Dreams Of The End

Dreams Of The End(Rob Cangelosi) He dreams of the end. As inevitable as time. As unprovoked as the sun setting. Everything ends eventually. But some things sooner than others. What could have provoked such a premature death? And what is it? Could death be silence, could death be deafening? It could be anything. Or nothing. But in any case it is most assuredly frightening.

He looks over the railings of the ship at the ice. An inhospitable expanse that stretches thousands of miles which offers a pale sense of refuge from the inhospitable rest of the world. If one was to behold a sight like that, looking back should be easy. But he suppresses the urge and continues to stare almost seeming idle, deep in thought.
"What are you doing on deck at this hour?" He turns to see the figure of a well-dressed man standing nearby. It’s the ship’s captain. He straightens his slouched back and tries to look composed - he was not quite fully awake. "Just felt like an early stroll," he replies with a half-yawn, half-sigh. "There were seagulls making a racket. They woke me early so I thought I'd get some air." He begins to feel a bit like he's being questioned, he's intimidated by the captain not because he has station over him out in the Antarctic, but he can be a pretty intimidating man. The captain maintains eye contact for a few moments, a stern look on his face. "Very well." He says and turns to walk towards the bow of the ship.
OK, stay calm, he thought to himself, I came here to forget the world and all my troubles so that's exactly what I'm going to do. He reaches into the pocket of his beige trench coat and pulls out a scrunched up piece of paper. He unscrunches it and irons it out between his palms. Tell me what you've learned. He'd written it just days before the trip. He wasn't sure what it was - a passing thought taken note of perhaps, or a one-line poem - he doesn't quite know, he hasn't decided yet but he scrunches the paper up again and puts it back in his pocket. He’s tired of the sentiment but isn't committed to the idea of throwing it away. He makes his way back to his cabin and sets himself down on his bed. He looks around the room at all his possessions. Of course, on a trip of this nature they're not as much possessions as they are provisions. It's all very mundane. He looks at his table; he takes stock of the things on his table. There's a globe and a nautical map, a compass and a notebook. His notebook accompanies him wherever he goes. It's very much his journal but it reads more like an account of his daily activities as whenever he tries to express himself he immediately crosses it out leaving him with whatever he spends his time doing. There are only so many words in language to describe a feeling of emptiness and every attempt is a unique challenge to his creativity. His journal, and it is a journal, is his only companion and he was unable to leave it behind. It's an expansion to his life - a window from which he peers - to view whatever he chooses. It's reliable. Trustworthy. But who cares about such things? He wants to find something.

He walks along the narrow corridor connecting the mess hall to the galley and down a staircase. He isn't terribly sure where he is going but he isn't in the most rational of moods, besides he knows where he's leaving and that's good enough for him. He turns the corner and goes down another staircase and then another.
As if he's not lost enough already he tempts fate and briskly walks down a long corridor and without looking back he goes through a door. He shuts the door behind him, the heavy iron clanging as it hits the door frame. His back firmly against the door, he shuts his eyes and sinks to the floor.
"What must a man be... a beast like all the rest..." Hearing a rough but pleasing voice he opens his eyes. He is not alone as he thought. "Indeed my gentle ways... they will not tame your breast... a life as harsh as you, my own fate and me..." He gets to his feet and moves closer. There's the sound of broom sweeping getting louder as he approaches. Deep in the bowels of the ship now and the room is dimly lit. The room is stiflingly hot and the enormous boilers are humming ravenously. He moves around one of the boilers and a man comes into view. He appears short but stocky, broad shoulders and magnificent facial hair - pubes Du visage - and his movements spirited but his physical demeanour lack luster, upright yet somehow askew, as though aggressively pretending to enjoy not being happy. He stands still for a moment listening to this rugged man as he sings vehemently. "Although I am wind of you... your presence still plays its part... ever since your warmth took care of me... and mothered my orphaned heart... a life as cruel as you, my own fate and me."
