Souls Lost

July 22, 1884

Seventeen moons have now glistened over our heads since we watched The Mignonette fade beneath the dark waves, and nearly two weeks since we fed upon the turtle. Our cracked mouths are too drained to muster many words, and the blazing sun and incessant jostling manage to exhaust us and simultaneously hold us from sleep to remain in this purgatory of discomfort.

Young Parker has been unconscious for two days, drifting into the abyss with settled contentment in his breath. His taut skin is bronzed and leathery, like a roasted pork loin, salted and oily. We tried to tell him the seawater would make him sick, but his desperation overcame him. Better to stick to the urine, we said.

Stephens is ill, too. He waited longer before trying the water, but it didn’t stay down for long. His face is gaunt, and his cheeks are hugging the bone. His sunken sockets are receding further back into his skull like two gloomy pits, and the sacks underneath look like they could carry a buoy in each.

Dudley’s wiry beard is tangled and crusty, with salt crumbs clinging to the strands. His cap, crumpled in the chaos of the ship’s abandonment, gives shade to his creased forehead, but his bulbous nose is bloody and raw from peeling. He insinuated that one of us might have to be sacrificed for the survival of the others should we not find land, water, or food soon. He kept his eyes trained on me all the while, but I could tell he only wanted to look at young, weak Parker.

We need land, food, and water imminently. I worry for Parker’s soul should we be stranded any longer.

July 24, 1884

The waves were rough last night, and clouds formed, promising rain. Readying ourselves for the life-giving moisture from above, we lay with tilted heads and our feeble jaws opening. However, to our dismay, it did not rain. Instead, we were thrown around in the turbulent waters and left sore from rolling to-and-fro in the boat.

I lay my weight over Parker’s thin legs to keep him from going overboard during the more energetic waves, but I was too weak to hold him. Dudley and Stephens lay on the other end of the boat, side by side.

They have ravenous desires in their eyes that never venture far from the poor boy’s bones. Our last debate ended with perceived civility last night, but the energy it had taken was draining. Dudley is adamant that Parker will die in the coming days. He said that letting him die naturally would waste the blood we could drink. Either that, or we will all be doomed to the same fate. I told him that it is better to die than to commit such a heinous crime, but my moral fortitude falters as hunger penetrates deeper and corrupts from within. It could be painless and quick, he said. The boy is in a coma, and even with immediate food, water, and medical treatment, he may never arise from the depths of his current slumber. Stephens’s head bobbed in agreement with each of his points, a deepening frown of rebellion carved through his bleak appearance while he looked at me.

Dudley raised the topic again this morning at first light. It was presented as a non-existent choice. He and Stephens have family, and the orphan was dying anyway. Recovery for him was out of the question, and a decision must be made. I pleaded and begged. He’s just a helpless boy. Give him more time. A boat could arrive any minute, I said, but knew the likeliness of one finding us is slim to none. They eventually agreed to wait another night and reassess tomorrow morning.

When the sun was high and unrelenting, a gentle knock sounded on the hull. I pulled my head over the edge of the gunwale and was enthused at the sight of a coconut drifting alongside the boat. With great effort, I managed to reach over and retrieve the blessing. Once aboard, Dudley and Stephens pulled their skeletons more upright and watched with bated breaths as I tried shaking it to feel its contents. There didn’t seem to be any sound of splashing inside or a feeling of liquid moving, and I felt my heart sinking. I urged Stephens to throw his penknife, but Dudley held his arm and stopped him from relinquishing the blade.

“Throw it here,” he commanded.

Aware of his indomitable stubbornness and that the argument would only continue until he succeeded, I rolled the coconut to him. He ordered Stephens to give him the knife and hold the coconut still, to which he obeyed. With a sapless strike at the husk, he failed to pierce its shell, and the blade bounced off and clattered on the wood beneath. We watched for what felt like hours as he stabbed at the coconut, visibly draining the last reserves of his energy and taking regular breaks to pant and rest his arms. I was glad he had taken the exertion away from me; his greed had outweighed foresight.

Eventually, a crack in the husk began to form, and he wedged the blade beneath to pry it loose. Stephens helped by getting his fingers beneath and widening the gap. Their feverish eyes were transfixed on the possibility of nourishment.

When they removed the last fibres of husk, Dudley positioned the face of the coconut upwards and regarded the mould on its black spots. His eyes raised to Stephens and me with profound sadness; the energy lost was a hefty price to pay, and he had aged years in the time since it had floated into our path.

