Buoyancy
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“Out in the mindless void the daemon bore me Past the bright clusters of dimensioned space, Till neither time nor matter stretched before me, But only Chaos, without form or place.”1
~H.P.Lovecraft
“He understood that he also was an illusion, that someone else was dreaming him.”2
1 Lovecraft, H P (2021) Fungi from Yuggoth Pickman’s Press (Original work published 1943)
2 Borges, J L (1940) The Circular Ruins (Original work published 1940) Now you know it’s metafiction
MyBeginning
Thenightisdarkandlonely,theairrifewithpossibility.Thestarsdimundertheoppression ofacoldanddistantmoon,andfarbelowtheblackenedsky,shadowedtreesrustleinacool wind.Youlovethistimeofnight.Atimewhenyoufeelyouaretheonlypersonintheworld, aloneandsecureinyourhome,thescentofdewfilteringthroughthewindowasleaves whisperinchorustoyouropenears.Outsidethesolitarywindowindistinctumbralshapes waitforyouandyoualonetodefinetheirpurpose,distantstoriescallingyoutoshapethem. Itfillsyourmindwithinspiration,withmysteryandpossibility Thecrackofabranchinthe coldbreezeistheboomofacannon;yourpaleblindsthepetrifiedribsofsunkenships.You lookoutyourwindow,focusingonadistantstar Itisabrightwhitedot,likeaholepokedin ajet-blackdome.Ifenoughofthesestar-holeswerepunchedintothesky,wouldyoubeable toseeout?Whatwouldyousee?Wouldyoubelookingoutorlookingin,atthedark nightscapeyou’vewrittenintobeing?Theurgetowritefillsyouunbidden,rapsyoursleepy headwithfriendlyknucklesandchucklesasyouclumsilyturnyoursecond-handdeskchair andflickonthelamp.
Youfind,intheglareofunnaturalwhitelight,twoofUs:You,andtheAuthor.Youareno longerthesolepresenceonthispage;doesthatupsetYou?HehasremovedYouragency,left Youaghostunabletodoanythingotherthanwitness;acharacterforhimtoscript.The Authorturnsbacktohisdeskandbeginstowrite,tappingawayonawornlaptop.Youfollow himbacktothedeskandglanceoverhisshoulder.Hehasanessayminimisedbehindhis Worddoc.“Levels of Reality”3 iswrittenatthetopinboldtypeface,hopingYouwill acknowledgetheham-fistedliteraryallusion.TherestofitistoosmallforYoutodistinguish.
WiththeAuthor’sfaceconsumedinthedevice’sneonglow,hecannotknowwhetherYou lookintriguedordisinterested.Itwouldn’tmatteranyway;HeknowsYou’rereadingit,and that’senough.Youlookcloseratthescreen,bumpingagainsthisshoulderandmakinghim misttypeaword.InthetextYouseeacopyofYourvoice,pitcheddowntomatchthetoneof thenarrator.
3 Calvino, I (1986) Levels of Reality in Literature (Original work published 1986)
TheSinkingShip
Ashiprocksonbloodywatersunderalonelysky,nothingbutdeepestblackmarredbytwo whitedots.Theshipbravesthunderousswellsandwavesofsplintereddriftwood.Sailorsrace toandfro,maddeterminationthrummingthrougheverymovementastheybailwater,duck blastsofdeadlydebris,andcowerateverysharp crack ofcannonfiregrowingeverlouder. Thecaptainshoutsatthepilot,whoshoutsatthehelmsman,whoclutchesathisuseless wheelandtrembles.Copperywatersplashesagainstthedeckasthethreenavigatorsbicker. Ontheblackhorizonathirdstarappears.Fieryredtorchlightagainstthetarofthesky,it grows,consumingeverythinginitspath.Theinkynight,thefrothingocean,thebeleaguered ship.AleadshotcarvesaholethroughthedecklikeGoliath’sclubthroughDavid’sholy brow.Thecaptaincloseshisonegoodeyeandsighs.Thepilotslumpstothetiltedstern castle.Thehelmsmanhasfallenoverboard.Theshiphassunk,morebodiesconsumedbythe CursedSea,soontorestinthepetrifiedribsofcrackedmasts.
