparing the boat to sail tomorrow. Well, said the sailor, if you have time tomorrow, early, come by for coffee and rolls. I have a sourdough rising now that I will bake in the morning.
The two women glanced at one another. The one opposite said thank you, that is a nice invitation. It will allow us to escape the work of readying for departure! Yes, we have done enough in the last days, said the woman next to him. He smiled and nodded as he rose from his place and took his dishes into the tavern.
On his way out the sailor said, I look forward to seeing you in the morning. The warmth and company of the long table gave way to light drizzle. The flagstones of the square were slick, but he found his clothing was not more than a little damp. After the generous glass of wine, the dinghy seemed livelier in the chop, as though it had a mind of its own and wanted to head anywhere but to Merganser. But the oil lamp on the cabin top pulled him home. He looked forward to his night in the busy anchorage, surrounded by the domestic noises from the neighbouring boats, the slap of wind waves on the hulls, and the distant music from the square. He tied up and climbed aboard, giving the lamp on the cabin top a shake to test for sufficient oil.
Down below, with the companionway closed to the chill air, the sailor felt snug. There remained embers in the stove, and the rolls nearby were slowly rising. He checked his larder for butter and jam and sat for a moment before retiring. He had enjoyed his evening in the town, and the easy company of the people he had met. Their companionship made him feel his loneliness more keenly now, at the end of the evening.
After hours of heavy slumber, followed by a cold-water wash, the sailor felt upbeat and optimistic. His rolls had risen well overnight. They were ready for the oven. He opened the companionway, and once in the cockpit doused the oil lamp. The day was brighter, with fleecy clouds snagged on the hilltops, and patches of blue sky visible here and there. About him lay vessels of every size and shape, from open sailing dinghies with people still snoring under the flaked canvas of their mainsails, to schooners with two masts and a bowsprit supporting two, or even three foresails. He saw the women’s trading vessel about a hundred paces distant. As he enjoyed a first coffee, the sailor spied the two women climbing into their tender, then rowing in his direction. He had judged the timing well, having just put the rolls into the heavy oven.
A breeze grew with the brightening conditions. The curly forelocks of the woman in the bow lashed her face, as they tied up alongside. Once aboard, the sailor had a better chance to see them. The first to board had a relaxed, ruddy complexion, smiling eyes, and seemed well satisfied with life. Her friend was quieter, with eyes that did not cease to search out the detail in anything she looked upon. Her expression was aloof, but the sailor thought her grey eyes and the surrounding wrinkles hinted at warmth beneath. There was a note of worry in the set of her jaw.
The quieter friend said, good morning! We have brought you something. She held out a canvas bag, within which were two heavy jars. What’s this? Potted, smoked fish. We made it last week in preparation for this journey – but we will not eat it all. You are welcome to it, as it sounds like your travels have just begun. He said, that’s kind of you. The rolls should be ready soon. He led them below into the warm, dark, wood interior. The air was fragrant with the baking bread and fresh coffee.
What a comfortable boat! said the one with curly hair. Just the perfect size. I can see why she has been a passion of yours these many years. May I look around? Of course, he said, be my guest. There is not much beyond the cabin forward, the saloon and galley you see here, a head aft and the trader’s hold in the stern. Her size is right for one or two, but I think it was not easy to make a living trading with her, as the hold is not large.
The quiet one took in the detail, lingering over a group of wood carvings of sea birds, affixed to a shelf on the port side. These are beautiful, she said. The carving is so fine, the light comes through the feathers on the outstretched wings. Did you do these? No, I did not. It was my friend who did the carving. Fixed to the shelf they will not move, even if Merganser should roll in a big wave.
She sat down on the portside bench and admired the stove, which was ensconced in a bay lined with heavy ceramic tile, and well gimballed against the motions of the boat. She noted the wood and kindling stacked neatly in the next bay, held in place behind a stiff canvas sheet. That is a beautiful chest I see beneath the stove, said the quiet one. Ah, thank you. I made it. It is granite with a casing and lock of brass made by another. I wonder what you use that for? Ah... keepsakes... I had a devil of a time working out how to immobilize the chest under the stove, for in heavy seas it could wreak havoc down below. No doubt, she said.
He lifted the heavy lid from the oven pot and worked to free the rolls with a flexible blade. These he put on a plate next to the butter and jam on the table. Let’s try your potted fish, too, he said. It will go well with the bread, I am sure. The sailor enjoyed the pleasant clatter of cutlery and slurping of coffee, in his usually quiet saloon. The rolls were perfect, he was pleased to see, with steam erupting as they broke them apart.
