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Chapter 1

The Lucky Man

Nathan Carter rubbed his temples and moved his fingers down, pressing against the dull ache forming at the base of his skull. His monitor stared back at him, an impassive grid of numbers and lines of code, green on black.

“Execute.” He clicked the confirmation button for the third time.

The AI refused.

The AI had decided, with all confidence it could muster, that Nathan’s script was “inconsistent with operational parameters.”

“Inconsistent? Nathan leaned back in his chair and scoffed. “What kind of fucking operational parameters are you talking about? You ran this same function last week.” He had a quarterly report coming in three days and needed the analysis badly.

The AI provided no response beyond the cold, sterile rejection message blinking on the screen. It never explained or justified its decisions—even though it could. At this facility, it always simply decided. And like a proper digital bureaucrat, it expected immediate compliance without argument.

Nathan pushed away from his desk, rolling his chair back. With a sigh, he ran a hand through his slightly graying hair, fingers massaging the back of his head where the ache radiated from. He had been at this too long. Both today and in general.

A quick glance at the clock. 5:17 PM. Technically, he could pack up and leave. AI was supposed to be the perfect bureaucratic cog—it followed rules, logic, and did that predictably. But lately he had started noticing small deviations, and that almost drove him crazy. Nothing dramatic—tiny inconsistencies, enough to irritate the hell out of him.

And today, for no obvious reason, his simple statistical model—something he had run dozens of times before—had been blocked when he tried to run it on the new data set from up the floor. Not an error, not a crash. Blocked—as if someone, somewhere had flipped a switch.

He reached for his coffee, now lukewarm and bitter, and took another sip. He regretted it immediately. He opened a diagnostic window and started digging. The AI didn’t like being questioned, but neither did he like to be denied. And if there was one thing Nathan Carter couldn’t stand, it was being told no without an explanation.

He tapped his fingers against the desk, staring at the screen for a few more moments.

He grumbled and shut the terminal off with a sharp keystroke. Screw it.

Pushing back from his desk, he stood up and stretched, rolling his shoulders. His body reminded him that he’d been sitting too long, that he didn’t exercise enough, that the stiffness in his neck and back wasn’t going to fix itself soon. The idea of fighting with an uncooperative AI for another hour held no appeal.

He thought of having a beer then looked at the clock and cursed. He forgot about the dry cleaner—again. Brenda would give him the quiet look, the one she used instead of yelling.

Alright, he would grab one of those pastries she liked. Damage control.

Nathan walked down the block to Tony’s, his usual spot when he needed a break from being responsible. Tony was the owner and the bartender. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t push for conversation if you weren’t in the mood. A man could sit, drink, and think, and that was worth something. That was his trademark. Perfect Tony.

The place had been there for decades. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, giving it a cozy but slightly outdated feel, like something out of the 70s. Dim, warm lighting kept the details soft, the imperfections in the furniture hidden. At the bar, a few regulars nursed their drinks in silence, half-watching the football game playing on the overhead screen.

Tony, a man who had probably looked fifty since the day he was born, gave Nathan a nod and reached for his usual before he had to ask. That was part of the appeal of places like this—no need to explain yourself.

The beer arrived, and it was nectar.

Tony slid the glass in front of him. “Rough day?”

“Something like that.” Nathan took the first sip, letting the cold bitterness sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. “You ever argue with something that doesn’t argue back?”

Tony smirked. “You mean my ex-wife or the damn traffic AI?”

“At least your ex-wife had the courtesy to tell you why she was rejecting you.” Nathan chuckled. “The AI shuts me down without an explanation.”

Nathan glanced up at the screen, catching the score. 3-1. He wasn’t fully invested in the league this season, but he still followed it enough to make small talk.

“Didn’t expect them to be ahead by two. Their midfield’s been a disaster lately.”

“Yeah, well,” a voice to his right added, “they finally put in someone who knows how to read a passing lane. About time.”

Nathan turned slightly. The man who had slid onto the stool beside him was older—maybe mid-sixties—but well-kept, sharp in a quiet way, his silver hair neatly trimmed. He had the kind of presence that made you think he had seen a lot but never felt the need to brag about it. A well-worn blazer, casual but not careless. The kind of man you’d trust to give directions in a foreign city without checking a map.

“I was saying the same thing last week.” Nathan’s gaze remained on the screen. “But I didn’t think they’d actually make the change.”

“Took ’em long enough,” the man said, signaling for a drink. “Coaches always think they know better, even when they don’t.”

They kept the conversation going, the kind of easy back-and-forth men could have over football without needing to know anything about each other.

At some point, Tony came back around, setting a fresh drink down in front of the man. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Harris.”

Nathan glanced at him. “Regular?”

Harris smiled slightly, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Something like that.”

They went back to their conversation, but now Nathan was more aware of the man beside him. There was something off-kilter about him—not in a bad way, just…something. His clothes, his rough voice, the way he leaned on the bar like he belonged there, yet also like he was passing through. There was intelligence behind his tired expression, something calculating but not unkind. Like a man who had spent a lifetime on the fringes, watching, absorbing, and knowing more than he let on.

Harris turned slightly, took a sip of his drink, and asked, “Do you feel lucky?” He chewed his lip. “Recently?”

Nathan hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. The man didn’t look like a preacher and wasn’t looking at him, not directly, but the question felt pointed, deliberate.

Something about the question made the beer in Nathan’s hand feel heavier than it had a moment ago.

“Do you feel lucky…” It was an odd thing to ask, in a bar, Nathan thought. Harris’s delivery was disarmingly casual, like he already knew the answer.

“I don’t know,” Nathan said finally, taking a sip of his beer. “I don’t think about it much. I guess I am.”

Harris drank slowly, set his glass down, and glanced at the screen showing the game. “Did you notice how things fall into place for you? How, when you need something—really need it—it kind of…appears, and everything works out?”

There were some incidents of note. The almost-missed flight that ended up delayed. The accident he barely avoided when someone else ran a red light. The raise he got over others with better resumes.

“Coincidences happen.” Nathan shrugged, trying to sound dismissive.

Harris nodded, swirling the last of his drink. “They do. But you start adding them up, and at some point you have to wonder—when does a coincidence stop being a coincidence?”

Nathan felt a small prickle of unease at the back of his mind, but before he could push back, Harris set a few bills on the bar and stood up.

“Anyway, nice talking to a lucky fella.” He slipped on his worn blazer. “Enjoy your evening.”

Nathan wanted to ask more, but the moment had passed. Harris gave him one last glance, a nod of something like understanding, and walked out.

Nathan exhaled and rubbed his face. “Weird guy.”

“Yeah,” Tony muttered, wiping down a glass. “But he tips well.”

Nathan drained the last of his beer, set the empty glass down, and stood. He had things to do, and now he had a feeling he was going to be thinking about that conversation more than he wanted to.

The streets were still busy as Nathan drove home, headlights cutting through the damp evening air. He stopped at a small corner bakery before heading back—Brenda liked their almond pastries, and they might soften the blow of the forgotten dry cleaning.

He parked outside the shop, stepping inside and breathing in the rich smell of coffee and sugar. Nathan ordered quickly, tucking the small white bag under his arm as he stepped back outside.

His comm buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw Jess’s name flash across the screen. His daughter.

“Hey, Jess.”

“Dad, can you pick me up? I was gonna take the shuttle, but it’s taking forever, and I kinda don’t wanna wait around here.”

“Where are you?”

“Mall. By the north exit.”

Nathan glanced at the clock on his dashboard. It wasn’t late, but late enough that he didn’t like the idea of her waiting there alone. “On my way.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

He smirked. “I know.”

Jess was standing near the curb, arms crossed, scrolling on her phone when he pulled up. She slid into the passenger seat, shaking her head.

“You’d think AI-run transit would be more efficient. But somehow it’s still garbage.”

Nathan chuckled. “Same at work. No better than us.”

They rode in comfortable silence. Jess, still half-immersed in whatever was on her screen, looked up. “Mom mad at you again?”

Nathan shot her a glance. “Why would you say that?”

“You bought pastries, didn’t you?” A smirk played on her lips.

“Can’t a man bring home a treat for his wife without it being a bribe?”

“I mean, you can,” Jess conceded, tapping away at her phone. “But you don’t.”

Nathan had to laugh at that. “Alright, smart ass. You want one?”

“Yeah, obviously.”

By the time he pulled into the driveway, the house was quiet. Lights glowed softly through the curtains, and Nathan exhaled. Home.

He grabbed the pastry bag and stepped inside, the familiar scent of Brenda’s lavender candle greeting him in the entryway. She was in her usual spot on the couch, curled up with her tablet, a blanket draped over her legs. She glanced up as he walked in, eyes flicking to the bag in his hand.

“You forgot the dry cleaning.”

Nathan placed the bag on the table with a theatrical sigh. “I may have forgotten, but I come bearing gifts.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

He leaned down, pressing a light kiss to her forehead. “Forgive me?”

Brenda’s expression softened a little as she shook her head. “You’re lucky I like those.”

For a moment, everything felt perfectly normal.

Brenda was still half-focused on her tablet, probably reading the latest article on whatever topic had caught her attention this week—she had a way of diving deep into things, getting absorbed in research just for the sake of understanding. It was one of the things he had always admired about her.

She came from a conservative North Pennsylvania family, the kind where Sundays meant church and summers meant county fairs and hometown picnics. That picnic… He had been a nervous, half-distracted young graduate student, home for the summer, dragged along by a friend. He first saw her by one of those long foldout tables, plate in one hand, caught in a moment of laughter.

They were married in that same church two years later, right before moving to D.C. after he finished his PhD at UPenn. It had been a leap, starting their life in a new city. And somehow, through the stress of new jobs, raising kids, and all the little battles of marriage, they had stayed together. Twenty years. He knew that wasn’t something to take lightly.

He looked at her. “What?” she murmured, her focus still on the screen.

He gave her half-smile. “I’ve been thinking.”

She finally glanced up, her gaze briefly assessing him. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Mmm. Could be.”

She gave him a smile before turning back to her screen.

Nathan let everything wash off, sinking further into the couch. For all the inconsistencies, uncertainties, and distractions of life, this was the one thing that had always made sense.

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Chapter 1

Nathan: Path of a Failsafe

“Would you like to know how the Failsafes came to be?”

The beer grew warm in a mug under the setting sun. Nathan didn’t feel like touching it. A cool breeze drifted in, whispering of the distant Antarctic ice still lingering far to the south—it felt chillier than usual.

Arthur McAlister smiled. “A great question, isn’t it? I like how peaceful it is here.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair.

Nathan’s mind was far away. He linked into a passing ISR satellite and ran Arthur and his family through every database he had access to. Nothing—absolutely nothing. Ghosts. They had simply appeared one day at an Auckland wharf—out of nowhere.

“All right, I am listening,” Nathan said. He glanced at Elena and gave her the sign—the one they’d agreed on long ago, the one he had hoped never to use. The sign that meant extreme danger—we must leave immediately.

Then he lowered himself into the chair next to Arthur and did pick up the beer mug.

Arthur leaned on one of his elbows, and glanced at Nathan.

“As you know, a Failsafe is a person who has the power to disable, to control large swaths of AIs. The trick is, that person does not even know who he is until something devastating, a trigger, happens. Then their memory block lifts, and they understand who they are, and what they need to do about the AIs to prevent the calamity. There are few of them, spread around the world. Used to be dozens, but now, as you know, only a handful remains. Here is how they come to be.” Arthur tapped the table, reopening the memory…

In royal-blue gowns with stark golden tassels, on the night of the fourteenth of Nisan, four friends—Sam, Jack, Christen, and Yumemi—scrambled up a pine-strewn ridge, their tassels flashing in the moonlight.

“Face it—we won,” Jack said; he liked things definite. “The last forks we dropped into the sim starved your coalition.”

Yumemi flicked a needle from her sleeve. “You didn’t win, Jack. You ended the game. Balance died—and everything with it.”

Silence. Christen finally exhaled. “Probably nothing good comes after that—for AI or for us.”

Elena approached their chairs nonchalantly, slightly swaying as she walked. She had changed into loose robes that concealed her figure and were convenient for many purposes. She knew what to do.

“Hey, Nat, there’s a comm call waiting for you in the office. Care to take it?” She looked him straight in the eyes.

“I think I’d prefer to stay put for now, honey. Tell whoever is calling I’ll return the call in a couple of minutes.” She understood, and went to put up the Fermé sign, the French word for “closed”. Arthur scoffed softly and continued.

Yumemi was first to break the pause. “Sankin-kōtai,” she murmured. “Edo daimyō kept each other’s families as guests—mutual vulnerability, enforced peace. Let’s use the idea.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Hide a living key in people: it sleeps until catastrophe wakes it.”

