Orphan of the Sea

A somber morning mist siphoned the life from the simple port town of Driston, leaving naught but dreary thoughts and forced smiles. Fishermen stumbled through the town streets. Their daily duties halted from the drunken stupor that clung to them from the night before. The town police, dressed in Coriscian blues and silver epaulets, prodded the men away so they didn’t interrupt the flow of traffic coming to and from port.

Robert hid himself from the world, slumped against a crate near the docks with his arms folded. He blankly stared into the waves cascading against the shore, with his sea-green eyes and a nose like the bow of a frigate. The approaching storm was hunting him. It hovered just over the horizon, waiting for him to underestimate it.

A sturdy-looking man with a round belly and a wide-brimmed cap rowed in from the sea. He whistled a somber melody while his tiny fishing boat floated to an open dock. When Robert’s eyes caught the man’s, the man grimaced, revealing a pair of teeth like a chipmunk. After tossing and tying the dock line, he waved Robert down.

“You’re still here.” The man said.

“I never left.” Robert said, “Surprised you came back, Thomas.”

“Course, Robert. I’m a man of my word.”

“That makes one of us.” Robert said.

Thomas shook his head. “You damned fool.” He unloaded a hefty leather sack, threw it over his shoulder, and shuffled up the dock towards the crates. Thomas walked with a hobble, one of his legs badly shaking with each step. Judging by the pain on his face, it was a fresh wound.

“They’re catching up to you, old man.” Robert said.

Thomas looked down at his leg and back up with a smirk.

“Tripped on a fox-raven last stop, believe it or not. Hunted by trained couriers and not a one can catch me, but those damn house-pets trip me every time.”

“Former couriers.” Robert corrected. His face was stone cold as the waters beneath them.

“Aye, former couriers.” Thomas said, “You know, you shouldn’t be here.” He dropped the sack and dug his hands deep into its contents. The putrid odor of dead fish and brine escaped the opening and stabbed Robert’s lungs.

“At least stay inside, no sense parading outside like a cock-sure seagull.”

“I was just out to get some air,” Robert said between coughs.

Thomas pulled a flintlock pistol covered in fish guts from the sack and handed it to Robert.

“Right, out for some air,” Thomas nodded. “Fish are biting well this season.”

Robert quickly grabbed the pistol from Thomas’ hands and stuffed it into his shirt.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Someone might see?”

“Now you’re concerned about someone seeing you? Look, you’re out of time now Robert, sources tell me one of them is already here in Driston. His lackeys were asking about you at the pub in Harrowgrove last night.”

Another fisherman drifted to shore and wrapped his dock line. He was elderly, at least sixty years old, and had a terrible hunched-over back. He hopped out of his boat with a fishing rod, some rope, and a pistol of his own hanging from his belt. Robert and Thomas watched quietly as the man drew close, his eyes glaring at Thomas’ catch.

“Catch the entire sea before sunrise?” the old man said with a voice as raspy and broken as his posture.

Thomas stared blankly at the man until Robert elbowed him in the side.

“Oh, aye. Must have been luck. Had to fight the bastards off of my net,” Thomas said.

“Luck,” the man turned to look at Robert, “Luck will keep yer belly fat at night, but it won’t keep the wolves at bay.” The old man sneered and continued on into town.

“What was he going on about then?” Thomas asked. “Keep your belly fat at night? What a stupid thing to say.”

“Greswald meant nothing by it. He’s a sour old man, you remember?”

“That was Greswald? Rom bless, I’ve been gone a while.”

“Now, what did you tell them?” Robert asked, “The ones looking for me.”

“I told them nothing. That I didn’t know you. They won’t get nothing from me, but I can’t promise the same for the others. Once they flash coin-”

Robert’s heart raced. He quickly pulled a thick cigar from his pocket with shaking hands. It was nearly finished. The burnt tip stuck out just past the branding with the initials F.F. emblazoned in gold letters. He lit it and flicked the match onto the wet dock. Thomas sighed and pressed his back against the crates alongside his friend.

“You’re still smoking those disgusting things?”

“They-,” Robert coughed, “put out the fires in my head, I suppose.”

The two sat quietly for a moment. The sound of waves slapping against the black stones of Driston harbor and the song of icy winds sweeping overhead brought the men back in time. When they were young, they would play along the crags overlooking the harbor. They would take turns jumping from the highest point into the sea, laughing and calling each other names.

“You know they got him too,” Thomas nodded to the cigar. “A couple nights ago, they found him in pieces in the street. Passed it off as some gang warfare.”

Robert took a long drag of the cigar and blew the smoke from his nose. His senses were so dulled from fear he couldn’t even taste the smoke as it passed through his mouth.

“If they got him, there’s no chance for us.” He said.

“I have an idea.” Thomas said. “Here, take this too.” He pulled an empty envelope from his pocket and stuffed it into Robert’s hand. “I’ve got family in Rookshire Vale that would take you in. The address is on the envelope. You head that way now and you might catch them before they move North.”

“I’m not running.” Robert said, eying the crumpled envelope.

