S. Welles - To Ocean's End

Jacobi tapped out four beats, and the drumming began. It rose and fell with each line, like last time, ebbing and flowing like waves on a beach.

“We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;

In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives

Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.”

Sam stepped away from the railing and deposited his offering in the chest: a bottle of whiskey. He handed O’Toole a leather-bound journal that’d been worn smooth with frequent handling. Sam whispered, “All good men have good mysteries about their lives. Drink loosened your tongue a few times, and I found your journals while cleaning out your drawers, Dyne. May whatever tales are in those pages rest in peace with your soul.” He walked back over and rejoined the drumming.

Rammus added his koi fish carving. “To one of the strongest men I ever knew.”

Sauna, Ed, and Ted threw in photos and two pairs of shorts with the parts that were supposed to cover the cheeks cut out. Ed said, “We’ll miss you, curse and all.”

“But especially grabbing your ass,” Ted added. “Your reactions were always priceless.”

Sauna said, “Thank you for being like a father to me, Captain.” The trio returned to the railing.

“And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest:

Lives in one hour more than in years do some

Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins.”

Cancer added a bag of blood and a wedding band. “For saving you from a needless death, and for the rich life at sea you gave me, and for all I was able to give to my family.”

Jacobi added a folded up piece of paper and an empty gun holster. “A heartfelt apology for all the crap I made you put up with. You always treated me well and put me in my place when I needed it.”

Scully added ten arrows. “For all the enemy ships you had me sink with the Harpy. You taught me to step up to the plate and take on responsibilities I never thought I could handle.”

“Life’s but a means unto an end; that end,

Beginning, mean, and end to all things—God.

The dead have all the glory of the world.”

Mido came over and added carefully-wrapped food, one item a cheeseburger and the the other a whole pie of broccoli and mushroom quiche. “It was a pleasure cooking for you. May you eat cheeseburgers to your heart’s content wherever you are now.” He returned to the railing.

The crew still drumming away, Jessie added the spare lockdown container keys and her studded sparring gloves. “For helping me become strong enough to help others, and for giving me the best gift in the whole world.” She glanced at a smiling Mido. “May you find peace and joy wherever you are now.” She closed and locked the chest. Sam detached a section of railing and set it aside, then joined Jessie and Rammus in sliding the chest to the gap. The three of them paused at the edge, waiting for the drumming to conclude. The boys finished with a flourish, and then the pushed the chest over the side.

Water in the shape of a giant hand and sleeved arm shot out of the water and caught the chest. The hand lifted it higher, over their heads, and more water rose and filled out the shape of a man wearing a trench coat. Dyne. He tucked the chest under a giant watery arm and looked at all of them in turn. He smiled and gave an informal salute, then poured back into the sea, taking the chest with him.

That’s it. I can’t stand it any longer. Roxie snuck up the basement stairs and crouched so she could peer through the gap between the door and wood flooring. The plan had been to wait until at least eleven, but she ran out of pen caps after chewing up a fifth one. She narrowed her eyes against the air flowing through the gap and searched for her grandmother, whom she hoped had gone to bed a little early. Roxie didn’t want to be told yet again, her grandmother’s eyes rolling skyward, “Rox, you’re not an alien.” She knew she wasn’t an alien, but from age six to somewhere around eight or nine, she had been thoroughly convinced she was one. Now seventeen, the “alien” idea had cropped back up as a half-serious, half-joking explanation for her latest odd behavior: a compulsion to travel a specific southeasterly route through her home city of Buffalo, New York.

The nightly news delivered its latest story and the living room was dimly lit, two signs to turn around, go back downstairs, and wait until later. But maybe the TV would mask the sound of an opening and closing door. Roxie shifted to one side of the gap and searched for a pair of slippers framed by the coffee table in front of the couch.

No slippers. No Grandma, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t in the bathroom, or had simply tucked her feet onto the couch.

Roxie raised herself to a kneeling position on the first carpeted step and touched the doorknob one finger at a time, trying hard to not let her anxious grip jiggle it. Old as her grandmother was, she had all her wits about her, eyes that noticed anything—so long as her glasses were on—and hearing that had only begun to fade now that she’d entered her seventies. A door cracking open, seemingly of its own accord, would garner as much attention as ringing a church bell.

For the last few weeks, Roxie had felt like she was standing at the beginning of a path she’d never taken, but had always wanted to know where it led. A gentle pull originating in her stomach urged her on her southeasterly route, as if a literal gut instinct was trying to guide her to someplace or someone important. Over the last few days the tug had gotten more insistent, so she tried walking around the neighborhood in hopes of discovering where this curious pull wanted her to go. She found herself taking the same turns, wandering a little farther, and a little farther each day, until she decided she’d travelled far enough from home. Stopping herself took some willpower. Turning back generated a cold panic in her chest. The only reason she never lost control was because she found her panic irrational. Yet each time she made it back home, she felt more restless, more out of place, and she didn’t understand why.

She needed to find the answer tonight.

Breath held, Roxie turned the doorknob and eased the door open. The couch lay empty. She exhaled and pushed the door farther open, then froze before she could let go of the knob. Staring back at her was Grandma, all the way from the kitchen table.

“What are you up to, Rox? Your eyes are glowing.” Grandma sounded like she wasn’t in the mood for nonsense.

The sudden surprise of getting caught was enough to cause Roxie’s eyes to glow; they glowed whenever she strongly felt sad, angry or frightened, an uncontrollable external indicator of how she felt on the inside. To her knowledge she was the only person on Earth with glowing eyes, which was why she’d never totally dismissed the possibility of being an alien. The problem with that theory was her parents, who were most certainly from Earth themselves, although they both died the day she was born. There were pictures of them all over the house, and she had spent hours with Grandma leafing through photo albums that showed her parents dating, getting married, Roxie’s mother’s belly getting bigger every month, and even copies of the ultrasounds.

Roxie glanced at the back door, which seemed to beckon to her with its dull brass knob.

“Just go back to your room and read one of your old alien books. It’s too late at night for this nonsense.”

Roxie meant to head back to her room, but instead rounded the couch and headed for the back door. “I’m sorry, I know this is a bad time for this, but I have to go. I feel like the answer is really close this time.” She reached for the door.