The Island

Chapter 12

 Navigator's Last never really leaves view. If the air is quiet enough, if the horizon is clear enough, the reminder of a fisherman's demise is never ending.

The storm, however, is clearly visible. I watch as it churns the waves, thrashing along the horizon: a dark abyss that swallows the sun.

Sully's words boil within me like a festering disease. A clash of nature and divine will. It should not be possible. It cannot traverse all these leagues of open sea. It is common knowledge that all violent manners, even storms, live short lives. But those are only words. A poor antidote.

Bill tells us there is nothing to worry about. As long as he makes the right maneuvers, he can escape the Sea God's wrathful hand. And even though what he says goes directly against what I have been taught my entire life—that nothing can hide from the Sea God, that a man must submit to his will, be it storm or freeze or hunger—I have to believe him. It is the only thing I can do.

The storm is in the distance, but its presence alone has driven us inside the bridge. There will be no fish near the surface and any moment the winds might garner enough force to throw us overboard. There is no sense in venturing outside.

Nobody says much in the room. Nobody tells any stories or sings any songs; anxiety keeps our mouths shut. The only exception comes late into the night, when we are prepared to sleep after a long and uneventful day. In the eerie blackness in which even the storm has no presence, I can hear the prayers of all the fishermen, chanting in disunity their own wishes, pleading for safe guidance or for mercy. I silently add my prayer to theirs.

All I can do is hope: look out at that terrifying estranged painting smearing the canvas of the sky, and wait for the inevitable.

It is just like when the corporation came. All the town could do was spectate, helpless from the side. No matter what we did, how we acted, we could not change the course of that impending doom.

Every week they stormed into the wharf with their roaring engines packed with mounds of bread. They pushed stalls aside like they were trash: stalls that had been the grounds of a family for generations. They sold their bread at harrowingly low prices—fine bread that left a warm smell lingering in the wharf.

They did it all with smiles on their faces and their laughs that were lonely in the sad, cold wharf, but frequent and full. Many pointed and hated. "There is the bane of our God!" they would cry. Even so, there was always a line behind their counter. It didn't seem to matter how sacrilegious their actions were, there was always a steady stream of customers who were too poor and too hungry to care about what was right and what was wrong. I should have been in that line, with that jar of metallic coins running to a thin sliver, but Terry was on the other side. He needed customers, so I would help him. At least, that's what I told myself.

Recently, there had been talks fervently circulating through the wharf about a plan to kick the corporation out. The fishermen had become desperate. Their customers dwindled to the point where they would count themselves lucky if they even sold one fish. And corporation sales sailed freely.

I told Terry about this. Ever since he told me about Jack's death, he had become less moody and easier to talk to, so much to the point where I could bring up the very subject he despised the most without fear of a bitter response.

"I heard that they're planning on kicking out the corporation."

"Good for them."

"Maybe you'll get your customers back," I suggested helpfully.

"Bad for them," he replied. "I'll charge them extra."

His indifferent attitude surprised me."I thought you hated the corporation."