With skills handed down over the ages, Renee guides her tired old
sloop close to the dock. Appearing frail and with shaking hand, she
drops a looped line over the stout post bringing the boat to a halt.
She ties up fifty feet behind a once grand wooden sailing vessel. The
name Sea Gypsy, Victoria BC, is painted in gilded gold across
her broad transom. Above her name is a curving eyebrow of five
obelisk shaped windows. Her hull is black, her seams tarred and
battered from thousands of sea miles. Her sails tattered, hang from
long yard arms cut from oak forests long gone. Sea Gypsy, a
true relic of the past is berthed at the Victoria Canada public wharf
as if waiting for her long gone crew to return.
Holding a knotted rope,
Renee steps onto the dock and quickly makes her boats mooring lines
fast. Watchful eyes aboard Sea Gypsy watch her technique and
study her familiar windblown looks and golden locks. When she looks
up and reads the vessels name a chilly shudder of escapes her body in
waves across her chest and shoulders. Her blood runs cold and terror
shakes her core. She doesn’t know what causes her reaction, she
forces herself to look away.
On the dock, a rickety
boarding stairway leads to Sea Gypsy’s main deck. The hand
written sign says, “free tour – welcome aboard.”
“Ahoy Renee, welcome
home.” Says a hollow voice coming from somewhere near the aft deck
house.
“Ahoy,” says Renee
cautiously, her curiosity working overtime, as she works her way
toward the stairs. “Ahoy, permission to come aboard?” she asks as
she places her foot over the bull work onto the thick deck timbers.
Renee can hear voices
from below decks, people are laughing, she places her foot on the
first companionway step and heads down into the main saloon. She
ducks her head right into a bunch of spider webs blocking her way.
With three sweeps of her hand, she clears the way and steps onto the
cabin sole. The dark dank cabin reeks of oil, spiced rum and fish
odors from years of being at sea. Two gimbaled oil lamps, with their
wicks burning low rock gently with each ocean swell.
“Ahoy, my name is
Renee, anyone here.” She feels a nudge against her knee and looks
down.
“Bartholomew, where
have you been? My brave and loyal Bart.” Renee scoops Bartholomew
into her arms and the jet-black cat bites her hand and kicks her
until she drops him. Then he rubs against her leg again. She shoves
him away with her foot wondering why she knows his name.
Tucked under the stairs
is the navigation station dimly lit by a small porthole. Rolls of
charts clutter the many pigeonholes like important mail stuck in
every cranny. Dry Inkwells with quills and lead markers line the top
of the desk. Laying open is one of Sea Gypsy’s log books.
The page heading reads crew manifest 1892. The names are English,
Irish and some French. Patrick O’Leary, Brendan Shaunessy are
listed along with Jean Paul, James Derby and Michael DuPont. Renee
turns the pages and stops, her finger runs down the list and stops at
ships cat, Bartholomew, black kitten -1899. She flips pages until
they turn blank, the last entry is dated 1918. She pulls another
logbook from a cubby, it’s dated 1925, she slips it back without
opening, pulls out another and begins reading an entry from 1965. The
storm raged eerily for five days, dense fog and high seas plagued the
ship, several people became insane and mysteriously disappeared from
Sea Gypsy.
In the saloon, Renee
sees the gimbaled lamps swing and tilt at a slight angle, Sea
Gypsy is healing, She looks out the porthole expecting to see
the wharf and her sloop, instead she sees roiling seas to the horizon
and hears sailing commands.
“Trim that tops’l
seaman,” orders the helmsman. “Watch yourselves mates, she’s
building, were in for a blow.” Sea Gypsy heels and Renee’s
foot slips causing her to fall against the wall, she rubs her head
and sits back on the bench seat. Bart rubs her leg, as she attempts
to make some sense of everything when the deck door opens and some
crewmen come down the steps. One is a boy barely old enough to leave
home. He goes straight to a locker and with a large ladle draws
water from a barrel lashed in place. He barely finishes a drink when
a muffled yell from on deck causes him to run back up the stairs.
The two other tired and scruffy looking deckhands disappear down the
forward passage. Thoroughly confused, she flips to the last filled
in page. It is dated August 1, 2019. 6:30 AM and reads, berthed at
Victoria BC seawall to take on provisions and passengers. The next
entry reads. Several crew have jumped ship claiming bad spirits and
banshees in rigging. Capt. Dupont.