The man doesn't notice him and continues to sweep. He continues to linger unsure how to approach this man. He begins to feel somewhat embarrassed. Should I go back the way I came before he notices me? His shoulders are raised defensively. He decides to seek the solitude of his cabin. As he turns to leave the man catches a glimpse of him in the corner of his eye and stops sweeping to look up at him. Their eyes meet tentatively. His legs stop him cold, caught by the steely brace of apprehension. "Cannae help yee lad?" Much to his relief these bald words break much of the discomfort. "I... I don't mean to intrude," he says impartially. "I'm a little lost." He doesn't know which part of the ship he should say he's looking for; it would seem a strange notion to explain the lack of rationale that lead him to the boiler room. "Well yer certainly picked a fine place to get lost, that much I can tell yee." The man switches arms and restarts sweeping. "Yer in the ships very lung. From the sound of yer I'd say yer want the bridge." He doesn't quite know what to make of this. "What exactly do you mean?" The man chuckles to himself. "I mean no offence, laddie. Along the corridor and up the stairs." He's suddenly aware of his body language and lowers his shoulders. He clears his throat and tries to look composed - like a gentleman should. "Thank you."
He turns away and starts towards the door but then he stops. "If you don't mind, what was that song you were singing?" The man looks up from his sweeping and gives a taut smile. "The Orphaned Heart. It'sa ballad aboot the bonds of love," he continues, "He is a gentleman to the bone. Cares for her ev'ry whim 'n fancy. ‘Til one day she meets a brawler. A flightless bird. She is as fickle as she is pretty and she leaves him for the rival suitor. Utterly heart-torn, he pledges his undying love and vows to wait a slow eternity for her return," he furrows his brows and reflects wistfully, "A life as harsh as you, my own fate and me."
"Were they married?" He inquires.
"It isnae clear. I'd guess they were seen his gentle ways. I can tell yee married life changes a man." He's intrigued. "Are you married?"
"I am indeed," the man says brightly. "Three little sprogs at home. And yee?"
"I've never married."
"Ay, ‘tis a shame, young buckler such as yerself. Yer'll find someone never yer mind."
"Yes, well... that's the plan." The man chuckles the same way he did before. "The name's Willard. Welcome aboard."
He extends his arm to shake hands and permits himself a polite smile. "George. She's a fine vessel." Though the heat is suffocating. "Ay, that she is, that she is. The old girl has paid her dues. She's seen a lot of ocean - and served eighteen captains. She's been suffering the past few voyages, though. Problems in the rudder lines and pipe work. The groans of the Magdalena, a ship that's grown fatigued. This could well be her last." George haphazardly sighs and instantly regrets it. "Ah dinnae worry, lad. Everything has its ending. Best not to get too attached."
"No, it's not that." He begins to wonder why he sighed. He didn't mean to, it just came out. Willard's look of curious concern prompts him to elaborate. "It's nothing... but... have you ever had somebody out to get you, Willard?" Willard ponders the question for a moment. "I've had my share of trouble, yes. I've gotten myself anta a fair few tavern brawls in my time. What's the matter? Is someone after yer neck?" He's reluctant to say anything. He doesn't want to risk Willard siding against him so he chooses his words carefully. "It's really nothing. Do you think that certain members of the crew act too much above you? Like they're too important for you?"
"No need to act coy with me, laddie. I'm pretty thick-skinned. Now what has yee vexed?"
"I'm talking about the captain. He looks at me like I've killed his mother." Willard nods empathetically. "Ay, lad. He's a stubborn one that's fer sure. Not even amnesia could change that part of him. The sea is unkind to gentlefolk, as he once was. It teaches yee lessons yer never forget. Now he respects only the loyal. Keep my head down and sweep the floors - that's how I get by." George contemplates this. It struck him that there may be no way round Captain Brockheimer's iron will. "Stubborn? I've never met someone so uncompromising in all my life. He's determined to make this journey as hellish as possible."
"My advice ta yee is ta steer well clear of hem. If yee find the opportunity ta fight him yer'll be fighting fer the rest of the journey - and it will make hem more determined. Yer don't wannae escalate things. Not out here where the waters swoon over frosty Death. Yee hearing me, laddie?" George gets the feeling that he'd crossed a line, but he was curious. "What do you mean by swoon over frosty Death?" It wasn't a terribly good question to ask, but the only question he felt he could possibly ask all the same. "The seas are fraught with anger. Any man who puts hemself at the mercy of her moods bears the responsibility ta work in unison weth hes’ shipmates - and ta obey hes captain. Captain Brockheimer has sailed enough times ta understand that and if yee have quarrels ta take up weth hem it's best yer not challenge hes authority." He begins to feel weak and slightly animal-like, his perception staggering and becoming obscured by trivial thoughts. This often occurred whenever he spoke his mind untowardly. He is a lone wolf cub abandoned by his litter. George Klum: the lone wolf cub. He scrambles to reclaim his sense and sputters, "Of course. It's not my place to question such things." Willard stops sweeping and lays his broom down. "He is a seasoned sailor, but no gent. Yee don't wannae lock horns weth that fella. He'll have yer guts fer garters. Dinnae mar yer conscience weth hem, yer'll be all the better fer it." And with that, Willard takes his leave of the boiler room and the conversation.