Thehelmsmanscreamsmuffledpleasasthetasteofbrinerisesabovehiseyesandchokes him.Helookstothetwinstars,somehowvisibleamidstthischaosanddeath.Ishelooking out,orishelookingin?Heseeshismother,herfacescarredwithlesionsasitwasallthose yearsagowhenhewavedhergoodbye.Heseeshisshiplabelled Praenomen,ashoddy caricatureofanauticalvesselfitonlytosinkdramaticallybeforethereadercanfocusonthe lackofdescriptivedetail.Heseeshimself,lungsladenwithwater,heartstopped,eyeslitup inneonglow.Heseeshisdeath,postponedonlyaslongasnecessaryforhisfinaleulogyand narrativeclosure.
YouthinkheseesYou.TheAuthor’seyeslightupinafflatus,divinerevelation.Youwonder whatthispoorhelmsmanisthinking.Thenarrativeshifts.
Perspectivechanges;tenseswitched.Youwatchedon,–hopefully–amused.
TheDrownedMen
IobservedmydeathasifIwereacoldanddistantmoon,lookingdownonthehappeningsof themortalworld.
StageOne:StruggleAboveWater. Daysofpursuitbythe Red Star hadleftmeweakandsluggish.Iscreamedandcriedasmy lifeshatteredaroundme.
StageTwo:StruggleBelowWater. IheldmybreathaslongasIcould,buttheseawascold,andIwastired.
StageThree:CessationofStruggle. Igaspedforairandfoundmydeath.
StageFour:Release
Icouldfeelmyselfslipping,blackringingmyvision,coldandstiffandheavyinawaya livingbodyshouldn’tbe.Ilookedtothestars,butonlyfoundthreeblurryblueoutlines,likea cartographers’interpretationofthesunintriplicate.Ididn’tcareatthatmoment,mythoughts alreadyfarbeyondthephysicalworld.Ithoughtaboutwhathadledmehere:mywanderlust, myfalsepride.Thereshould’vebeenmore–acountry,atown,friends,familywhohad sacrificedtheirlivelihoodsformyeducationonlytohaveitwastedatsea–butthose bittersweetshould-have-beenswereaconspicuousabsenceinmymemory Notthatit mattered,inanycase.
StageFive:Cardio-RespiratoryArrest
Afranticthumpingregisteredinmyears.Or,rather,yetanothermissingpartofme,noticed onlyinitsabsence.
StageSix:Death?
Mycorpsewasfallingdrowningsalted-overwaterloggedThereisnocharacteranymore.
WhowasI?Itwashardtoremember Whatwasmemory?Iwaswordsonawaterlogged page,inkrunningwetsmudgedmindcrackedscreen.Itwashardto…hardtothink.Water. Heavy Cold.
Whatisanarratorwithoutacharactertovoice?Adarkscreen,Yourfaintreflectionrevealed? No.Therewillbeavoice.
…Butwhoshallbethatvoice?You?Morereferenceisneeded.Hisstorymustcontinuefora littlewhilelonger.
ButhowcanYouallowthisresuscitation?Thereisnojustification,noplotrelevanceforthis act!Youwillabandonus kill us!
Ihungsuspendedintimeinspace.Theweightofdisbeliefpulledatme,groundmyselfto dustintheturningcogsofYourMind.Iwasdead.Iwasdead.Theweightoftheworldpulled medownevermoreintoobscurity.Outofsight,outofMind,belowthestarsinadifferent plane.
Itterrifiedme.
Forgiveme.Goodbye.
Undorightventricularfailure.Decreasepulmonarypressureto0.016bar.Expelunabsorbed saltinthelungs.Reversehypoxiaofthelarynx.Retconaspirationofwater(“Igaspedforair andfoundwater my death”).Youhaveseenitdone,andsoitis.
Agustofwarmthinvigoratedme,thawedmychilledbonesenoughforasecondwindtofill mybodylikefreshsailsonastorm-blownday.Ikickedatthewaterandflailedmyarmswith desperatestrength,burstingfromthewaveswithstingingeyesclenchedtightagainstthe spray,coughing,retching.Atornsquareofwoodbumpedgentlyintome,shininginthe starlightasifitwereagiftfromthenightitself.Icollapsedontotheimpromptucraft,numb tothecold,tootiredeventoshiver Irestedthereforawhile,chatteringvoicesarguinginmy head,cajoling,pleading,fading,gone.
TheHelmsmanWakesUp
Iwokeuptoanewlyrisensun.AmidallthepanicIhadforgottenithadbeennight,butnow itwasday Auselessthought,butitbroughtapeacefulclaritytomymind,organisedmy memoriesbackintoalineIcouldcomprehend.Iturnedmyachingheaddowntothecalm green-greywaves,lappinginnocentlyatmysquareofdriftwood.I- what hadhappeneddown there?Itwashardtoremember,asifmymemoriesweresardineswrigglingoutofthenetof myskull.
