A Few Minutes Before The End Of The World | COMPLETED

'Part 1'

Streaks of scarlet and amber maunder the azure skies. Below, the abysmal ocean fills the horizon that adjoined it to the maritime port. Waves gently caressed the eaves of the jetty in adagio tempo whilst the city arose from its slumber, ascending the raucousness to uncomfortable heights.

On the bow of a small merchant ship stood, John Abberton, a newly appointed minister. His left foot thumped against the wooden floor and his fingers mollycoddled his pocket watch, which he was opening for god-knows-what-time.

"Sailors I tell you, not a single soul has a sense of time" John mumbled to himself.

"Early are we pastor?" the wooden boards creaked as a plump man made his way to the ship.

"Early!? Early!? We planned to set off at 4:00 am. What opium-drunkard-excuse for a captain calls two and a half hours late early?"

"We're gonna be at sea for a long time, sir. Would you mind giving the poor lads a break? It'll be a year before they'd get to lay with their wives again and their poor helpless children sir-"

"Playing the sympathy card on a priest are we captain? It's not like I said I'll cut it from your pay"

"If you'd said that, I'd have you tied to the anchor and dropped to the ends of the ocean" the captain, Humbard Ilkman, mumbled. His fingers moved over his unkempt stubble and his eyes wandered nowhere in particular.

"What was that captain?"

"I said we usually tie 'em insects to anglers and drop 'em in the sea"

"What does that have anything to do with-"

"To catch fish sir, or we'd starve"

"You are a very peculiar man Mr.Ilkman. That I'll give you"

The captain smiled from ear to ear, shamelessly exposing his near putrified teeth. Or more like what's left of it.

A few more thumps and an overly-polished-pocket-watch later, sailors started arriving in throngs of 2 or 3. The cargo was being loaded, masts checked and provisions were carefully taken below deck.

John Abberton could almost smell it. It was impeccably perceptible for him, England. It was the scent of England that endured the Atlantic and made his way into his nasal receptors. He had jumped hoops of fire to attain an esteemed position in the church. But when he finally got it, it was in this godforsaken country, where the uneducated folk didn't even have a common tongue. Each tribe had its unique language, customs, and gods. He had struggled time and time again to get through to them, civilize them and convert them, but it was all for naught. After much deliberation, he had concluded the mission was undoable. As they say, you can't teach an old dog new tricks, right? But even then, it did have its moments. You'd be respected by all, even the nobility. You'd get a handsome remuneration and if and when a war erupts, priests would be spared by both sides. Was there a more lucrative and stable career? For John, there certainly wasn't. And for this very reason he had pulled all the strings he could pull, fell on dozens of feet, and lighted countless candles until he finally got the job. He'd have much preferred his posting to be in a wonderful chappel in London and not an untouched island in the middle of nowhere.

But his great and generous God hadn't stopped aiding him. The circumstances have made it so that he had 'no choice' but to return to Huntington. If that isn't God's pen working its magic, then he didn't know what was. Of course, God helps only those who help themselves... That thought let lines resembling the tides infest his forehead.

The young priest had auburn hair that fluttered as the wind hit against it, separating the thin tendril-like filaments, unshackling their shackled enthusiasm as they erupted and organized a magnificent ballroom in a gentle zephyr. His hazel eyes could convince any man of the tenacity and fire he held inside of them. Now his eyes were set north toward England, his home, his destination. There he'd plead with all the fervor he could muster to change his posting. He'd get it done no matter what.

The ship buoyed with the tides.

To and fro.

To and fro.

Elevating and depressing.

Like a camel carrying the good samaritan. Or was it a donkey?

Luckily the ocean won't spit. And a camel, well, would.