The Fog Of Shepard’s Bay

My father was not an evil man, or so I told myself every night before shutting my eyes. Down in the humid and feverish cell I visited him. Twice during the working days and every day of the weekend, hoping that at some point he would shine some light into the truth of his last voyage. I was prepared to receive anything, from sinister and violent to unlikely and perhaps impossible. But it was futile, his lips were sealed and no noise ever came from his throat. In the corners of the cell he would hide, afraid to even hear my voice or look at my face. I continued my visits in a constant fashion, observing his every move and talking to him, even if there was no hope of a reply. When he crawled closer to the bars, his eyes glistened with an ominous light I had never seen in them. They seemed to be lost, as if a memory had perturbed his mind in a manner so lurid and aberrant, that his every thought had forever remained on it.

The imprisonment of my father came as a distasteful surprise for every tenant in Shepard’s Bay, for all the evidence pointed that he had been an honest man, with neither the drive nor impulsiveness for violence. Yet when the trial was held, not a soul vouched for his defence, not even my mother. My father remained a mute, shaking uncontrollably in his chair as in some kind of stroke, and the judge could not help him even if she wanted. None of the events could be explained rationally without bordering on the edge of lunacy, so nobody bothered to investigate further. It was then that my father was declared guilty of the murder of sixteen men and was sentenced for life, to the miserable company of metal bars and dirt.

When my mother birthed me, I arrived to an empty house by the beach. She alone raised me during the first years and even though we lived in scarcity, her unbreakable spirit and limitless motivation kept us fed and alive. We lived on a small plot of land, bequeathed by my mother’s father upon his untimely death. On my 7^th birthday my father returned from his first voyage at sea, the smile he wore spread from ear to ear and unlike now, told my mother and I many wondrous tales of his days on the ship. About his encounters with whales, sirens and strange tidal beings which rose up from the water to greet them on their travels. At my young age, I believed every word he said and I even asked him to take me with him. “Can’t do that lad,” he said, “who’s going to look after your mother?”

At the time, things changed dramatically after his arrival and although he was soon to leave again, I heroized the man every moment he was there. With the money received, my mother bought herself a small horse, which we used to plough the land and harvest food. She was a mother, a gardener, a cook, a seamstress and an entrepreneur. Before long we were selling a variety of small products in the fish market and we found moderate success in offering textile services and medicinal drinks. My father helped us from time to time, but never with much enjoyment. For as he sat by the fire every night to eat his evening meal, I could see him gazing through the window. Looking out into the quicksilver foam that danced in the pallid light, in a fashion that purported no boundaries or limitations of dangers and adventure.

Two years after his first arrival, my father was ready to leave again. I was prepared to miss him dearly for perhaps three or four years. By now my mother had established a steady house-hold income and starvation was a faint memory of the past. He went looking for more work at sea and found a place upon a large merchant vessel destined for the exotic lands of Spain. I went down to the docks to wish him good-bye, and as the ship melded into the horizon, I wished myself upon it. For a great curiosity grew within me, there was something about the desolate yet beautiful immensity of the sea that called my soul as it did my father’s.

Our life at the Port continued in a similar manner as it had done for the last two years, ploughing, harvesting and sewing. But it was on a windy night on the third year that an unexpected knock was heard on the door and all this changed dramatically. It was an elderly man with little hair and a face so wrinkled it rippled when he talked. “I bring news.” He said. “You are to leave this town as soon as possible.” I never got to listen to the rest of what he had to say, for before he could give his explanations my mother interrupted, saying that we heeded not the words of old charlatans and jesters, and then slammed the door on the poor old man. Thinking of it now, I realise that perhaps the fear of losing all she had built with such sacrifice was not a thought she could endure without retaliation. Afterwards she assured me that she had seen many men of this kind, and that once we had left the small wooden house he would crawl back in and fill his pockets with our possessions. I believed her back then, but now, years after my father’s return, I wonder whether he had something worth hearing.

Years began to slip away like the sand of an hourglass. My mother hired a tutor, who taught me how to read and write properly, along with some basics of arithmetic. After acquiring some mastery in the latter, I helped manage the income and the little shop we owned exploded in further success. My mother even thought about buying more land but refused to do so without my father’s opinion. All my hard work paid off, and I bought myself a small rowboat, upon which fishing became an enjoyable activity. We heard no news from anywhere in Shepard’s Bay, no word of my father or the merchant ship.