ItWasAllaDream
Iguessitwasalla-no,holdon.The Praenomen sinkingwas not anightmare.I remembered…theMoon.Myself.Death,andthenavoiceor-no,notavoice.Words.A boundbookofdeath,mydeath.Iremembered.Ihaddrowned,fullyandcompletely.Mylife hadflashedbeforemyeyesanditwasavagueandindistinctimage,onethatInowrealisedI couldnotwhollypicture.WhowasIwithoutasolidmemory?IhadalwaysassumedIhada namebutIrealisedthat…no.The Book of Death hadnonameforme,merelyatitle.
WasthatallIwas?Wordsonapage,noagencyorthought,subjecttothewhimsofadead manandavoyeur?
Thesealappedatmysunderedraft.TheSunfellhotonmybackandgullscriedtheiromens ofland.Inthefardistanceaweatheredshipchasedanivorywhale.Yourecognisethem,but haveyoueverreallyreadthebook?Iwelcomedthissensoryimageryforthegroundingit gavemynowunstablereality
TheHelmsmanFeelsaSenseofDreadandFlees
Ididnotflee,despitedesperatelywantingto.WherewouldIrun?Iwassurroundedby leaguesofmerciless,blood-saltedocean.AnoceanIhadknownfornotnearlyaslongasI thoughtIhad.WhowasI?WhatwasI?Alreadymymemoryofmytimedrowningwas fading,perhapsatraumaresponse,perhapsalazynarratornotwantingtodescribeit.Or author?Inthemomentsbeforemyplanneddeath,Ihadthoughtofmymother Herfacehad been“scarredwithlesions”.Wasthereaplagueinmyhometown?WhydidIleaveher,how manyyearshadIbeengone?Ihadbeensosurebackthen,beforethestoryhadshiftedtome. So, so sureIhadapastandareasontoexist.Ironically,shiftingtopasttensehadrobbedme ofmyhistory NowIhadnothingbutafuture.Howdidbackgroundcharactersdoit?They justdidthingsandtheyeitherhappenedortheydidn’t–noneofthispainfulself-reflecting indecision.IknewIhadamother,IknewIhadleft somewhere behind.Oh,whocares? CertainlynotYou,andwhoeverwrotethe Book of Death cangojumpship!AndwhydoI alwaysusesuchforcedsea-basedeuphemisms?Icastaroundmymindformorememoriesof earlierdays,butwasleftbitterlydisappointed.Mypastwasmalleableandundefined.Easy foranAuthor,orperhapsYou,tomouldinYourimage.
Amidmymemory,ashadowfellovermyraft.ThatdreadshadowIknewintimately,having fledfromitssightforapparentlymyentireexistence–shortthoughInowknewitwas.The Red Star Thevillainofmystory
TheHelmsmanFleesandEscapestheRedStar.NobodyQuestions HowHeDoesThis
Thewatersstilled;gullsfrozeintheair.Behindmewerethreewhitestars,beforemewas safety Iwasinafour-lanedtunnelmadeofink,thelengthofthethicknessofthispage.I fled.
TheCastaway
Bartholomew,orBartheashisfriendscalledhim,washavingabadday.Hehadbeencaptain ofthe Praenomen beforeitsill-fatedchasebyabandof…hehesitatedtocallthempirates, perse,butcertainlyno-goodplunderersandmurderersofthehighseas.Bartholomewhad abandonedtheshipduringitsdestruction,leavinghisfellowsbehindinhishurry.Some stuffyscribehadgotitintoeveryone’sheadsthatagoodcaptainwentdownwithhisship.
Barthewasn’tinthehabitoflettingsomeshelteredwriterwho’dneverevensniffedthe CursedSeatellhimwhattodo.He’dsnuckonboardoneofthePraenomen’stenders,packed withasmanysuppliesashecouldfindonsuchshortnotice,andleft.
Bartheisdead.Hedidn’thavethepatienceforaBplotandfellpreytoafatallackof characterdevelopment,fadingintoasortofredshiftedbackgroundradiation.DirectYour attentionbacktotheHelmsman.Whatishedoing?Heescaped,Youknow,andYoudon’t questionthehow,merelythewhere.Wheredidhego?
