Promethean: Chapter 10
Seafarers
Arriving at the shipyard, he saw dozens of masts upright with sails stowed, and he thought of those spikes he had passed and Jude’s woes, hoisted by the sheaves, pulled from that saccharine mouth as if its breath and all the rest were the specter’s breeze. Having witnessed the forest himself, Abbé knew the look in his student’s eyes and concluded it should not be interrupted, for he had often climbed his own mast while thinking of the men and women who would never have the chance.
Busy on the decks, at the cleats, and the ropes, were others who had run away; folks making ready for the waves to face their monsters in the sea. Those who had broken out of a broken society; subjects evading an experiment and its observer. People set out to become—what? He did not know. But like him, under their flesh swam… something. They escaped, leaving behind all they had. As he did. Much like his own journey, caused for the same reason: the call of an enormous presence within.
Docked were cutters of various lengths, widths, and colors, near finished vessels for solo trips. Aboard, ones and twos bustled to and fro, fore and aft, port and starboard, completing tasks. They were dressed in clothes of different patterns, styles, and fits, calling out instructions as they sang shanties in preparation for their voyages. Wondering at the variety, he asked, “Abbé, why are their crafts of diverse sizes and designs if our task is the same?”
“Some things are better than others, meaning materials; the Mona Lisa wasn’t painted on scrap paper. And some ways are better than others, meaning techniques and tools; David couldn’t be cut by a tyro with a single chisel. And sometimes the form is defined; compare these cutters to teapots or a vase; in art, often, function comes first—but not at the cost of exquisite design! Elegant outcomes made by competent hands and spirited individuals should always supersede the controls and fickle standards set by the populace. Any politician, aristocrat, or royal ought to know this, for their creations are nations, such as the one you’ve fled, now tragically absent of all I’ve thusly explained, for man is the most fragile, impermanent, temperamental, messy, all-consuming and jealous medium, tool, and form; quick to destroy any threat to his own beauty and that which he holds as his own. These ships you see are more similar than different, but in your inexperienced eye, you spot conflicts first, seeing problems for the whole instead of individual solutions; your mind is still thinking in the ways of which you’ve left. If it is beautiful and if it works, let it be—behold creative anarchy! Who you see working the booms, rigging, gunwales, mainsails, and watching the telltales are artists, days away from daring the seas, using their flesh to lure their shadows and dive headlong into personifying dreadful darkness—and their crafts, merely a means to achieve mastery. Over what, you might ask? The material? Nay. Themselves.”
“I assume my fate is the same, that in the coming days I’ll be setting sail.”
“Days? Ha! Sailing? Ha-ha! May God bless your eagerness and keep your fire stoked. Ye be a lubber. Ever been on a boat?”
He picked up a shell fragment, and as he tossed it into the surf, he said, “No.”
Abbé pointed at his student’s thighs and said, “See those sticks you’ve got, first you’ll make those into sea legs—strong—and while you’re building those, you’ll build your own ship too.”
“My own? Build?”
“What, you thought I’d be letting you sally in the fairest lady of the sea?”
“Who is she? Will I meet her also?”
“Oh, she’s kept me company many days and nights. We’ve slept as lovers under the angelic quilt. And yes, you two shall meet. On her, you’ll earn your sea legs, and you’ll learn to love her until you’re ready to love your own ship.”
“I see… I think. Your lady, she’s the vessel you made.”
“Indeed! And much like a good lover, she made me.”
“Abbé, I’ll be here a while?”
“At the risk of overacting, being the dramatist I am known, my sensitivities portend that your potential is great; that the panoply of your cutter and sail must be hardier than theirs and my own, somehow the first of first-rate, the super of superior; why it was you I was assigned. For one peaceful evening, I was cruising calm seas when a hulking black mass raced up from the depths and nearly crashed down on me. As if a mountain sprang from the bottom! Nay! The bottom itself lifted up! I spoke of what I saw at the tavern the next evening and all thought me exaggerating. Telling a fish story? Me? The audacity of my audience! I digress. Sure, there are big, monstrous fish, man-eaters, but never a fish so large and swift as the sea itself that could swallow a ship!”
“You met this monster of mine when I lived in the city?”
“My spyglass wouldn’t call that living,” said Abbé, pulling out a small telescope, twirling it before bringing it to his eye.
“Fair. What have you seen?”
“This ‘ere glass perceives through all shoals, across the sea and deep into cities, showing me what it knows. As for what’s yours… met? No. Spotted? Yes. Tracked? I admit. Years now it has swum, and in search I’ve jibbed my sails, giving chase to behold the macabre breaching gloomy swells. For if the blue is glassy and calm, submerged it stays like Nemo’s Nautilus sojourning nadirs. It rises not because it needs air but because it needs you. When it does, I turn my glass to the land to find the man whose soul is doing the same.”
“That’s how you found me…”
“Indeed. Speaking of, I hear those innards grumbling. You hungry?”
“Starving.”