“Here are a few rooks to catch a ride from Harrowgrove. Stay on the docks and away from wandering eyes. There’s a captain named Kerwin. He knows me. If you mention my name, he’d give you safe passage-”

“I’m not running.” Robert said louder.

Thomas shook his head incredulously.

“Then hide, you stubborn goat.”

A stiff wind brushed between them. Robert put the envelope in his pocket and stepped out onto the dock, watching as the storm’s outer ring grew closer. He took one last drag from his cigar and tossed it into the sea.

“If you don’t keep moving, they’ll find you, Robert.”

Robert held his breath.

“You’re just like him. I begged Francis to leave Corisicia, and he was too proud to let it go.” Thomas said. He sighed, picked up his sack, and started down the cobbled road.

Robert collapsed to his knees.

“It’s not pride.” He said.

Thomas stopped and turned.

“Robert? Are you all right?” he asked, tossing his sack aside. He hobbled back to Robert’s side.

“It was never pride.” Robert said, his eyes red and watery, “it was always him.” Robert looked dispassionately out to sea, a deep regret caught in his throat. Thomas threw his arm around Robert’s shoulders and embraced him.

“How long has it been now since he died - fifteen years?”

“Twenty.” The word came out, but Robert could hardly stomach it. Twenty years of emptiness, of pain.

“It’s time to let him go, Robert,” Thomas said. “If you stay here any longer, you’ll die just the same. And then what? What would have been the point of it all? He wouldn’t want to see his father suffering the same fate. Now get up.”

Robert used Thomas’ arm to help him stand.

“Now, get on with it.” Thomas said, “I’ll catch up with you in Braith with my folks. We’ll finally be free men, Robert. Keep faith.”

“Right, keep faith.” Robert started unraveling the dock line to his boat. A couple of days worth of food and fishing supplies were already packed inside.

“I’ll see you there, Robert.” Thomas said.

“Good bye, friend.”

Robert sailed into tumbling waves with his maroon knit cap stretched taut over his ears. The wind and drizzling rains brought a biting coolness that slowly crippled the fingers and toes and reeked of pungent brine. Robert took a deep breath. He was home. He’d been twenty years away, yet his quick movements and sailing prowess suggested he’d never left. Not much longer and the storm would be upon him. Where the waters calmed, he slowed and dropped anchor.

The boat was quick-moving, large enough for a few sailors, but small enough that one could captain it across deeper waters. The mast stood like an oak against the burgeoning storm, the sails like a ghostly drape floating over the surface of the deeps.

He brandished a small key from his pocket and unlocked the shoddy trunk tucked underneath the supplies that were prepared for him. It was the trunk Robert made a long time ago as a gift that he never gave. Inside were two fishing poles. One normal length, and one about half its size. He grabbed the smaller one; it was hardly touched—used maybe two or three times. The string was still good and properly fed through the guides. His hands lightly shook as he rubbed his finger across the name engraved on the handle. Ihaia. He set it aside, grabbed the larger pole, and slammed the trunk shut.

The haunting sounds of the wind and sea sunk Robert’s thoughts deeper into his memories. A tune came to mind that was melancholy and tender. He hummed along. It was a shanty his father had taught him.

Oh, so may it be.,
That the heart of the sunlit sea,
And what down below lies,
Is like what soars in its skies.,
Be wholly clear to me.

He repeated the shanty like a mantra while he cast out the line from the larger pole. After a couple of casts, it landed where he wanted it, so he set the pole against the gunwale. He wasn’t finished. He looked back at the smaller pole that he had set aside. Its grip made for hands much smaller than his own. The hands of an eight-year-old boy. He picked up the smaller pole and felt a tug coming from the other end.

“Come on, Dad, I want to do it this time.” the voice, a memory, echoed in his head. A moment he would give anything to relive. His heart pounded against his chest as he remembered the face of his son smiling back at him.

“All right boy, straighten up. Hold it just so. Good. Now cast the line and be careful not to pull your old man’s hat off again.” Robert said, twenty years ago.

Robert cast the line, and the bobber plopped up a few meters away from the larger poles.

“I did it!” his son shouted. “Can I pull it in now, Dad?”

“No, no. Not yet, the fish has to bite first. Now we wait.”

Robert sunk back in his fishing chair and watched the lines as a gust swept across his wrinkled face. The storm rumbled above, but he paid it no mind.

“Why are the fish waiting, Dad?”

“They haven’t decided they’re hungry yet.”

“Well, they better decide fast because I want to catch one for Momma. She’s starving.”

Robert pulled his knit cap over his eyes while he escaped into the past.

“I think she’ll make it a couple more hours.” His son looked up at him with the same cerulean blue eyes that she had.

“No, she’ll starve if we don’t get her a fish now.”

“Always looking out for your mom, huh?” Robert smiled.

Minutes passed like hours as the boat rocked back and forth over each southbound wave. Robert started drifting to sleep when the smaller pole shook and the line reeled. He opened his eyes and his son stood there, pulling the line.

“I caught it. I caught a big one.”

Robert hopped out of his chair and grabbed the pole.

“Hold on tight, we’ve got to reel it in first.”

