Tempest

My legs were animated, moving as if they might be guided by ropes at the knees. I wore the only garments to my name- a monkey jacket, from my sailing days. A large, fur greatcoat that had been given to me by my grandfather. The old tan slacks I had been given in the army, and the boots I wore with them. This meager clothing stuck to my skin, as if sewed to the sweat that flowed through my chest. I looked as though I was wearing the carcass of some animal, it's beastly, leathery skins almost fusing with mine. The coat was a neutral brown pigment. Be it elk, bison, or some northern mountain goat, I decided it must have been a very cold creature, as the stabbing winds penetrated it's thin, hollow hairs. What a fine irony, that this grand behemoth, and I, his conqueror, would soon share a grave. Perhaps It is God's way to remind us humans of our animality. By that Heaven that sent this storm to us, the beast and I were, at last, united. As I lamented over this, my eyes met the sight of my saviour. Visible only in a blur, as if gazing through the waters of some Caribbean paradise, I saw a small, ramshackle cabin awaiting my presence. My legs became possessed, as though my veins had thawed, and had collectively decided to endure the blistering winds. As I ran towards the structure, it's many perplexities became obvious to me. It was a dark, windowless oak. Spotted, as if it had been recovering from some great burn. It’s walls had small spaces in between hollowed planks. It reminded me of the humid island houses I saw in Cuba, and the Azores. But those islands were far from here, and here was far from the islands. There would be no bathhouses, nor orange vendors, nor sailors from some great other ship. Despite this, it was as refreshing as the sandy beaches of St Thomas, and I could almost picture myself swimming through the snow as if taming the Caribbean seas. In some distant memory, the house was likely a fine hunting shack. Perhaps even a comfortable place of retirement, after a day of snaring and bird-watching. Approaching the withering doowar, I began to scan the building. I noticed a thin smoke billowing from those separated planks called walls. This shocked me, and I paused before entering. I found it very peculiar that a man could be inside, keeping a fire in this thickest blizzard. I collected myself, and had the idea that I was beginning to decline. When a man shares such long, snowy journeys with only his mind, he begins to find he is haunted by thoughts of curse and catastrophe. Deciding this was my conclusion, I buckled my shoulder and slammed the door open. Standing in the doorway, I saw the very vision of poverty and suffering. Kneeling only a stone's throw in front of me, was a man reduced to a skeleton. He stared, fixated, gazing into the small blaze he had created in the center of his floorboard.  A boy lay next to him, clinging to the small heart as a barnacle on a naval schooner. I could not seem to determine whether the boy had starved, or was merely sleeping. Not looking up from his fire, the man spoke: "We haven't got any money. Please leave." At this I stopped, barely able to move my tongue in speech. "I haven't come for money. I had assumed this house was empty, and I was hoping to escape the storm." The man finally turned his head to face me, as a dog reacts to the shots of his owner's rifle. Meeting his gaze, I saw the extent of what his eyes had witnessed. They reminded me of bowls of milk, juxtaposed by a single black olive floating in the middle, like a black sheep standing in a snowy meadow. As I stared, the eyes seemed to tell me stories of coal mines and cold winters, and the sufferings of a childhood lost. Breaking our solemn silence, the man responded: "Have you got any food?" Silently, I walked towards him. I took from my satchel a can of sweetcorn I had purchased before my journey. Having little or no way to formally pay the man, I handed him the corn. Taking it from me with a small, weak hand, he tenderly placed it on the fire to thaw. "Please sit." he spoke, almost breathing the words out of his mouth. Satisfied with my night's board, I sat by the fire, content to be sharing a moment of solemnity with the strange man. I looked into the blaze we shared, and was reminded of my journey in life thus far. I felt as though I had chanced death far too many times. Perhaps I will someday settle, and build a small shack like this one. I’ll move back to that great humid paradise of St Thomas, and claim it as my own. This I sat debating, and it became clear to me that I had no ship, or even small boat to brave the waters. I pictured myself roping the grand Mastodon, and reigning him until he sails me to the islands. The sperm whale, I loomed. I loathed the creature, but loved how I loathed. It was perhaps my greatest friend, in a bizarre, abusive kind of way. In another life, I may have shared these thoughts with the small man sitting next to me. Silence, I decided, would be our divulgence. Looking at the young boy next to me, I turned back to his father. "What's his name?" I asked. The man's face opened again, his lips moving as small cracks in a sheet of leather. "John." he uttered. To this I nodded, sitting in silence for another moment before again reaching into my satchel. I produced a can of potted meat, and passed it to the man beside me. "For John. When he wakes up." The man gave me a knowing stare, and put the can on the fire next to the corn. He sat sheepishly, holding his knees in front of him, as if trying to form a response. "Thank you," he groaned, And I went to sleep. For the first time since my childhood days, my rest was visited by a dream. In this dream, I was a young boy again. I was standing on top of a mountain. Next to me was an old woman with plaited hair, wearing a long white robe. She spoke in Spanish, but I understood. Below us, in the valley, groups of men fought with each other. They carried shells, perhaps belonging to a tortoise, and attacked each other in the wildest ferocity. They seemed beasts untamed, as though they had seen some great horror and were truly afraid of their deaths. The old woman rode away on an albino camel, leaving me behind a wrapped torch, and a sewing needle As the bloodied men climbed up the mountain to me, I was ready to make my decision.