You certainly will not starve on your travels, with the skill to make such bread, said the one with curly hair. I wonder, how far will you go? I do not know. I am thinking I will know it when I’ve gone far enough. Say again what it is that you are looking for along the way? Oh, I am in search of a change. There is something in my recent past from which I need to find relief. Staying home in my familiar surroundings, working on my designs in the stonemason’s studio, I could not cease dwelling upon the matter. The women sensed not to question further. The quiet one said, when you have seen so many winters as we have, the regrets accumulate like the drifting snow. I think that is a feature of a life well lived, no matter how things go. You may be right, he said. Let me thank you again for the fish, it is so tasty with the rolls and butter. I hope you have a chance to try the jam. A co-worker made it for me as I readied myself for departure.
Show us the place where the hull is leaking, said the one with curly hair. He lifted three floorboards near the mast. Yes, I think you are right. Resin on the outside will help, and you can apply it on that beach. The tides are favourable in the next few days. As she stood, the one with curly hair said she should be getting back. She had to complete an inventory before they set sail for home. The quiet one said she wouldn’t mind staying for another roll if he would be willing to row her later.
When the curly-haired one had left, the quiet woman turned to face him and said, I too have a snowdrift of regrets. She gave a wan smile and took in a deep breath. As I will never see you again... may I impose on your generous nature and tell you about it? I cannot discuss the matter with anyone in my circle of acquaintances... Of course, said the sailor, I have a good sense of discretion. From her expression, he was not surprised that she was carrying a burden and glad to do her the courtesy of listening.
It is about my husband, who left this life last winter. He was a stalwart man, a good provider, dependable and easy-going. He sounds like a good husband. He was. I learned, by degrees, that I was unworthy of him. In what way? And wouldn’t that be something for him to decide? That might be so if he had all the facts.
She said, I learned his trusting nature was easily deceived. I am a curious person, always wanting to know more. Take this boat, for example. I want to open your cabinets and look in the hold. I want to feel how the rudder moves and raise the sails. I want to know what lies in that granite chest under the stove. It’s hard for me to content myself with just a cursory look at anything.
That is just a naturally inquisitive nature, is it not? She said, yes... but my inquisitive nature extends to other men, as well. Being a trader, I travel widely and mix freely with all sorts. By degrees, and with great care, I allowed myself to pursue my curiosity. How does each man fix me in his attention? What is the heft of his shoulder? How feels his intimate caress? I had to know...
Did your husband learn of this before his passing? He did not. That’s just the trouble, for me. I was skillful in keeping it from him, so skillful he never had suspicion. That’s good for him, of course, but it was a disaster for me. As I saw how easily deceived he was, I lost respect for him. He was honourable, and I had been depraved – or so he would have viewed it. I scoffed at his trust and sank into a swamp of unworthiness.
He said, I can see your situation is a difficult one from which to recover. He has passed, so you cannot come clean and ask for forgiveness. Fate has denied you the chance to regain your honour. In a sense, I am glad, she said, because if he did forgive me, my self-loathing would exceed itself. That said, how will you proceed? How do you make amends? How can you prevent your regret from engulfing your remaining time? I do not know. I am grateful for your discretion, and your willingness to hear my tale. You are the first I’ve told this to. Perhaps that is a start on the path to atonement.
They heard a clanging sound outside, drifting on the breeze. The sailor stood and peered over the cabin top, to see the woman with curly hair on the deck of their trader, banging a ladle against a kitchen pot. He waved. They are calling for you, he said. Her eyes were moist, and she sniffed as she dabbed them with a handkerchief she drew from her sleeve. I will row you over. Fear not, your tale is safe with me. Thank you; I do feel better. She said to him, I hope that one day you will tell your tale. I feel it will help you, too. I think perhaps I know what it is... As she rose, the woman glanced about the saloon. She made her way up the companionway. Above, it was bright and cheerful. The sailor rowed her in the buoyant air. She dabbed her eyes once more as he returned to Merganser.
