AMKent books

He Who Learns

Reflected light from the dripping tap dances across the wooden beams, old nets of frayed rope absorb the froth resonating from a black ocean that shifts beneath it. The mast holds a beating cloth against a lashing storm, spittle whipping across the face of a stoic old captain. A silver light emanates from a patch of chopping waves, illuminating the body of bloated clouds that hang low like dying fruit. One of the men points a thick finger through the pulse of rain, he shouts to the captain through a grimace and squinted eyes. The wheel begins to turn, and the boat soon follows, towards the light the men go, bringing the slash of the ocean body behind them. The men rise through oceanic palms and fall down the ramp of glimmering abyss, the light transfixes them to indulge curiosity. A gun is handed to the captain, an old pistol rusted through battles that have become myth. Bodies survey the surrounding hostile skin for which their transportation drags across. In an endless display of nature’s violence, this bloom of silver stays still. Perhaps the liquid has stolen a streak of lightning for its own, a keepsake that leads to treasure. The pondering of curious mortals is a dangerous endeavour for even the ocean itself. The men drop a net into the refracting light, it sinks into the light becoming invisible. When they heave it out, the net is covered in wet silver sand that hugs the thick weaved rope like a newborn to its mother. The rope lies within meaty work-hardened hands of a crew member, who raises it to the captain. Drops of water trickle from the soaked cloth of the sail that pulsates above their heads, the wooden floor is damp and moulding. The captain runs his hand across the frayed rope and inspects the silver grains before they are washed away from his firm grip. The gun dangles loosely in his other hand as he walks to the edge and takes a moment to contemplate the light. Two other crew members also peer down at the mysterious aura resonating from an angry and fruitful sea.

Thunder bellows from inside the womb of curling grey clouds, the moon is a smeared faded glow drowned by the atmosphere’s fury. The crew mates consider waiting until morning when the sun would grant them vision through the murky veils that conceal great horrors or bliss. The captain, an older man of great pride whose life is filled with many battles of land and sea, mind, and body, tells the crew he will enter the light. One of the crew suggests one of the newer members, someone more expendable. The captain bats the idea away with a great and terrible “No!”. He has wounds that weep in depths that only the ocean knows, so therefore he regards his soul as worthy to plunge within it. The crew is instructed that if he does not return by morning, they must leave and speak to none of this light or his expedition into it. The men are hesitant to accept such terms, but the captain is convincing in his tone. A great old man who has drunk from the skin of the sea in thirst and such needs have been quenched without the penalty of death. The once still patch of silver now moves, pointed peaks lift out like hands of oceanic angels welcoming him in, he extends out his own and feels warmth for which he has not felt before. His legs step over the wooden walls of the boat, and he falls gracefully and without a splash. The crew rush to look overboard, but not even the captain’s silhouette remains, he is consumed by the silver glow. He sinks through blinding light, familiar voices that whisper unintelligible words surround him. The captain need not hold his breath, for he is no longer confined within liquid, but something else entirely.

Images flash before him of a forgotten woman, someone lost in time from more youthful days. The captain scrunches his eyes tightly, but the voices grow from a whisper to a shout, he clenches his fists tightly as his soul is inspected by this strange phenomenon. The back of his neck burns as bubbles rise from it; sand slowly begins to flood in through the light. The same silver sand from the rope, he reaches out and watches it bathe amongst his crooked fingers, climbing into overgrown nails and creases across his palms. The blinding aura dims into a ball in the sky, his knees clash against a mirror that stretches into seemingly infinite. The voices have stopped their calls, there is no breeze here as the captain sucks upon his index finger to gather his bearings. He looks down to the reflecting ground beneath his feet, this is not his form now he sees, but one much younger. The captain steps forward, but there is an incredible strain to move his body. He checks behind, however, there is nothing holding onto his back. Arms throw themselves forward, but they move freely and without strain. The old captain’s eyes wonder down to beneath his feet, there are shackles within the reflection. It is the familiar woman that called out to him as he sank. She finds herself shackled to a large rock. With all the might that resides within the aged body of the captain; he pushes forward and takes the reflections with him.