Besides our success in the shop, I began to enjoy fishing in the deeper parts of the crystal- blue waters. One day, at my young age of fifteen, I mustered enough courage to go further than ever. Until my back and arms were sore from rowing and until the entire bay could fit in the silhouette of my thumb. From afar, our little town looked like a fairy-tale. The vast green hills that spread from side to side and the tall lighthouse which stood like a sentinel upon the bay, appeared oddly alluring. The dappled colours of the flower fields brought life to the entire image. It was a beautiful spot, so peaceful and silent. The waves were unusually calm and the showering heat of the sun, while still scorching and relentless, was bearable. My luck was high that day and the tether of my rod was being constantly pulled, the entirety of that morning proceeded in the same manner and by midday my boat was piled with at least a dozen fish.

It was after the sun began to climb down from its zenith, that an implacable drowsiness overcame me. In my inexperienced mind, I believed that after all that hard work it was only natural for a young boy to feel so lethargic. Into the clear waters I dropped a stone tied to my leg, to serve as an anker while I rested. Once I watched it hit the bottom, my eyes closed, and I dozed into a deep slumber. What happened next is not so easily explained, but I believe it is somehow related to the events that, afterwards, befell my father.

Some violent movement woke me. I sat up from my uncomfortable position and was thrown into an immediate panic. For my sleep had lasted far longer than it was intended and instead of the candid sun shining upon my skin, I was greeted by the dreary and lifeless light of the moon, which sheened mockingly in the obscure canvas. Along with this came a putrid smell from the other side of the ship, the fish! They had been assaulted by scavengers (Birds I believe.) and the remains now seemed spoiled. It was then that my stomach turned and I realised the severity of my situation. The anker had failed, for the rope was tight on my ankle which could only mean the stone had been lifted by a current from underneath. As I pulled it back up, there seemed something odd in the water. It no longer shined with crystal like fancy, but looked rather murky and swamp-like. There was moss on the stone, and it came with a smell so rotten that made the spoiled fish look appetizing.

I realise now the stupidity of my entire endeavour, and in that desperate position, I thought of my father and what he would do. The smell coming from the stone I could no longer bear, so after cutting it loose I tossed it in the sea. Looking at the darkness peering, no faint light in the horizon came to meet my eyes. I resolved to wait for first light before attempting any movement that would tire me, for I had little water left and no food and the ocean is known to be cruel to those who do not respect its power.

Whatever that strange underwater-fog was, I could never attest. But either way I was blessed, for once the sun’s orange tendrils began to shine in the horizon, much sooner that I could’ve anticipated, the bay came into view. In the darkness of the night, my boat appeared to have drifted closer! Deluged with joy, I rowed as hard as my limbs allowed and left the boat upon a wharf as soon as I touched land. My eyes welled at the sight of my mother’s little house, I was so excited to tell her about my adventure and about the strange fog that seemed to have gathered underneath the surface in the Bay. Never have such hopes been so mercilessly crushed.

I arrived to a house which seemed empty, this confused me initially, but if my mother was not home this could only mean she was already at the market stall. Perhaps that was only a thought which I wanted to believe at the time, for when has anybody known a mother that is not worried to the point of madness when her child is missing? Upon my arrival to the central market, I was received by strange looks and whispers among my merchant neighbours. And it was a man named Peter Dlum who told me truth of why my house was empty and what had happened while I was gone. For it turned out that it had been six days by the Bay’s clock since I was last seen.

Two days after my supposed disappearance, my mother sent out help to find me in the sea, and even went out herself with the help of some friends. As they found nothing, my mother assumed the worst and a stark grief overcame her. This was made worse by my father’s arrival, as according to Dlum’s account and many other villagers, the ship crashed into the bay frantically and once it was stabilised, only he remained upon the merchant vessel. And his hands were soaked in the blood of his fellow sailors, which explained why the ship had been so badly handled. With her son missing and her spouse in prison, my mother retired home and remained there for another two days or so. She was found hanged by the neck in the kitchen.

No greater pain have I ever experienced. I was in denial for a couple of days, refusing to believe that such strong woman had been broken and that such honest man had been somehow corrupted. The elderly man came back to haunt my memories. “I bring news” he had said. Could he have known about the problems brewing in the tides of Shepard’s Bay? I am often restless with that thought. Talk of the fog was never mentioned and my father still remains very much alive in that prison. He was never a man of talk, not with strangers anyway. Presently I’ve felt closer to him, for I know my father was not an evil man. A man he may be no longer, but no evil did settle in heart. Five days ago I went looking, but the fog is no longer there. And up to this day I say, that it was not my father who killed those men, but rather the deadly underwater fog of Shepard’s Bay.