- – ∞ – -
The next afternoon, at nearby island, the sailor guided his boat to tie up at a floating dock at the end of a long pier. He needed more fresh water, more fruit and cheese for his onward journey. He heard a roar behind him and turned in time to see a heavy downpour closing in, across the water. He saw big drops hit the sea with such force they gave rise to filmy bubbles that persisted a moment. He went below, out of the weather, and heard the heavy drops now drumming on the cabin top. It was a brief downpour, and he felt the air turn cooler afterwards, even as the raindrops turned to hailstones. The squall reminded him of his friends’ caution back home in the stonemason’s studio, about the folly of travelling north this time of year. Once the hail abated, the sailor smiled ruefully at their counsel and emerged from Merganser in his heavy woollen pullover. He enjoyed the prickly feel of the wool and the lanolin on his neck and wrists.
In the town, he saw people bustling about, as though the new chill in the air had alerted them of the lean months to come. He made a first trip to carry the foodstuffs he procured from a shop near the end of the pier. Then he made three trips to lug two heavy buckets of fresh water to top up his tanks. He spied on a meeting hall door, an announcement about a performance of sea shanties the following evening. That was something he always enjoyed. The sailor decided to linger in the pleasant town.
He talked to the harbourmaster about taking a space for Merganser. Settled in, the sailor spent a quiet evening baking bread and making a thick chowder with salt-cured fish and potatoes. Merganser was toasty inside.
Come morning, the sailor was astonished to see a thin raft of ice had collected overnight, around the pilings of the pier. It had broken, leaving frozen circular rims around the pilings as the tide fell toward morning. Merganser had seen ice before, but not so early. He busied himself making light repairs and weatherproofing.
In a loft in the meeting hall with a low sloped ceiling lit by the glow of oil lamps, they held the performance of sea shanties. The audience sat in repurposed wooden church pews. A fiddler accompanied the singer. The songs transported the sailor to far-off places, populated by smugglers and pirates, full of lonely and homesick seafarers. During an interval, he saw there was hot cider available. Before rising, he turned to the woman next to him, whom he recognized from the cheese shop he had patronized earlier. He asked her, would you like a cup of cider? I am going to fetch one for myself. She said, I would, thank you. That is kind of you.
He returned a minute later, as the interval ended, and the shanty singer and fiddler resumed their positions. The sailor entered a deep state of relaxation, listening to a quiet song about a loved one left behind, as he sat in the lamplight under the scratchy wool blanket brought with him to keep warm. When the music was over, he glanced at the woman next to him and offered to return her empty cup. When he came back to her spot, she had folded his blanket and was organizing herself to leave.
He said, I came by your cheese shop yesterday afternoon – just after the brief hailstorm. Oh, I remember, she said. I remember everything. It is a bustling town, but we don’t have visitors often. She had kind eyes, and grey hair pulled back from her face. There was a cheerful glow about her – a combination of the warm loft, the cider, and the cheese she enjoyed all her life. You have an impressive shop, he said. I found a variety or two I had not seen before. She said, cheese is a wondrous food. Alive in the best way.
They walked outside into the chill air, snow flurries swirling in the light breeze. The sailor felt glad he had safely moored Merganser. Despite the chill, she asked him, would you like to take a stroll? I find the cold refreshing. I can show you the sights. With blankets folded over their forearms, they wandered east, where the sailor had yet to go. He admired the office of the reeve, a couple of small chapels and the boarding houses. They turned inland by a modest park next to a library and a school. Everything was orderly and well proportioned. I am impressed with this town, he said. The people have given it their energy and attention. It must be a pleasant place to live.
Indeed, it is, she said. I have enjoyed a most trouble-free life here. My cheese shop is a success. The few people I employ all do their share, with joy in their smiles and without complaints in their hearts. I have a steady stream of customers. He asked, do you have a family here in this town? I do, she said. My parents raised me here – they live yet, and care for my two children while my husband is away at sea, as he is now. On his boat, they trap a special kind of crab in a deep place to the west. I have my friends from school, and the shop, and my long life here in this town. I have no complaint... except... Except what? he asked. She sighed. Except that I know my life has been too easy. No relative or friend of mine has passed. No fire has destroyed my home or shop. My husband’s fishing boat has not foundered in the rolling breakers of a winter storm. No serious difficulty has ever befallen me in any way. But I fear that will not last. I know my good fortune cannot hold. I know everyone dear to me will pass, as will I one day, too. I know the cheese shop, and my husband’s fishing, will one day be beyond us to manage. I worry my children will suffer some tragedy or other, even as fate has spared me – thus far.
