MR DARSON’S GREAT ADVENTURES
MERTHE SCHIPPER
BEGINNINGS
If you’d have told me two days ago that I was about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, I might not have been polite enough to stifle my laugh. I’ve always lived a respectable life. Perhaps a boring one, hardly worthy of the amazed stares of a tavern full of sailors or the esteem of a seasoned captain. But here I am, in a rowdy bar in Trevy Harbour, living the dream my brother could not finish. Captain Kornell did not hesitate for a moment to aid our adventure. So are stories enough to make a compelling impression? Surely she must have had her doubts when she saw the sweaty shine of my soft face, but I can find no trace of it in her weathered features.
Neil shows captain Kornell his maps and notebooks. I study her reaction and she meets my eyes with a conspiratory sort of smile.
‘Where’d you find him?’ she would later ask me, and I would say he just came with the winds when I needed him most.
The kid couldn’t have been older than sixteen, freshly grown into a set of long limbs. He stutters a bit, but there’s an air of confidence about him that I do not recognise from my own teenage years. The same air Patrick used to have. A glint of danger, yet to be polished into something ruthless or muddled down with age. ‘Does… uhm, does mister… mister Darson live here?’
I blink. ‘I’m Mr Darson, yes.’
The boy’s eyes light up and he grabs my hand firmly. ‘My… my name is… my name is Neil, sir. I have so… so much to sh-sh…’ he hasn’t let go, ‘...show you, sir.’
He barges in without asking, spreading the contents of an oversized satchel on my side table. Maps, scrolls, notebooks, various leather bound volumes with the covers hanging loosely after years of intense reading. All the while, Neil has not stopped talking. He says he has wanted to leave home for years. He says he has been looking for me, that he has so much to ask me. I want to ask if he’s sure he’s at the right address.
He pushes one of the worn books into my hands. ‘I’ve read them all a- a- a million times. M-maybe- maybe more. You’re such an- an- an inspiration, Mr Darson.’
I carefully turn over the loose cover, finding exactly what I expect and still feeling my heart clench uncomfortably.
Patrick. Of course. I should have connected the dots the second I recognised that gleam in Neil’s eyes. I should politely send him off.
Tell him I’m not who he’s looking for. That my name is Robert. Tell him yes, I did know Patrick Darson. He is — he was my brother.
But first I’ll have to find a second of silence within Neil’s endless stream of enthusiastic chatter. A moment of reprieve in between the stories, the hopes he seems to hold for something that I — no, Patrick — could give him. That’s when he shows me the map.
‘I know it was your- your life-long dream, Mr Darson. Even if- if- if people told you it was just a- a- a fairytale, you- you kept on going. And I think… I think I might’ve found it. Well, hyper- uhm, hyp-’
‘Hypothetically.’
‘Yes. But I’m pretty… pretty sure, sir.’
He’s mapped it all out. The stories, the records, the winds and the coordinates.
‘The Isle of Mar-Quill.’ He does not stutter and for the first time a heavy, almost reverent silence falls over my small living room. The stories trickle away through the gaps in the flooring and the space transforms back into what it was underneath the layer of imagination. No distant island of miracles and treasure, just the dusty living room of a man who never quite lived up to his potential. I suddenly become very aware of the way my armchair swallows my plump body, the way my shoulders sag when I’m pretending to listen.
The room feels too small to house all those dreams, too small for any sort of company besides the flies and the woodworms. Too small to spend the rest of my days in.
For a moment I wish I were Patrick. He’d smile, cheer, clap the boy on his back with slightly too much force and set sail the next morning.
Robert, however, only manages a shaky breath.
‘You’ve done tremendous work, lad. Neil. This is genuinely very impressive.’ I straighten my back, but the chair does not do me any favours. My knees creak in protest when I get up. I offer the boy a drink, which he eagerly accepts. He flings his arms over the back of my couch, turning around to watch me. His knees press dents into my cushions. I fill the kettle with water.
‘Don’t you have some- something… stronger?’ I pause. ‘Stronger? How old are you?’
Neil flushes like a scolded child. ‘Old- old- old enough. You were young too, once, right Mr- Mr Darson?’
Not like that, I want to say. Not like Patrick. A part of me wishes I had been like that too. Young. Rebellious. From a cabinet I take an untouched bottle of bourbon. I saved it for special occasions that never presented themselves. I wipe the dust on my dressing gown — god, I’m still in my dressing gown — and force a grin. It feels unnatural on my rigid face. It feels good, though.
‘Please call me Patrick,’ I find myself telling him, and for a second it almost feels natural to pour two cups and toast to adventure.
The alcohol burns my throat and sets my stomach on fire, but once the initial shock is past the fire becomes more comfortable. Neil is already halfway into his cup. ‘This is very good, Mr- Mr- uhm, Patrick.’ I nearly choke when Neil asks me when we’ll be leaving.
‘One last- last, big adventure,’ Neil says upon seeing my doubtful face. ‘To- to- to finish what you’ve started.’
I sip my bourbon and think of Patrick. I never took the time to really miss him. He was always out there somewhere. But it stings that he isn’t here to answer the call of an adventurous young
man and his carefully composed map of mystery. He would not entertain the doubts I do. He would have said yes before being asked the question.
‘Are you- are you in, Patrick?’ Neil refills my glass and I want to protest about wasting the bourbon that otherwise would have remained unopened inside a dusty cabinet. I take another sip. This fire inside must be what Patrick always felt. The warmth is no longer cosy, but I don’t find it as uncomfortable as I thought I might.
‘We leave in the
The boy jumps up and flings his arms around me in a tipsy embrace that will have to do as a business handshake. I hide the bottle and we clink our nearly empty glasses.
Neil curls up in my armchair and I allow myself a few more sips of the warming liquor.
For Patrick.