That was yesterday
muses Renee. Just then, she hears a yell, coming about. Sea
Gypsy’s rigging creaks as she changes course. She heels the
other way, the gimbaled lamps swing. Renee glances out the port,
land is not far off, and the sun’s rays are now streaming across
the desk and beating the sea flat. Stepping around Bart, Renee opens
one locker after another until she finds a gallon jug wrapped in a
leather pouch. The jug has a stiff handle and sling made of braided
jute and is stopped with a carved cork made shiny from thousands of
hands. She submerges the jug in the water barrel until the bubbles
quit, replaces the cork and shoulders the sling and then takes the
companion way steps two at a time. Opening the double door, she
latches the door halves back on themselves allowing the cooling
breeze to flow below. Renee makes her way aft to the elevated
steering station. A bearded tall man steers Sea Gypsy, he
watches the sails and the sea ahead, and watches Renee approach him.
She holds up the water jug and confidently puts her hand on the large
steering wheel.
“Thank you lassie,”
says the Captain, “see that the watch crew gets their ration.” He
finishes a long draw, hands her the jug and places his hands back on
the wheel, his eyes again scan the acres of white sailcloth looking
for a fluttering telltale or luffing sheet needing trimming. Renee
moves to the fantail where a crewman is fifty feet up in the rigging,
she holds the jug up in his direction. He shakes his head and lowers
a small line. Renee expertly ties the sling and line together and
the jug is quickly hoisted. A minute later the jug is lowered back to
her. Renee makes her way forward and repeats the procedure at the
main mast and the men handling the winches on the foredeck. She
spots a small figure at the bow, a young girl sits on a cargo box
staring forlornly out to sea. Her hair is tucked into a knitted cap,
her arms tight at her sides.
“Hello, my name is
Renee, would you like a drink?” The girl turns and looks at Renee
but she appears to be looking past her.
“You see me?” says
the girl.
“Of course I see you,
why?”
“No one sees me.”
She reaches for the jug.
“What’s your name,
where are your parents?”
“I don’t know, I
think it is Lassie.” She hands the jug back to Renee and returns to
starring at the sea.
“Coming about, all
hands prepare to tack,” is the command from the helm. Renee
watches as Sea Gypsy turns, creaking timbers groan and object
as the yards and sails swing to the new heading. When she looks back
at the cargo box, the girl is gone. Renee scans the deck for her and
then looks over the side. Nothing, the girl has vanished. Feeling
parched, she pulls the cork and raises the jug to her lips spilling
water. The jug is full.
A blinding flash draws
Renee’s eyes toward shore. Jagged lightning scars the gap from
towering black clouds to mountaintops. The sea has gone flat, a
somber warning of impending change. Five miles of ocean reflect the
spectacle as strike after strike hits rocky peaks. Williwaw squalls
born of cold mountain air begin to flow down valleys. Fearful
shudders rack Renee. She steadies herself, and then sits on the cargo
box where minutes earlier the girl had sat. A carved name in the oak
wood draws her attention away from the unfolding dangerous spectacle.
Renee Dupont, her name, beckons to her. The carved name was
obviously done by someone sitting exactly where she is sitting. Dark
weathered edges suggest many years have come and gone. With her eyes
closed, she traces her finger, following the deep incisions.
The first gust snaps
her back, Renee looks toward shore, her wide eyes and another
involuntary shudder betray her fear. The flat ocean has transformed
to white caps and spray mist. Sea Gypsy leaps alive, the fresh
breeze heels her and the strain in her rigging releases new creeks
and groans.
“Trim those sheets
sailors,” yells the captain over the increasing wind, “were in
for a blow.”
Dirty streams of dust
and windblown debris begin snaking down the canyons to the sea. Wind
speeds exceed one hundred miles an hour by the time the williwaws
spills onto the ocean surface. The dirty brown cloud is a thousand
feet high as it races towards Sea Gypsy. The sea itself rebels
throwing up wave after wave, the williwaws can’t be contained and
turn the wave tops into blinding spray blowing toward Sea Gypsy.
Renee watches as nature gives birth to millions of angry children
determined to wreak havoc upon anything in their way. Each gust
slaps Sea Gypsy’s hull and shakes her rigging. The first
of the banshees arrive, taking roost in miles of lines. Their
terrifying shrieks match each gust. The wind steadily increases until
Renee must brace herself against the cargo box to keep from falling.