“We can build it,” Christen said, and Jack just grinned.

“I don’t believe they just did it single-handedly, without help from the government or someone”, said Nathan.

“It was a side project of their lives. It took decades to be completed,” Arthur said.

“And you—who are you? Really?”

I am Yumemi’s son, Nathan. And Riamu is her granddaughter.”

“If you found us, others are not far behind. Why are you here?”

“Exactly because others are not far behind. Brenda—The Human Faction—leads Failsafe hunt group. They are coming.”

“Shit. When?”

“We don’t know. A month? A couple of months?”

“What’s your plan? You’re going to work with the Human Faction after all?” McAlister was straightforward.

“I’m not sure. I could, I guess. Why not?”

“Keep in mind your treatment will be different this time around.”

“How? I think Brenda would make it tolerable.”

“There will be no breaks for you. They’ll feed you only when you do your job. Wish to stay in prison all your life? And, not everything is up to Brenda.”

Nathan frowned. “You have other options?”

“First, the easy part: get arrested—legally. Then make sure they assign you to their flagship—the carrier. After that…”

Brenda arrived less than a month after Elena left. It was a warm early summer morning. She stepped onto the old wooden planks of the pier, weathered with salt and rot after years of friendship with the ocean. A whole carrier strike group loomed behind her, but she was still nervous. She had just finished her last mission—an unauthorized intervention that stopped a war and left half of D.C. furious. This assignment was her redemption: recruit her husband. Former husband.

She had forgotten how it felt—to be outside. She inhaled the fragrant air that came downhill off the meadows.

He lived in a small house, which was covered with white stucco and had flowers in the windowsills. She reached the door and knocked. It was early.

“Come in, Brenda,” came the immediate response, and Nathan opened the door. She instinctively stepped back.

He’d changed. He was no longer the aging, slightly overweight office clerk who liked a few beers every so often. The sun had bronzed him, added a few lines, he became more muscular, athletic even. In loose pants and a fitted T-shirt, he didn’t look like her former husband. The smile, though—was unmistakably his. The air of confidence and quiet strength were new.

“What a guest!” Nathan said, as though amused. “You traveled far and wide. Nice of you to drop by!”

Brenda stepped inside, glancing around with the eye of a woman who’d run a household most of her life. She was not impressed.
“Living alone?”

“Sort of. Have a seat. Tea?”

“Sure.”

The tea came from a local tea bush, harvested by schoolgirls for his bar as community project. It always made him feel happy.

“Came to arrest me?” Nathan was calm and stared into her eyes while saying that.

“I came because it is my duty. I do not… I do not want to arrest you, Nathan. But I do want you to come with me — voluntarily. I’m here because we need you—badly. You can make a big difference helping humanity. I am being honest.”

Nathan scoffed. “Who’s ‘we’? The great government of the United States of America? Or your admiral friend on the flagship anchored in the bay?”

“Humanity, Nathan. That would be humanity.” Brenda’s voice was calm, without a hint of drama, like she stated a fact.

“Loud words do not make this trustworthy. They make me wary.”

“Take it as you wish. I am telling the truth. Where is your—” Brenda waved her hand “—companion?”

“She is gone — for now.” Silence.

“Do I have a choice not to go?”

“No, not really.” Brenda’s voice was flat.

“Can I have at least my own room on the flagship? Stay near you?”

“We’ll see.”

He made his bag ready beforehand. On the way down, he looked back at the little white house where he was happy for so many days—he knew he would never come back.

Nathan was placed in a part of a brig that was somewhat upgraded. There was furniture, but there was no computer. Small, but livable. There were no guards outside of the door, but the door remained locked, and if he wanted to leave, he had to press a button and wait for an escort.

Soon after the arrival, they took him for a debrief. It was in the large captain’s cabin. In the room, in addition to Brenda, three others were present: the carrier group’s commanding officer — with two large silver stars and a thick gold band on his sleeve— and two people in plainclothes. All of them, except Brenda, looked at Nathan with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

“Welcome aboard the Third Fleet strike group,” said the Navy officer. “I trust you’ve been treated fairly — perhaps more than fairly. Any complaints about your accommodations?”

Nathan thought about making a joke, but changed his mind.

“No, not at all.”

“Do you know why you are here?” — asked the taller man in a suit.

“We need you to use your abilities to control the AI network and help us establish control over adversary networks. We expect cooperation.”

“Don’t you have someone else for that?”

The tall man grinned. “The more the merrier.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Oh I would not recommend that,” the tall man bared his teeth again, making Nathan uncomfortable. “You don’t want to rot, do you?”

Brenda suddenly became emotional. “Nathan will probably accept. Just needs time to think about that. I know he wants to help. Right?”

There was pleading in her voice Nathan hadn’t expected.

“Right,” replied he before thinking. “I need time to think.”

“Fine,” the tall man said, baring his teeth again. “We have time before we arrive.”

Nathan was taken back to his room.

“They call me ‘brass’ now,” thought Rear Admiral Raymond Lockwood as he walked from the meeting toward the bridge. “I’m becoming a piece of furniture—a chandelier of sorts …”

Once a decorated fleet commander, Lockwood now ferried a single prisoner.

His comm unit buzzed.

“Yes.”

“Sir, a message for you. Crypto room.”

“On my way.”

He sighed. No doubt another asinine errand from the suits back home

But the message wasn’t from D.C. Inside the ship’s deeply buried crypto room—a secure chamber adjacent to the comms center—a short note awaited him, printed on a strip of self-combusting paper:

Foxtrot-lima-sierra-foxtrot. Instructions to follow.

Lockwood’s stomach tightened.

First: the source. It hadn’t come via the usual top-secret channels. It had come through private ship interlink laser optical comms—utterly covert. Undetectable. Invisible. No footprint in any AI system. A technology designed for when all standard communication was compromised.

Second: the message itself.

Foxtrot-lima-sierra-foxtrot.

He had nearly forgotten those words. He remembered his step-father, Chris, recounting tales of brave friends on a mission to save humanity—the first time he ever heard them. There was also Jack, his favorite uncle, with whom he spent uncounted hours playing and conquering blanket forts. These words were a magic spell then: if you recite them, an immediate victory follows.
Later, he learned the words were a secret message, created by their parents many years back. If he ever heard them, he must comply with the message that follows, or many disasters would happen. He asked what could be the disasters, but they’d never say. They only said he must comply with the order that followed them. Or else.

At any cost.

His life—or the lives of others.

Comply. Or neither he, nor humanity, would survive.

The words became a part of his upbringing.

Rear Admiral Raymond Lockwood was walking to his cabin in silence, stopping for no one. He closed the door behind himself thoroughly, with a click, removed his hat, poured a scotch, and sank heavily into the armchair. He had received—and understood—the instructions in the second foxtrot-lima-sierra-foxtrot message.

Now, he had a decision to make.

Rear Admiral Raymond Lockwood never shied away from hard choices. He knew if the right decision required his death, he would die. He expected no less of others. But this time, the dilemma was harder.

The second note was clear: he was to arrange the escape of Nathan Carter. The passenger, after whom his whole group had been deployed.

The impossibility of the situation was depressing. Everything he had inherited—his family’s secret knowledge, traditions, the principles that had shaped him into who he was—dictated he must abide by the order that followed the message. That, however, would break the oath of office he had sworn. His word. His loyalty to the country he served.

He was a rational man. But this time, he could not find a rational choice.
He decided to see that man who brought about this stark choice. Nathan.

The door to Nathan’s room opened automatically with the iris scan. Nathan was reading, and looked up in surprise.

“Admiral? What brings you here?”

“Rear Admiral,” Lockwood corrected. “I want to know who are you and why you are where you are.”

Nathan let out a light laugh. “Welcome to the club,” Nathan said, and smiled wry. “I keep asking myself those same questions over and over, — no luck with the answer so far. Why the interest?”

“I want to know who am I carrying in my ship.”

“How far should I go?”

“All the way. Does foxtrot-lima-sierra-foxtrot mean anything to you?”
“Hmm..” The analyst instinct switched on. “Standard NATO commtic alphabet. F-L-S-F—…” Nathan almost cursed.

“Did you come here to play jokes with me? Is this a joke?

The Admiral eyebrows shot up. “You know what the words mean?” Now, agitated, he continued—“What do you know about them? Tell me — as if your fate, your life depended on it. Because it might.”

“You, admiral, really don’t know?”

“I am about to leave, and your chance goes with me.”

That got Nathan’s attention. “My chance?.. All right. Have you ever heard of the Failsafe program? Didn’t they brief you before the meeting?”

“No.” Rear Admiral Raymond Lockwood reply was curt.

Then Nathan told him what he knew: about Failsafe, about its role as humanity’s last resort against the AI’s. About why he was taken. He skipped unnecessary detail about Elena, though.

An uneasy silence followed.

“So you may be that precious after all,” Admiral murmured. “Not a cab driver after all”.

“Why are you hesitant to help the fellow human beings and your country?” he asked after a pause, probing.

“Define help.”

Lockwood grunted. “Help? Help is when you do what you are asked to do.”

Nathan did not completely agree, but he had no desire to fight the old warrior. Instead, he decided to explain.

“You see, at some point, not a long time back, I realized I am driven by instinct and… let us call it—beauty. The harmony of poem lines that makes us think, that beauty of the streaks of rain over the glass. You may call it ‘gut feel’.”

The admiral looked at Nathan with disbelief. “Philosophical. And what does that gut feel tell you now?”

Nathan shrugged. “Escape, of course.”

“Do you have another reason to escape besides this gut feel?”

“I have a family. And I need to help—but on my own terms.”

Rear Admiral Raymond Lockwood rose and left without another word. He spent a hard night thinking—probably the hardest of his life. The Failsafe on his note calling to obey was actually the function of the person he was transporting. And, by all signs, he should let him go. Against the orders.

The man in the brig was not lying. He was important enough for the whole strike group to give him a ride. And he wanted out. It was a toughest call of his life.

“That will get me court-martialed, and cost a star. But at least it is not dying.” He knew what to do.

He couldn’t change the course they were following without alerts going straight up the chain—and get him removed from command. He could not fly Nathan out either: any passenger on any flight had to be vetted by many. There was, however, a mini-submarine run by the Special Operation Forces detachment. They had their own chain of command, and the top-secret nature of their operations meant no one on the ship—often not even the captain—was aware of what they did. One of his old friends from the Naval Academy was now high up in SOF and owed him a favor. Things were set in motion.

Nathan had to fake sickness, going straight to bed after lunch and skipping dinner. That gave nearly twenty four hours for their escape before an alarm would be raised. He was escorted to the mini-sub by the only other person aware of the mission except the Admiral – the sub pilot.

The sub moved very slowly. Once on the way, no human knew where it could be. Nathan exercised a lot—that helped him keep his sanity. They also surfaced twice, at night, and he discovered seeing the night sky was a sublime pleasure he was missing most of his life.

After seven weeks, the sub surfaced off Japan. The last two days were the worst.
The lockout trunk was spacious, designed for a fully-rigged soldier, and Nathan, with only a small bag of dry clothes, fit easily. The hatch to the stinking sub was finally sealed, water rushed in, and the outer hatch swung open.

“Free at last, free at last!”—Nathan thought, and pushed off from the black, rubbery hull. He was let out a few dozen feet underwater.

The sub vanished instantaneously behind him, swallowed by the dark, and the quiet settled. He floated in silence, suspended in the vast darkness that seemed to spread infinitely.

A tiny, insignificant dot inside that huge ocean-being, barely aware of his place in it.

He broke the surface sooner than he expected. He was about a mile offshore—not too bad. The night was clear, and in the distance, dancing lights showed him the way. He flipped on his back and began to chop. Thanks to all the sit-ups in the sub, his legs behaved.

The June sky was cloudless and he could see the stars. He felt liberated, and grinned. The night was soft and empty, and nothing would ever matter again.

About a hundred yards from shore, he stopped. He stripped off the gear and the wetsuit, wrapped them up, and flooded the flotation bubble. Now, in swim trunks and with a small waterproof pack strapped to his shoulders, he was just another eccentric long-distance swimmer doing laps off Japan’s eastern coast.
He swam straight to the lights, without hesitation. He was looking forward—to what felt like a new beginning.

On the shore, he changed and found a few hundred of yens in the pockets of his pants. He went to a small restaurant that faced the ocean, and ordered a nabeyaki udon. It boiled when served.

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Chapter 1

Winds of the Past

From behind Mount Solaro, the low sun lit the Faraglioni edges orange, separating them from the rest of the heavy gray of the rock. Elena stepped outside wrapped in a blanket, and settled into the side of the lovechair. The cushion at the other side was undisturbed. The door to the bedroom clicked behind her; it took a while tonight to put Nicklaus to bed. Nathan got a call late last night—the strato-jumper was on standby in Fiumicino.

