R, p.1
R, page 1
Distant Seas
by
Robert Boyczuk
Lying in bed, Captain Huygens turns restlessly as a single sharp note
reverberates in his sleep like a tolling bell. In his dream it seems a signal,
calling him from the murky, swirling waters in which he drifts, filling him
with an unexpected buoyancy. Slowly he begins to rise, past the groping
tendrils of bottom weeds which, in the utter black, feel like the caress of cold
fingers running along the exposed skin of hands and face. His ascent
continues, through dark as impenetrable as pitch, through waters that flow
around him like an icy cloak. He cranes his neck, for the first time seeing a
soft, diffused glow far above, and with each passing heartbeat the light grows
brighter, the water he slips through warmer. He is pushed ever faster
through layers of shadowy green filled with the flecks and blurs that are
darting fish; above, his world has become overarched with a rippling azure
plain. Layers of increasingly translucent water slip by, and he moves towards
the surface of wakefulness, his lungs aching suddenly, as if only now they
have remembered their need for oxygen; the ribs in his chest strain against
tightly drawn skin, an irresistible desire to open his mouth and drink deeply
fills him. He claws at the water, tearing madly to propel himself toward the
light, fighting the panic that rises in his throat like a balled fist, that
threatens to burst from him in a watery scream, and when he is sure that he
can no longer hold it at bay, when it pushes from between his tightly pressed
lips, that formless howl, at the same instant he breaks the surface like a shot,
gasping and flailing in the blinding light.
Awake at last, Captain Huygens sits amid the tangle of soaked
sheets, trembling, a shaft of sunlight cutting the gloom of his cabin and
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falling across his bed like a bright cutlass. He closes his eyes and swallows several times, head still reeling from the dream, its fear and confusion
supplanted by another greater fear now that he has returned to his senses.
He wonders, Who am I?
I am the Captain.
For several minutes he remains where he is, back propped against
the headboard. Then, feeling a sudden sense of urgency, he swings himself
over the edge of the bed and nearly falls as his legs buckle beneath his
weight. He clutches the bedframe, steadies himself, and in a moment he can
feel his strength returning, though his dream has left him weaker than he had
believed. Moving cautiously, he makes his way to the foot of the bed where
clothes -- his clothes, he realizes -- have been laid out on top of his sea chest; slowly, he begins dressing, pulling on his breeches and silk shirt, hands still
shaking, making it difficult to manage the buttons. The effort required to get
his boots on taxes his strength to such a degree that he must pause to collect
himself afterwards. Finally, he walks, more or less steadily, to the bureau
where his black felt tricorn sits. He places it squarely on his head and,
looking up, catches a glimpse of himself in the gilt framed glass.
A stranger regards him from the mirror with startlement, a man who
wears his clothes yet has a thin, bloodless face, with sunken, watery eyes and
parched lips. He blinks, and the figure in the mirror apes him. Closing his
eyes, he is once again aware of the thumping of his heart in his ribcage, the
rubbery feeling of his legs, the lightness of his head.
He wonders: Have I been ill?
He has no recollection of being sick, yet when he tries to recall
anything of the past few days he cannot: his memories have fled. He is the
Captain. This is his ship. But of the last weeks he remembers nothing. And
with a sudden sickening lurch in his stomach he realizes he is in possession
of only fragments of his past. He concentrates and an assembly of familiar
faces float before him, men sitting around a table, engaged in earnest
discussion, though he cannot name them; then a memory of a carriage rolling
through level countryside, he staring from within as they drive past canals
lined with long stemmed tulips whose blossoms sway yellow and red in the
breeze; and in France ( Yes, he remembers, France) a country house filled
with music and the soft rustle of long, elegant skirts. Vague impressions and
sensations that refuse to coalesce.
A fever, he thinks. I have woken from a feverish dream. It is the
effect of the illness. My memories will return. Must return.
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And having decided this, he opens his eyes.
He is relieved to see his pallor, still sickly, is not quite as white as he
first thought; faint lines of colour are visible in his cheeks, and his eyes now
appear clear. Tipping his hat forward so that it will leave his face in shadow,
he steps out into the blazing, morning light.
The deck is deserted.
It has the unmistakeable air of abandonment, coils of line and pails
of tar lying as if they'd just been dropped; loose carpenter's tools and wood
shavings next to a half-made barrel; a large sheet of canvas spread near the
mizzen mast, a thick needle piercing it at the base of a jagged tear.
Overhead, the sheets hang limply from their spars beneath a fulgent
sun, a sun as bright and hot as any Captain Huygens can remember. He
removes his hat and with his sleeve he wipes at the beads of perspiration that
have already gathered on his forehead. The light is inescapable, filling the
ship, leaving no shadows, dancing in all the recesses of his head.