With several more stabs, he managed to create a small hole. He lifted the coconut above his open mouth and tilted the hole. A singular grey lump fell out and ricocheted off his chin. He let out a huff, and the last of his hope exhaled from his being. Stephens groaned with the agony of disappointment. I thought about the cruelty of God’s humour. We would undoubtedly starve and die in this boat; the coconut was just a reminder.

When he cracked the rest of the nut open, it revealed the rotten innards. The fruit was a mix of grey and green. Regardless, Dudley was the first to eat. His eyes closed as if imagining a more delectable taste while he chewed softly. Stephens went next and made animal-like grunting sounds. I was the last to eat and tried my best to hold the fruit in my mouth and muster saliva. I tasted nothing but felt the fluffiness of my own mouth like a stone was rolling around in it.

I tried to feed a small piece to Parker, but he wouldn't stir. Stephens told me not to waste it on him, and Dudley agreed.

“The boy is too far gone.’ He said.

We finished the last of the coconut, and with a newfound awareness of appetite, Stephens raised the topic I didn’t want to discuss again.

“We can’t live on rotten coconuts. We need more.” Those furious dark caverns on his face glared at me.

“The coconut will sustain us for days now.” I returned with uncertainty.

“A decision must be made. What shall we do, Captain?” Stephens asked Dudley.

He paused in his slumped state and answered, “The boy’s death must not be in vain. His sacrifice will be the saviour of us. We will ensure he will be remembered for his bravery.”

Fear rose like fire within me, “His bravery?” I asked, “He has not agreed to any of this. It’s murder.”

“This boat is murder for all of us.” His voice became more assertive, “Soon, it will be too late for any of us to act.”

“Just one more night, please. We don’t need to do anything now. One coconut came; another might come tonight or tomorrow.” I gave the last of my efforts to the defenceless boy’s case. All the while, he lay, unaware, the gentle rise and fall of his ribcage almost imperceptible.

“We’ll give him till morning, but we can’t wait any longer than that.” Dudley gave his final order, and I believe I saw a sinister twitch of enjoyment revealed on Stephens’s white lips between the salt-encrusted curls of his beard.

July 25, 1884

The night was filled with unsettling thoughts. My consciousness drifted in and out of nightmares, from those in a sleep state to those in reality. I feel hot and cold in waves and I'm certain the rotten coconut has done more harm than good. Dudley and Stephens have also been moaning and grimacing with stomach cramps.

I don’t know when they agreed on it or how the decision was made. I just know that I was too fragile to move or stop it when the time came. Stephens held the boy’s legs, his keen eyes watching the penknife in Dudley’s hand at his side.

“Dear Almighty Lord and Saviour, we ask for your forgiveness for the grievous act we are about to commit. We ask you to take this boy’s soul into the Halls of Heaven and bless him with eternal peace and salvation. Please, Merciful God, forgive us. Amen,” Dudley said.

“Amen,” Stephens echoed and watched as Dudley approached the boy's throat with the knife. Stephens's knuckles whitened on the skinny legs as Dudley slid the blade into the boy’s jugular.

My protestations fell on deaf ears as they began to feed like rabid wolves on the fresh corpse. Stephens slurped from the gash in the boy’s neck, and Dudley cut at his stomach to start extracting meat. I watched in horror, my mind too tired to comprehend the events unfolding. Their faces, hands, and bodies were covered in the blood of the young deckhand. The dark liquid puddled on the wooden planks, gently rippling towards my bare feet.

It didn’t take long for Stephens to begin vomiting overboard. He fell unconscious, resting on the gunwale, the blood drying to his long, bony fingers that slid with the boat's sway. When Dudley stopped, it was a sight to behold. The boy was no longer recognisable; his guts strung out over the crimson pool he was lying in. Being dead should've made him appear at peace, but there was nothing resembling peace in that image.

Dudley slid away from the body and covered his face with his hands. His body seemed to tremble, and he wept. Chunks of tissue nested in his long beard, and a dark red dribble left his mouth with the mad mumblings of his torment.

The scent of blood had reached my nose, and my stomach cried for a taste of something. Anything. My mind battled against the urges. A boat will come, I told myself. Another coconut. Something. Only I knew it wasn’t true. Nothing but death is coming for us. Just a taste. He was dead now, and nothing could be done to bring him back. Better his death serves some purpose, as Dudley had said.

I crawled closer to the blood-stained corpse when I heard the soft, melancholy words of Dudley, “Better death than this!" He cried. "What have we done? Better death than this!”