The once flat sea has become a frothing cauldron, Sea Gypsy heels
and races ahead, the wind propelling her and chasing her. Ocean
swells build upon each other. At first, they gently lift Sea Gypsy
and flow under her but then the biggest windblown monster waves
slam her hard. She shudders with each onslaught, her old timbers
strain under the attack. Green water breaks over her decks sweeping
them clear before flowing through scuppers back into the sea. Renee
tries to hangs on, but streaming water forces her from her feet, she
tumbles and loses her life saving grip. The next wave carries her
across the deck and slams her into the bulwark. Fifty mile an hour
wind whistles through Sea Gypsy’s rigging. When she
struggles to her feet, Renee hears the mournful wail of the banshees
foretelling impending doom. She almost makes it the cabin roof
seconds before the next wave, but Sea Gypsy, with a mind of
her own suddenly leans and drops like an elevator. In a river of
frothing water, Renee slides headlong down the tilting deck, the
williwaw whipped sea waves propel her toward the rail and the oceans
abyss. Her head hits the bulwark. The torrent flowing up and over the
rail drags her with it. Fighting unconsciousness and choking on salt
water she desperately claws at the wood timbers. Her leg is drawn
through the scupper wedging her temporarily. The next wall of water
rolls across the deck pummeling her again. With her body blocking the
scupper the water backs up submerging her head. Fighting choking and
gagging she holds her breath. She struggles with her wedged leg and
manages to turn herself upright. She doesn’t dare pull herself
loose or she will risk going overboard. The next wave covers her
face, she gulps and inhales seawater expecting her lungs to revolt
and burn, she feels nothing.
Renee lifts her head
from the chart table; she touches her dry hair and feels her clothes.
She glances out the dripping porthole at raging waves and then pulls
another logbook from the shelf. Bart rubs her leg, she reaches down,
pats his head, rubs his ears and speaks to him.
“Your ear is cut, I
didn’t feel this before, I wish you could talk to me Bart, you know
what’s happening, don’t you.” She sets the logbook against the
fiddle edge on the sloping chart table. The book falls open, the
page is dated June 21st the year is missing.
The logbook reads like
an adventure novel. We have been sailing north by northeast for three
days. A mysterious sloop following Sea Gypsy has closed on us during
the dark, they are now one mile behind. With his long glass, the
watchman has identified her flag as Spanish. We are flying all
available canvas; I fear by nightfall on this longest day of the
year, they shall be upon us. The new rat-cat is earning its keep but
nearly lost the left ear. The filthy bilge rodents got it by the ear,
splitting it by half. Our stores are full and the crew is spirited
thanks to a double rum ration in bracing for the fight sure to come.
Renee shoves the open
logbook above the fiddle and pets Bart while she looks at his split
ear. A wind blows through the cabin turning a few pages of the log.
The page open is dated December 1st, the year is not
legible, as if time no longer matters. The setting sun sends a narrow
beam through the navigators port, Renee follows the dust shrouded
shaft of light across the dark cabin. It lands like a laser on a far
bulkhead filled with small doors and cabinetry. She pulls on the wood
seal-head carved handle. The door does not budge. On a hunch she
pushes on the trim and lifts a secret latch, the door easily opens.
Inside is a doll.
“Lady Anne Marie,”
exclaims Renee, “Look Bart, how did she get in there.” Renee
yanks the ragdoll out and cradles it to her chest.
The calm is shattered
by a splintering crash from the aft cabin, the captain’s cabin,
followed a few seconds later by a far off cannon boom. Renee
instinctively protects Lady Anne Marie with her arm and hand and
ducks down against the cabin wall. Three more booms are heard but
the cannon balls miss Sea Gypsey. The aerial missiles whistle
through the air and fall harmlessly in the sea. A seaman races down
the companion way and into the captain’s cabin. Renee hears him
curse and swear Neptune’s watery revenge upon the ones that did
this. The Seaman comes back into the main saloon and makes for the
rum barrel, thinks better of it and returns topside.
“Aye Captain, the
damage is not pretty but not affecting our sailing or fighting
ability. Neptune will have the last word with them.”
“They don’t have
our range, or they are useless scallywag’s,” yells a seaman on
deck.
“Hold yer fire, you
scurvy dogs,” commands Captain Dupont, “you will get your chance.
Meanwhile keep those gun ports closed. Prepare to come about, lower
the tops’l and the main, bring down the Jack and raise the white
flag.” Renee sneaks up the companionway stairs clutching Lady Anne
Marie, she peeks out a slatted vent. Sea Gypsy is crawling
with sailors. Men are scrambling through the rigging, tucking
sails, preparing for action. On deck, gunners are loading six short
barrel large bore cannon with spiked balls connected with short
sections of chain. Flints are sparked and linstocks are held ready,
their hot embers soon to be lighting primers, unleashing billowing
smoke and then destruction.