George grew up at his mother's knee in the industrial smog of the city of Liverpool. Growing up was a challenge he dared himself to accept, on the plumbish terraced street where he lived. The ethereal winters and racy summers were the backdrop to his wanderlust reveries and the faculties of living, his daily labours. His uncle worked the shipyard close by his school and he would pay him a visit after school to hear stories from the high seas and learn about shipbuilding, welding and sailing. The stories would enchant him and he was always eager for the school day to end so he could hear more about the adventures that could be had out to sea. As his life progressed and he became more aware of the ways of the world, he became more aware of the dangers as well as mystified by the excitement. He once asked his uncle whether it made him afraid, going out to sea. To which his uncle smiled and replied, "The day you fear death is the day you stop living." George often reflected on these words and pondered whether fear of death breeds a fear of living. It was around this time he started to wonder how he would find a place for himself in the world. He found it unceasingly difficult to concentrate at school and he spent most of his time daydreaming and thinking about long voyages across vast oceans. He was becoming more and more confident that his place was somewhere out on the waves.
The thing about being middle class is you're either halfway rich or halfway poor. George was uncertain about which he was. His peers were from working class backgrounds where he stood out for his more eloquent tongue and dignified posture, but when he returned home to huddle around the stove for warmth he wondered where his identity would fit in. At least by this time he had a clear picture of what his destiny might be.

At some ungodly hour, he wakes to a tempest of yawns and sighs. He always aims to wake up at dawn to escape his dreaming by throwing himself into his duties. And when he’s done with his duties he’ll escape the monotony of the day by sleeping. It’s a never-ending pursuit of something more to life which is nullified by the trap of conforming to the rules. He seeks to distinguish himself from the cohorts but without his duties he would be in a living nightmare. Tonight and the two nights prior, he'd awoke in the early hours just before sunrise. To him this still counts as nighttime as it is before the rigmaroles of the morning had begun. He rises from his bed, puts on his clothes and sits down at his table. He opens his notebook to a fresh page. February 12th, 1903. Dreamt of the dog again tonight. His name is Green Gables. He puts his quill down and sits in deep thought for a few minutes. He still can't make any sense of the dream. He shivers with cold. He puts on his overcoat to fortify himself and picks up his quill. In a new paragraph he writes: Don't go dreaming of strange dogs. No, I wouldn't dream of it.
He closes his notebook and sits still. He needs some time to re-adjust to reality. But he’s starting to become restless. Stay still for too long and the mind will amputate the limb and you will become useless. Your thoughts can wander but they will take you nowhere. He stands up straight and grabs his trench coat on his way out the door.
He walks the deck at a relaxed pace occasionally looking out at the ice. What a spectacle for something so mundane as a mass of frozen water. It looks all so straightforward and uninviting but by all means it has plenty to hide. Plenty to explore and put to the test. You could travel miles across this vast expanse and come across a lot. Though often you might not know it. Hidden murder holes of long plummets to your unwitting death masked only by a thin bridge of ice, caverns and sheaths, all manner of peculiar ice structures. Glaciers and underground rivers. This is a place holding much mystery.
The wind is blowing something fierce. He stands at his spot by the railings and glances out over the ice. The ship is moving in a Westerly direction at a steady speed. The wind is blowing against the direction of the ship. There’s something about the way the wind is blowing that makes him think again of the dream he had. A familiar pang of the cold wind he felt against his body when he was sprinting down the street. He was finished thinking about it - no sense there was in ruminating on it - in a desperate bid to distract himself he reaches in to his pocket and pulls out the scrunched up piece of paper. Tell me what you've learned. The words make absolutely no impact on him; he doesn't even read it properly. Instead he looks out at the ice again, his mind blank. Then a sudden gust of wind blows the piece of paper out of his hands. He tries to grab the paper but it’s too late and the ocean has claimed it for its own. He watched as the paper gyrated in the wind and fell into the freezing water. He leans over the railings for a better view. But it is gone. He’s not concerned; he could easily write it out again if he wanted to. In the corner of his eye he notices movement and looks over to see what it is. It’s the captain. As if right on cue the captain’s walking along the deck towards him. He stands up straight and tries to look composed and watched the captain approach. He looks just as stern as when he left him before. The captain approaches, "you shouldn't be on deck at this hour," his thick Germanic accent refuses to hide his annoyance. "Tell me, George, what is your fascination with not being where you are supposed to be?" George is taken aback. Does he hold routine that dearly? Must everything always be in its right place? He struggles with the concept. "My apologies, captain. I'm an uneasy sleeper at sea. It's not my intention to cause an upset." Captain Brockheimer puts his foot down, not one to draw his wishes in the sand. "You would do well to stay in your quarters whilst off-duty. Every crew member is to behave in a manner that his captain is accustomed to. Please do not test my patience again." Captain Brockheimer pushes on towards the bow of the ship.