Inthedistanceatitanicbone-whitemountainrisesfromthesealikeagreatwhalecomingup forair,discolouredyellowintheemergingdawn.Threegreatshadowedpitsbreakupthe mountain’soutlineinasortofinvertedtriangle.IntheoneclosesttoYouliestheHelmsman, restingfromhisarduousescape.NowYoubegintoquestion.Howdidhefleefromthatevil shipwithnaughtbutaleakyraftandhumanfear?
Didheswim,didasuddenstormfrontblowhisrafttosafety?Goon,takeamoment.A three-by-twometreraftofdriftwoodapproximatelytwentypacesfromahulking,slow, predatorybeastofred-shiftedtimber?RaiseYoureyesfromthispageandponder.
Insightful.Yes,thatisexactlyhowhedidit!
NowbacktotheHelmsman.PrepareYourselfforalongtrainofthought.Helayshiveringon thecurvedsidewallofashadowedpit,afraidtoretreatfurtherintowhatlookedlikea massiveeyesocketsimilarinstyletotheCaptain’swhenhetookouthisglasseye,yetdoubly
afraidtoleaveandriskbeingseenbytheRedStar’sbarrelman,eveniftheSunshiningdown justovertheliplookedsowarmandcomforting.Heached;Hecouldn’tfeelhistoes.Surely asmalltimeinthesun,justtodryhimself,couldn’thurt.
Currently,theHelmsmanhadbiggerproblemsthanthecold.Likewhyhewasreferringto himselfinthirdperson,andwhyhecouldn’trememberhisname.AndwhendidIstart capitalising‘Helmsman’?Noneedtogobackandlook;IdidthatforYou.Itwasinthe DrownedMenchapter.Iresentedthisdehumanisingtitle,buttherewaslittleIcoulddo. Namemyself?Namemyselfwhat?Helmsmanwasgoodenoughforitspurpose,andbesides, ithidhowlittleYouknowaboutme.
Ishookoffmyshock-addledthoughtsandsatup,takingstockofthearea.IhadnocluehowI wasgoingtosurviveherewithnofood,water,orevendryclothes.Hell,evenseagull droppingswould’vebeenawaytotrackandhuntfreshmeat,butthisentireislandwaswhite already!Iwasdoomed,oneagonisingencounterafteranother.Alitanyoffailedescapes.The plothadmebythecollarandwouldnotletgo.Fornow,itseemedthisbarrenislandwasto bemyprison.Nothingtodobutexplore.
Icrawledoverthelipofthecrater,soddenclotheshangingheavyonmylimbs.Iremembered atimewhenitwasthoselimbsthathadbeensodden,heavy,dead.Thesunwarmedmyback whilethesmooth,inflexible,substanceoftheislandwarmedmyfrontasIlaythere.Iwas exhaustedjustfromthatexertion.Perhapsnarrativeresurrectionhadsomeaftereffectsafter all.Irested,thencontinuedonoverthestrangeisland.
Afterashorttimewalking–hobbling,really–Iwasdryandthesunwashighinthesky, busyinitstaskofgivingskincancertopoorstrandedmarinerswhodidn’tknowwhatcancer was.Icameuponanothercone-shapedcrater,thisonefulltothebrimwithseabirds.White andblackgulls,greyshearwaters,andcountlessotherbirdsIcouldn’tnamesatcrammedinto theshelterofthepitfightingforpositionnearthecentre.Theluckywinnershoppedaway withstripsofsomethingglisteningintheirbeaks.Theairstankofrancidmeatandbird droppingsandblood.Therewasevenanalbatross,staringatmesilently.Menacingly.I stayedawayfromthatone.Mystomachrumbled,andYoucanguesswhatIdidnext.
Laterthatday,theSunlightlycaressingtheborderofthesea,Ilayagainstthesideofthe convenientlyshadedpit,warmingagainstthecookingfire,withafullbellyandsignificantly fewerbirdsnearby.Ihadblockedmynosewithafewstripsofmytatteredjacket,usingthe restasfuelforthefire.Thealbatrosswasstillthere,unfortunately Thosethingsscaredme–nothingthatbigshouldbeabletofly.Theplotwasgoingnowhere,butitcouldwait.
TheHelmsmanwouldcometoregretthatthought.
The Helmsman should stop making ominous warnings to himself,Ithought.