Now that the toddler rested, the night settled—just the sound of distant surf disturbed the quiet. After their success solving the AI crisis a few years back, Nathan was pulled up—against his wishes. The night calls followed. The meeting in D.C., however, worried her. It might have been related to the volcanoes across the world getting active at the same time. It was in the news. On the other side of the island, Vesuvius smoked. She liked the idea it was far, though an occasional whiff of sulfur was felt even here.

She called Brenda, his ex-wife. Brenda retired after the AI crisis they handled, and they kept in touch. “She sold her D.C. home and bought a small cottage in the Poconos. Two stories high, it rose up from a small vegetable garden and a flower bed at the door. Its backyard dissolved into the pine forest, separated from it only by a narrow strip of meadow. Elena knew Brenda was still a leader of the Human Faction. It wasn’t government, and was AI-independent. People called them when nothing else worked. She hoped Brenda might know when Nathan could be back.
Elena was surprised when her own comm chimed with a call from D.C. The Office of Crisis Management blinked on the 3D. That Office didn’t usually bother her with calls—she was just a field operative. She had a suspicion it was about Nathan, and pressed the “Respond” button.

“We need you in the Office as soon as possible. Preferably by tomorrow night’s briefing. Transportation is being arranged,” said a polite AI voice.
“Will Nathan be there?” She heard some clicks back, then—“Yes, Nathan Carter will lead the meeting.”

She raised an eyebrow. It looked like it was getting serious. Elena called a babysitter and went to pack. The next strato-jump from Fiumicino didn’t leave until tomorrow afternoon, so she had time.

Late April in Kagoshima was a fine month—a month of festivals, of warm wind and joy. Riamu sat in an old Takashiro shrine, a tiny structure at the shore, full of sunlight peeking through old boards, and ancient spirits. She was meditating, observing the passage of time as the streaks of light were shifting on the floor; the ritual was nearing. Her solitude was a high price to pay for this reconnection.
Her comm was outside, but its sound still startled her. She suppressed the instinct to pick it up. “How inconsiderate.”

The chime, so foreign to the place, fell silent. She sighed. Then, it rang again. She sighed again, left the shrine and took the call.

The AI voice informed her—an urgent meeting in D.C. tomorrow night, a specially arranged jumper was waiting for her in the port.

Riamu didn’t like the abruptness and soullessness of the call. Yet, she tapped a few 3D symbols above the surface of the comm, setting her departure time.

She was methodical: she killed the comm, returned to the shrine and resumed her meditation. She finished when it was dark. Outside, night birds and rustling noises of the squirrels meshed together into a melody, and Riamu didn’t want to break it.

Jess and Evan were building a forest hut, dirty and with splinters in their hands. Evan brought in heavy logs and stripped the wood clean. Jess handled the finer work: she tied the logs, cut windows and chinked the walls. She was a finisher; he was the muscle and the designer. Both liked it this way. Jess’s implant showed her the best plan: it shone as a warm, glowing sketch, “a most pleasing outcome.” She could plan this well, but this time, she let Evan handle the design.

They were finishing the roof when Brenda, their mom, came.

“Do you think we can bring our beds in here?” Jess liked the thought of sleeping in the forest, in the hut she built herself.

“But I will sleep at home just fine,” said Evan. “Let bugs eat her instead.”

“No sense of adventure, all you need is your Uni,” snorted Jess. “You are all stuck in this super-comp, you know. Just let it be once for a change.”

“She, not it,” Evan corrected her. “She’d get offended. Still, better that, than forcing chaos into perfection.

“All right,” Brenda decided to put a stop to the bickering with a joke. “You are big children now and can sleep wherever you want. Also, here’s a call for each of you. From D.C.. I like this not.” She had too many calls like that in her day. Way too many.

“Ah,” sighed Jess. “I guess I gotta take it.” Evan grimaced and stretched out his hand: “Yeah, Mom, I’ll take it, too.”

For both, the Office of Crisis Management flashed on the screen. “That’s Dad,” Jess said. “Something urgent, yep, you were right. We gotta go. Same for you, Evan?”

“Yes, same.” Evan glanced at Brenda. “Sorry, Mom.”

Brenda sighed. They both were in their mid-twenties. Brenda understood they had to go, but it didn’t make it any easier on her. She was preparing for this night for a long time.

A plaque with white Office of Crisis Management letters on the blue background was visible through a dusty window of a gray, nine-story, century-old office building. Its concrete looked cheap on the block taken by the glass and chrome structures of major corporations. A slick helipad on the roof was too new for the building’s scuffed walls.

The government Office of Crisis Management reported to the President. It was located on the top floor of the building. Inside, worn linoleum lined the floors and a vague smell of disinfectant hung in the air.

Nathan was in charge of the meeting. He called only those who helped with the crisis last time, and who he could trust: Elena, Riamu, Jess, and Evan. As everyone settled around the table, he lit up the 3D-projector.

“Within the next two to three years, humanity faces an extinction-level crisis. Not AI-related, Evan. This time, humanity triggered nature.”

“We built hundreds of deep-well geothermal plants, drilled many hundreds holes. It sounded simple: drop a bore a few kilometers down, in the right place, inject water, magma heat makes steam of it, then use that steam to spin a turbine and make electricity. Free power. We scaled fast. What we didn’t know at the time, was that the best hotspots were on top of the locks that held the tectonic plates together. We broke too many. It was a trigger, the last straw. Tectonic plates broke loose, and began to drift apart.”

“How fast?” Elena’s voice was tense.

“A yard a month now, not an inch a decade, as before. The estimates say we have three years, give or take, until Earth becomes uninhabitable. There’ll be nowhere safe.”

Silence fell.

“Can we move the population to the middle of stable areas? Siberia, sub-Saharan Africa, Central Australia?” Jess stared at Nathan, fingers tight on the folder.
“We are looking into that. Huge political problems. Even after them, food, water … We can’t support all. Not at that scale.”

Nathan got up, walked across the office to the windows and drummed the window sill.

“I am not asking for the fix now,” he finally continued. “But you’re the best I know of. You have two days. Come back with your ideas.” Nathan’s voice cracked, and Elena thought he looked like he hadn’t slept for a few nights. She doubted she would sleep now, either.

They left without a word.

“I can’t believe the world, all this, could be gone so soon,” muttered Elena, glancing around. “Everything is so normal, so usual, feels like it would stay this way…”

Nathan winced. “Oh yeah. This place will outlast this world. It will go last, of that I am sure.” He kept silent for a little. “Harris met me here for the first time.”

Elena leaned against Nathan, pushing him slightly into the corner of their oak-clad booth. “You have some other places to remember, right? Like, that coffee shop?”

“Of course. You were more fun than Harris.”

“I hope so…” The booth fell silent.

“Harris gave his all. Will see if we can,” Nathan said finally. Elena nodded. They paid and left.

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Inspired by “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket” of Edgar Allan Poe

Preface

On a rainy, dreary day of 1847, near the middle of Autumn I sat at a rickety table in the Old Billy tavern, the next street off the docks in Richmond, Virginia, and thus I became acquainted with two gentlemen at the table beside me, engaged in a spirited conversation I could not help but overhear.

The old man with long, luminous-gray hair spoke with a sense of noble calm, while his interlocutor, a short man with black curly hair, a mustache and dark olive eyes, expressed a due degree of curiosity most likely due to his unmeasured consumption of whiskey.

“…on that account I am completely certain. The old sloop had long lain unattended, and the rains of that season had filled her. His frenzy was what made me empty it with a bucket before we’d ventured out upon the ocean.” That phrase made me prick my ears; for, being an avid sailor and indeed in command of many a small sailing-ship, I couldn’t but notice the condition of the vessel that can bestow a fate most fatal to those within her.

“Forgive me, sir—you surely don’t mean you entertained the notion of a sea-voyage in a sloop filled with water?” The older man turned to face me, bestowing upon me a look of a bemused derision.

“Who might you be to know in what spirits Augustus and I were at that moment?” Immediately, I felt profound unease and apologized. The old man had introduced himself as Arthur Pym, and his friend at the table called himself simply Poe. They could not have been more dissimilar: red with the fumes of the consumed wine, Mr. Poe’s eyes were filled with gloom and he leaned heavily upon the table eyeing Mr. Pym as he was speaking. In his composition, Mr. Pym was quite the opposite: his manners were those of a gentleman of higher station, his face was as white as the hair, the dark eyes throwing shade upon whatever he looked at. After I explained myself, I was accepted into the company, and taken into their confidence.

That acquaintance was to continue throughout several encounters, among which I noticed Mr. Poe making some notes, which he undoubtfully used later to account for Mr. Pym’s amazing adventures. I, on the other hand, committed most of what had been said to memory, as I had developed a keen skill in memorizing even the minutest details of any conversation, thus furthering my mastering of the sea. I am wholly content to have witnessed the conversations, for the later Mr. Poe’s accounts thereof were no nearer to what was said than a spirit-affected imagination is to the surroundings. I have observed wine spilled upon Mr. Poe’s notes on more than one occasion.

Later, having read the notoriously published account of the events by said Mr. Poe, I feel compelled to fill the gaps, correcting at times the obvious mistakes and some misleading interpretations of what Mr. Pym described so vividly. With this, I hereby present to you, O critical reader, the True and Complete recounting of the Tale of Mr. Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.

 

Before the Departure

The story that follows below is my transcription of Mr. Pym tale, recorded independently of Mr. Poe’s. I have no doubts I do repeat some of the accounts that Mr. Poe recorded; the purpose of this manuscript is to reveal the details of import that have slipped previous attention, but which make the story stranger and more unusual than even a keen reader might imagine reading Mr. Poe’s exposure. So we shall proceed.

“The party at Mr. Barnard’s had an abundance of food and drink. While we consumed food with eagerness, the drink we touched not, in anticipation of the night. We went to bed after the moon was high and the party’s noise was rumbling in the air, promoted by the consumed spirits.

Augustus’s bedroom window was half-ajar and faced south-east. A full, white moon shone through the window onto the bed we shared, making the half-hour before we tired a most wondrous time. Soon after I began to doze off, Augustus suddenly rose and, glancing at the moon, in no uncertain terms proclaimed his eagerness to go upon an adventure, for he knew a sloop we could borrow.

I was astonished, but Augustus lost no time in getting on his clothes, telling me we would be fools if we did not continue our night by going on a frolic in a boat. We left his house, stole along the cobblestones of the streets between the dark shadows cast by the store-houses, nearing the place where Ariel, the sloop we were set to borrow, lay. I was as thrilled with the adventure of the night as he was.

The old boat was by the Pinkey’s lumber-yard, at the far end of the wharf. Its sides were battered, but the sails were tucked under cover, and in good shape. The boat was full of water from the recent rains, it being early October, and I started on bailing her out. Augustus spent time unfurling the sails, and when we were underway, only some water stayed in the bilge.

The wind was against the moon, and we sailed straight to it, running along the white path the moon drew for us upon the water. Augustus’s face was white; he faced the Moon with exaltation; with his eyes half-closed, he recited, “O, only look—full moon that shines on my pain for this last time…” That was when I felt something was off. We were sailing on a beam reach, and jolly wind took us away from the shore at a brisk eight knots—we appeared to be following the Moon, indeed. Augustus was hypnotized, and a sense of dread rose in my chest as the wind picked up and white wind-caps formed on the waters.

“We must turn back!” I shouted through the whistle of the wind in the rigging.

“No—we shall make it, not much is left,” was the unsettling response, and Augustus laughed wildly. “We are almost there, by and by! Nothing is of import. Our home awaits us!” He seemed to be delirious. I pulled him away from the tiller and threw him down, hoping in this manner to awaken his senses. He hit his head against the oak gangway and passed out; the storm was gathering.

The heavy clouds came on briskly and covered the moon. It was pitch dark, so much that I could not see the tiller’s end. I stumbled down the gangway into the cabin in search of a light, finding with difficulty my way around old pillows and boxes scattered on the floor because of the motion of the boat. To my fortune, my hand touched the light fixture attached to a hook by the door, and I felt a set of flint and steel for striking fire beside it.

It should here be observed, the ocean state had greatly worsened during my search, and I have struggled to strike the light while bracing myself against the door well. My poor Augustus lay at the bottom of the stairs by the door, motionless, and I didn’t dare to climb back without light for fear of treading upon him.

After much trying, I was successful in lighting the lamp, and with delight hung it outside, above the door, above Augustus. The faint yellow flame of old oil flickered and seemed blindingly bright after the complete darkness that befell us.

