Do you see me?

 

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 21^st 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 1^st, 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.