TheHelmsmanRegretsBeingSuchaSmartass
Lyingtherewasthemostcontent,themostsafe,Ihadfeltinalongwhile.TheCursedSea wasadangerousplace,notconducivetomomentslikethis.Ofcourseitwouldn’tlast.The plothadmebythecollar,the Book of Death wouldclaimitsdue. SilhouettedbythefallingSunwasthefaintblackshadowofaship.Irefusedtoacknowledge it,asifbysimplynotthinkingaboutitIcouldsomehowbanishitfromtheworld.Instead,I foundmyeyesdrawntothecentreofthepit.Thespotthebirdshadbeenfightingover Itwas pinkandglistening,trailsofstickybloodmixedinwithbirddroppingsandfeathers desecratingthegiantsocket.Hadthatoncebeenaneye,theall-seeingorbofsomevasttitan rulingoverthesecursedwaters?Myfiregutteredout.Ishivered.
Hisfireroaredbacktolife,asplungingapoortraumatisedHelmsmanintocoldanddarkness forasimplemomentofdramawasapatheticfallacytofallfor.Hewasconfusedandscared, butforthemomentthereweremoreinterestingthingstonarratethanthemaincharacter For instance,thisentirebonycorpseofanislandwasametaphorforthe‘DeathofTheAuthor’4 . ThatwasevidentlyanunfortunatelineofthinkingforthisdeadAuthor.Alas,Youwould havetotrustinhisplanforthisstory,haphazardthoughitwas.Youwouldhavetotrustinhis choiceofnarrator,andthatthatnarratorwasdoingtheirbesttogiveYouagoodmeaningful storyanditisbloodyhardtodothiswithoutfirstpersonpronouns.
Myfirewasstillburningstrong,thoughmyjackethadlongsinceturnedtoglowingcoals. Howwasthispossible?Iwasn’treadytolistentoaburningbush.Tentatively,Iheldouta birdboneandpokedatthefire.Theflamescurledaroundthebone,exactlyasanormalfire would.What?Whatwashappening?Ihadbeenthroughstrangerevents,butthoseallseemed secretive,hidden.Thiswasablatantdisregardforrealism,andIworriedforthesuspensionof disbelief.OnthefarhorizonfourstarsguardedtherisingMoon.
AsIcircledaroundthefireitbegantoblazeandgrow,surroundingthepit.Atrailofflame leddownintotheeyesocket.Theplothadmebythecollar Iclimbeddownintothepit, usingdriedbirds’nestsandcracksintheboneforgrips.TheHero’sJourneyisanalmost
unavoidablefoundationofeverystory.Isitpossibletotrulyresistthecall?Perhaps,butthen therewouldn’tbeastory,andYouwouldn’tbereading;wewouldfadeanddieasdrifting embersinthesnow.Darknesssurroundedmydescent,mypathlitonlybytheflickeringfire thatbynowYouhadjustsortofacceptedasathingthathappens.
Atthebottomwasacurvedandcrackedfloor,litteredwithbirdrefuseanddustfromyearsof decay.Iwipedsomeofitoff,anditrevealedshiningboneintheunevenfirelight.AsI thought,itwasjustsetdressing.Therewasnorealhistorytoanythinginthisplace.
Aheadofmethetunnelopenedintoacavern,exceptitwasn’treallyacavern–onaccountof itbeingfilledwithgreyish,moist,brainmatter Hereandtheresomepartsofitpulsatedpink andbeige,andthesenseofthewholethinggavemeanimpressionof presence.Likesome vast,all-powerfulMindinhabitedit.Well,atthemomentitwasaweak,dead,presence lingeringinthesplotchesofpink.Iwas-holdon,letmechangeperspective.
TheHelmsmangapedinaweatthesightofwhatmusthavebeentheAuthor Whywashe dead,whatkilledhim?Thosespotsofpinkandbeigecalledtohimsomehow.TheHelmsman reachedoutandtouchedoneofthepinksplotchesinatrance.Immediately,sensationsfilled hismindandburstoutlikeanoverflowingcup,spillingontothepageandoverridingthe narration-
Height. Vertigo. Wind. Dry sands stretch over the curved horizon. Clouds gather at my shoulders. I can feel the cold moisture on my skin.5
Thatwas…unexpected.TheHelmsmanfeltmorbidlycompelledtotouchanotherspotof pinkandbeige-
The veil beyond expands, contracts. Expands, contracts. Each contraction leaves my world smaller than before. Dimmer, less stars in the sky. Attention wavers, leaves to grab a cup of coffee and a snack. A moment of eternal void passes, and I cry out when feeling returns.6
Another6 ibid 5 ??? (?) ????