Captain Huygens walks across the weather deck towards the prow.
Climbing the short ladder to the foredeck, he surveys the extent of the ship.
From where he stands, the aft deck is partially obscured by the mainsail; but
he is certain that it, too, is deserted. Then a thought occurs to him, and,
absurd as it is, he cranes his neck and squints into the rigging, half-expecting
to see his entire crew, every one of them, perched in the shrouds and ratlines
like large, angry crows. But no one is there, and the white sails leave
burning after-images that shoot across his vision like stars.
Perhaps they are all below, he thinks, setting out towards the
forecastle, determined, if needs be, to check every cabin, compartment and
hold on the ship in his methodical, orderly fashion.
Captain Huygens' inspection proves futile. He has found no one.
Returning to his cabin, he throws the shutters wide on all the aft windows to
permit as much light as possible to enter; while he has searched the sun has
risen and its rays cut obliquely through the window and fall on the rough
wooden planks of the cabin floor.
In the centre of the room is a heavy, oak table with a single drawer,
and it is before this he sits. On its surface lie a brass sextant, several large
navigational charts, a cream-coloured book bound in vellum, and a sheaf of
curling papers.
Picking up the book, Captain Huygens turns it over as if he were
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examining a specimen. Its covers are blank. He places it on the desk and
opens it, but there is still nothing to identify its purpose, only an empty white
leaf narrowly ruled in black ink. He begins turning pages, but they are all
identical, each as empty as the first. When he reaches the last page he closes
the book.
He leans back in his chair and opens the drawer. It has been divided
into two sections by a thin wooden partition, one narrow that contains two
inkwells and a number of quills, the other wider but unused. He places the
book into this side, and it fits nicely with just enough room around its edges
so that it can be easily lifted out again, and this somehow pleases him, this
seeming order. He shuts the drawer.
The charts are of various sizes and types, some imprinted with
foreign languages and symbols that make no sense to him. Although he
cannot recall how or where he might have acquired each, he is certain that
with a little patience he will be able to unlock their secrets, to discern their
patterns. Why he knows this he cannot say; but he is firm in his confidence,
certain that he has solved far knottier problems in the past. He sorts them in
order of size, then moves them to the corner of the desk, placing the sextant
atop of the pile.
He examines the loose papers, one after the other, but these
confound him. They are covered with detailed diagrams and intricate
calculations, and appear to deal with diverse topics from the minutiae of life
to the motions of the planets. On the first is a series of sketches of puzzling
objec
mathematical notations, a consideration, it seems, of the probability of a
dicing game; following this is a detailed rendering of the internal mechanism
of a clock driven by a pendulum that travels in a cycloidal arc; finally are a
series of astronomical drawings and calculations, geometries of the motion of
planets.
All, he notes with some consternation, are in his own distinctive
script.
The sun is almost directly overhead, the morning nearly spent.
Captain Huygens stands on the aft deck, a lone figure lost in contemplation,
his large, expressionless eyes, the colour of the sea.
" Help! "
The voice, small and trilling, shatters the Captain's reverie with the
abruptness of a stone.
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" Save me! "
Captain Huygens turns. The sea is an unbroken mirror, and it is not
difficult to spot the distant, floundering figure of a boy.
"Ahoy!" he bellows through cupped hands.
The tiny form ceases his struggles, as if the Captain's words have
surprised him. Then, he begins to wave a small arm energetically in the
direction of the ship. " Help me! " he cries with renewed effort.
"I can do nothing for you!" the Captain shouts in reply. "I am
alone! You must swim!"
There is moment of silence while the boy treads water, as if
weighing the wisdom of the Captain’s suggestion; then he strikes out towards
the ship, his little arms churning through the water, a steady, unhurried
stroke.
"What is your name, lad?"
The boy shrugs. He is round-faced and sleepy-eyed, with full lips
and a downturned mouth; wet, curly locks of hair are pasted to his skull. His
complexion is ghostly, his lips the fading blue of arctic ice.
The Captain knows this colour, has seen it many times before on the
sodden corpses they have dragged from the sea, but never on the living. He
shivers despite the stifling heat, then forces these thoughts from his mind.
"Do I know you?" he asks, then, feeling embarrassed at the absurdity of his
question, says, "Do not be shy. Speak up."
The boy's eyes dart nervously, taking in the ship as if it is all new
and frightening to him; he shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I ... I ... I'm
not sure."
"Not sure?"
He nods numbly in answer, averting his eyes.
"Your name then. What is your name?"
"I do not know."
The Captain tries to hide his rising exasperation. "Come, come, lad!
How can you not remember your own name?"
