Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

He awakened, sputtering, choking, the warm bite of sharp aquavit in his throat, its wetness dribbling down his chin, aware that he was alive, swathed in blankets, lying on a bunk before a gas fire. Krag’s boat was uncommonly steady, he thought, and then stared through a porthole to realize they were tied at dock. Krag was sitting next to him, a beaker of spirits in his hand, waiting for his response before feeding him more of the potent liquor. Christensen looked around and then tried to sit erect. Krag gently pushed him down.

“His body’s on deck,” he said quietly, and shook his head in wonderment. “How you ever managed in that water...” He reached out with the beaker. “Crazy...”

Christensen fell back, pushing away the hand with the aquavit. Now, at least, one brother would have a decent burial in the cemetery on the hill next to their mother and father. Now he, Knud Christensen, would be able to sleep a little better, knowing he had done what little he could do to save at least one brother from slowly rotting in the sea. It was, if nothing else, the fulfillment of a promise he had made to himself. It was not much, but it was something. He closed his eyes and drifted into restless sleep.

Gedser — April

Spring came early and swiftly to the Gedser peninsula and to all of Falster that year. One day it was still winter, with the threat of snow, and with blustery winds whipping in from the west and north, and then, suddenly, the winds swung around to blow softly from the east and south, and the smell and feel of spring was there.

The sleep that Knud Christensen had promised himself would be eased by the discovery and proper burial of his brother’s body, had not materialized as he had hoped. Though he deliberately tired himself out during the day with the many winter chores necessary to prepare for the spring plowing and planting, the nights still brought the incubus of seeing himself standing at the window staring out at the storm, wondering where his brothers were, even though knowing them dead; of seeing again Jens Krag standing in the doorway fumbling with his sou’wester, stumbling through his story, while the wind shook the shutters and slashed at the roof.

And then one night the nightmare did not come, but before he could feel his relief he knew it was going to be worse, much worse. He found himself swimming underwater and was aware of the cold and he knew he was searching for the Kirsten Christensen . In the dim light filtered down through the ninety feet of green sea water he could somehow see the ship clearly, but no matter how desperately he attempted to swim to it, it remained the same fixed distance ahead of him. Gustave could be plainly seen, locked helplessly in the shrouds, staring at him intently, as if pleading with him to hurry, hurry. But a box of some sort seemed to stand in his way, and whenever he tried to swim around it, it seemed to move in some subtle fashion to block him anew. Somehow he knew he would have to remove that damnable metal case if he ever wished to reach Gustave.

He woke feeling a bit dizzy, rubbing his head furiously, trying to recall just what dream he had had that had so disturbed him. A box, a case of some sort. He frowned, suddenly remembering. It was the metal case he had seen, had pushed aside, when he had dived for Gustave’s body, when the wooden cover had almost disintegrated at his touch. Beneath there had been the gleam of a metal case. Well, what of it? What of it was, of course, that the case might contain something of value. Or, equally of course, it might not. Still, someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to encase whatever it held in metal, and nobody went to all that trouble for something that was worthless. Unless it held medicines, or papers, or — he realized the case could hold any number of relatively worthless items. And to dive again in that area, to see again the remains of the Kirsten Christensen and realize it had taken his two brothers to their deaths? Money was important — among other things it would buy the memorial to his brothers he had often thought of but could not afford — but, still... It was a problem!

It was when the nightmare of the metal case blocking his passage to Gustave continued for another week that he awoke one morning knowing he had to bring up the case if only to appease whatever devils were forcing him to picture his youngest brother just beyond his reach night after night. Maybe with the case out of the way the dream would disappear and he could go on with his life in peace, albeit with loneliness.

Still, being the person he was, Knud Christensen considered the matter carefully for several additional days. Jens Krag, he knew, would be glad to take him out in his boat the following Sunday after church, although in that case Knud knew he would be obligated to share in whatever he salvaged. And somehow there was the feeling that sharing in the case or its contents would somehow be a little like sharing Gustave, who, after all, had not only led him to the metal box, but had also been its guardian, so to speak, watching over it until his body had been rescued — recovered, that is. No, Knud would bring the case up alone. He would do it at night. There was no need for anyone else to know or to be involved. He could reach the spot easily in his dory and be down, up again, and back home before anyone was even aware he had been out there diving. Relieved at having reached a positive decision, Knud Christensen went to bed that night, and while he had the same dream again, somehow there was less dread in it; he assured the waiting Gustave that he would be back, to rid them both of the nightmare.

The following night, once the lights of the village began to go off one by one, Knud Christensen took his compressed-air gear and the hundred feet of rope he had prepared and carried them down to the dory. He quickly spliced the extra rope to the forty or more feet of rope the dory anchor normally carried, and then returned to the house. There would be no Jens Krag waiting for him this time, and he would be in no position to search for a drifting dory. In the darkened house he put on his wet suit, attached the new belt he had since purchased together with new knives. He would not require weights this trip, the anchor would serve that purpose. He picked up his lamp and flippers and walked quickly down to the dock.

He paused, looking about. Above him and to one side the searchlight atop the lighthouse tower revolved impersonally, lighting a swath of sea in its glow, its principal beam reflecting back from a bank of lowering clouds. A bit of rain might come later, but there was ample time for his mission beforehand. He climbed into his dory, untied it, and reached for the oars.

When he judged he was close enough to the spot where he had located the Kirsten Christensen and Gustave’s body, he paused and looked about. The tower light still rotated evenly, but there was no indication he was being watched. Not that it really made any difference, he said to himself, and pulled on his compressed-air gear and his flippers. Then he tucked his mouthpiece in place, clipped his lamp to his belt, picked up the ánchor, and leaned backwards over the gunwale, falling silently into the water.

The water was still cold, and although nowhere near as cold as it had been in January, he knew he could not stay down for very long. For one thing his determination to recover the case was not the same driving force that had willed him to recover Gustave’s body. He came down in total blackness, not wanting to use his lamp until he was sure the glow of light beneath the water could not be seen from the surface or from the lighthouse walkway. When he struck it was with a painful jolt against the sharp rocks, the anchor pinned against his chest, and for a moment he feared he might have pierced his wet suit, but a swift check proved this fear unfounded. He settled the anchor firmly in the rocks, hooked the slack rope into his belt to be sure not to lose the line that led to the surface and the waiting dory, and began his search. His lamp pierced the darkness of the sea for only a few feet, and he wondered if he should have waited for daylight to make his search. But that might have brought curious neighbors. Besides, the difference in light at that depth was negligible. He felt a tug; he had reached the limit of the rope. With a muttered curse he pulled himself back to the anchor, raised it, swam ahead for a few minutes, and then replaced it in the rocks, taking up the search again.