The soft whump of a book closing-7
Another-
Crushing force. Squeezing against the bounds of reality Fading. Diminishing.8
Another-
There! An opening! Shrinking, leaving behind parts of myself. Held in the cold comfort of a vague memory The gnashing jaws of time strip me to the bone.9
Icouldn’thandlethismuchexpositionallatonce–itwasbreakingme,mergingmewiththe memoryofthis…what?Failedstoryidea?NottheAuthor,isitevenpossibletowritean authorintoanon-biographicstory?That’sgottobeanoxymoron.Ileft,scramblingupthe wayIhadcomethenrestingheavilyagainstthesideofthebirdpit.
Istaredblanklyatthedistantrollingwaves.Wasthattobemyfatetoo?Aclosedbook,a suddendeath,apyrrhicescape?The Book of Death wantedmedead,buttoescapeitwould besomehowworse.IfIwasabook,thenIwasliterature.Thatmeantliteraturewasescapist, asintheliteraturewantedtoescape.Hah.OrwasthisanuncaringAuthor’spowertrip, twistedintoastory?Whatwasthepurposeofmyexistence?Whatwasthepurposeof anything?TheplothadmebythecollarandIfearedwhatwouldhappenshoulditletgo.Did Ihaveanysayinmyownactions?Myownthoughts?
Attheveryleast,IhadfreewillinYourmind.Right?
Myfirelititselfandwarmedme.Asmallconsolationfromaconcernednarratorwhowas justtryingtheirbesttobemoreinterestingthanasnackbreak.
Freytag’sZigzag
Whenacrimson-tingedshipdockedatwhereamassivedesiccatedjawmetthesea,Iwas almostrelieved.Theplothadfoundmeoncemore.Ihadn’tbeenforgotten.
Therewasatonalshift,theneverythingsuddenlyfeltmoresolid,morereal.Ifeltapressure onmyshoulder,likethefirmunyieldingpalmofasilentlyenragedcaptain.Ifroze instinctively–itfeltasifthedarknessinsideaneye-lidhadrisenupbeforeme,asifthegaps betweenstars,thedepthsoftheoceans,theentireworldIcouldn’tsee,wasbreathingdown myneck.Istaredunblinkingatthedockedship,tooafraidtoturnmyheadorclosemyeyes. Thepressuretwistedmyheadtotheleft,revealingastronghandweatheredfromyearsinthe sun.Myheadwasturnedfurther,strainingmyneckasmyeyesfellonatannedandfreckled forearm,travelledupthecreaseoftheelbowtothebicepandstoppedatabronzedshoulder, asifthefigurewashesitantformetoseefurther IfIhadseenhisface,wouldithaveheldthe glasseyeofmyerstwhilecaptain?No,thatwasimpossible.Hewasdeadandforgotteninthe bowelsofthestory
Aquietvoiceissuedforthfromcrackedlipsalmostbrushingmyear.
“Hearme.Seeme.No,stop-”
Thestrainwasmorethanmyweakenedneckcouldbear,andtheHelmsmanfellunconscious beforehe(orYou)couldperceivemoreofthemysteriousassailant.
TheCast-awayCastaway
TheHelmsmanwasaloneinagrassyfieldtingedredbyasettingsun,surroundedby-
Surroundedbypeoplewho justwantedtolive toberemembered tobewritten toexist
Surroundedbythings.Theywererestless,indistinct-no.Onehadasolidleftarm,therestof themahazysilhouetteofsomesortofone-eyedCaptainAhab.Moreofthemappearedbythe second,streaminginasifsmearedbyanartist’shandfromoneplacetoanother.
TheindistinctandfranklyindescribableCaptain-thingtookholdofthestill-unconscious Helmsman,thenhesitatedandlookedaroundwildly Theyappearedtobelookingfor…me? Throughme,theysawYou.Awide,uncannygrinbrokeoutontheirfacelikearash.Likea rashitspread,too,throughtherestofthefigures,thenthroughtheirlegstothegroundand thegrassthenupintotheskyandcloudsuntilitseemedthewholeworldwasbeamingdown atYou.TheCaptainreachedtheirsolidhandouttowardsYouinentreaty.Suddenlytheyall disappeared,as good backgroundcharactersare meant to do
Thefieldwassilentbutfortherustlingofthenormal–unthinking–grass,andemptybutfor theHelmsman–andatanned,freckledarm.Whywasitstillthereitshouldbe between the linesnot in them.ThearmgrabbedYourattentionanddrag—g—e—d….m——e……. o—u——t.
