A Strange Kind of Hunger | FIRST DRAFT

Gabriel's Confession

I suppose you could say this all began five years ago, in the autumn of 1848, on a boat in the middle of a storm. The worst storm I'd ever seen: waves as tall as churches, wind whipping the sails into an angry choir, salt spray burning in my throat like incense. Clinging to the rigging with blistered and bloody hands, I was absolutely certain I was going to die. How could I not be, surrounded by a roiling mass of ocean that seemed to tear into the ship like it was made of paper? Surrounded by kneeling crewmen, calling for salvation with broken voices? It was a tragedy waiting to play out.

Looking back, I'm surprised that when the ship went down I wasn't among those praying. I haven't always been so strong in my faith but even then — there must have been some small part of me that knew. Perhaps that was why I did not ask for salvation, or even forgiveness. I doubt God could have heard me even if I had prayed; the noise of splintering wood as the ship broke apart filled not only my ears but my entire soul with its desperate clamouring. Those who had nothing to hold on to added their screams to the symphony of distress as the hungry water swallowed them up, leaving nothing but writhing froth as a testament to their existence.

Those first few victims of the sea were lucky. Their deaths came quick; a small mercy, I guess — they still died, after all — but nothing compared to what awaited the rest of us. Trapped, separated by a wall of water that sprung up between the two halves of the ship. We dared not spare our hands for prayer again, when the ocean all around us was a twisted fury so deep I could only wonder what godforsaken creatures lurked below.

For some reason, as I clung to my piece of rigging with the fervour of a zealot, feeling the icy rain seeping down into my bones, I thought of Jesse. He was only seventeen then; you must remember how scrawny and shy he was. How little he spoke, and how much of a story he could tell in his eyes. His favourite book was the Odyssey — maybe that was why I thought of him when it seemed like Charybdis herself was bearing down on our poor ship. That was what broke me: the thought of his sunshine smile, how he was waiting for me to come home with the certainty that nothing was wrong. The knowledge that I would never see him again. I hadn't cried until then, but after that the tears came freely.

It was then that I saw it, blurred through my tears and obscured by the ship's lurching prow: a titanic wave, looming over us with deathly certainty. The final judgement; I knew it would tear our flimsy, wooden sanctuary to pieces the second it broke. Watching it in horror, I couldn't even make my lips frame a prayer. All I could think of was how badly I wanted to live.

The impact seemed almost in slow motion. Tearing our flimsy shelter apart with a sickening crunch, sending splinters of wood spiralling into the wind. It seemed like God's retribution brought to earth, but for what I didn't know. I didn't want to find out; the sting of saltwater in my eyes was the first thing that made me understand the reality of my situation. I was drowning.

My first instinct was to breathe in, even when I was surrounded by freezing water that rushed into my lungs, filling them so completely that it seemed to weigh me down, dragging me further into the depths. Whoever told you hell is a fiery place — well, they lied because I can tell you there is nothing more hellish than fighting for just one breath, choked with brine and begging for the universe to give you one last chance. I didn't even have the energy to drag my own body to the surface; my hands scrabbled wildly for something to grab on to — anything to save me from the smothering embrace of the sea.

What I grabbed was not a piece of wood or a floating barrel. It was my crew mate and friend, Elias Van Doort. Mysterious, yet somehow homely, Elias: twelve years my senior yet with a silver tongue that could spin stories even the younger crew members wanted to hear. I still remember him for those stories — not tales of adventure, but tales of the things that lurk in the shadows, making your skin crawl with a single dusty breath. In hindsight I shouldn't have been surprised that he was the one to harbour it.