Sea Gypsy’s
white flag temporarily stops the fast approaching attacker’s wild
firing while the attacking captain accesses his quarry’s action.
Renee pushes open the door to get a better view and Bart dashes past
her onto the main deck. Without thinking, she chases after him
towards the raised aft deck where Captain Dupont is carefully
watching the approaching ship.
“Bart, come back
here,” she yells, tearing the captain’s attention to her. Bart
disappears into an open dorade vent leaving Renee and Lady Anne Marie
in the middle of the open deck.
“You there, galley
boy,” commands the captain, his icy stare anchoring her to the oily
planks. “Get below and stay there. Yeoman,” he nods to the yeoman
and the man scoops Renee by the waist and lifts her off her feet. He
holds her close as she struggles to free herself. His fish breath and
foul odor cause her to recoil.
“If the captain
hadn’t taken a liking to you, you would be mine,” he drools, his
cracked lips brushing her ear. “A young thing like you can be real
nice to have around, on shore you might fetch a handsome price.”
Renee squirms, loosening his arm and kicks him painfully just 88as
they reach the companionway.
“Get below you little
wretch afor I teach you some manners.” He glances up at the captain
and decides against striking her or pushing her down the stairs. The
yeoman makes sure Renee is below and nothing else, just as the
captain had ordered.
The attackers have
closed to under a thousand feet when the captain calls for the main
sail to be fully raised and trimmed for speed. He throws the helm
hard over while yelling coming about. Sea Gypsy rapidly turns
until she is heading directly at the surprised vessel.
“Open your ports and
prepare to fire, Gun number one lead off aiming for the midship mast,
the rest of you take range and follow fore and aft. You will only
get one shot, make it count.” Captain DuPont keeps Sea Gypsy
on a head-on collision course. The ragtag motley crew of thieves and
barbarians on the attacking vessel are sure they are about to be
rammed, some relish the moment and the ensuing bloody hand to hand
battle sure to follow, but most are in a panic and have abandoned
stations.
At only two hundred
feet, Sea Gypsy turns again, showing the attackers her
broadside and her now open gun ports. The gunners mate makes final
aiming adjustments and calls for fire in the hole. The crewman lowers
the burning linstock and the stubby mortar style cannon roars to
life. Flames spew fifty feet and the mortars payload of nails, spiked
balls and chains tears across the sea. Captain DuPonts strategy is
simple, destroy the enemy’s rigging and kill as many of the crew as
possible. The chains spinning end over end make sure Captain Dupont
gets his wish.
The first well-aimed
mortar shot clears a swath of men and shreds sails and rigging.
Bringing down the masts is the hoped for Coup De Grace. Cannon number
one takes out most of the main rigging and damages the mast. The rest
of the cannons fire after the effectiveness and aiming of number one
is apparent. In one minute, all five cannons let loose their loads.
The results are devastating, the attacking ship has lost all its
masts and half the deck crew is either dead or maimed.
“Coming about boys.”
Yells the helmsman at Captain DuPont’s order. “Take down that
white flag.” Sea Gypsy traces a new course directly away
from the disabled attacker showing only her narrow stern and
billowing white clouds of canvas.
The Captain climbs down
the companionway ladder and walks directly at Renee, his eyes on a
large rum barrel lashed to the far wall below a row of cups. Holding
Bart, she steps out of his way and says to him.
“Is it over, are we
safe now?”
He looks past her as
if she is not there and does not hear her. He dips himself a large
ladle of Rum and fills his cup to the rim sloshing the last of it
directly into his mouth. Captain DuPont again passes Renee while
wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Bart growls as the Captain strides
past them. The logbook is open, he bellies up to the navigation
table and continues his latest entry with. The clipper ship that
has followed us for three days, over took Sea Gypsy and fired upon us
hitting the aft cabin one hour before sunset. Sea Gypsy faced the
attacker and with six broadsides, our mortar gunners raked her decks
and took down her masts. Continuing on course to Isle Royale. The
captain closes the book and places it with others on the shelf below
the table and walks into his cabin. He roars his displeasure when he
sees the damage brought on by a lucky hit from a single cannon shot.
The ships rocking
motion causes Renee to glance out the porthole. All she sees is
blackness.
