Chapter 11
Journey

Growing increasingly uneasy with his surroundings, Michio realized that he must travel away from his home if he was to have any peace of mind again. The winter was not a harsh one, yet the air held in it a chill that seemed capable of suspending everything in mid-air, a breathless space of buds awaiting their opportunity to burst forth in the spring. He was well-satisfied with the progress Yukiko had made, and there was no question of her competence to take over the shop; with the continued failure of his many stories, he had no more reason to stay in this place that had such an inconsistent relationship with him and his work.

There was no question that his mind was beginning to suffer from being so long without a close friend or any other form of companionship, resulting in his lapses from reality; they had not become more severe, but he was filled with a sense of discontent over the problems of perception that he experienced. Yukiko was gracious enough, but her brusque and professional manner left little room for any sort of true friendship or intimate conversation; she was too preoccupied with her own rising prospects to consider Michio with anything more than a distant respect. It was for this reason, too, that he wished to find different environs, one in which he might meet new faces to ignite his imagination afresh.

He had thought of simply traveling throughout Japan, but this idea did not excite him either. He had, in his youth, gone on a tour of the islands, and had experienced a taste of the society of Tokyo and Osaka, but their comparative gaudiness did not suit him. There was little to be found in any of these cities that could compare with his imagination of how the West might be, in all of its vast and wonderful strangeness. His wardrobe as much as his library showed him to be somewhat of an admirer of Western culture, but his direct knowledge of it was naught, having never had the time to travel either to England or America, the two bastions of Occidental influence. All of the Meiji period had been informed by a new international consciousness that had conflicted strongly with Japan’s isolationist traditions, and it was necessary to adapt or perish in the new order that had arisen; he liked to think of himself as a fine representative of the amalgam of the two: a native Japanese man who appreciated his own history yet acknowledged the importance and relevance of the Western viewpoint in comparison to his own. Still, it was hard to say whether or not his adoption of the fashions of both thought and dress from other nations ultimately had any bearing on his understanding of the other culture. Better to be an informed gentleman than a poseur by all accounts. It was only a question of how he was to arrive there that plagued him.

He knew that ships left regularly for America, and his papers were already in order. The obstacles to his travel were few, and those that did exist were essentially in his own mind. There was a degree of fear, for the experience of a new way of life was always marked with a certain amount of inevitable nervousness; would he become successful in the new land, or have to return home humbled and defeated? Also, he felt a hint of unwillingness to leave behind all that he had known, and venture out into the wide world without any track before him to follow. Yet it was also an exciting prospect, more so than any other which he had found at home. It was true, there was no limit to what he might encounter if he offered himself up to the fates.

A few days passed before it was decided. He could not wait any longer in the tense, wintry air for another opportunity to present itself. Michio prepared a suitcase containing several European suits, his favored antique clock, and implements for writing. He had resolved that he would keep a travelogue of his experience, hoping to help himself make sense of the circumstances he would find himself in, and perhaps to publish it one day if anything interesting came of it. Deciding to leave the next day, after he had bought a ticket, he went down to the docks in the evening to figure out how to make the trip.

The docks were an impressive site by day, the wharf swarming with activity and the many businesses which had grown up around them hawking an incredible selection of imported wares. The restaurants, the inns, the taverns and brothels: all were jammed together in a farrago that defied all analysis, yet still managed to compel the hundreds of passersby to stop in and make their purchases, whatever the product. By night, however, the landscape was radically changed. The buildings were arranged in an intriguing pattern that seemed more like a set of interlocking vines than any form of human architecture. Seen from afar, a hundred tiny flames created a glittering network among the sailing ships and dockside establishments that appeared as hazy motes of light among the forest of masts.

There were several ships that made voyages across the Pacific. Once Michio had arrived, it was difficult to determine which one to choose for his voyage. He could only pick on the basis of impression, for he had no knowledge of which sailors were treated as reputable. He had tried inquiring at the pubs, but it seemed that of all the owners and patrons had a favorite, and not a single one could agree on who was to be trusted. Perhaps it was best to rely on his intuition; he believed strongly that if something were meant to happen, it would, and that there was something to be learned from every experience. He looked carefully among the stream of people to see who was a promising candidate to instruct him in the correct ship to choose.

Abruptly, he noticed a man who was wearing a very formal Western suit even as Michio had packed in his suitcase, but there was something particularly strange about him that could not be identified.

“Excuse me, but may I ask where you come from?”

The man stopped, clearly discomfited from the asking of such a question. “America,” he answered shortly. “San Francisco, to be precise.”