“Why do you push forward so hard?” the woman asks.

The captain shakes his head, almost clawing at the smooth ground.
“Why do you suffer?” She asks.

There is a small dip ahead where it looks as if the glass has melted in the new beating sun. The woman beneath him, segregated into a different realm, helps the old man by pushing forward also.

“You would lighten the load for me?”

“It’s not my weight to free!” He shouts in frustration.

“It is our weight.” She replies.

Feet press firmly into the mirrored sand, sinking with each step as the tunnel becomes clearer. The new sun’s heat recedes as the captain drags himself into the dimly lit cave, He can no longer see the reflection beneath him, and the woman’s voice ceases to torment. In near-total blackness he trudges, a glimmer highlights the sides of a starved naked man leaning against the cave wall. There is a shovel lying beside the malnourished figure, eyes loom in the dark as if they belonged to a cat. The captain kneels in exhaustion, his joints feel as if they were about to explode, he squeezes his own thighs to free them from lactic acid. The glowing eyes of a starving soul look to the captain as he checks for the gun wedged inside his jacket.

“I mean you no harm.” the starving soul mutters.

“What is this place?”

“This place is many things; it is the skin of one’s soul. You carry a heavy burden I see captain, one that saps from the nectar of your old being.”

The captain looks towards the hole from where the light parades, revealing only hints of the contents that lie within this hollow tunnel they both reside. His worn-out pistol feels rough as he cocks it back and edges nearer to the dying man.

“This place is my soul? Then why are you here?” he interrogates, waving his pistol in the shallow beams of light.

“The soul is more than one, it is all of ours. We may not like it, but we must share.”

“How do I leave this godforsaken place!” The captain shouts, scrunching his eyes tightly as if he were willing himself to wake from a nightmare.

“Your reflection is your blemish; you must reconcile with it.”

The captain grabs the shovel and heaves himself towards the exit, once the light drenches his body all becomes clear once again. The woman tugs forward too, there is no end in sight outside of the hole, just an endless glistening desert of mirrored sand. He concludes that pushing forward is futile, so the old captain stops asking his tired old body for feats it is no longer capable of.

“I have no choice but to starve.”

“You have a choice; you must deal with your regret.”

“I barely remember you; I was a young man and I thought little and acted a lot.”

“You knew your child was ill, you said you would come back with medicine from distant lands.”

The captain aims the gun at the silver sand and screams in anguish, but the woman does not flinch.

“This is no rock I drag, but a gravestone.” The woman speaks, tugging her chain and edging the stone closer.

The captain places the barrel against the floor, now aiming it at his younger self.

“You cannot kill the past.”

“What am I to do then?”

The woman smiles “You must dig”” she proclaims repeatedly.

The shovel hits the sand with great and terrible force, as wisdom comes to him like a dying angel that thrashes in flames, the burning of divine knowledge that one cannot forget. Sparkling sand dusts the thick clothes of the captain, his feet kicking back any that trickles back into the budding trench. Water seeps through the sand like an old lost friend, the captain submerges himself within it until he is no longer an old man but now a young one again. He stands face to face with the woman, the shackles firm and painful as they irritate the wounds around his ankles.

“Tell me.” She whispers.

“I left because I was scared, I knew the child would not survive, there was no medicine for it.”

He is a man of little words, so instead he heads towards the gravestone and turns it upright. He digs until the stone can stand within the grip of the sand. The woman stands beside him, resting her hand gently upon his shoulder.

“Now leave.” She commands.

The young captain is no longer shackled, the woman stands beside the newly laid grave. He climbs into the watery hole and is once again submerged within blinding light, he is not healed or absolved, but he has dressed a wound so deep only the ocean could understand. The light of the rising sun shines through the rippling waves, the captain emerges from the ocean and hears the shouts of crewmates as a rope is thrown overboard. The men pull him out of the water’s bosom, a look of confusion paints itself across the faces of all the men on board. Then, a light rain begins to sprinkle itself across the boat, the captain tosses the gun into the water where the doorway of silver light no longer exists.

This short story is a part of the novella ‘Sola Anima Solis’