Historical Setting: At sea, around Anglia, 794 C.E.
We are sailing on a northeast wind straight into a storm this night, and neither of us has traveled this way to recognize if this shadow of a distant land is the turning place, or just a dark cloud over this very wide bay. Cloothar finds this the best time to empty the keg.
As dawn is rising red, the wind is roiling the sea, and we are already baling to keep ahead of the waves breaking on us with the rains only beginning. Baling may be futile, but we’ve finished the keg of ale so what else can we do. I am seasick, which is mostly all I can think of, pucking in the bale bucket, since the edges of the boat are rollicking with the surf.
Now the roaring sea tosses us nearly over, then another rising wave breaks over us, and fills the boat, until finally a huge swell comes at us from the north, peaking and breaking and the little boat is sucked deep.
Now we are nothing but merciless twigs in the mountains of sea. The shadow we thought could be a land refuge, was mirage, or maybe debris loosened in the storm. There was never a safe mooring place there. The little craft of sticks and hides didn’t even offer a worthy wreck in this storm. I’m clinging to the empty chest we used for the rower’s seat which is filling with water, soon to sink. Cloothar was reaching for the hidden chest when last I saw him and he was sinking down after it. The empty keg floats beyond my reach. So, this is my drowning.
***
My heartbeat remembers rhythm. But I know nothing of the passing of time. Glimpses of days and nights, come and go in this slow rising to life. Everywhere is the sea.
I have an eye for peering up from the waters into the blue and the darker dark. My mind makes a frail lapse of memory trying to gather familiar fragments of the human core — touch — or sound — something.
I have only thoughts and prayers no flailing or calling out, nothing is left of me to touch or be touched.
But God is present here.
(Continues Tuesday, May 19)
Lazarus Ink 