Betrayal of the Light

Four

How could I put my mind at ease, let my body rest, when in this unwelcoming place there lurks the torment of so many unknown variables that I was not expecting to face. Or were they known before my travel, and having left expectantly, only arrived half-witted? We must have accounted for the possibility, the tattoos are proving as much, but did we foresee the extensive frontal cortex damage I might suffer? How that would hinder me understanding them? Sigh, of course not.

Laying on the mattress awake, gaze fixed on the shabby ceiling; I chase the doubts away to leave room for the certainties that followed me through time. I must be certain of something. Of what? This question torments me into a struggle to fall asleep and rest my being, but neither darkness, nor silence, can offer sanctuary.

            “Screw this,” I reproach the darkness and stand up again. “Even thrown into oblivion my demons don’t rest in peace.”

            I inhale deeply to calm them down. The scent of damp wood, dust and leather with a hint of salt is overwhelming. I have left the decay behind; it seems.

            The night had dropped upon the earth, seizing it in shade. No more of the rays shine through and the candle has burnt out. I open the shutters to let in fresh air and look at the ocean, dark and glimmering, as it battles the sky below horizon.

The church; I remember it as the most important objective, for whatever motive. No, the motive itself is far from having a clear formulation in my mind. I walk out onto the deck, leaving the door open behind. No scent survives the cold air out here.

I must remember. Above me, the stars were silently studded in the dust of a nebula. How can I remember? The moon undressed itself of the black veil, which was thrown over the land, leaving but a trace of the warm glow I once saw before my eyes. W            hat if I never remember?

Driven back inside by the wind, I find the room drowned in cold moonlight. Its rays reveal the gleam of glass elongated down the neck of a bottle stashed near the foot of the desk. How badly I longed for some dark rum, I alone know.

I pick it off the floor, the liquid within beating against the vessel as a restless ocean. Then, I lean outwards, framed by the shutters and elbows rested against the sill. There is no resolution for me here. Not even the map shows me any shape resembling a church, or a spiritual sanctuary. The liquid has the exact flavor of the one in the flask, which Kain so carefully provided me with. Here it is, the first certainty. He must have wanted me to find this place. What else did he want me to know? Sleeve rolled up until it almost cuts my blood flow, I hold the inked lines up against the moonlight; intersecting over the distant horizon. I twist and turn it from the wrist, so I can look at them again; maybe the hours passed have provided me with a clearer insight. They have not. Finally, I bend my arm back on itself, so the skin between wrist and elbow is visible under the most of light. There, a row of numbers and symbols follows the bone in a straight line above surface. Coordinates. This must be it. I remember how Kain insisted, puffing his cigar over a glass of whiskey, that the location of the church is of vital importance. I am glad he trusted my memory less than I did and etched it on me against my foolish protest.

“You stubborn piece of work,” I whisper stargazing before downing rum until the bottle is left half empty on the sill.

In a breath I turn to the desk and grab the sextant, returning with its cold steel pressed in the palm of my hand to the window. Date checked and still seared in my mind; time check: quarter past three a.m. on a mental note. I hold the lens up, its cold rim pressed encircling around my right eye. With my left hand I adjust the mechanic arm over the arc until the half-silvered mirror reflects the moon back to me through the telescope. The grading on the arc once fixed to certain angle, shows me the exact altitude of my chosen celestial body above azimuth. If only I had those damn tables…

Mental check: date and time are still here. Leaving the device back on the table, I take my coat off and roll the sleeve up to my shoulder. Here it is; the rows of columns are inked on the inside of my upper arm. I can use them to calculate the exact coordinates of my current position in space. Granted, Kain won this time.

With a piece of charcoal, I pinpoint my location visually on the map, then add the coordinates to it. From this, I follow an imaginary trail northbound to where I presume the coordinates would line up to the inked ones, and then just a hint into the west lands. I cross a generous area out, where my spatial awareness estimates the location of the church to be. Finally, something certain to guide me forwards.

Since the hour is late, and the haze of alcohol growing stronger, I decide against setting out to find it tonight under such influences. Instead, I resume drinking until the ocean is shifting from view. Though, the coordinates I wrote, the handwriting itself… It differs, if only so slightly, from that found in this chamber. Or does it? No, the letters are identical in form, just the overall appearance is neater in the diary, where mine on the map is messier. The loud crashing sounds outside interrupt me. Never mind, the handwriting is one and the same. The waves become enraged; their glimmer violent against moonlight. I might be drunk.

This ocean has tempted me since forever. The cold will banish the nightmares and make me feel alive, I know it. Without a doubt, I take my boots off and throw them on the floor before facing the world outside.

The wind feels as thought it would tear the skin off my bones, but I fear it no more. I stare towards the liquid abyss beyond the rocks which shatter the waves of its dark waters. Its image, a contour traced in fading light, never leaves my view as I cross its body over the docks. I close my eyes to see none and deny all: cold, pain, time, death, blood and fate. In the darkness I feel the world I do not see, for it is hidden no more.

 The scent of salt sticks to my skin from the drops of water splashing on both of my sides. The sand under my feet, frozen shards of glass imbed themselves in my soles. I lead my steps behind, breathing in a grasp of heavy air and letting out a dense cloud. My heart is pounding in my throat, the drops of sweat and saltwater run in cold trickles down my back, and I have yet to find a cure for thoughts.

Gazing at the liquid sky that refuses to leave my sight, I remember what Kain used to say, whenever we would take our breaks up on the balcony; the whole world below us. We taste eternity only when gazing awakens no desire of stating the existence of what we behold. This colorblind night tempts me to taste the poison and I do; I vanish between the fierce, icy waves as if the night would never come to an end.