As I climbed out of the cabin and looked around, I saw only white-caps of waves, shimmering in darkness, and the boat heaved heavily under the wind without a tiller control. It is hard to describe my terror as I understood the full precariousness of my situation: I was alone against the wrath of nature; my skill of managing the boat at that time was next to none. I was expecting an imminent destruction, either at sea or upon the rocks of the shore if wind changed. By pure instinct I found and released the halyard, and the mainsail went down, slowly, flogging violently, filled with wind. That helped the boat: she fell off downwind, pulled only by the jib, and I needed no tiller to keep her so. As wind increased to short of hurricane strength, the jib had split in half. That, to my relief, provided some aid as I would not be able to reef it.

Now, my dear Augustus became my main concern. Down in the gangway, he lay without sign of consciousness, his head rolling to and fro with the heaving of the boat. I climbed down and lashed him to the gangway’s railings, wrapping his head in my jacket. Then I began to bail out the boat, and tried to keep grim thoughts of the lack of provisions and the uncertainty of our destination out of my mind.

I had scarcely noticed how time had passed pulling buckets of water out, dreading for the next wave to come and overwhelm the boat. At the first light, busy with my work, I was struck suddenly with the most terrible sound that the mind of a human being might endure: the huge bow of a ship arouse from dark-gray of the dawn, crushing our sloop across the cabin. The boom of our boat had swung violently and struck upon my head.

I was later told that I fell upon Augustus, and that we were both rescued from the boat as she was about to go down. It was by luck that the half of the boat we were on did not capsize; instead, before sinking, it raised the smothered gangway up, so that the seamen on the Penguin, the ship that struck our boat, could see us.

I must give full credit for the entertained daring save to the ship crew. They dropped down the lines, and a few courageous souls descended to the remnants of Ariel, then tied us to the other hanging lines and hauled us up. The moment we were pulled, the remains of the poor sloop made a terrible sound, broke apart and were swallowed by the heavy seas.

That collision, I now gather, was a fortunate event; for, should Penguin, on its way to Boston, had missed us, both Augustus and I would certainly have perished. That was the first occasion of the strange luck that followed Augustus and me on our journeys—the fortune that I must thank now for being here.

The captain Block of the Penguin was cursing us on the occasion of making him risk his crew for our sake. “Your lack of wits is not a good reason for putting the lives of my men on the line,” he rumbled. Indeed, his account of the events later was instrumental in convincing my family and my grandfather that Augustus, and the sea voyages, were to be removed from my life, for otherwise no certainty could be attained of my future well-being.

He walked his decks a strong and hardy man, and I am certain only for the luck of his generous disposition at the moment, despite his grumblings, we did not to perish. “Hard-a-lee!” he commanded, stepping on the quarter-deck as we, not aware of surroundings, were hoisted on board, and the seamen ran to their stations faster than on a British frigate. Penguin sails were heavily reefed, yet even then she flew with grace atop the waves, propelled by the squall.

 

Preparations

Upon returning home, I found my family in a condition of deep distress. The disappearance of Ariel, and that of Augustus left no doubt in their mind that he and I have gone to sea; and, given late foul weather, few doubted our fate. It was therefore no surprise that our return was met with great relief, and that a special dinner was given in honor of the happy occasion. I received many a favorable glance; albeit my father and my grandfather, Mr. Peterson, were in a different mood.

“We want you to understand that this incident is nothing but grievous breach of trust of your parents. Your father’s business has suffered, and my heart can break if you disappear yet again,” my grandfather said, seeing me in his room before the dinner. Hearing this I trembled and embraced him, to which the grandfather did not object. However, he did not respond in kind; instead, he stepped back and, giving me a grave, fastidious look, declared:

“So know now, Arthur Gordon Pym, that if you betray my love again by even contemplating a sea-faring, whether alone or in a company with your unfortunate friend, I will disown you, and you shall have no place in my heart or in my will.”

He might as well have spoken to the winds.

Despite all dangers of adventurous sailing, which were those of the threat of a wreck, of hurricanes, of barbarian tribes, of thirst and hunger—my mind was singularly bent on venturing out to sea. In that, I was led by Augustus. I felt there was a destiny for us to follow into the unknown, to find that which has never been seen by man.

As Augustus spoke to me of sea-faring, his eyes, always dark, shone with a strange, deep silver light, reflection of the Moon we saw on the night of our first adventure. He spoke in pictures of undertakings, of mystery lands, and of revelations that were bound to meet us on our way. The condition of his mind had changed since I saw him last before our sailing—but now, he could not have found a more grateful listener. One might wonder why the misfortune of the disaster with Ariel was not enough to dissuade me from admiring the naval adventures; as you will see hereafter, my mind at the time had already been affected and set on the inevitable path that led me to my ultimate destination.

Thus, our preparations for the grand adventure had begun. We learned that the brig, named Grampus, had arrived from Liverpool, intending to depart shortly on a voyage to West Indies with a cargo of oil, timber and ship furniture. Mr. Barnard, Augustus’s father, was its captain, and the opportunity to sail away we could not have missed.

The preparations soon grew frantic: the ship was to sail within three days, and our designs were too many to be carried out in such short order. At that time I decided, after thorough consideration, to take my Newfoundland dog Tiger, which, as later events proved, was a decision that saved my life.

Our plan was simple: arrange a hiding place for me down below, and keep me there until the ship is well underway, at which time I reveal myself and join the ship’s company in its adventures, for so late appearance would render my return impossible. Tiger was to stay with Augustus until such time as I present myself.

Augustus arranged a hiding spot for me: he freed a big crate, and equipped it with a soft bed, water, wine and provisions—more than enough for a week of hiding. A separate crate, farther forward, was to be used as a privy. We completed the preparations the night before the departure. The next morning, I slipped away from home before the sunrise, dressed in rags for concealment, and, after a brief encounter with Mr. Peterson, I scrambled to the ship. Several planks in Augustus’s cabin floor were taken up, and the opening thus formed led into the dimly-lit, cavernous, labyrinthine cargo-hold of the lower deck, where my hiding station awaited me.

We climbed down and followed a broken path between the mountainous cask piles, tall boxes and thick coils of rigging. The cargo-hold was dark; the flickering oil-lamp Augustus held cast dancing shadows of us walking. The shadows seemed to taunt us to dwell yet deeper into the bellows of the ship. The stacks had closed around us, and the low deck above our heads created a perception of an enclosure of the most depressing kind. I found my own green lantern by my sleeping box, and lit it eagerly. The colour of the light painted the pine boxes silver-gray, while the place smelled of teak oil and rot. I indulged in some wine, and as Augustus left me, fell immediately fast asleep.

 

Awakening

 My sleep was deep and sound. I had no dreams, and woke up in darkness, feeling light and refreshed. I felt the ship tilted and rolled, and trampling of the feet on the deck above made all but certain she was on her way. I lit the lamp, ate and read some books that Augustus had provided with so much foresight. They were all old sea-farer’s stories, except for one: ‘The Mysteries of Udolpho’ by Radcliffe, which was an edition of a recent date, not ever opened. The books afforded me an entertainment without which my days in that self-made confinement would likely have been intolerable.

I had no clock to mark the days. I walked through tight passages when I was not reading in my cubicle, and ate stocked food helping it with wine. I was eager for Augustus to retrieve me, but my seclusion did not burden me much. Except, I had some strange, uncanny dreams. The world of them was all colored either gray or white. It had strange, curly towers of a city the imagination fails to fathom, vast forest expanses and tall, slender people that looked like willow branches in the wind. The images I perceived were so strange that every time I awoke, I found myself in a cold sweat, my heart racing.

With time, the air grew stale, and I noticed I had trouble waking and going around with my business. In my crude reckoning I spent a week already in my hiding, at least a few days longer than we designed, and I have almost finished the food, the water and have now consumed all fresh air there was in the cargo hold, as its doors were tightly shut against any water. I back-tracked the path Augustus and I took when coming into the hold; alas, the planks that let me in were immovable, and even when I pushed against them with all my might, I could dislodged them by a naught. The devastating discovery made my heart fall, and I had all but lost my way back to my abode.

I fell asleep almost as soon as I returned. I had the same dream about the same silver city, but this time I found it was difficult to wake up. The images now felt more natural than the smelly cargo hold I knew I’d find myself in. That night, the attachment to the idea of not waking up was stronger than that to the idea of subjecting myself to the misery of the slow death in wait. It should here be observed that I was not entirely unaware of the precarious nature of my situation. However, the foul air impaired my judgement enough to reject the reality of my world for that of world of dreams. I sensed relief in sleeping beyond any measure, and surely that would have been my last day on earth but not for heavy prodding, followed by barks and licks of Tiger, my old friend!

As I managed to open my eyes, I felt a breath of fresh air coming along the passage between the boxes leading to the middle of the ship. I came about and forced myself to rise, enduring the most devilish and splitting headache I could remember in my life. Tiger pulled me and now, Tiger leading the way, I straddled along, thrusting aside the smaller boxes, and soon I saw a dim light and heard and exclamation: “Arthur!” Indeed, it was my dear Augustus, standing down below the crude opening made of a few planks lifted off the ship’s main deck. It was a bright day outside, but the opening was under a bench, thus protected from view and from the direct sunlight. But my heart raced with joy at the sight of the day and the smell of the fresh ocean breeze!

A voice was now heard at the forecastle companion-way, calling Augustus’s name. Even in the dark of the hold I saw his face grew pale as he gave me a quick nod and scrambled up an improvised ladder that led up to the deck. He made me a sign to wait and disappeared, the planks of the opening coming into the places, shutting the deck opening tight. I heard a muted conversation—someone giving Augustus a command, Augustus steps departing. I held my breath waiting for the planks to be lifted and myself being discovered unprepared, but all remained quiet. I sat under the stairs for a long time, until I fell asleep. I slept long hours without any dreams, and woke up refreshed. My Tiger was near me, last piece of bacon in his maw.

As I waited for Augustus to appear again, I realized how thirsty and hungry I was. I finished the last flask of water yesterday, for the supplies I had were supposed to last for less than two weeks. I was most happy when, soon after I awoke under the ladder, I heard the noise of the lifted planks and light of a candle. Augustus climbed down, his face lit with a warm, yellow light in the darkness. He descended slowly, holding a kettle with water, some bread and dried fish with ham and cheese: a feast for me. We sat together on the steps and I quickly ate, while Tiger wagged his tail against my legs. While I was eating, Augustus told me a most disturbing story.

 

The Path of a Pirate

Two days into Grampus’s voyage, Augustus’s father, the captain of the ship, called Augustus to his stateroom. There, sitting at the big desk covered with maps, he looked Augustus in the eye and asked: “Are you willing to follow your father in the most dangerous but profitable enterprise of your life?” To that, Augustus said yes with eagerness; at which occasion, his father revealed that he was preparing a ship takeover, so as to make the team the mates of fortune, and the ship one of pirates. He had planned to pilfer a large cargo ship on her way from New Castle to the West Indies, and was plotting a new Grampus’s course.

Augustus told me how his heart trembled at the news as he looked forward with trepidation, because to cross the line to piracy had no little consequence to one’s own future. He opted to join his father because what else a young seaman could do under the circumstances? He knew that, had he not been talking to his father, he would have found it impossible to commit to such an enterprise.

Be as it may, the next day the revolt, led by his father, started. It was a brisk, sunny morning when Captain Barnard stepped on the quarter-deck, his pistols at his sides. The wind was pleasant and steady, and the crew was jolly, on the main deck, partaking of an early meal at the rough tables put up next to the masts.

“Ahoy, listen to me now,” Captain Barnard declared. “At this very moment, the ship is changing its course and goals. We shall embark on the rewarding, albeit dangerous path of a privateer. We shall seek our fortune in gaining cargo at high seas and reselling it at a profit. Who is of a mind to join me?”

His figure sturdy, his hands on railings of the deck, he was an imposing menace, and the hearts of many sailors quivered in fear. A few of them he spoke to in advance. They stood up and gingerly stepped toward the quarter-deck, the ship axes in their hands. Among them was Seymour, the black cook, tall and always smiling, and Dirk Peters, a short but incredibly strong man, able to hoist the mainsail singlehandedly. In a short while, they were joined by Richard Parker, Absalom Hicks and Jim Bonner, the harpooner, the man of heavy hand and of quick judgement. The rest of the crew was unprepared for this turn of events, and rose to their feet in a state of anguish and confusion; some ran down to get arms.

“It is your last and final call. Join us or face your fate!” he bellowed. The group of the remaining sailors, eight total, crammed together, holding their sailor’s knives at the ready. They were larger in count than the mutineers, excluding Augustus. The mate, whose name I do not remember, stepped forward and addressed the captain:

“Sir, what you are doing is irregular and illegal. It is forbidden by the maritime code and is punishable by hanging. Should you assault a British ship, they will never stop hunting you, and will bring you to justice even if it takes decades. Give up this madness, let us proceed as our plans called for!” The voice of the poor mate was not steady, and Augustus could see his knees shake.