He asked, why can you not simply enjoy your good fortune for the time being? All of us face the kind of reckoning you fear, but we put it out of our minds and enjoy the present. She said, my worry is that I am not tested – not hardened enough by adversity in life so that when the inevitable comes I can withstand it. Ah, I see, he said. She said, I feel like a tender plant, which has grown in the beneficent calm of a balmy summer but is vulnerable to blowing over in the first strong wind of autumn. Is there not a way to cultivate a challenge in your life to help toughen yourself? I try, she said, I climb the mountains behind the town, I row in the ocean with a group of friends, I swim in the chilly waters of midwinter. That helps, I’m sure. But the longer I feel buoyed by good fortune, the harder will be the fall. I can feel it in my bones.
- – ∞ – -
They had returned to the vicinity of the long pier and walked to its end. The sailor pointed down to Merganser lying below them, as they passed. Would you like to stop in for a little whisky later? They rounded back after staring into the flurry-filled darkness at the end of the pier. As she descended the companionway steps of Merganser into the saloon, the woman admired the carved seabirds. She looked around the snug interior. As she rubbed her hands above the stove, he swung open the squeaking door and added short lengths of split oak. I’ll close us up against the chill, said the sailor, as he slid the companionway hatch shut. She sat on the bench, and he pulled the cork on the ceramic flask of whisky, pouring two measures into small lumpy glasses. She closed her eyes and held the whisky under her nose, focusing on its peaty, resinous scent.
You have a pleasant boat, she said. She looks well built; no doubt she can go far under a skillful hand. But what of you, she asked the sailor. To me, it seems you are traveling, but I see no cargo on this vessel. You are not trading. Nor does it seem you transport people on this craft. What brings you to this town – I mean apart from the excellent cheese in my shop? She smiled. He matched her smile. He said, I reached a place in life where I decided to put aside my tools – I am a stonemason – and simply follow my own muse. I have enjoyed my little journey and have learned much from the people I have had the pleasure to meet. I think about the kinds of adversity they have faced, and how they have tried – successfully, or unsuccessfully – to meet the challenges.
What kinds of challenges are these? she asked, as she sipped her whisky. He thought back. There was a wife who had to come to terms with the passing of her husband. Lost at sea, in the manner yours has happily escaped. There was another man who suffered betrayal by a treacherous friend, with whom he had discovered a rich deposit of minerals– but now reduced to cleaning stables. There was a woman, who had deceived her husband with other lovers, and regretted it sorely. And now I have met you... I suppose the greatest worries in life could come from the things that have not happened. I mean in your life the adversity you fear has not transpired, yet it keeps you up at night.
She said, measured against the others you have met, my adversity pales. I know this about myself yet cannot overcome the sense of dread that stalks me. I don’t know how we arrived at this subject. What is your interest in adversity? Everyone has something. Even I, without serious trouble, have manufactured something for myself. She gave him a resigned smile. What is your adversity, friend?
He looked at her over a long pause, feeling finally prepared to address the question. He sensed her good nature, in letting him think about what he would say. He refilled their thick glasses from his whisky bottle. Very well, he said after the long silence. As we will likely never see one another again, I will tell you. It may do me good.
Years ago, together with a good friend, I acquired this boat. I mentioned to you that I worked as a stonemason, and I’ll tell you he was a metalsmith by trade, but also a skilful woodcarver as a pastime. Her eyes drifted to the carvings of seabirds. Merganser was a dream for both of us, and the idea of occasional voyages here and there seemed like a fine balance to the pressures of an industrious life. We took our time refurbishing this little trading vessel, to put her in the best shape. Over a decade, we made many short journeys – often for frivolous reasons: to see a whirlpool triggered when the tide turns between islands; to see a certain sea duck, rafting by the thousands in a stopover on their migration; to enjoy a festival at a neighbouring isle. Those were deeply gratifying years. The woman listened without blinking.
But the human spirit is always grasping for more, always searching for ways to deepen the joys of life. He took a deep breath. I... I started having intense feelings for my friend. I had not felt this way before, but the slow realization of what was happening to me was an explanation of aspects of my character that I had earlier thought mysterious. I so enjoyed the time together, with my friend. The clue to me was that it mattered little what we did. I... I just felt so good around him. But to feel freely about such things was not how my parents raised me. I tried to find the way... find the courage... to talk to him about it. That courage eluded me. A fear of losing his friendship haunted me without mercy...
