Wanderers and Stargazers

INTERLUDE: LOVE AND PAIN

1897 - 1903

"I hate him," Harold Lowe mumbled, his lower lip trembling.

Except it wasn't really true. He didn't hate his father. He loved him... despite everything, he loved him. And he wanted his father's love, too... but there were always conditions.

'You're going to be apprenticed, and that is that, Harold. You will not defy me.'

And that's why he was hastily stuffing a spare pair of trousers, drawers, socks, and a few shirts into a ditty bag.

'But I want to be paid for my labor. And I've told you what I want to do. Please, Father, if you'll just-'

'You're never going to be a sailor, Harold. That's for the dregs of society. You're a gentleman and a Lowe, not an uncivilized brute, and you'll do as you're told!'

He sniveled and wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. He was so tired of crying; he despised crying. At fourteen, he should have been long past it. And yet-

'You're too old for a beating. But I have other ways of punishing you.'

The flaming hulk, his anguished cries, his father's eyes glittering mercilessly in the glare.

He brushed away the last of his shameful tears, slung the bag over his shoulder, walked over to the window, and raised the sash. Taking one last glance around his luxurious bedroom, he threw one leg over the windowsill and searched with his foot for the thick branch that would carry him out of this toxic, oppressive house and to freedom.

And that's when his sister Ada burst into the room. "Harry! Father wants you to-"

She froze, taking in the bag, the open window, his defiant expression.

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Ada?" he retorted, straddling the windowsill.

She crossed her arms. "Oh, no you don't, Harry. You're not running away. It's not fair that you get to-" She cut off the rest of her sentence, stomping her foot in frustration and chagrin. "If you try to go, I'm... I'm telling!"

"No, you won't," he snapped.

"I most certainly will," she taunted, her eyes hard.

Harold took a deep breath. "He burned the punt, Ada. Did you know that? Lit it and pushed it out into the bay. It's gone." His voice quavered slightly.

She gasped loudly, her face paling. "He didn't..." she whispered. "Not George's punt. Why?"

"To teach me a lesson," he spat, bile rising in his throat. "For defying him."

"Oh, Harry..."

"So I'm leaving, and you're not going to stop me."

Brother and sister looked at each other steadily for a long minute. Then she sighed in defeat, nodding her agreement. "What about Mother?" she asked quietly.

His face softened. "I left her a note," he said, gesturing to the table by the bed. "But you tell her... tell her that I'm sorry." He couldn't keep his face from crumpling with grief and regret.

"She'll understand. You know how she feels about... about what Father's doing," Ada assured him gently.

He stared down at the floor for a long moment, then met her eyes again. "Take care of her for me, all right?"

"Where... where are you going? She'll want to know."

"To sea, of course."

Alarm spilled onto her features then. "No, Harry, you can't! You don't know the first thing about sailing! You'll drown, just like George-" Her voice caught in her throat.