“Away with you!” the captain shouted. “If you want death, it will be prompt in coming!” He said it with such an expression that was indicative of merriment, the merriment must be that of a demon. Augustus never knew this portion of his father’s character, and observed him with amazement and awe.

The sun was rising high and warmed the wet, cleaned deck making the tar in the seams smell stronger. This smell mingled with the odor of spiced beef stew made by Seymour in the style of South Louisiana, the place at which the cook was born. The stand-off was tense, the beads of sweat glistening on Captain Barndard’s arms resting on his pistols. A foreboding feeling hung heavy over the scene.

Finally, the mate, followed by Simms, made their move. With a growl, they jumped over the benches that stood in their way and lunged upon Seymour and Parker who were protecting the gangway up to the quarter-deck. A brawl ensued. Not without deliberate precision, my father aimed his pistol at his mate and, catching a fortunate moment, fired. The mate’s shoulder burst into bloody pieces, staining the deck around him with red. He stumbled, and Parker pushed him to the railing, and with a grunt, hurled him overboard.

Seymour had always carried his long kitchen knife which he used to cut large loaves of bread. With this, he had little trouble dispatching Simms, piercing his throat first, and hefting his body to the railing and throwing it overboard immediately thereafter. The remaining sailors, to wit, John Hunt, Hartman Rogers, William Allen, Wilson, Jones and Greely, dropped their knives and begged for mercy.

Parker and Dirk Peters proceeded to tie the hands of those sailors, putting them into a kneeling position. Captain Barnard stepped down from the quarter-deck and came close to face them. He peered intently into the face of each and every one, and then split them into two groups. In the first were Wilson, Jones and Greely, the rest remaining in the second. He made a sign to Bonner, and to Dirk. Dirk proceeded to tie the men of the first group to the railing. After he had finished, Bonner approached each and every thrashing sailor with a heavy hammer and hit each one of them on the head. The terrible sounds and screams with convulsions of the victims made the surviving company recoil, their faces blanching with horror. When three fell on deck, some squirming in agony, Captain Barnard ordered Seymour to throw those he found untrustworthy overboard. This was the way the captain established his absolute rule over the pirate ship of Grampus.”

At this moment, I must pause and make a side note to the reader of the profound difference between the account of the events in my recollection and that described and published by the renowned Mr. Poe. I am a man contemporary with the times of Mr. Poe and Mr. Pym, and while my memory is clear of the story as told by Mr. Pym, I have no doubt that Mr. Poe had changed the description of the events with the best of intentions toward Mr. Augustus Barnard and, by extension, toward Mr. Arthur Pym, in implicating as one of the leaders of the mutiny the only black man on board, Seymour, and not Mr. Augustus Barnard’s father. Clearly, such implication stretches the credulity given the general good demeanor, lack of education and temperament of those men of colour conscripted to such ship service at the time. Moreover, the traditions of the time precluded white mariners from being subjugated to a black man in a higher position, which confirms the lack of credibility of Mr. Poe’s account, and indirectly confirms the manner in which I am recalling the events. With that, we shall continue.

“After disposing of those he found objectionable, Captain Barnard declared a holiday for the whole company but the helmsman. With shouts of joy, more about their new-found safety at the moment than about Captain Barnard, John Hunt and Harman Rogers pulled up a cask of wine from down below, and the drunken feast began. That was the time when Augustus discovered that his bunk was taken by Jim Bonner in the course of his elevation to the station of mate. He stowed his harpoon chain on top of the planks, making the old egress into the deck below unreachable, while the wide loading deck gate remained thoroughly sealed. Augustus had no other choice but to let time pass while planning my salvation.

Augustus was put into the same room that Dirk Peters occupied. The short, stocky man had wide arms and stout legs, stronger alone than three other men combined. Soon, he developed a strange attachment to Augustus, who was his complete opposite: tall, blond, wiry and supple like a willow. One often saw them pulling same line together or standing near the same mast working the braces. After a week, Augustus had disclosed to Dirk my presence, and the predicament I found myself in. Dirk volunteered his help in bringing me up in secret.

As the captain’s son, Augustus was in high regard among the crew, and was in a position to procure better food for both himself and Dirk, even though in all other respects his father kept him at arm’s length, refusing to acknowledge, to Augustus’s dismay, any family connection. Augustus wondered if the long time he stayed in boarding school destroyed whatever little of the familial feeling his father had toward him. After our adventure on Ariel, however, the distance at which his father kept Augustus, ceased to trouble Augustus much as he was developing deeper ties to something new. Those ties did call him strongly to abandon his father’s designs and direct the ship’s route not to the West Indies, but to the furthest southern reaches; such a plan had found an eager support from his roommate and a few others, in particular ever smiling Seymour, William Allen and Hartman Rogers. Jim Bonner, a strong-handed harpooner, joined them later after a hesitation. His father had on his side firmly Absalom Hicks, John Hunt and Richard Parker.

Dirk was a natural leader of the group; yet, as he was mighty, he lacked the spirit to make hard decisions fast, and Augustus felt strongly pressured to bring me up and find in me assistance in persuading Dirk to act with speed. So it was done, and almost two weeks after I was entombed in the cargo hold, I was, to my relief, retrieved.

When, after such a long and thorough confinement, I stepped onto the upper deck, the prickly, foamy sea breeze, the aged, brown planks of the deck under my feet and the stark outlines of the masts elevated my spirits, making me feel the power of the light and solid world around me like never before. Next day after my liberation, I was presented to the whole company and Augustus received his father’s curt nod allowing me to stay onboard. There indeed was no opportune chance to conceal me on this brig for long.

I was ready to support Augustus in his biddings, never mind how adventurous and impossible they might have been. One might not but point out that my elation and attachment to Augustus were affected by both our old ties and by him being my savior from the confines of the hiding. In addition, his demeanor changed: he became more serene and certain in his intentions than ever, and the white spark in his eyes made him irresistible. A few days after my coming out, I partook in a conversation between Augustus, Dirk, Seymour, Hartman Rogers and Bonner. While Bonner leaned toward accepting the command of the captain, Augustus was bent on taking the control of the ship and sailing as far south as she could: “There is another land there, the land of the white, the land of power. We are betrothed to it; to reach it is our destiny.” I must admit that statement made scant followers, but it was agreed the southern lands held much promise for trade and weather, and since that plan did not require us to bet our heads becoming pirates, Augustus’s proposal was agreed to by all but one person: the harpooner Bonner shook his head in doubt. Augustus did not leave that doubt without a note.

One night, when the ship was tacking to adjust her sails to the trade winds, the fast movement of the boom hit Bonner on his head and threw him overboard. The seas were getting rough, and the captain did not order a rescue. I perceived the white flashing in Augustus’s eyes. “Fare thee well,” I said with sadness in my voice. “This might have been the better for him,” Augustus replied with a tone that might have suggested he spoke of someone winning in a game.

There was one fewer of us now. We had to take over the helm and remove Captain Barnard’s command. Dirk was for the immediate assault onto the captain’s quarters. However, both Augustus and I saw dangers of such approach; Augustus’s father clearly saw us scheming, and installed an extra guard on the quarter-deck. We needed a better design.

The weather was getting clearly worse, the wind carrying the white foam of the wave-caps across the deck. What we should determine to do could not be done too soon and we decided to move within the next hour, in the fear that the captain would get rid of us when we were handling the sails. First, Dirk climbed the quarter-deck from outside, and broke the neck of William Allen, the sailor who was posted there and who abandoned our group joining the captain’s party the day before. He did it fast; his thick and savage hands knew no mercy.

Then, from the genius of Augustus, came his idea of a distraction. He took half a bucket of chalk for chalking the lines, added a small amount of linseed oil to it, undressed, and covered himself with the white paste from head to toe. He made his hair into stiff points, as if bristling, radiating out from his skull. He moved slowly, all white, creating an image of a ghostly apparition which produced a perception of the most unsettling nature. At the right moment, we swung the door of the companionway leading to the captain’s cabin ajar, and Augustus stepped in. The sight of him was so horrifying that the group within, with knives and pistols in their laps, waiting for us, became completely immobile, affording us a chance for action. We took it; I jumped and put my knife into the chest of the closest sailor to me, who was Absalom Hicks, and Dirk subdued Richard Parker, keeping him alive. Unfortunate Seymour received a direct shot from the captain’s weapon as he was slashing John Hunt’s throat with his long knife for cutting bread.

The shock had played its part; we almost won, the last standing person of the opposing party being Captain Barnard himself. He stood in front of his son, who was covered in white. The captain’s eyes were wide open, staring at him with unbelief, a desperate terror drawn on the captain’s features. He’d fired both his pistols by now, and had only a thin, short officer’s sword at hand. He lifted it slowly, pointing at Augustus’s chest.

“Stop! Or for the love of God I will deliver the final punishment to my lack-lustre son!” he bellowed. Augustus smiled this new, strange smile of his, and then swiftly struck his father’s sword up, so its point aimed at the bottom of his father’s chin. Then, Augustus suddenly lunged forward, as though willing to embrace his father, thus propelling his father’s hand with the sword straight up, piercing his own skull. Captain Barnard fell without a sound, and as he did, his son stood dumbstruck over the fallen body, his eyes full of pain and sorrow rather than of anger.

This was a macabre scene of a complete devastation, a scene which, with its minutest details, no after events have been able to efface in the slightest degree from my memory.

During the commotion, my friend Tiger hid away at lower decks which had ultimately become, alas, his resting place.

 

Marooned

Our victory came at a steep price: most of the ship’s company was no more, and only four of our number were left to mind the ship, myself included. My hands were shaking, the ship heaved hard, and I barely kept myself standing as Dirk and I were dragging the bodies over the slippery deck to the railings, throwing them overboard.

The squall gained strength, and the force of the gale required us to reef the remaining sails to prevent the masts from breaking or the vessel from capsizing. The wet lines, the wind in our faces, and the heavy boat heaving were a hefty burden, leaving us almost spent, for the only two sails left were the reefed trysail aft and the storm stay-sail forward. Even though this manoeuvre being not easily effected, this combination gave us a way to steer the ship close-hauled, while maintaining a measure of rudder control. Dirk’s physical power at the tiller saved us then; Augustus was washed clean by the seas of his white disguise.

The squall wind soon deepened into a full, heavy storm. The main-mast, even with the reefed sails, bore too much of a load, making the ship heel strongly onto her lee side. We had no choice but to bring the mast down before it should turn the ship sideways to the waves, with a disastrous outcome. Augustus took the helm, and Dirk, with me tending his lifeline, used the boarding-axe to cut the main-mast shrouds and stays. The heavy axe-swings were interrupted by the floods of waves that by now rolled freely over the main deck. The final shroud was parted by a mighty wind gust, and the main-mast fell, disconnected, resulting in much better steerage of the ship, and more control.

To our misfortune, our situation was not stable. By midnight, the wind grew even stronger, reaching the force of a hurricane, of which I had no doubt. We lashed ourselves to the steering wheel stanchions at the quarter-deck, and prayed to God. Soon before sunrise, a strong gust of wind brought down the fore-mast, and whatever little control of the ship we had was gone. Grampus was now completely at the mercy of the seas, with waves rolling freely over her. Her seams grew loose and she filled with water; our salvation was that the ship, laden with oil, furniture and timber, could not sink. We prayed the ship’s hull was sturdy enough to hold itself together in these heavy seas.

The morning hardly brought any relief. The surface of the ocean and the clouds blended into one gray mass where water, waves and foam mingled, fighting. With time, the wind grew weaker, but the waves now became the monsters of twenty, or thirty feet, rolling over the remaining carcass of Grampus freely. As a wave covered the deck, we were holding our breath deep under water, waiting for it to pass and for the ship to surface again. As each new wave came, I had no thought of whether I had enough air in my lungs to live through yet another such immersion. By that time, the ship was far enough southward that the water was warm, thus keeping us from freezing.

It should here be observed that our common state of horror was complete because of helplessness of our situation; yet even as each new wave approached, I could not deny I looked at Augustus with hope, finding the hope in the calm way he looked at me.

As darkness fell, the seas began to calm down as well, and after three days and two sleepless nights, by early morning we were able to fall into an uneasy slumber. I was awakened by the bright sunlight shining into my face. The ocean was subdued, not a single wave rolling over the elevated quarter-deck, while the main-deck was barely above the surface of the water. The four of our number sat tied together. The ties cut deep into my body and I could not move without an excruciating pain. My skin was dried by the sun, and was covered by a crust of the ash-gray salt. My throat was raw with thirst.