Silence crept down the companionway and from the empty cabin into the saloon, as they both considered what the sailor had said.
A moment later, he continued. That joyous, painful period persisted for a year, and then my friend took ill. A terrible fever and cough quickly killed him. I took care of him as best I could, but my sense of heartbreak, as I saw him sink beneath the waves, was almost too much for me to bear. In a lucid period between bouts of fever, he requested cremation if he passed, and that I would make a box for him, using all my skills as a stonemason. He gave me a lock to secure it. I followed his wishes, said the sailor, as he motioned to the granite chest.
She drew a sharp breath. She reached her hand across the table and covered his. He felt the first warmth of another’s touch in years. Oh my, she said. He could see she was still grappling with what he had told her. That is a sorry tale indeed, that it happened that way... And this is why you have put down your tools to take a voyage... with him? It is, said the sailor.
But I have not yet finished my tale. When my friend passed, I had to settle his affairs. I had to find another to take over his smithy. I had to clear the rooms where he lodged, and give away his things... I found there a journal, among his belongings. Not one volume, but four. In these books, he had written a chronicle of his years, including of our times together. From the pages of the last journal, I learned that toward the end, he felt tortured by similar feelings about me but was deeply reluctant to say anything to me. He thought it would pass like a sunbeam in a forest. We were the same. Our overly circumspect natures denied us the chance to be happy together... That last journal lies also within the granite chest. I hope my sad tale has not added to your burdens, he said, and fell silent.
She moved her warm hand from his and poured a third ration of whisky into their glasses. She leaned back against the bulkhead, her eyes wandering over the carvings, her sense of warmth and humanity in the snug boat complete. She said, I have no doubt that I am the first you have told this tale. You do me a great honour by thinking me a worthy listener. I will not disappoint you. She looked at him, with eyes full of compassion. How will you now live? What will you do?
I have been giving those questions serious thought on this journey I have taken, said the sailor. Perhaps it takes a great mistake to earn great wisdom, but it seems to me I must do my best to ensure that others can learn from my past and avoid the same awful outcome. I must speak to young people, somehow, to let them know there is a consequence, if the head resists the way shown so clearly by the heart. She reached across and patted his forearm, and – overcome – brushed a tear from her eye. They stood and embraced. I wish you well, she said. She climbed the companionway steps, to walk the long pier to her empty house.
- – ∞ – -
In the morning, Merganser reached a place the sailor had noted as he passed some days before – a place that felt right for what he needed to do. It was an area of exceptional depth. His lead line did not reach the sea floor. There was a mountainous, uninhabited island to the west, draped in dark green forest with snow perched in clumps in the branches of the trees. Rare sunbeams played over a lower-lying island to the east, with rolling hills cleared for smallholder farms and villages. The sea looked like hammered silver. The frothy wake of Merganser stretched behind him as he flew downwind.
When he judged he had reached the best position, the sailor hove to, steadying Merganser to provide a stable platform for his solemn task. There was no need for him to control the boat once he had set the sails properly and lashed the tiller. He went below. At the stove, he undid the chains that bound in place the granite chest of his own making. With great difficulty, and taking care of his old back, he knelt before it and heaved the chest to his own, then rose and moved slowly toward the companionway. He staggered up the bottom step and set the chest on the threshold to the cockpit. The sailor climbed over the chest and lifted it again in the cockpit, moving now toward the stern. He set the chest down for a moment on the transom, to catch his breath.
He thought about the chest he had made, the slow and patient chipping of the granite so as not to introduce any crack that would lessen its integrity, nor mar the beauty. He thought about the ashes within the fastness of the chest. The love that would never flower between them. He thought about the journal he had placed within the chest, atop the ashes. About how the sea water would seep into the seams of the chest, and in time dissolve the ashes, and pulp the paper of the journal, washing it away, with the ink, and the history that never was. He thought about being alone in the world. After a time, the sailor stood once more. He grappled the granite chest in his arms and heaved it over the transom. There was a deep splash. It sank from view with great speed in the clear dark water. The sailor watched it plummet, then sobbed into his handkerchief when he felt the stillness his friend had left in his wake.
At last, he took a few long breaths. His gaze rose to the forested, mountainous island. Flurries frolicked as they descended seaward, against the dark background of the firs, adding to the snowdrifts at their bases. Merganser felt lighter now. The sailor dabbed his eyes once more. He unbound the tiller and released the taut jib to leeward, setting a course toward the south, and home.