George's vision is quixotic so to speak, he has a meaningful urge to tend to this unhealable rift. But deep down he knows that the facets of the world don't weld together easily. There is just as much meaning in discord than in harmony, so one might argue. He knows it isn't his place to challenge such things; he is not nearly headstrong enough. Every attempt at playing the peacemaker in the past would arrive at his opposition snorting at his objections, regarding him as a lowly dog, and in a phrase catching him out with something untenable to which he was rendered powerless to maintain his stance. He would then retreat before it became personal - tact was not his strongpoint but he was no fool. Too often people cheat at the game of life.
He doesn't want to linger. It makes him feel like a scoundrel, besides it’s much too cold up on deck. He wonders where the captain is heading. What does such a seasoned sailor do with his time? This could be an opportunity for an insight into the workings of a merchant ship. The captain has some ground on him; this is an advantage as he doesn't want Captain Brockheimer to know that he is following him. He follows him to the bow, one deck below the bridge, and goes down a staircase leading to the front most section of the ship. He’s heading towards a ladder that goes down into what must be the cargo hold. He stops. George ducks behind a vent as the captain looks about him. He begins to feel the charmless and seemingly inescapable feeling that he is a scoundrel, undermining the captain, yet he’s curious - this is odd behaviour. Satisfied that no-one’s around, the captain lowers himself onto the ladder and starts to descend. George is now hesitant to follow. He has to make a decision as to whether he’s going to proceed. Curiosity killed the cat, he thinks to himself. He looks at the ladder with some mild consternation. But the cat killed curiosity first. And he bravely descends the ladder himself.
Once he reaches the bottom he is unsure where the captain has gone. The ladder is in the middle of a passageway, there are two directions he could've headed - left or right. The walls are damp and the passageway isn't well lit, it is fairly narrow. The metallic rust and dour sulphuric smell gives it an atmosphere of untamed mystery, an unchartered iron gauntlet, a place he has not before discovered. The cargo hold is off-limits. The captain would have his own men do the loading and unloading when ashore, and he certainly doesn't want anything to go missing, he is well aware of how subpar the pay was aboard the Magdalena. As a matter of caution, he will not let anyone within crawling distance of the freight. George hears a door slamming shut. It sounded like it was off to his left so he goes in that direction. He walks carefully, trying to silence his footsteps as he goes. His worn-down shoes are awkward on the metal floor and he’s not used to sneaking about. It is round a corner veering off to the right that he finds the door. He doesn’t know what is on the other side of the door so he is resisting the idea of opening it without giving some thought to it first. What if he opens the door to find Captain Brockheimer on the other side, alerted to his presence? He doesn't want to risk that happening. He looks for something that could give him some idea of what was going on on the other side, perhaps a vent or something of the like, but nothing is to be given away. He thinks back to the times when he went to see his uncle at the shipyard throughout his adolescence; he had learned a thing or two about the way they built ships like this. There is always more than one way into the cargo hold. The fact that the passageway was narrow bore an indication that this passageway is meant only for crew members such as the captain to inspect his consignments. If he was to find the way that the smaller cargo items were brought in by foot he would be rewarded with another way in to the hold - a way in without giving himself away to the captain. He moves away from the door and goes back the way he came. He passes the ladder and continues down the passageway to the other end. On the other end he is met with a corner that strays off to the left and at the end of it there is a door. He opens the door and there is a staircase that would lead him further down into the ship. He closes the door behind him and descends the staircase. After some path finding he finds a wide corridor which he thinks must be what he’s looking for. At the end of this corridor there is another door. He's managed to stay orientated enough to know there is a very good chance that this will lead him into the cargo hold. Slowly, he opens the door.