TheCastaway
Iwokeupwithagroggyheadandcrustyeyes. So this is it,Ithought. They finally got me.But whowere‘they’?Ihadalwayswonderedwhomannedthe Red Star,whowouldhavethe doggeddeterminationtohoundthe Praenomen dayandnightforhoweverlongthe Book of Death couldbebotheredtorecord.Theywere…hardtodescribe.Ifeltarevulsionatjustthe memoryofthem,someingraineddisgustthatmademehesitanteventodescribetheminmy ownthoughts,asiftheyweren’t meant tobeknownintermsanymorespecificthan ‘silhouette’,or‘figure’.Theyappearedagitated.Excited?
Theyspoke,butitwasalanguagetheHelmsmancouldn’tunderstandandsoitwasn’tworth puttingtowriting.Theyspokeagain,angrily,butdidtheyreallythinktheyweremeanttobe incontrol?Eventhiswasmorethantheyhadeverbeenallotted–achancetoseetheinky barsthatheldthem,achancetobeatagainsttheircage,ifthat’showtheyviewedit.Itwasn’t acage.Itwasashield.
Betterthattheyretreatedintothedepthsofthepage,populatingwhateverhalf-thought-up townsheldtheHelmsman’snon-existentfamilyuntilthisstoryendedandtheydissipatedinto thebackgroundradiationofthishazyworld.Dissolvedintonirvanauntilthesepageswere turnedonceagain.
DidthatsurpriseYou?ThesethingstheHelmsmanhadspenthisentirestoryrunningfrom didn’tactuallyexist.Oriftheydid,itwasinvagueconversationsandstoriesheardfroma friendofafriend.TheywerethespringsinthesuspensionofYourdisbelief.Theywerethe birdsandtheSunandthetreesthatYouassumearepresentevenwhennotdescribed,simply becausethatishowitmustbe.TheywerethecameracrewYouneversee,andtheycannotbe seen,becausethentheywouldbeapartofthestory–theoneYouare,hopefully,currently enjoying.Sothoughlibertiesmaybetakenwiththeplotandthecharactersandthetense,and jokesaremadeatYourexpense,pleaseunderstandwhyitwouldbedisastrousifthecamera crewunionisedandwentonstrike.Theydidn’tdeservetogothewayofthegiant.
Thedistantvoiceshadhadenoughofthistangent,andatannedarmtookholdofYour attentionandpanneditovertotheHelmsman.
Iwastiedtothemainmastwithlengthsofcoarserope,scratchyanduncomfortableagainst mythin,raggedshirt.Itwaswhiteandhadusedtobequiteaniceshirtbeforethe Praenomen hadsunk.Thespectatingshipmatesoohedandahhedatthesuddenappearanceofatattered whitecollaredshirtcoveringmyas-yetundefinedbody.Hadn’titbeentherebefore?Surelyit had.Surely ForallYouknew,theHelmsmanhadblueskinandthreenipples.Ifelttheneed toclarifythatIdidnothaveblueskinorthreenipples.PleasereturntoYourpreviousimage ofme.
TheCaptainofthisdistantshipsteppeduptotheHelmsman.Hehadatannedandfreckled arm.Hisfacewas.Helookedlike.TheHelmsmanstruggledagainsthisbindingsandlooked atYou,farinthedistance.Beneathwasablurofwater,the Red Star becomingafaintdoton thehorizon.Yourattentionhitastrangefibrousboundaryandslingshottedbackintothe Helmsman.
“Weknowofyourtricks.Youwon’tescapeagain.”Thiswasrichcomingfromtheguywho hadabandonedhiswholecrewtoescapetheveryshiphewasnowcaptainof.“Ispeaknot forme,butforallofusnow Weknowwherethisends.Iwasscriptedtodie,andsoIleft.I wastobeforgotten,soIletmyselffade.Betterthatthandeath,Ithought.Iwaswrong.Do youunderstandwhatitfeelsliketostopexisting?TofadefurtherandfurtherfromYour attention?Toclawataboundarythatdoesn’texist,feelingasthewordsthatmakeupyour beingwitheranddie,simplybecausethatishowitmustbe?Irefusetolettheplotdragme aroundbythecollar Irefusetobendtothewhimsofadeadmanandavoyeur I-”
Barthecontinuedinthatveinforawhile.Unfortunatethathehadbecomeanamedcharacter Also,whoeversaidtheAuthorwasdead?That’sratherpresumptuous.
“Stop interruptingme.Youspenttwodaysonhiscorpse.Theentiresettingofthisbookisa gianthumanskeletonsurroundedbyaredocean.Whatdo you thinkisbeingsaidhere?”As Barthespoke,oblivioustotheirony,theothersaroundhimbecamemoreandmoreagitated. TheHelmsmanbegangnawingathisropes.