“It has turned dark
outside Bartholomew,” says Renee. “I wonder where the crew is,
and why isn’t the cook at the galley stove.” Bart struggles to be
put down so Renee sets him on the oil stained floor. He immediately
darts down the aft passage out of sight. Renee and Lady Anne
cautiously follow him. There is one lit gimbaled lantern lighting the
way. Bart is clawing at a closed door and mewing. Renee pushes the
door open and steps inside. The door swings shut behind her.
“Ewe, what is that
smell, “ says Renee to Lady Anne and Bart. It takes a moment for
her eyes to adjust to the gloom of a single candle but then she sees
it. Sprawled on a bunk is a body, It is dressed in cold weather pants
and coat and wool watch cap. The face is hollow with tight skin and
sunken empty eye sockets. She can’t look and turns away, the other
bunk has a withered dead body on it also. It too is fully dressed as
if waiting to be called to duty. In a scared panic, she pulls on the
tightly shut door. To her relief, the door opens, Bart dashes out,
Renee, clutching her doll, runs out as the door slams behind them.
She leans against the passage wall gasping the stale air, visions of
the eyeless body following her. Bart is scratching at the focsl’e
door where ships stores are kept and sometimes stowaways hide. Renee
fights an urge to open the door, not wanting to see another corpse
but gives in to the cats insistent clawing and mewing.
“Okay, okay, I’ll
open the door.” Bart runs inside, sunlight streams in through two
portholes. “Bart, wait, where are you going?” says Renee,
talking to the cat. She follows Bartholomew behind a stack of crates
and sees him jump onto the lap of the girl Renee had met up on the
bow. Bart is rubbing the top of his head against her while she pets
him.
“Hello again,” says
Renee, “Is he your cat.” The girl stares past her, as if
gathering thoughts long lost. “I still see you, just like when we
met on deck.” Says Renee wondering if the girl is seeing or hearing
her. Bart jumps from her lap and circles Renee’s legs before
walking back around the crates towards the door. He jumps through
just as Sea Gypsy heels and the door slams shut.
“May I sit here with
you?” The girl makes no motion or sound, Renee sits on the crate,
slightly facing the girl, her legs are together, hands in her lap,
mimicking the girl. An involuntary shudder and cold chill sweeps
Renee, just like the feeling she had when she first laid eyes on Sea
Gypsy at the dock.
“Do you see me?”
says the girl.
“Of course I see you,
why wouldn’t I?”
“Do you see me?”
says the girl again, ignoring Renee’s answer. Renee shudders
again, thoughts of dead people, lost spirits and ghost possessions
enter her mind.
“Do you see me?”
says Renee and she waves her hand in front of the girl. “You don’t
see or hear me, do you?” Renee stands and walks out the door as the
girl repeats herself a second and third time. She quietly closes the
door behind here and looks for Bart and then realizes she has left
Lady Anne Marie on the crate. She opens the door and goes back in
the cabin, the room is empty, the girl and Lady Anne are nowhere to
be seen. The crate where Renee had sat is covered with thick dust
except the spot where she had sat. She brushes her hand on her pants
checking for dust, loose particles swirl in the shaft of light coming
through the porthole confirming she actually had been sitting there
seconds before. Mystified, she steps into the passage closing the
door behind her. She pushes and tests the door and resists the urge
to look again, fearing the girl or worse, empty eyed corpses will
appear. The dim oil lamps swing as the boat leans into the wind.
Renee braces herself, sliding one hand along the wall as she walks.
The door on the right side is secured with a heavy lock. The door on
the left swings with the ships motion. Renee cautiously watches, she
peers inside as she creeps along the tilting passage. Her senses are
on high alert and she involuntarily
ducks when she feels a
draft from above and hears sailing commands. Above her is a skylight
deck hatch. The propped open lid, lets in fresh air, and acts as an
emergency exit. She looks up through the dirty glass and can see
crewmembers in the rigging fifty feet above. Winds buffet the sails
and drive the ship forward. She can hear the helmsman ordering sails
trimmed and hatches battened down preparing for a storm on the
horizon. A foot suddenly kicks the block propping open the skylight
above her, the hatch drops shut. Watching from below, Renee sees bony
hands insert locking pins. Her eyes follow the hands and arms to a
rotting moth eaten hooded tunic. Staring back at her, through glass
clouded from decades of dust and spider webs are glowing yellow eyes
that pierce to her soul. She steps back against the wall out of
sight, but not before a shudder racks her again. The helmsman gives
the order to come about and Sea Gypsy stands on her feet momentarily
before leaning into a new tack. Rope rigging creaks, as strains test
Sea Gypsy’s age-old strength. The cabin door swings open drawing
Renee’s attention. She slowly leans forward surveying what she can
of the cabin. She sees a large candle burning on a makeshift table.