“And what do you do?”

“I am a bank teller.” The paleness of his skin made him seem almost translucent in the light of the glowing torches. “I would advise you to seek out Woodrow.”

“What?”

“You must pardon me, I’m very busy,” he said, and he brushed past Michio into the depths of the crowd.

Had the man heard from the drinkers that he was looking for a sea captain? It was absurd that someone should have made a point of telling him that a stranger had sought for someone willing to travel to America, even if travelers from that place were not uncommon and they would presumably have knowledge of those captains willing to travel there. Still, it was much more usual that people in his position would simply buy the cheapest steamer ticket and think no more of it. Michio simply took a different type of care with his arrangements, even if the huge vessels did not afford much contact with the captain for individual passengers. It was a question of with whom he wished to entrust his life, and there was no doubt that he wished to have the utmost confidence in the vessel’s navigation.

There was now the matter of finding out who Woodrow was, and if he was indeed the correct choice for this trip. He asked a few more passersby to direct him towards this captain, and it was said that he piloted the largest steamship, called Hephaestus, and could be found at the end of the most distant pier. Coming there as quickly as he could, Michio saw the vessel first: an enormous steamship with room for some three or four hundred people over the top of the vast boilers within its infernal engine. There was no question that this was the ship, for it was nearly twice as capacious as all the others he had seen. Noting a man standing out at the front of it, he approached and asked if he might speak with Captain Woodrow.

“I am he,” the man replied. He held himself with a lofty bearing, proud and tall as the ship he commanded. “What would you ask of me?”

“How many times have you made this voyage?”

“Once for each of the lights you see about you here, each of which is a soul in your reckoning, as I understand it.”

“And have you lost any man?”

“None, save those that abandoned ship in madness, or else tired of the life at sea and departed forever to their heart’s unrest, such that they lost themselves after a fashion.”

“I would be honored to travel onboard your vessel.”

“I thank you,” he replied, and ascended to his ship solemnly.

Not only a captain, but a philosopher! This promised to be an interesting way to travel indeed.

The next day, Michio arrived with his suitcase and was greeted by a porter who graciously hoisted it onboard. Although he had bought only a second-class ticket, the crew was clearly in a generous mood for some reason. He did not object to this kindly treatment by any stretch of the imagination. Entering the ship, he looked for his berth, and settled down on the small cot for a moment before rising again to look about on deck.

The steam whistle blew plaintively, and the journey was underway amidst a host of cries from the crew. It took some time for the acceleration of the propeller, but soon enough it was spinning, and the shoreline started to recede from view. Inspired by a sudden whim, he waved to a woman shore who had met his gaze, before suddenly realizing that it was Yukiko. He had told her of his plan to leave, but had not expected to be seen off by her. She smiled slightly and turned back to the land.

Momentarily, Michio felt more adrift than he ever had before in his life. Nevertheless, this quickly subsided and he began to enjoy the sea breeze and bright sun which tinted the wave tops with a swiftly flickering light. Perhaps this voyage would truly provide the freedom that he had longed to attain, an existence apart from the wishes of all that had expectations for his life.

From time to time, Michio would peer up to the cabin and examine the captain’s contemplative visage in the window, assured that he was well in charge of the business of keeping the ship on course. The ocean itself was very cooperative, not creating any discernable difficulties for the crew in its lulling calmness, the waves rising and falling softly like a litany recited in the hush of a monastery high on the mount. At once, the piercing azure sky seemed to surround him like a blanket draped about the shoulders, a comfort and an overwhelming burden. Surprised, he almost fled to his room for a moment before he realized the absurdity of what he was doing and settled down again. It was clear that his mind was not entirely free from being preyed upon by anxiety, and he would be advised to take things with a more relaxed mentality.

The boat had many other passengers, but the majority were quiet and seemed to dress day after day in graying suits and dresses; both the Japanese and Americans were clad in similarly drab attire which took on the vague appearance of clouds or excess steam from the engine, given to displaying the same hazy indifference to the eye. It was not hard to imagine, then, that among these assembled wisps of people none stepped forward from the masses to greet him, he who appeared so vivid by comparison, As time went on, it seemed that their skin, too, was colored gray, and that their entire presence was a sketch in charcoal. He made no attempt to speak to them, for their frightened him in their uniformity and seemed out of his reach, as if their world were a separate realm in which he had no place.

Days passed in a sort of fog, in which Michio had no concept of how much time had elapsed or where he was at any given moment. The dining aboard ship was utilitarian yet satisfying; he had no desire to enjoy the decadent pampering of a first-class passenger in any case, and the ship was not equipped to provide many of the extra amenities such people imagined they needed.

