Ahab's Daughter by Ron Vitale

Author:Ron Vitale [Vitale, Ron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-09-11T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

I lost count of how many weeks had passed. The uneasy alliance between Clarence and us held like a nebulous cloud in the night sky. With a puff of wind, we would blow apart and go our separate ways.

My hair had grown, and I no longer hid my sex from the rest of the crew. Having a woman on board made me unique among the crew, but Captain Levi gave me my own room protected by guards day and night. He left nothing to chance. I stared out at the sea lost in thought.

“You look as though you are far away, thinking of other times and places.” Ishmael came to stand beside me.

At the bow of the ship, I could see far out across the water. The mid-afternoon sun shone bright with white puffy clouds peppering the sky. The wind brushed against our faces, and I closed my eyes to gather myself.

“I miss land. The feel of the ground on the bottom of my feet and the touch of a tree or flower. Where I grew up, I could walk out of town and see the fields stretch far out past the length of my eyesight. At this time of year, everything would be in bloom. The green grass would tickle the soles of my feet, and the smell of roses from our garden would be strong and intoxicating.” I kicked my foot forward, scraping it against the deck of the ship. “There’s nothing like that here. It’s just us and fathoms of water below us.”

“Many a sailor has had to deal with a sickness for both home and land. I remember my first time out at sea. The journey was long, mostly uneventful, but the smallness of the ship, and of its crew, trapped me here.” He joined me in staring out at sea.

“How did you manage that first time?” I asked.

He took a slow breath through his nose and closed his eyes, ignoring me for a moment, and after a few seconds opened his eyes but still faced the water. His attention turned to a bird that flew high in the sky. White feathers, with a few flecks of black, the bird flew toward us.

“I had a pressed flower in a book that I brought on board with me. A companion of mine gave it to me to remember her by when I decided to go to sea. Each night I would come to my bunk, and in the dark, I would touch the flower, trace my fingers around its length, and I would remember land, my home, and all the people I had lost. For weeks, I did this, and I remained homesick, and the flower did nothing to calm me. I clutched at it each morning and night until it wore on me. I pressed it to my side and wore it against my hip, thinking that it would ward off my fear and sickness. I clung to the flower like it were the last hope of my ever seeing land again.

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