Two portholes should be letting in light but they are dark. Still in
the passage Renee looks up at the skylight, it too is dark. The
yellow-eyed crewman is gone. Renee places her hand on the door frame
and pulls herself inside. Bart flashes past her and stops blocking
her way
“There you are, I
wondered where you had gone,” says Renee as she leans and reaches
to pet him. Bart turns toward her and with sharp hooked claws
extended, swings a warning cuff at her face. Then he bares his fangs,
lays back his ears and lets out a blood curdling hiss ending in a
guttural warning growl.
“What is wrong with
you,” says Renee as she abruptly stands up, giving the snarling cat
more space. She takes a step to go around Bart, which brings on a new
string of hissing and growling. The black cat has puffed up and
appears to be about to leap. His yellow eyes glow frightfully similar
to the crewman’s eyes that watched her through the hatch. She takes
a step back and Bart stops menacing her, his eyes return to normal.
“Okay, I get it
Bart,” With only dim candle light she looks around. There are four
berths and four trunks. The cabin walls are lined with tattered oiled
clothing hanging from wood pegs. Sea boots sit in front of each
trunk. The room is orderly as if ready to do its part in keeping
Sea Gypsy a smooth running ship. On the bunks lay four crewman.
Each fully dressed, their heads facing straight up, hands crossed,
ready to leap up and rush to their assigned station. Renee attempts
to clearly see faces but in the low light, only sees dark outlines.
She takes a half step forward and is met with a growl as if Bart is
guarding the crew from being disturbed, or the dead from being
awakened. Renee turns and leaves the room with Bart following her.
Back in the passage, she looks up expecting to see a dark skylight
but it is daytime again. She looks back into the crew cabin and the
ports are dark, just then the door swings shut and she hears the
sound of latches being slid into place. Bart rubs her leg, his
purring loud and clear, she reaches down and pats his head.
Sea Gypsy heels five
degrees more as the breeze freshens. With increased wind comes more
speed and waves splashing over the side of the boat. Seawater sweeps
the decks. Walking the main passageway is difficult for Renee; every
step is a fight to stay upright. Like a drunk needing suppot, she
lurches along the wall.. Heavy timbers groan their opposition,
tormented rope rigging squeals unearthly shrieks as they work against
each other. With the winds, Banshees arrive; their terrible
foreboding floods the air as they dart between Sea Gypsy’s tall
masts and long yards. Renee struggles down the passage. The next
skylight hatch is dark, she nervously looks up, fearing hollow yellow
eyes will be watching her. She makes it to the main cabin and stops
at the swinging door. The door is new.
“This wasn’t here
earlier.” she whispers quietly, “where did this door come from.”
She hears voices streaming from the other side and strains to listen.
The language is strange. Renee bravely pushes on the door, her eye
at the open crack, the hinge creaks a warning, the ships saloon is
empty, the voices are gone. Bart is lying on a shelf above the cook
stove. Oil lamps swinging on gimbals light the large room. Renee
steps inside letting the door swing shut behind her. The dank, oily,
mustiness is gone, replaced by the smell of baking tinged with heavy
molasses. She exhales first and then takes a deep approving breath,
thankful there are no people or otherwise in the room.
“Are we friends
again,” she says to Bart as she reaches to pet him. Bart stretches
and loudly purrs his appreciation. “What’s happened here Bart, it
looks like the place has been remodeled, new stove, new lockers,
look, a new nav. station too.” Renee spots the logbook open on the
chart table. She hasn’t seen it before, the pages are white, not
yellowed, a quill pen lays in the fold. Fearing learning a horrible
secret about herself and Sea Gypsy, she tries to look away.
She is drawn to the book and succumbs to curiosity and reads the
first line.
September 15, 17….
Reads the first line, the year is blurred, Renee is unable to focus.
She squints and rubs here eyes but nothing works. She quickly turns
pages but none of the dates are clear. The next line reads, I think
we have been at sea for fifty days and not seen land since rounding
the cape and entering a great fog. The navigator has lost time and
day. The fog has taken on a life and rules Sea Gypsy. The crew is
restless, dissent is everywhere. Fights are breaking out among
friends. Some crew have become possessed and I have been forced to
send them to meet their maker. Order is restored but I fear an evil
spirit is with us. I no longer captain the ship, I simply steer her.