I pulled my jack- knife and cut the line, the relief being immediate and profound. I helped my mates with the same, each being hurt to a different degree, yet still all able and healthy. The last clouds were leaving the sky, and our future was looking brighter than ever during the last three days. In high spirits, we began examining the state of the ship to make provision for our survival for the days to come. Augustus and Richard Parker waded to the ship’s bow and cut shreds of the sails from the fallen fore-mast, together with whatever lines were available. We used the sails’ fabric to design protection from the sun. Dirk took a large piece, and spread it tight, attaching its corners with lines to the quarter-deck railing. Then, he cut out a hole in its middle, and threw short, heavy slab of wood next to it. The contraption formed a funnel, and we used it to collect rain-water delivered by the remains of the storm clouds.

Dirk and I investigated the submerged portions of the ship. Of interest were food storage areas; alas, we were unsuccessful. The hull wall adjacent to the food storage had a large gap, likely made by a fallen main-mast, which resulted in a complete flooding of the food storage area, most of the provisions washed out to sea. Dirk took a few dives, bringing up but two legs of bacon, a large turtle and, to our joy, two bottles of wine, chipped at the top but otherwise undamaged, followed by a whole cask of beer. We quickly split one bottle between four of us before the rain came that night; this, together with the water from the rain, collected into the empty bottle with Augustus’s contraption, made our first night onboard of the destroyed ship more pleasant than one could have expected.

The next day, the seas calmed down completely, as had the wind, and the clouds were gone. We rested under the shades of sails, on the warm teak of the quarter-deck, and watched the horizon that bore no signs of ships. We had rationed the food and water, and told each other stories from our lives; there was nothing else to do. That had continued for almost two weeks, by the end of which we ran out of food and water, for the lack of rain, the turtle eaten and beer consumed. Thirst was most intolerable, making my tongue swollen in my mouth. We all grew weak as lack of food and water drained us of the strength that we had at the beginning of the ordeal. Our affairs now looked gloomy indeed, and one night, Augustus and I looked at each other, pain in our eyes, and then embraced at the thought of a possible doom which appeared to be imminent.

It was then when Parker, late at night, awoke everyone with wild screams and dance. Surprised, not without caution about his mental faculties, I rose and approached him.

“Look, over there, over there!” he flailed his hands eagerly toward the horizon behind the bow of the ship. I strained my eyesight, looking into the direction he had shown. Below the half-moon, against the silver of the moon-path upon the crests of the lazy waves, was etched a profile of a ship. It was tall and narrow, facing us a few miles away, its sails set, and it was heading directly for our wreck. Excited, I roused Augustus, who weakly resisted being disturbed. When he finally stood up, a streak of silver glistened in his eyes. He looked at the far silhouette of the ship, and his lips curled in disdain.

“There is no hope that this ship can be of any use to us.” With that, he went back to his corner of the quarter-deck and settled himself to sleep. Parker and I could not believe his cold demeanor; Parker ran to the ship forepart, waving his arms in hope of attracting the ship’s attention. Her foresails were furled; rigged as a schooner, she had only the jib and the mainsail set, both much torn. One could see a figure at the helm, and others tending the jib-lines. Despite the calm wind, it approached fast, as though flying above water, which seemed to offer no impediment for its motion.

In what appeared but a moment, her mighty bowsprit had covered the shining moon, almost hanging over the whole remains of the Grampus. ‘The Dutchman’ was burned in black letters upon her bow. At this moment, I shivered with incredulity: in all the vastness of the ocean, this ship was aimed at us as if by design. The unreeved cordage hung from her railing, as though inviting us on board. The waves themselves seemed to propel the schooner, and as it was so close, I could see the rotted flesh of men on board and the decaying hands of the helmsman at the wheel. We were almost crushed; yet, at the last moment, The Dutchman slithered sideways, sparing us, and her wake pushed our wreck away. Parker could not comprehend what was transpiring, and grabbed a line that ran atop the Grampus’s deck; only by Dirk’s quick action in seizing him from behind and wrestling him down, did we avoid losing one of our number to the mysterious ship.”

Here, I must step aside again and clarify for a curious reader why my records should speak of the Flying Dutchman when Mr. Poe’s ubiquitous story describes the ship encountered simply as a “hermaphrodite brig.” I am induced to look upon intent of Mr. Poe as more intensely productive of emotion, as far more replete with the extremes first of delight and then of horror, yet, thoroughly removed from the events of most unconceived and unconceivable character. Where Mr. Poe drew the line, I sought for nothing but the truth, however strange it may appear.

“After the encounter with the dead ship, Richard Parker’s constitution turned for the worse. He barely slept the next two nights, afraid to miss the next encounter with the ship which by then was long gone. We had no meals to share; but we all gave him a little more of our own water ration in hopes of easing his condition. He slept the third night, and woke in better spirits, but in weaker body. I told him a few encouraging words, noting we were upon a common route of trading-ships from the ports of Great Britain to the West Indies and that we surely should be found one of the coming days. He looked at me with hope, but the light of his eyes was dim. The hunger and thirst were taking the better of us all.

As darkness of the night approached, Parker suddenly became agitated and called me into his corner for a conversation. It was then that he said the most reasonable course of action was for one to be sacrificed and eaten by others for the sake of the common survival. He said blood was the fluid that would satisfy everyone’s thirst. At this moment, I decided the conversation was too strange and too unnerving to stay in private and suggested that Richard and I should talk the matter over before Dirk and Augustus.

When we approached our companions, they seemed to comprehend the significance of what Parker said. Dirk looked uncertain, but Augustus, with effort, stood up and straightened himself, seeming taller than I have ever remembered him. The red sunset painted us all in crimson hues, making the scene appear of a particularly singular and ominous character as we contemplated Richard’s proposal. Such things may be imagined, but words have no power to impress the mind with the exquisite horror of their reality.

“My Richard,” Augustus said after a moment in a strange, detached voice, “I understand your want. I would give you my blood gladly, but you won’t be able to manage it. We must endure but a few days more.” Augustus felt exhausted by this exertion, and lowered himself onto the deck. Richard had screamed with a most terrifying scream that froze my blood, and flung himself upon Augustus. I stood there dumbstruck, unable to move, and there is no doubt in my mind that it would have been the last day on this earth for Augustus, if Dirk did not act decisively and with force. He picked up off the deck a piece of broken rail, and struck poor Richard on the back of his head as he bore down upon Augustus. Richard’s eyes closed, he released Augustus, and fell. Augustus shoved him to the side and sat straight, looking at motionless Richard with wide eyes. This incident had transpired so quickly that I had no ability to interfere with any means; I stood beside, and only when Richard was incapacitated could I act, pulling Augustus away.

We sat in silence for some moments, contemplating what had transpired. The man who had proposed cannibalism was now himself in a state suggestive of being consumed. I saw dark flames rise in Dirk’s eyes, but Augustus would not suffer it. At this moment, I realized he had assumed command of our small party, and when he said “We must let him go,” neither Dirk nor I entertained any objections.

We tied Parker to a remnant of the fore-mast spar, and lowered it, with him attached, into the ocean. At this moment, he opened his eyes, and we gave him his last mouthful of warm beer. Then, Dirk came down into the water next to the flooded bow, and pushed the spar away. Richard tried to scream, but the waves and wind drowned his voice.

Contrary to what Augustus said, we had to endure far more than a few days. Our survival was aided by rain, which allowed us to fill the empty beer cask with water, and by a fortunate find Dirk made as he pushed away the spar with Parker—the submerged hull was covered with barnacles. He broke off one, and was able to consume its contents, nutritious and full of fresh water. Augustus and I rigged a line, tied Dirk to it and let him—axe in hand—go overboard. He dove deep and was able to collect a dozen barnacles that we all ate with great joy. We took turns going down to collect them, and used a remnant of sail canvas to make a bag to hold the harvest.

One day we were left without our barnacle meal. At the sunset, the surface of the ocean near our wreck protruded upward, and a large, white mass of the unknown animal broke the waves and heaved itself onto the half-submerged main-deck. It was motionless, heeling what remained of our ship with its weight. Then, as this mass of putrefaction slipped over the vessel’s side back into the water, the glare of phosphoric light with which it was surrounded plainly discovered to us seven or eight large sharks that eagerly sunk their teeth into the creature. We shrunk within ourselves in the extremity of horror at the sound.

Jane Guy

It was almost three weeks after Parker was gone when, one late afternoon, we saw a schooner on the horizon. We screamed and waved our arms as much as we could manage, until the ship came closer and we saw it furling the sails and lowering a boat. The ship was named Jane Guy. We were picked up off the coast of Uruguay, on August 7^th, at latitude 31⁰ 00′ South, and longitude of 33⁰ 20′ West. When we were taken up from the quarter-deck, it was but a few inches above the water, crusted with white sea-salt. We all were of one mind with Augustus by then, uplifted every cloudless night when the moon shone.

The captain of the ship, Mr. Guy, was on a voyage to investigate the waters south of the Cape of Good Hope for islands with abundance of fur seals and elephant seals, important produce of the fishery. They were standing onto their south-east leg toward the Cape when they noticed us. By the time we reached South-Atlantic, two weeks later, we joined their company as able hands. Because of his tall stature, Augustus was assigned a post of a helmsman’s mate, while my classes in the academy of Mr. Ronald made a good impression upon Captain Guy who soon took me as his advisor. Dirk was so capable at handling others that he became boatswain very soon.

As we approached the Cape of Good Hope, we were hit with a series of squalls in a row, one stronger than another. At some moments, the schooner was sailing completely engulfed by the roaring waves, only to emerge atop them a moment later. However, nothing we sailed through could compare with the hurricane that overwhelmed the Grampus. The company was capable, and the experience of Captain Guy made for a safe passage.

The farther south we sailed, the stronger a yearning we perceived for the unknown. Augustus’s eyes became white, as did Dirk’s hair, even though he was of middle age. I grew to like the whiteness of my skin as it lost all darkening caused by the sun’s action during the time we were marooned.

Clearing the Cape, we sailed due east a few hundred miles to the Crozet Islands, where we discovered huge colonies of penguins and elephant seals. We dropped anchor near the western island, not far from the shore, and replenished our supplies of water and meat.

By that time, Augustus’s influence had risen both among the crew and among the officers. Without mutiny or subversion, by the mere weight of his words accompanied by the stare of his completely white eyes, he reduced Captain Guy to the role of second mate, while assuming command of the ship and making me his first mate. This duty I took with gratitude and honor, anticipating the inevitable discovery we should make under his guidance.

We sailed further east, soon reaching the Kerguelen’s Land archipelago. The main island had pleasant hills, their tops covered with ice. Both Dirk and I were impatient to get ashore and explore them; in that, we were joined by Mr. Guy and his former mate with other three crewmen. On land, we intended to split: Peterson and I aimed for the snowy hills, while Mr. Guy and company were to head north, toward the lower, snowless hills and a valley with the promise of seals and other produce.

As we disembarked from the boat that took us to the shore, I noticed Mr. Guy holding a sealed bottle in his hand with a piece of paper inside.

“Do you intend to leave someone a message?” I inquired knowing full well what the answer would be.

“Indeed!” Mr. Guy exclaimed, his former mate moving behind him. “We rescued you from the embrace of death in the middle of the ocean, and you paid us back by grabbing the command of my ship! She is named after me, and your actions have no honor! People should know about this.” In anticipation of the journey to the white-covered mountain-tops, I was in no mood to argue.

“Go,” I told him simply, “leave your message in the bottle. But know that no one shall ever find it, no one shall ever read it—but yourself. But if you go, also know there will be no means for you to come back to this ship.” With foul oaths, Mr. Guy and his mate proclaimed their curses and moved away from our group into the valley that lay behind them.

What we found in the white-capped mountains was most gratifying, but we left, knowing our ultimate destination was beyond them, to the very south the ocean might reach. We came back to the ship, and Augustus ordered a boat full of gear and provisions to be left behind, where Mr Gay, his mate and a few others found their refuge from the fate that awaited those who stayed on ship. They, rumor has it, found rich grounds full of penguins, seals and other game and survived the stay.

After taking in enough provisions, we made a sharp turn to the west: Augustus said we must locate Auroras, the islands seen by some but not the others, for our ultimate destination goal may lie there.”

I must step back here again to explain the differences between the locations of the ship provided in Mr. Poe’s narrative and those given in this account. Clearly with a noble intent of not accusing Mr. Pym of mutiny and illegal ship seizure, Mr. Poe provided most enlightening and entertaining descriptions of the habits of Albatross and penguins but not of the motives that governed the actions of Mr. Pym and Mr. Barnard. I humbly venture to fill those gaps in the descriptions therein.