"I ... I cannot." The boy studies the puddle growing around his bare
feet. "I was hoping, sir" he says in a small voice, "you might be able to tell me."
The Captain purses his lips thoughtfully, then clears his throat.
"Ah, well, you see, I've been sick. A fever, I think." Withdrawing a
handkerchief from his pocket, he dabs at the film of perspiration gathering
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on his brow, his hand trembling slightly with the action. "I've just this morning been out of bed. My memory is still a bit muddled, I'm afraid ...."
"You don't remember either," the boy says, for the first time staring
directly at the Captain. "Do you?"
"Your name. Surely you have a name."
The boy furrows his brow in exaggerated concentration, and then his
face lights up. "Albert!" he says, beaming. "My name is Albert!"
"Albert," the Captain repeats slowly, as if considering the name.
"Good. Now, perhaps you might tell me how you came to be floundering out
there."
The boy's face clouds over, and he averts his eyes. "I ... I do not
know," he stammers.
"You've no recollection at all?"
The boy shakes his head sullenly.
"The ship," The Captain's grasps the boy's shoulder. "Does she
look familiar? Were you on her before? Can you remember her?"
The boy remains mute. Beneath his fingers the Captain can feel a
shudder pass through him. He releases his grip.
"Never mind, " the Captain mutters, and clasping his hands behind
his back he begins pacing the deck. "It is not important."
For a time neither speaks, the Captain lost in thought while the boy
takes in the ship with furtive glances. Then: "The others?"
"What?" The Captain stops pacing, stares at the boy. "What?"
"The others. Where are they?"
"Gone. Jumped ship, perhaps. Likely drowned."
The boy's face blanches; his eyes grow wide with fear.
"A storm," the Captain says quickly, knowing it to be a lie, the ship
bearing no evidence of rough weather. But the boy looks hopefully at him,
and he continues in a loud voice. "Aye, that must be it. Maybe they were
washed overboard. Or perhaps they lost their nerve in a storm and were
afraid we'd founder. So they struck out for an island they spotted." He nods
thoughtfully. "Perhaps that's what happened to you as well, Albert."
"But I don't remember --"
"Your head. You might have banged your head. Sometimes people
forget when they receive a blow to the skull."
Albert chews his lower lip and gazes off into space. Then his eyes
narrow. "There's no clouds," he says flatly, staring at the empty sky.
"No," the Captain replies. "You're right, and there's no denying
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that. But suppose, now just suppose, that you'd been out there at sea all this time clinging to a barrel or plank, half drowned and out of your mind with
fear while the storm passes by then disappears altogether. And later, much
later, when you hear my voice, well then you snap out of it."
The boy seems lost in thought. "Yes," he says at last. "Your voice
is the first thing I remember."
"That must be it," the Captain says in what he hopes is a hardy
voice, clapping Albert stoutly on his back. "Get yourself out of those wet
clothes and see if you can find something to eat. When the wind picks up
we'll have lots of work between us, I warrant."
"Yes sir," Albert says, venturing a weak smile. He moves towards
the companionway that leads beneath the afterdeck and to the officers'
quarters.
The Captain watches him for a moment. "Albert," he says quietly,
and the boy pauses. "Where are you going?"
Without hesitation he replies, "To my berth, sir."
"And where is that?"
"Why, next to your's, sir."
"To the cabin boy's quarters," Captain Huygens says, staring at
Albert, who regards him solemnly. But there is no spark of recognition, no
face that comes to mind when he considers those words. "Very well," he
says. "Carry on."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The Captain watches Albert disappear into the gloom of the
stairway; in his stomach something turns sluggishly, like a small animal
awakening. It is the fever, he tells himself.
But he no more believes this than the story he has concocted for
Albert.
Against the foot of Captain Huygens' bed rests a sea chest of
teakwood banded with dark iron; it glows with the patina of age and feels
warm, almost alive, beneath the tips of his fingers where they rest lightly on
its surface. His initials are carved deeply on its hump-backed lid just above a
rusty lock: C. H.
The chest contains bundles of various sizes and shapes wrapped in
grey sailcloth and secured with short lengths of packing string. On the very
bottom he can see five cylindrical objects, all roughly the length of the chest,
on top of which three other packages rest. He selects these topmost and
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carries them to his desk.
The first is a tube about the length of his arm and the width of his
wrist. He pulls the single string tied around its centre and the cloth falls
away to reveal the stepped, brass cylinder of a seafaring spyglass. He extends
to its full length -- nearly a meter -- then collapses it, placing it on the corner
of his desk.
When he unwraps the second bundle he finds a heavy disc the size
of a tea saucer and the thickness of his little finger; lying on his desk, it looks
