Andrew Stewart - We Shall Sing a Song into the Deep

This is my fate. Our fate.

As I take my place beside Lazlo, St. John, and Ephraim, the brothers turn their attention to Marston, who, tall and energized, opens with the psalm.

“ Ecce nunc benedicite Dominum.”

And then the Canticle of Simeon.

“Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace: Quia viderunt oculi mei salutare tuum.”

Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace according to Thy word.

For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation.

I have no voice for the chant. No spirit. No, the light is robbed from me. Drained. What was once a freedom feels like the greatest, the weightiest of shackles.

I glance to Lazlo, standing just beside me.

His fingers find mine. Cold and thin. I entwine mine with his.

We don’t care who sees.

“My brothers, we are soon to launch the Last Judgment,” Marston says solemnly, with great dramatic effect, after the calls and the responses are complete. “When we do, we shall finish what was started some twenty-four years ago. And we shall dive to the deepest depth. We shall sing a song into that deep—a hymn I have heard in that darkness—the Lord has whispered unto me the words that will ready our souls for His glory!”

Before us, the psalter is opened.

Cantio Maris.

I see penned on the top stave of each page the descant that is meant for me. Just looking at it, I can hear the melody in my mind. Something exalting. Stilted.

What darkness we have lighted, one of the lyrics reads. They above shall know what we below have sent.

“Yes, we shall know salvation,” Marston continues. “Salvation, after these years of service. Of maintaining the order begun by our beloved Caplain Amita. We shall see him again, brothers. We shall see so many faces that we have long ago committed to the sea. And the sea shall give up her dead,” he says, eyes lit with a fervor, a passion.

“And the sea shall give up her dead!” the brothers respond.

“As below, so above,” Caplain says.

And the congregation answers.

When I glance upward, Marston is staring down to me. The others are watching as well. Expectantly.

Now is my time.

Here is my purpose. The very reason I was saved, eight years ago. The only reason.

I am to sing now.

In my brothers’ eyes, I am holy. Special. Caplain Amita has told me this all along. Fed me this lie.

But should I not ease their worry? Lighten their souls? If we are all to die. To sink down and down until, at last, the depths crush us.

And so, I sing.

I open my mouth, find my voice. Find an energy that was not there before.

But I do not sing Marston’s hymn.

I sing my own Song of the Sea. A song the leviathans have taught me. No words. Just melody. An odd, sorrowful strain that leaps and dives in pitch, that slides into bitter notes and then resolves.

I close my eyes while I sing. Let the melody take its own form. Like when I have sung during Terce. Improvisation. But more than that. I think of that one whale, searching for the other. Its lover, its friend, its child. Whatever it is. It’s a song that seeks out. That searches. That mourns. That hopes.

And when I have finished the song and open my eyes, I find the chapel utterly silent. And yet, I feel the weight of all sixty-seven pairs of eyes upon me, can almost hear sixty-seven hearts thrumming in some kind of unity.

Then I glance up to Caplain Marston. Gaze narrowed, piercing. Face tight with fury.

“It’s time, my brothers,” he finally says, hollowly, shattering the silence. “Watch, are we at depth?”

“Ready, Caplain. We need only finish bringing the targeting computer online,” Brother Marcus says.

“Good. Cantor Remy,” Marston says through gritted teeth. “You will follow me.”

St. John flicks a quick glance my way. Ephraim.

Where is he taking me?

Is this punishment for my betrayal?

I glance around at the room, at the faces of my fellow Choristers, the brothers, all watching, eyes twinkling in amber light. Faces bent in some emotion I cannot read. Cheeks wet.

I release Lazlo’s hand. I must. No other choice. I try telling him everything I want to with just a look, should this be the last time I ever see him.

Marston commands St. John lead the brothers in the singing of the final hymn, and then I’m immediately led back through the center of the chapel, between brothers and the column-like missile tubes, back through the hatch, to the missile control room.

The small space is hot with the humming equipment, with the several bodies crammed inside.

Six of us with Elia and Cordova, and Ex-Oh Goines and Brother Augustine, both of whom will not leave my side, and Caplain Marston.

On the main panel, two rows of square indicators, eight in each, each numbered, are lit. Fifteen of them glow red. One of them glows green. The Last Judgment.

“Missile is ready for launch, Caplain,” Brother Cordova says. Before him, on the desk console, the red CAPTAIN indicator switches to green. Beneath this indicator is a round, metal slot for the missile key.

Ex-Oh grabs hold of my arms from behind, grip tight.

Caplain Marston turns to me. “I wanted you to see this, Cantor. To understand that God’s will cannot be undermined. Cannot be changed.”

I glance at the others, at Brother Augustine. He shares a tense expression.

From the chapel, I hear the hymn being sung now. “The Heart of the Leviathan.”

“And the sinners shall know fire once more.”

“Tube pressurized, Caplain, ” a crackling voice calls from the squawk box. “ Missile door open. Ready to fire. ”

I watch as Marston feeds the stem of the key into the slot, as he turns it.

The launch indicator for Missile 1 flashes.

A siren chimes throughout the boat.

The singing has ceased in the chapel. Silence now, save the normal thrumming of engines and fans and the hiss of stale, oily air from the vent.

Caplain’s eyes are closed, in prayer, finger hovering over the plastic button marked “Launch.”

I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to, not with Ex-Oh holding my arms back.

Will the world end?

It already has. Been ended and then reborn. Were we ever on the edge of peace? No, I think not. Not now. Not ever.

Maybe the world will never be saved.

“ Woe! Woe to you, great city, you mighty city of Babylon! ” Caplain Marston begins. His voice is being amplified throughout the boat, over the squawk.

Won’t anyone step up and stop this? Anyone? I look to the old, weary elders. To Brothers Carrington and Goines. Neither will Brother Dormer or Augustine or Callum. No. They haven’t stepped in before now. During all the horrors and atrocities that have occurred these long years. None of them tried to stop it.

So, I pray.

“The seventh angel poured out his bowl into the air, and a loud voice came out of the temple, from the throne, saying, ‘It is done!’”

I pray that the electricity will wink out. That the ballast mains will burst. That the Liánméng will attack us.

“And there were flashes of lightning, rumblings, peals of thunder, and a great earthquake such as there had never been since man was on the earth.”

The pipes continue to pressurize in the underworks. I hear the high-pitched whine.

“The cities of the nations fell, and God remembered Babylon the great, to make her drain the cup of the wine of the fury of his wrath.”

I pray that the blue, hot reactor will suddenly blow, will end all this right now.

“And every island fled away, and no mountains were to be found. And the Lord rose up, with the wicked stricken from this place, forever, finally finding a purified kingdom of heaven on earth.”