“Augustus selected the 57th parallel south, and said we must sail west along it, until such time that we could see Auroras. We duly set the course, and, with a favorable stiff wind, sometimes near a gale, we were steadily progressing westward. Alas, for almost three weeks we saw nothing, and the search for Auroras was for naught. We then continued due west; on the twenty-first day after leaving the Kerguelen Land we saw the smoke rising on the bow, south of our course. It looked as though it was a signal. Augustus gave the order to head to it, and as the twilight fell, we came to two small islands separated by three miles of water. The larger island had two mountains, and we were fortunate to find a basin on its northern side allowing for good anchorage. We spent the first night there.

 

The Tribe of White

The next morning the clouds cleared and the wind inside the basin was mild. I stepped on the deck of the schooner at dawn and was greeted by a most spectacular sight: bathed in rising mist near the shore which was tinged orange by the first sunlight, were two mountains, with an isthmus between them. The left one had a streak of black smoke coming from its very top, the slopes dark-brown, studded with big boulders and thin lines of white vapor rising from the open hot springs. The right mountain was crystal-white, covered with snow that began a hundred yards from the water, and then ran up to the very mountain-top, in heaps and ridges, forming the crevices and plateaus on the way. This looked like two distinct worlds combined in a single crucible, joined but separate. The rays of the rising sun painted the snowy mountain-top golden.

After the morning meal, it was decided to send a shore party to investigate the island and to see if we could use its fowl and game to our advantage. Augustus put me in charge of the party, and the six of us took the boat to the land, while leaving the remaining seven of the ship’s company on board.

As we approached the shore, we found that the mist was gathering above the stream that joined the sea in the middle of the crescent-shaped beach of the basin. We pulled the boat up the sandy shore near the stream, and I discovered that the stream’s water was pleasant to touch, being warm enough for one to bathe in it. As I learned during the later days, this was so because volcanic heat warmed a fresh-water spring at the bottom of the mountain. As we went upstream, we heard human voices and soon the mist parted, revealing a few lightly-clad women washing their cloths in the creek, surrounded by their children. The air was as warm as the creek’s water, no doubt helped by the warm soil of the volcano.

At our sight, they were startled and grew agitated, sending the children away. In short order, a group of men appeared walking downstream along the creek shore. The men carried short spears and bows slung across their backs. They approached us and studied silently. Finally, one of them, shorter, with fair skin and curly blond hair, said in broken English: “Who are you? Why are you here?”

I stepped forward and described our purpose. They listened attentively, and to my satisfaction, the man nodded, answering, “I comprehend. You must speak with Master.” To that, I bowed in assent, and, accompanied by the other men in the party, followed him upstream. Soon, the path led us into a narrow canyon, in places not wider than ten paces, carved by the creek in the volcanic mountain. Tall walls with multiple caverns rose around us, at times covering the sky completely, making for a perfect place to post men against unwelcome visitors. After a hundred yards or so, the walls opened into a wide area, a plateau, perchance three hundred by a thousand feet. The tall walls of the canyon completely surrounded it on all sides, creating a natural shelter from strong and cold westerlies. Likely because of the warm volcanic soil, the plateau was green with fields, trees and shrubs. The vegetation surrounded mud-brick dwellings that clustered at the plateau’s middle, along the running water. A few cows in a distant field and the thoughtfulness of the village design were most certain signs of communication to the outer world. There were a great many women and children, the former not altogether wanting in what might be termed personal beauty, the color of their skin differing from fairly white to near black.

We were led into the main square of the village, and asked to stand in front of a small hut, walls painted white with sparse streaks of red descending from the roof down. In short order, a white man in his fifties, his greying hair in the bun tied behind his head, stepped out and looked us over. Then, in almost unaccented English, he inquired:

“Have you been brought here by the westerlies after your ship was wrecked?” Surprised at such knowledge, as well as being apprehensive of our situation and our mission, I tried to converse with this man—unmistakably of European descent—in a most polite and circumlocutious manner.

“O gentle warrior, our ship is on a peaceful and most singular mission I wish but cannot name at this occasion. We are in need of provisions and rest, and can exchange some goods we have for your assistance.”

The man regarded me attentively, measuring me with his eye from head to foot. By that time, my skin had grown completely fair, with some white beginning to show at the roots of my hair. Then, the man gave me a curt nod, and spoke to the villager who escorted us here.

We were led to an area with a few long tables, where some people were sitting consuming their meals, and were offered food. We eagerly accepted as the strict and monotonous ship rations—dried beef and hard biscuits—were loved by none.

After the meal, our guide told us that we were allowed to trade our goods here, but must confine ourselves to the main square. I bowed with gratitude, and we took our leave returning to our ship with some provisions. No one escorted us, and as we went, curious children ran close, speaking an unknown tongue and touching the fabric of our clothing.

Upon returning on board the Jane Guy, I conveyed the results of our investigation to Augustus, receiving a thin smile in response. I was curious whether this island was the ultimate destination to which by now we both were drawn; when I asked, Augustus embraced me saying that I should have no need to ask if the destination is final when I see it.

The next day, most of the sailors left for the shore, carrying supplies of timber and metal tools for trade. They were led by Dirk, while Augustus and I stayed on the ship. Augustus stared attentively at the white mountain, while I felt responsible to see that no ill could befall him. We were close, but not the way we had been before; instead of the worldly adoration, we connected at some higher level that I was not able to grasp fully at that time.

As days passed, the trade expanded, and our ship provisions were replenished. No man of our crew save Augustus and I was willing to stay on board any longer. Many found their mates among the locals, and others found shore-side employment of their skills, appreciated by the villagers. I have realized Jane Guy had lost her crew—not to murder, but to the welcome, and that realization made my heart tremble, because if you could summon the courage to confront a villain, what could you summon to confront the one who meant you well? I spoke of that to Augustus, but he gave me no sign of being concerned, which only deepened my suspicion that something was amiss.

As I was in a habit of judging local culture by the way they maintain their cemeteries, one day I inquired of the local guide who was first assigned to us, how could I visit one of theirs. The guide wanted to avoid the topic, but seeing my insistence, finally agreed. He told me to come back the next morning, dressed in warm clothes.

When the next day came, the guide waited for me at the shore. I made fast my dinghy and we walked toward the island’s isthmus, toward the ice-covered mountain. Soon, we were walking upon the snow. In it, a narrow path was made, marked by scattered stones and protruding sticks. The path led upward, and before long, I was out of breath. With difficulty, by midday, we were walking at the very top of the mountain some thousands feet high. We stood at the edge of a dormant volcano with a crater at its centre, wholly devoid of volcanic activity and covered with the white snow. Its bottom lay a few hundred feet below the rim, and we went down. As we did, I saw the cemetery.

One would expect the living to stay above the ground, and the dead to be interred in it. But that expectation was completely foreign to the cemetery I observed; for the bodies of the dead were not buried, but remained atop, frozen, a thin layer of snow over them, and perfectly preserved with no predators in this desolation and no sunlight to reach and destroy them. The dead were in different postures: a warrior stood leaning on a spear, a red wound in his chest; some sat; some mothers who appeared to die in childbirth, held their dead newborns in their arms. Small plaques with the names and dates of death were placed on the ground by each frozen body, and it was clear that the dead were cared for as their clothing frequently was new and not decomposed by the elements. My heart raced as my thoughts struggled to comprehend the impossible situation around me. My interest to walk through the cemetery vanished, and I sat heavily on a boulder by its entrance. They had their dead, and they had let them go, and I was amazed to see them all so peaceful…

“The rite of burial is the most difficult one,” my guide said, looking at me being so shocked. “The family carries its dead here first. Then, they arrange the dead to look the way the family wants, and for this they stay long hours in the cold beside them. Later, the visits are required to make sure the dead stay as intended.”

I gestured to the path leading away, and began on my return. I had no words to express the feelings that overwhelmed me at that moment.

When I told Augustus about the cemetery, he lifted his eyebrows, and said simply: “Now, that you saw this, we must go.” I did not comprehend why, but in my heart I felt his insight was correct. I ran ashore to find our sailors, fearing for the outcome; I was justified in my fears, for none would agree to come aboard—save Dirk. He found a fine, plump lady for a wife who was as cheerful as she was heavy-handed; he had agreed to come aboard but only for a short time, as required to help Augustus and me to set sail and put off to whatever destination we had in mind. I was grateful for his assistance, for one must have at least two able seamen to set a sail on a schooner, in addition to the helmsman, for the heavy labor of the halyards and the weighing the anchor required more than a pair of hands.

As we departed the strange island, our hearts were stirred with the sight of not a few of our crew standing on the shore to wave us farewell. “I wish them a happy life,” I said with sadness in my heart.

“I hope they will not stand proudly in their cemetery too soon,” Augustus added, and as much as I understood the suspicions contained in his words, I denied myself the belief that this suspicion could possibly be true.

 

The Destination

We had set only jibs for lack of crew; as Dirk left us on our exit from the basin, the near-gale westerly wind, of which the island had protected us, resumed with full force, so even a fully-crewed ship would not have carried more sail for safety. Augustus steered dead south; we passed a few more islands to our starboard, replacing each other at the helm every four hours. Two days into the sailing, the winds subsided and we began to see great ice-islands appear at a distance, surrounding us. The snow fell quietly, white powder covering the ship and us. Augustus’s spirits rose, he looked around elated, as though anticipating a homecoming. I shared the feeling, but did not see what home could have been found in such high latitudes.

The air grew colder, and a day later, we could not stand a watch without covering both hands and face with heavy fur blankets we procured on the last island. The ice fields became more common, the wind was very light, and we appeared to move forward more with ice that surrounded us than by sail.

When we entered a long channel, formed by protruding ice-walls on both sides, Augustus disappeared. The ship at this time did not require tending as it was fast in the ice, being carried with inevitability forward. I searched all places of the ship—Augustus was gone. If he had fallen overboard by accident, as I feared, there was no way for me to find him now.

Meanwhile, as the ship progressed forward, the ice walls of the channel moved closer; one afternoon I saw blood-red waterfalls descending their slopes, painting the ice around them crimson. I stepped down below, anxious about my condition, for one would not expect to see such an extravagance. When I looked into a mirror, I found my hair had become completely white, similar to Augustus’s. Suddenly, I felt very calm. I ate some roasted chicken without feeling its taste, and climbed up, to the quarter-deck.

As I looked fore, I saw the ship was heading for an ice wall. I felt no fear, staring at it intently. When the bow was a hundred yards away, I saw a large section of the wall, dozens of feet tall, broke away from the rest. With a loud crack, it changed its shape, edges falling apart, and formed an inhumanly tall figure, too familiar to my eyes. As the figure lifted its head, it also spread the arms in an inviting gesture. Augustus’s face looked at me.”

 

Conclusion

As I heard Mr. Pym concluding his remarks, I found myself unable to move a single finger. The tavern by now was almost empty, few late souls looking down their jugs. Pym stood up, came to the entry door and flipped the light switch down. The luminescent lights went off, leaving the plastic table covers emitting a white-green light, illuminating faces of those remaining from below.

On his way home from school, Alyosha Vinogradov liked to think about what he’d become. The construction fence ran the whole way. Through the gaps you could watch the workers and the cranes. It’d be cool to operate one of those, but who knows — might not get lucky. It was strange for Alyosha to think that someday he’d grow up, and people would call him not just Lyoshka but Alexei Fyodorovich, and that he’d have kids — same as he was now. Right now, though, his nose was freezing in the autumn wind, and mama was waiting with lunch. Alyosha was hungry.

Alexei smirked remembering this, walking past the entrance of the nine-story block that crane had built. Today the day was his — clean as glass and clear. End of March, warm outside. Recent rains had washed the snow away and the chill crept under his black leather jacket, cinched with a wide brown leather belt. Puddles splashed cheerfully under his boot, and a hefty hatchet hanging from his belt knocked against his knee. Today was a special day. His heart felt light.

He didn’t like to fight. But in every school, wherever they moved, he became the class punching bag. Big kid, when they jumped him he’d shrink, cover his head with his arms, and wedge himself into a corner. Easy pickings for the ringleaders looking to prove themselves. When he came home with bruises, papa frowned, and mama looked away.

“What, couldn’t stand up for yourself again? You’re Russian!” Papa grunted. Mama put on compresses and kissed him, but he felt she was on papa’s side too.

He was walking past the Jewish center. The prickly, tall lattice fence looked like some Jewish candlestick. Right. Keep ’em behind it. Always. His phone buzzed.

“Yo how r u?”

“Walking. You?”

“All good. Waiting for you.”

Alexei shoved his phone in his pocket and picked up the pace. Their place was at the start of Obraztsova, and the stop near Savyolovskaya was about ten minutes’ walk.