Increasingly, he looked to the captain for company, despite the fact that the man was very busy indeed. There was virtually no one else with whom he could speak, and the captain provided a ready source of intelligent and varied conversation. The two talked often of the classics of Western and Eastern literature, for they were educated in both and had much to say on these topics. Between the pair, a world emerged from the constant interchange of ideas until it was as if they were no longer on the ocean, but instead in a vast library of widespread renown wherein the masterworks of many nations were held, such that they could pick out any volume and discuss its merits. Within this veritable Alexandria of locales, they possessed eidetic memories and need not even consult the texts in order to determine the sources for their arguments, being held in a sort of philosophical rapture by the dream.

Each time, when at last the captain could no longer be monopolized thus, Michio said his farewell and returned to the deck. He felt as though he had enjoyed the reading of a good book whenever he spoke with him at length. Things were beginning to look up, he thought, and he turned his attention once again to writing, trying to rekindle his zeal to work.

Yet when he tried to set pen to paper, he discovered that even more than before, he was prevented by a sense of being too little inspired to write. On some new pretext each time, he defected to reading or meditation instead of his chosen task. He had felt so invigorated intellectually, however, that this made no sense to him. Should the pen not fly across the page, with all the fleeting ideas he sought to capture before they disappeared on the sea breeze?

Subtly at first, then gradually more obviously, Michio became aware of the vibration of the ship; a consistent pulsing that filled the walls and made them quiver at a touch. The structure was not unsound, but he had no idea where the motion could be coming from. He stood paralyzed for a harrowing second while he considered the possibility of the entire ship shaking loose at its seams, but once again realized the ridiculousness of his fear and set to thinking once again.

Of course! The engine was the source of the inexplicable movement. For a time, he had forgotten that he was on a ship, and in his distracted state, he had started to fear what was in reality a perfectly normal side effect of this type of locomotion. Indeed, without it, the vessel could not move at all, being constrained as it were by the size of the fire that rested inside it and the motion of its steel pistons. He imagined the gigantic burning engine, a manifestation of the chariot of Helios arcing past in its unerring path across the firmament. Such an emanation must infallibly carry him forth to the destination, for what other choice did it have?

He thought once again of the mythology of America as he had known it. It was a land, as he knew, that often utterly devoured the naive, for it promised much yet granted no quarter to those who were not shrewd and versed in its ways. Michio’s dream of success there was likely unwarranted, and he knew this. Still, he was well supplied back at home, and did not fear of a comfortable return should he once again be forced to move on by circumstances. For better or worse, nothing could deter him from the course he had chosen.

Michio spent the better part of his days in such contemplation, circular and incessant until he was like to drive himself mad from the sheer repetitiveness of his thoughts. There was no way to know what was coming, so he would simply have to wait and become the passive recipient of destiny if that was what was required of him at this point by the deities which guided his hand.

At the least, he did not want for outside contact to inform his choices. He had told the captain about his plan in one of their many discussions.

“You wish to write for the American periodicals?” asked the captain.

“Do you think it will work?” Michio responded solicitously.

He paused a long time. “I could not say. The press is fickle. But your English is excellent, and it may be that a fresh outside perspective could prove appealing to the public. Still, I fear that they may not be as welcoming as you may hope.”

There was as much uncertainty as promise in the new land, and he was anxious to arrive so that all these theories might be put to the test. Despite his confidence, a sense of foreboding wrapped around him and held him in its grasp, not letting go until he acknowledged its presence and was sufficiently disquieted by it. It was as though he were a small animal already in the jaws of some voracious and predatory fate, and could do nothing to escape the inevitable except lie silent and still.

The voyage continued with an almost preternatural stillness. Michio had a suspicion, in fact, that his perception was actually slowing down, as the progress seemed to have nearly halted and each interminable day the silent gray host seemed more forbidding and distant. More and more, he thought about the engine below him, until it became an object of near-obsession. He would imagine at length the ways in which it might fail; perhaps the coal-shovelers would become delinquent in their duties, and the mechanism would lapse into quiescence and be impossible to start again; perhaps it would be allowed to overheat and explode, turning the entire hull into shrapnel and flinging forth the passengers into the unending brine where they would sink tracelessly and be consumed at leisure by the brooding creatures of the deep. What legendary beasts might lurk undiscovered in the waters of the Pacific, biding their time only to surface and devour the unsuspecting burden of the steamships? Scylla of the slavering dog-heads, perhaps, or the Kraken’s insatiable tentacles would reach up, up, ready and waiting to quench their hunger with the tender bodies of the humans onboard.

