The Second Stage

The Drift 16

—but you have a dream.

As your reflection—your devil—brings you to the water's edge, you touch the driftwood anchor from your neck. With only a flick of your thumb and index finger, you snap the smooth, curved bottom from the pendant and allow it to fall to the concrete; you palm the remaining cross.

The devil tightens its grip and whirls at the sound. Your heart hammers as an engine, adrenaline whips through your veins, your muscles tense as one machine with one purpose—to thrust your palm at the space between the devil's eyes.

Your life is gone; you wasted your best years in a delirium and your loved one abandoned you years ago. You know nothing of what this island is, you know nothing of the cities that will accept a lost soul. You know nothing of the future.

But you know this place shall not be your end, for the devil's jaws cannot crush what its hands have made unbreakable.

The cross strikes its target and your palm explodes through it. The figure before you bursts apart into smog and blasts with the mist in every direction to the horizon.

Then—there is quiet.

Only blue skies and afternoon sun remain. A faint breeze sweeps over the concrete and soothes your trembling body. You are unprotected, yet have never felt freer. In a daze, you look back toward the lone ship.

A lugger bobs there on the water, covered in algae and dust. You walk to it, your bare feet slapping the rough wood planks on a dock that seems to stretch for miles. When you approach, you examine the vessel's worn exterior.

With only a swipe of your hand, the tarnish clears, and you find that the hull glows of cherry. White sails laced with forest green twine flap eagerly in the gentle wind. The waves slide around its slick bow. And atop the stern rises an enormous anchor, already lifted, as if it expected your arrival.

Your tired legs carry you aboard the windswept deck and down smooth steps to the cabin; the door opens for you.

A puff of musty air breathes in your face. It smells of salt; it smells of chowder; it smells of work, of spilled messes, and of thrown cod. It smells of everything which whispers to you that through miseries and joyous moments—this boat was once loved.

A lone cot rests over the stripped and scratched floors, awaiting you under the dim lighting from eight tarnished portholes. A splash draws your attention back outside.

You ascend the steps and find that a single wave rocks your boat. The sea beckons.

So you check your riggings and you slip your moorings as the wind guides you over sparkling blue water to the wavering blue sky. You think of your companion lost, whom you may reclaim, and unmet souls who may soothe your wounds should you fail. But you worry over none of that, for the skies and the oceans are yours; you finally find contentment to sail to the horizon even knowing you shall never reach it. So on you sail.

Sail on, Sailor.