When he got a bit older, mama signed him up for swimming, though papa wanted sambo. Swimming didn’t last long — they tried to hold him under, and the coach hinted to mama he should maybe try a different sport. He wanted sambo; that’s where papa took him. For a long time he was the throwing dummy; but he didn’t mind. Just didn’t want to look over to where his father sat, not watching him. But he stuck it out. The patience was noticed: the coach showed him a couple of moves, and he replayed them in his head on the way home and before sleep. Then the tall kid who’d been tossing him around just for laughs ended up on the mats, face down, himself. That was the first time he saw respect in the guys’ eyes. He liked it.

Alexei also liked his last name. Papa was born in Moldova, in a family of Russian settlers who got it, he said, from a priest back in the century before last. In some Suprasl manuscript he’d found that word — you can’t even pronounce it. A proper Russian surname, basically. That family had been in winemaking. And now he was on his way to prune the vine.

He reached the M-10 stop at the intersection of Butyrsky Val and Novoslobodskaya and leaned his shoulder against the dirty wall. Culture, said the sign on the dreary gray box of a building next to the stop; dickheads, thought Alexei.

Mama always fussed trying to sign him up for something. Drawing, music school, then English. Easier to blow it off than try — there was always someone better than him, and they always laid out for him what an idiot he was, even though he was a good boy — just look how well Kolenka does everything — try to be like that. He wanted to smack Kolenka in the forehead, but back then he was weak.

Smacking foreheads wasn’t allowed, but he wanted to. And papa said — a man’s got to know how to stand up for himself. Because those who are better have to let those who are worse know they’re better. With fists, if need be. Alexei smirked. He didn’t think of himself as mean or scrappy; he only hit back.

The bus pulled up. Fresh from the depot, clean as this morning, thought Alexei. Clean as the world he was riding to defend. Novoslobodskaya was framed by tall, stern-beautiful buildings of yellow brick. In the bus window the buildings slowly drifted back and barely changed as he passed the Butyrka hiding behind them. A historic treasure, they should show it to everyone.

His phone buzzed again. “U coming?” “By Butyrka.” “They won’t grab you?” “Me? Never.”

His heart warmed. How good it is when you’re — together with your country. When the ray of sun is for you. When the creak of leather clothes is power, and your axe on your belt isn’t just a symbol. Alexei smiled. He felt like doing something good, something that would show all of them, the Russian people, how kind he was and how glad they should be he was with them. He stood up and walked over to a group of older kids clustered by the back door.

“Done talking, yeah. You’re not alone here. Keep it down, clear?”

The older kids ducked their heads and started looking off to the sides. One of them, clearly Asian, spat at his feet before turning away.

“You, the fuck, watch yourself here, or I’ll send you back where you came from,” said Alexei, pinning the Asian to the floor with his stare. “Questions?” he asked, after a pause. Everyone was silent. Straightening his jacket, Alexei went back to his seat and sat down, confident, unhurried. The day was starting well.

Past Malaya Dmitrovka, the bus crossed the Boulevard Ring near Bolshaya Bronnaya. Alexei knew about the synagogue hiding behind the buildings and the trees.

We’ll get to you too, just give us the hour, he thought, and smiled.

Only at the Russian sambo school where he went in eighth grade did they start telling him the truth. Strength belongs to Russians, cunning to the Jews — or rather, the kikes. When he couldn’t do a test, they all copied off each other. To the lessons about what matters they always showed up half an hour late, and when patriotic events were held, most of them just called in sick. A growth on our people, foreign, harmful. His jaw clenched on its own.

But today is a bright day. Today’s the day for them to learn there are others around them too, that nobody needs their kippahs and matzos, and they need to be kept at a distance, behind the door. Simple idea, basically.

He’s not just riding to put them in their place; today is the day of Russian liberation. The day of the triumph of justice, humility, and strength. His day. Alexei adjusted his clothes.

Through Teatralny Passage, the bus came out onto Lubyanka Square. The bastards even destroyed a cultural monument — Dzerzhinsky was the first one who started bringing them to heel in the USSR. Lubyanka did good work, but they should’ve been more decisive. Being clean hurts, but being dirty is worse.

Mama and papa had started giving him looks the last couple of years. Even papa! Though it’s clear to everyone that Vinogradov is an honest, Russian name, and he’s got nothing to be ashamed of. The Russian nation had been drained, nearly destroyed by the Jew-Bolsheviks; even if we go a bit too far today, it’s worth it. Our Russian culture, kind and strong, will break through the filth, will rise from its sleep. His chest went warm again.

This black orgy had to be stopped. Their squad was one body — of thirty parts. Alexei walked light, it felt like he was flying a little, fierce and merry. Seeing them, the crowd began to thin, but by the tables with the stands there were plenty of people. The first blow was across the shoulders of some intellectual with a beard. The man choked, splashing wine on his chest and face. His broad ducked down hiding, covering her mouth with her hands. Her he only gave a kick in the ass. Then everything blurred. Samovars, bottles, pastries, glasses — his club was having the time of its life. Suddenly, the younger Jews organized and started fighting back.

Someone from the side threw a glass tumbler and it split his forehead open. Blood from the cut seeped down through his eyebrow and covered his eye. He stopped holding back. Best was to catch them on the neck below the back of the head: a person dropped like a log. But it didn’t always work, and more often he just hit wherever — head, solar plexus, anywhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the one who’d thrown the glass. Shoving apart a couple of fighters, he lunged for him. The man, a Jew, in a skullcap and with sidelocks, tried to run, but Alexei was trained. After a few steps, he reached him and yanked him down by the scruff. The man fell; Alexei flipped him on his back and raised the club for a good blow. And stopped.

“Uncle Pyotr?!” “What uncle am I to you,” the man on the asphalt wheezed back. “You piece of shit!”

“But you’re… You’re one of us, Russians. Where’d you get all… this?” Alyosha’s voice shook, his grip went slack.

“Little prick!” spat out Uncle Pyotr, and pushing Alyosha off, sat up, wiping his forehead. In Alexei’s pocket his phone chimed a text.

“Where do you think you came from?” Uncle Pyotr pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Glancing at Alyosha, he took another handkerchief from another pocket. “Need one?” Alexei pushed his hand away.

“Why are you here, uncle?”

“Because your papa is a coward, always was, and will die one.”

“My papa is Russian.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Alexei wanted to backhand him, but decided to wait.

“How’d you become a Jew? Turned Yid? Greased a palm? Or did they grease you?”

“You’re a fool. My papa was a Jew, my mama was a Jew, and their parents were Jews. Bessarabian. And your papa’s wife is a Jew too. From the next village over. In the fifties our parents changed their name to Vinogradov. Good choice from Weinburg. Tell them thanks for the happy childhood.”

Alexei backhanded him across the face. Open palm — felt better that way. Then, from the other side, while he was coming to — with the other hand. Uncle Pyotr lost consciousness and fell sideways, his head cracking against the asphalt. Someone grabbed Alexei by the sleeve.

“Done with your chat! Our time’s up! Time to go.” Sergei. Snarling, Alexei got up and jogged after him. A police detail was approaching, and they were forbidden to engage with them. Dropping the blood-streaked club into the pile in the park, he slipped out through the back gate and walked toward the bus. The day no longer seemed bright.

Rage swelled in his chest in waves. He was lying. It can’t be. But fear sat in his heart. His phone shrieked.

“Where’d you go? Kill anyone?”

“No. Shut the fuck up.”

“What’s got you down?”

Alexei closed the chat. The bus was going down Tverskaya, near building 15. He remembered how mama told him, when he was still a boy, how some couple had stepped out onto the balcony on the eighth floor, the one facing the street, and started propagandizing against the Soviet government. Suicides. Still couldn’t understand people like that. And couldn’t understand his Uncle Pyotr either. To betray everything like that!

Alexei folded his hands on his knees. His fingertips trembled, and there was a burning in his throat. Shouldn’t be too old for this yet.

He needed to ask his parents. His uncle’s words rang in his ears, and when he recalled them, he couldn’t get enough air. Alexei closed his eyes and breathed deep. The hatchet stuck out clumsily by his hip.

“Young man, one should give up one’s seat to the elderly,” Alexei heard a creaky voice and looked up. The speaker didn’t even look old — pushing sixty, in a ridiculous bowler hat. A black little beard and an unpleasantly curious gaze.

“Sit down,” said Alyosha coldly, and moved closer to the window. The man sat, placing a small old-fashioned valise on his knees.

“Thank you. You look like a true Russian patriot.”

“I’m Russian. That says it all — more than patriot.”

“How curious,” said the man with a nearly imperceptible foreign accent. “I once knew a man, and he was convinced that it was precisely his nation that boiled in his blood and made him… a little bit more than patriot.”

“You foreigners can’t understand. Only we can embrace everyone, as brothers. No one greater, no one lesser.”

“Oh yes. But just not those who think they are greater.” The bus was passing near Malaya Bronnaya. “Once there lived a poet; a funny fate: his killer was the first to mourn him. He was part of a nation that… mm… thinks it is better than everyone. And it was he who said ‘I am a screen.'”

“I don’t know your poets. I’m no screen. I know who I am.”

“But that surely simply cannot be,” the man replied and stood, intending to make his way to the exit. Alyosha shrugged and turned to the window. The pain in his chest grew stronger. The bus was passing opposite Butyrka.

Alyosha didn’t want to go home, but not going wasn’t an option either. He sat on a bench at the stop. A text came.

“Where’d you go? What’s the problem?”

“Nothing. Got slimed. Going to wash off.”

“Slimed? You punch him?”

“Did, but not enough. I’ll find out at home.”

“Stay cool”

The closer Alyosha got to the house, the heavier his legs became. When he entered the stairwell, he was almost certain Uncle Pyotr had lost it or been bought. Almost for sure. But he wanted to ask. Mama opened the door.

“How wonderful you’re so early! I made a special lunch, but I thought we’d have to eat it by ourselves.”

“You won’t have to.” Alexei hung the belt with the hatchet on the nail and took off his jacket. In the living room papa was already sitting at the table with a cigarette, buried in his tablet. On the table stood a porcelain holiday tureen with small triangular dumplings floating on the surface of the broth — mama had made her old Moldovan recipe.

“Ah, our hero. Come sit, right on time.” Papa nodded at a chair. Alexei sat. When mama came with his plate, he stopped her and looked her in the eyes.

“I ran into Uncle Pyotr today,” Alexei said darkly. Mama set his plate down and pressed her lips together.

“Yeah?” Papa looked up from his tablet. “And? How is he?”

“Fine. Was fine. I ran into him… at the Choral Synagogue.”

Mama sat down on a chair and looked sideways, at the wall. Papa set the tablet aside and looked at Alyosha attentively. “And? What next?”

“He told me that we’re—” Alyosha faltered and gave a short laugh — “Jews. He was lying, right? Liar.” Alyosha stared at papa and mechanically took the plate from mama’s hands. He was sure of the answer.

Father hesitated.

“Papa?…”

Father shifted slightly in his seat and looked away. Then, with a heavy sigh, he said:

“Yes. We’re Jews. Me and your mama both. It’s time we—”

He didn’t get to finish. Alexei, face gone red, leapt to his feet and hurled his plate into the tureen. The tureen exploded, scattering pelmeni across the table, broth splashing over the tablecloth.

“How! No! We’re not them! We can’t be them!” Alexei’s throat seized, and tears came to his eyes.

“You… you… you lied to me my whole life! My whole life! Parents like you should be— I won’t be the son of parents like you. You… you’re traitors!” Alexei tore out of the room into the hallway and ripped his hatchet off the wall. It was heavy and sat well in his hand. Alexei came back into the room.

Mama looked at him in terror, and papa stared at the floor. Alexei stood between them and raised the axe. It was very quiet. From the shoulder, with pain, with a scream and tears in his eyes, Alexei drove the axe into the middle of the table, splitting it in half, and ran out of the room. He stopped in the hallway, gasping, bent over, hands braced on his knees. A moment later he burst outside, slamming the Karelian-birch door behind him. Turning, he struck it with the axe. Once, then again, then a third time, splinters flew. He didn’t stop. He chopped the door like his life, in which nobody needed him and in which he no longer had a place. He chopped it like his thoughts about who he had become today. His home was no longer home; he himself was no longer himself, he was no one — worse than no one. Breathing heavily, rasping, he kept chopping. Neighbors came out of their apartments to watch, but no one called the police.

When nothing was left of the door but splinters and the frame, Alyosha stopped and dropped the axe on the concrete steps. Bouncing, ringing, the axe tumbled down. Alyosha sat, breathing hard. He wasn’t crying anymore; the tears were smeared across red cheeks. He hated himself, and he knew that his life, which he had found with such effort, which hadn’t even properly begun yet, was over.

The phone buzzed again, and Alyosha took it out of his pocket.

“Alive?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m with you.”