As the days wore on, the sky grew clouded and assumed much the same gray aspect as the people aboard ship. By now, everything within the compass of his eye was the same neutral color, being deprived of animation by some sinister omnipresence that strove to destroy his ability to ever see another hue. He was still attempting to write, but the degradation of Michio’s sanity seemed imminent; the thinnest net served to catch him before his descent into madness, formed of a bond of words between him and the captain. The latter had become worried about the state of his mind, and frequently asked if he should not take more time to relax rather than trying to forcibly extract a narrative out of his unwilling pen and paper. Yet the devotion, however unwise it might have seemed, was too strong to be removed and grew in dimension, taking on its own existence like a great parasite preparing to consume its host.

The passage of time slowed to an utter crawl. Michio grew sick and could not bear to look at the waters, becoming nauseous at the very thought; he crept back to his cabin in disgust. The light took on a distressing quality that made the gray world seem a mere conceit of his fevered mind, and the world palpitated incessantly with the motion of the engine which he was convinced was preparing to explode, rending his body into a thousand pieces.

Delirious, he lurched out into the hallway and determined to reach the captain and demand that the engine be examined thoroughly. His limbs were heavy and exhausting to lift, weighed down by the molten lead which now flooded his veins and burned his skin from the interior. His hand still clutched the pen which he had seized in a desperate attempt at normalcy, and the knuckles had turned white from the force with which he gripped it.

Limping painfully down to the boiler room through the open door on the deck, he heard a number of voices shouting as though it came from afar. The ominous glow which emanated from the boilers could mean only one thing. He cried out and tried to approach, but it was clear he would be useless and he soon relented.

Yet where was the captain in all this chaos? The passengers on deck had all stopped moving entirely and seemed unaware that any trouble was occurring. Among the men in the boiler room, he had seen all the shipmates but the captain, who must have remained at his post. Had no one gone to inform him? Surely, something must be done!

Willing his tired legs once again to hasten, Michio climbed out of the boiler room and headed for the second level, where he knew the captain was stationed. He made it only as far as the door that opened on the stairwell leading to the captain’s quarters when all movement suddenly stopped and an impossible silence fastened itself like a clamp upon his ears, stopping the hum of the violently shaking engine and blocking out all sound. The gray tones of the ship around him began to waver and fade into black, and the metal on which he stood started to sag and buckle. Rigid with fear, he barely managed to fling open the door and jump onto the stairs before the last vestige of the vessel had dissolved into nothingness. There now remained only the door and a black vacuum that was nonetheless full of voices and uncertain shapes, as though there were many bodies lying underneath concealed by a curtain of black velvet, human and animal figures crouching and murmuring below the veil.

Michio turned shakily, and started to ascend the stairs that were before him, that had miraculously remained solid throughout all this. One by one, he climbed them; rising on each stair forced him to overcome the tremendous leaden weight that had been injected into his limbs. A mere four steps in, he shuddered, filled with foreboding and weakness, and almost abandoned his senses and fell into the void. Yet somehow he persevered, and gaining momentum once again flung himself up step by step to the captain’s room.

The arrangement was not as he remembered it; everything had been altered, papers shifted by a few centimeters and paintings left askew on the walls. The bookshelves looked as though they were ill-assembled and prepared to collapse at a moment’s notice, and the globe had turned into a battered puzzle, sliced up into sections at each line of latitude. If this were not alarming enough, the entire room seemed to waver in the dull gray light of the sun, casting shadows upon itself in fantastic and impossible configurations.

In an instant he realized that he was not alone in the room. Standing pensively at the window was the same blue-haired girl who had confronted him at the end of his front walk so long ago.

“You?” he asked incredulously.

“I am sorry for all this, but it was necessary.” She sighed. “Please don’t take it personally.”

“What’s happening? Was the ship destroyed?”

“Yes. The engine exploded, even as you saw.”

“Then how am I still alive?” he asked.

“Do you recall the man you knew as Woodrow?”

“Yes, what has happened to him?”

“He had another name: Charon. Do you know it?”

“The man who ferries souls to the underworld... then I am dead?”

“Not necessarily. It would be easier for you if you were, however. You have lived the past year a hundred times over, on each occasion being given the same opportunity to escape your fate.”

“Why? Why have I been subjected to this?”