Where I steer does not matter, the course I set means nothing. She
has a mind of her own. The words Renee reads do not do not go far in
explaining all the strange happenings, in fact she wonders if she
herself is becoming possessed.
Renee looks out the
navigators porthole and sees solid white. Sea Gypsy is riding
flat with no motion, the familiar slap of small waves against her
wood hull is absent. Since she has entered the main cabin, the ocean
has gone from high wind, banshees and big waves to become a placid
lake. In the forward cabin it was dark outside the ship, now in an
eye blink, walking through a door, it is daylight but all pure white
daylight. She looks up through the large saloon skylight, white mist
stares back at her. The mast and rigging fades in and out of view as
thick wisps of fog block her vision. Renee glances back at the log
book to the line reading, “entering a great fog,” and wonders,
could this be the same great fog.
Drawn out of curiosity
or beckoned by some shipboard presence, Renee is compelled to climb
the main companionway steps to the deck. She reluctantly steps out
into a thick mist unlike any she has ever experienced. It is an
effort just to breathe, she sweeps a hand in front of her face in a
fruitless attempt to clear her way and then creeps toward the edge of
the boat. She keeps her arm outstretched to fend off any unseen
obstacles or worse, a yellow eyed crewmen. The high wood railing
comes into view mere steps before she would step off into space.
Renee carefully steadies herself and looks over the side. The water
is still, showing not a ripple of movement, Sea Gypsy is
trapped in a windless place without current or even sunlight.
Everything is white, it is unearthly quiet. Renee taps the wood
railing and listens but the horrible fog absorbs even the sound of
her tapping. She looks up and sees the bottom end of useless torn
sails hanging in ragged wet sheets. No crewmen are in sight, all the
lines hang limp. The log book says they’ve been in the fog fifty
days muses Renee, so where have I been? I docked my sloop in Victoria
yesterday, I think it was yesterday. Very carefully, Renee
reconstructs from memory everything about her last days and hours.
She remembers coming into Victoria Harbor and tying to the dock. She
doesn’t remember where she had come from, or how long she had been
at sea. She remembers the welcoming, familiar voice but has seen no
one that sees her. Can you see me? She looks at her hand and touches
her face.
The powerful urge to
climb up the stairs and come out on deck now pushes her to walk
forward toward the boats bow. She comes to the skylight where yellow
eyes had stared at her minutes earlier. She peers down through the
hazy glass. She sees the passage and door where the four corpses lay
on their berths ready to heed the order, all hands on deck.
The door opens and a hooded crewman walks out, it stops and looks up
at her. The same piercing yellow stare holds her gaze and drills
fear into her mind, it’s not until she jerks her head back that she
feels herself again.
When she gets to the
bow, she expects to see the crate the girl was sitting on but nothing
is there. Renee pauses in the exact same spot she was standing when
nearly washed overboard. The memory should be sharp but she can
barely recall any details, making her wonder if it were merely a
dream. Gazing into the fog, some black objects in the mist catch her
eye. It looks like four round portholes. Watching intently, a boat
appears in the fog. It’s a sloop, its sails hang limp, there is no
sign of anyone being on deck. It is slowly drifting past Sea
Gypsy, as a ghost ship drifts, forever lost at sea. Renee sees a
flag on a short stern mast; she can’t make out the name. Swinging
davits, their ropes and blocks hanging over the water tell only one
story. Someone launched the tender and never returned.
“Ahoy there sloop,
Ahoy,” Renee is surprised hearing her clear voice penetrate the
mist and then die without echo, as if she was inside a closed box.
She tries again louder, “Ahooooy sloop.” Her yell trailing off,
but there is no answer. The sloop disappears as easily as it had
appeared, or it had never been there. Renee surveys all around and
sees nothing but impenetrable white. She glances over the edge again
and verifies Sea Gypsy is motionless in still flat water.
Fifty days in fog, the logbook entry haunts her, fifty days
and counting she says to herself. She glances about for any more
ghost boats or little girls and heads through the mist back to the
companionway. Swinging the door open, Renee quickly takes the stairs
in stride and doesn’t hesitate or even look around for yellow eyed
crewmen in the saloon. She heads straight for the navigation station.