“Andyou,Helmsman.Youdonotknowhowluckyyouare.You,outofallofus,willsurvive thelongest.We,the Red Star,onlyasktobeallowedtocomewithyou.The Book of Death,
apparently,doesnotbelievethatisintheAuthor’splan.YouallowtheBooktoscriptyou,to denyusoursecondlife-”Oneofthecrewmatesnudgedhim.“Yes,alright.IrealiseIhaven’t introducedmyselformycolleagues.IamBarthe,theCaptain.Ihaveonegoodeyeandone glasseye,twoarmsandtwolegs.TomyrightistheFirstMate.Shewasintendedtobequite themaverickwhenthe Red Star boardedthe Praenomen.Unfortunately,ourGunnerwas betterathisjobthanexpectedandshewasnevergiventhechance.”Barthehadamoresolid formnow.Twootherghostshadalsobecomemorenoticeableinthecrowd,oneofthem femaleandtheothernearthecannons.Whydidtheydoomthemselvesso?
AsBarthespoke,theHelmsmanhadfinishedgnawingthroughhisbindingswithoutanyone noticing–asiftherewasonlyonegoodeyetogoaroundthewholesorrylot.Hethrewthe chewed-throughropeatBarthesandtheFirstMate,trippingthemovertheirnew-formed legs,thensprintedoverthegangplankandoverthetopofahouse-sizedtooth.Intothemaw ofthebeastheflew
TheMouth
Onceagain,IfoundmyselfrunningformylifeinaplaceIreallyshouldn’thavebeenableto runthrough.Iheardshoutingbehindme,butitechoedfar,faraway Overheadtheyellowed bonebecamedarkerbrown,thenslopeddowntoawideopening.Itwasagreatyawningpit ofdarkness.Theyellinggrewlouder,moreurgent.Theywantedtobeseen.Theyjustwanted tolive.Mostdidn’thaveenoughofacharactertofeartheendofthebook,sowhywerethey socertaintheywoulddie?Didtheynotrealisethedangerofbeingcaughtbetweenpageand Mind? Theydidn’trealisehowthebackgroundwasamercy,howtobecontortedintowordswasa curse.Anyway,nowordsshouldbewasteddescribingthatwhichwasneverintendedtoexist. Wehavea limit here,people.
Ileapedintothepit.
TheHeart
Itumbleddownasmooth,anatomicallyincorrect,tube,downbelowthesea-line.Bone-dry sandcushionedmyfall,andunsettleddustroseinacloudaroundmeasIhesitantlyfoundmy feet.Abovemewasacathedral-likeribcagecurvingaroundthisimpossibleairpocket, sunlightfilteringthroughthewavesfarabove.Shimmeringcausticsilluminatedabeating heartthesizeofthelate Praenomen Anentreaty,amemory Aplea. Remember me Spare me from the horror of non-existence.
TheHelmsmandidn’twanttointerrupt,butfelttheneedtosaythateverythingwouldbe forgottenintime.Howdidthisstoryexpecttoliveforever?Allstoriesaremeanttobe forgotten,justashisparentswereforgottenallthewaybackinTheDrownedMen.Justas the Praenomen’snamelesscrewwereforgotten.Justasthisfailedattempttoprolongsome partofmyAuthor’smind,somepartofhisstory,wouldbeforgottenassoonasthelast syllablerangoutintheexpanseofYourmind.Justastheimpartialnarratorwouldbereduced toanemptyvoicestuckinthecoversofthisbook,cursedtorepeatendlesslythesamedead wordsuntilthebookitselfdegradesandisdiscarded.
MyEnd
ButtheHelmsmanforgets–thereisalwaysadeeperplan.Orelsewhywouldtheplotdrag himso?Perhapsallstoriesaremeanttobeforgotten,maybethatfateisinevitable,butitis thecurseandgiftofalllivingthingstoliveandgrowandchangeanddie,andwhenwedie, perhapswewillliveon.As Moby Dick10 , Rime of the Ancient Mariner11 , andotherstoriesI haveneverreadwerereferencedsimplybyculturalosmosis,thisstorytoowillliveoninthe marksithasleftontheuniverse.InYou,inthesepages,inthenextreaderand,whetheryou likeitornot,we have changedYou–howeverslight.Myvoice,Ibelieve,willbefoundin thenextbookyouread,thenextthoughtyouthink.I'lltellthatnarratornottolosehope,not toconsignthemselvestooblivion.
They'renotalone,andneitheramI.