The girl grimaced. “You had no currency with which to pay the ferryman. It is the curse of any who are not able to pay to wander for one hundred years as a shade, unable to change any aspect of their lives except this; their comportment at the time of their death. You have been destined to die on this ship, and never to realize any of your dreams; what is more, you are even now standing on the edge of a precipice from which you may easily fall into a fate one thousand times worse.”

“What currency? What are you talking about!”

“Every man, woman, and child accrues this currency over a lifetime. It is the very fabric of their being; all that they do and say is given value and assigned increasing worth dependent on the quality of their lives. For one very young, the price is low, for they have had little time to corrupt their innocence. For those older and more experienced, however, they owe a great deal for the opportunities which they have been given.”

“But what if I reject this theology?”

The girl shrugged. “Nevertheless it is true. You had the chance to make many lives better; some you did, some you did not. Can you tell me why this is?”

Michio shook his head. “Such arbitrary decisions. How is it that I should be called to account for not achieving my own potential? Surely I am as frustrated as whatever divine being has imposed these strictures.”

“Perhaps. Yet, if this were truly the case, why would you allow yourself to be governed by fear, even as you are now? This has been your greatest fault, and the one reason why Charon has taken pity on you is that you have the chance now to repay him one hundred times what you owe. The century of wandering is not for nothing, Michio; it has given you the chance to learn what you could not in the first experience, and it is possible that this time, you will choose rightly. For indeed, what confronts you now is a choice.”

Michio looked exasperated. “I hardly see what choice I may have if my death has been fated as you say.”

“There is still another option. I have told you that the ship exploded; this is true. Yet you did not die in the explosion. Even now, your corporeal manifestation is floating on the surface of the waves, awaiting your reunion with it. Each of the one hundred times before, you have chosen to die rather than suffer through an eternity of waiting, half-drowned in the water, in hope of rescue.”

“And will I be rescued?”

“It is all up to you. I will tell you, however, that two timelines exist; one in which you survived, and one in which you did not. The eventuality of your survival will cause unbearable hardship two centuries hence, but you cannot be blamed for that, as you would never have known. On the other hand, you also become a successful author, recalled most for the book which I showed you, and are indirectly responsible for the progression toward the enlightenment of all mankind. However, knowing this has no bearing on the decision you make here and now. If you choose to perish, you need only accompany Charon again; he has taken pity on you and will accept you if you wish to go.”

“But how may I choose to live?” Michio asked.

“You must write!” she cried. And at these words a sheaf of blank pages appeared before her and she gestured towards it. “If you wish to live, you must write the story of your departure from this limbo. Know that what you write will become truth, and this truth must reflect reality. If you breathe in and your lungs burn from the salt air, you must write it, and feel it. No matter if you know there will be terrible pain, you must write everything. This is the only way in which you may survive.”

“I understand,” he said, and sat down at the desk and began to write.

—–

The body was adrift on the billowing waves, kept floating only by the tiny bit of air remaining in the lungs. The five senses are necessary to provide the impression of verisimilitude. The smell and taste of salt are overwhelming, making the man want to vomit, but nothing is left in the stomach after five days at sea, and the only result is a paroxysm of agony in the digestive tract. The man tries to open the eyes, and sees the sunlight boring holes into the skull, as the glare from the waves shines back in the face, burning the skin. Possessive and personal pronouns add character and emotional resonance. He hears, through the incessant wash of waves over his ears, the cries of seagulls; these search for a place to lodge in his brain and forge connections, but the mechanism is absent and no further progress is made. He touches the gelatinous forms of seaweed with his deadened fingers but has no feeling in them beyond the vague sensation of revulsion. He knows now that the only way to survive is to generate heat which will dry his lungs and warm his skin. He latches onto his own heart as the engine of salvation, pumping flame throughout his waterlogged flesh. Syntactical variations, stream-of-consciousness, dramatic monologue, repetition, shift in point of view. I must burn in order to live I must wait in order to die I cannot believe that I have been out here for five days I want to sleep my skin is curling up and my nails have melted why did not I choose the easy path I always choose the easy path it would be necessary for only a short while longer to breathe and then turning myself over would be so simple and so perfectly understandable no one would have blamed me I mean I would never have known known known no one ever would know but the heat is not so bad now is it? I suppose I am mad but I cannot think I have fallen so far that I would not recognize that I had collapsed, at least so I imagine as my hair crackles and my eyes burn, so I conceive it. Conceive – what? Whom? I have run out of ink now I am writing in blood

still it feels good to use no contractions
proper

holy E-mail: vokuro@adelphia.net