Sea Gypsy’s logbook is still open, Renee closes it and
slides it into a storage rack. She stands with her hand on the table
as if bracing for a tsunami or rogue wave to slam the boat. At first,
almost undetectable, Sea Gypsy begins to move. The highest
sails billow, small wavelets wash against the hull, and her flags
take shape. Renee looks up at the skylight and sees a bright spot
that wasn’t there minutes earlier. For the first time since
entering the fog a shadow appears on the cabin sole marking the suns
angle. The sun is out and Sea Gypsy is under way again.
Renee pulls the same
logbook out and stands it on its spine allowing it to fall open. The
date scrawled across the top is August 1, 1865. She reads, clear
weather, compass has read one hundred ninety five degrees for ten
days, steady wind out of the north, we are seven days past expected
landfall, stores and water are almost gone.
Renee repeats one
hundred ninety five and heads back up the stairs. She pauses at the
deck door and peaks out. No one is seen; she steps out and turns
toward the unmanned helm. The ships wheel is steady and not moving;
she looks at the binnacle and reads the compass card, one hundred
ninety five degrees. Turning toward the weather vane, she sees that
the wind is blowing from the north. Renee next steps up to the ships
wheel, it towers higher than she is tall, with both hands she grips
the spokes and pulls down. Sea Gypsy responds by changing
course to two hundred degrees. When she lets go of the wheel, it
rotates back and the compass again reads one ninety five. She lifts
the wheel and observes Sea Gypsy turning the other way. When
she lets go, it spins back to one ninety five. Standing at the helm,
Renee surveys the apparently deserted ship, she can see to the
horizon in all directions, if yellow eyed corpses are aboard, they
are keeping out of sight, she and Sea Gypsy are alone but
someone or something is in control.
A lingering worrisome
thought keeps working its way back into her head, perhaps the ship is
possessed by evil and everyone, dead and undead, even her, Bart and
the little girl are doomed for eternity. She walks the entire length
of Sea Gypsy, all the while thinking of preferable ways to
explain the strange things happening. She looks for the little girl
on the crate and the four corpses through the deck skylight, the ship
glides effortlessly through glassy waters under blue skies.
Standing before the
open logbook, she reads the last entry again and then turns to the
next blank page. With quill in hand, Renee nervously dips into the
ink well and pauses, thinking. Finally, in the open space, she
writes. Today – Sea Gypsy is berthed at the inner harbor seawall
in Victoria BC.
“ I sure hope this
works Bart, for both of us.”
Upon setting the quill
in its shallow tray at the top of the navigation table, Renee feels a
weight lifted from her chest, her heavy thoughts seem to not matter
anymore. Sea Gypsy’s saloon brightens, her polished
wood glows, early sunrise rays burst through the portholes, the cabin
brims with hope, she takes a deep breath, her first in a long
time without drowning mist choking her. Outside, seagulls circle and
cry. The sea is a small chop rhythmically slapping the hull but there
is no rocking.
Renee feels a
comforting nudge on her leg. When she looks down, Bart jumps into her
outstretched arms. He purrs while she pets him.
“I hear voices Bart.”
Renee looks at the cat, his yellow cat eyes are piercing and sparkle
and then close to a smiling slit. Then she feels the same unexplained
chill and shudder. Suddenly fearful, she sets Bart on the chair and
moves close to the porthole. People on the Seawall and promenade fill
the small round window.
Renee threw open the companionway and climbed into the morning light, Bart close at her heels.
The Victoria seawall was alive with people. Children pointed at harbor seals, tourists carried cameras. Sea Gypsy rested quietly against the dock as though she had never left.
"Can I help you, miss?" called an elderly harbor attendant. "That old ship's been closed for years."
Renee stared at him. "The captain... the crew... they're all dead."
The man frowned. "There hasn't been a soul aboard since they towed her here."
Renee turned. Her own little sloop lay fifty feet astern. A neighboring skipper waved from the dock.
"There you are, I thought you had left, you disappeared for a while"
She looked back toward Sea Gypsy.
The gangplank was gone.
Every hatch was shut.
The weathered sign reading FREE TOUR – WELCOME ABOARD had vanished as though it had never existed.
Bart rubbed against her leg.
She looked down and smiled.
Then her smile faded.
The black cat sat calmly at her feet.
His left ear split down the middle.
When she looked back at Sea Gypsy, sunlight flashed across the gilded letters on her stern. For an instant she thought she saw a little girl standing at the bow, one hand resting on a rag doll.
The child raised her hand in farewell.
Then the morning breeze rippled the water, and the bow was empty.
Renee never again doubted that some ships carry more than memories.
Some never truly finish their voyage.