Robert spun the reel, but it wouldn’t budge. He pulled the pole back, and it arched wide.

“Wow, this one is big.”

He gave it one last tug, and the hook ripped out of the water towards the boat.

“Awe, it got away.”

“That’s okay, son. It happens.”

“What are we going to do now? Mom is starving.”

“We keep trying until we get what we came out here for.”

Robert cast the line out again and set the pole down.

“Remember, son, the most important step is the next one.” A phrase that Robert’s father taught him when he was that age.

BOOM!

The skies pounded like a drum as thunder shook the sea, bringing Robert back to the present. He opened his eyes and saw the poles where he left them. Robert wiped his face and stepped out to the bow of the ship. The waves were getting rougher, and the sky twisted and churned, ready to pounce on him at any moment.

“This is how it ends, huh?” Robert said under his breath.

He sighed and looked up at the sky. Spatters of rain splashed across his face.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken, face to face.”

Robert pulled the flintlock pistol from his belt. The winds carried the smell of sulfur and a haze like black fog fell upon him. It choked out what little sunlight broke through the stormy clouds.

“I don’t know if you remember the last time. No, of course you do. It was when I begged on my knees that you wouldn’t take her from me, too. But you did. You took them both, you took everything. And now, you’re back for me.”

He opened the chamber and made sure there was a bullet primed. There was.

“The only way I can rationalize this god-forsaken life is that I wronged you somehow. But, every time I recollect upon my actions, I can’t find a single thing that would be worthy of such tragic punishment. And, if not punishment, then what else is there, Rom? Or do you wish to watch me drown after all the lights go out?”

Lightning cracked from the skies, and the rains caught up with him.

“That’s it. Bring on the rain. Wash away my sins right before I meet you. Let the afterlight pull my corpse into the deep and burn my soul forever.”

Robert laughed hysterically as a small opening of sunlight appeared amidst the clouds.

“You’ve made all the decisions in my life for me, Rom, but now it’s time I made one for myself.”

Robert held the barrel of the pistol to his temple and closed his eyes. The fishing line began unraveling.

Robert’s voice changed, mocking the words of a preacher, “I am naught but the dust of the earth. My crumbling soul aches for there is nothing but woe upon these treacherous sands,” his face covered in tears and rainwater, “By this sword I give back to you that which you gave me. I am undeserving of the light, and thus I will return to dark.” He clicked back the pistol’s hammer.

“Blood for blood, river for river, sea for sea.”

The fishing pole cracked from the force, the upper half holding on to the lower half for dear life. Robert peeked his eye open and saw something large tumbling about in the water that was hooked to the line. It was the body of a man.

Robert dropped the pistol when he saw the young man’s expressionless face, his smokey blond hair like a crown, and two large horns curling out of his temples like a goat’s.

“Dad, help! Daddy!” his son’s screams resurfaced. Ihaia was splashing through the water, his little face bobbing in and out of the water. He was drowning.

“I’ve got you, boy.” Robert said.

Robert threw his cap off and dove into the crashing waves.

The frigid water sent a shrieking pain through his body. He swam forth, afraid to open his eyes. The nightmares were out there waiting. Just as soon as he opened his eyes, they would seize him. Just a few more strokes. He surfaced and wrapped his arm around the man’s waist. He was still warm.

“I’ve got you, lad!” Robert shouted. His voice was barely audible over the torrential downpour and thunder. The boat had drifted away from the pull of the sea. A few meters was now more than double the distance.

Robert pushed onward with the man clasped tightly against his chest. The waves were relentless. Ripping them further down into the water each time.

“Wake up, son,” Robert shouted. He slapped the man’s face, trying to get him to come to. A shadow cast over them, and Robert looked up to see the claws of the sea falling upon them. It pulled them deep underneath, into darkness.

Water forced its way into Robert’s nose. He frantically slapped about with his free hand, but they were moving downward too quickly. He opened his eyes. Before him, floating in the dark abyss was what he had always dreamed of seeing again, but now haunted him like a ghost.

His son’s mangled body, torn apart at the waist, mere feet away, swam towards him. His cerulean blue eyes looked up at him in fear.

“Daddy, where are you?”

“I’m here, son. Swim closer.” Robert’s own voice rang in his head.

“Daddy help, it’s biting my legs!”

“I’ve got you, hold on!”

The screams of his son reverberated through the water louder and louder. The ghostly visage grabbed Robert’s legs and yanked him further down into the water. He squeezed the man tightly, kicking his legs out.

Blood for blood.

“Stop, please. Rom, make it stop.”

River for river.

Robert’s vision went dark.

Sea for sea.

…

A warm light spread like a blanket over Robert’s body. His eyes still closed, he could not help feel a glow from his chest and an overwhelming calmness. Then came a familiar voice.

“Finally, you’re awake, father.”

Author's Note

This short story was originally intended to be one of the opening chapters of my WIP novel, however, I found that the POV and timing didn't quite match up with the rest of the book. So, I've decided to use it as an appetizer for my story, and I consider it within the working canon. I hope you enjoyed!