Octave’s Log: Cold Comfort
In the narrative chronology, this precedes Dunam’s log for this Lacuna. --Oct.
It’s after midnight here - or that’s what long-suffering Truman Capote told me when he woke me up to stand watch. "Where are we?" I asked him.
"Still in the Cimmerian harbor," he answered wearily.
"Then how do you know what bloody time it is? We haven’t seen sun or stars in four days. They don’t get those here."
"Don’t remind me," he groaned. He didn’t answer my question, but turned wearily toward his bunk. On a thought, he turned to face me partway, and I had a sudden glimpse of the sea-commander he had once been, and could become again. "Just get out there and do your job, Sailor."
I am now in the crow’s-nest of the Eriphyle, looking out at a dull black sky, a dull black sea, and some dull black rocks. By the fog-dimmed light of the harbor beacon I can just imagine the outline of the Cimmerians’ city on its ridge. The lamps of the town have all gone out. (That must be how Truman knew.) The salt air lacks motion or temperature. The very waves seem quieted, dulled, as they wash the shore. When we got here four days ago, I thought we were literally in Hades.
Turns out I was wrong, because that’s where we went from here. I’m still shaking.
Never mind that we had to disembark and walk that stony road by the weird river whose name I forget. Never mind the way the dead people -- spirits restless like my own -- gibbered and yowled at us when they smelled the blood we spilled for them. Okay, pay some attention to that, I guess, because that’s when it happened. I heard someone calling, "You, Octave, over here!" And I turned to look.
Standing there, grinning like a skeleton, was the guy I’d pushed over the gunwale into the Hellespont our first or second night on board. I’d forgotten all about him, but --
"You rat bastard!" I shouted. "You took enough off of us with those loaded dice. You got what was coming to you. Do you want some more? Is that it?" I rushed him and tried to pin his arms, preparatory to breaking one or both, but somehow he got free, and he was still grinning.
"Can’t kill me no deader than you already have, friend."
"I can still hurt you, you--" I threw a rabbit punch. He didn’t dodge, and yet I missed completely. As I stared at my unbruised hand, reason began to return.
"Wrong again, my friend. But it don’t matter. I haven’t come to fight. I came here to say one thing to you, and that’s Welcome to Hades. We’ll be seeing you in these parts again real soon. Maybe one-two weeks..."
At another time and place I would have just laughed at his Cretan drawl. But here and now I was listening intently in the darkness, and my rage, as quickly as it had come, revealed what it had really been all along: screaming fear. I ran all the way back to the ship with ghosts laughing in my ears, while my crewmates’ shouts faded in the distance.
That was the day before yesterday. Now we wait for a wind to return us to the lands of open sky, and I stare out at a cold mist the color of charcoal, blanketing all this part of the world, the mirror of my despair. How did this voyage go so wrong? Have we offended the gods? Was it that I killed a guest? Was it Dunam - greatheart that he is - or Axiallus with his fire-winged arrows, offending some strict divine sense of propriety with their raids on our rivals’ ships? Was it because I listened to the cook, and gained the name of a mutineer by following his advice? Or only because I delayed too long to take action? Considering my patron deity, it could be any of these. Gray-eyed Athena, whichever the case may be, I know I have failed you in wisdom. I am the greatest and damnedest fool on this ship of great damned fools, and I am blind as a bat on a moonless night - or as any fluttering shade in skyless Hades.
And very shortly, very likely, I go to damnation in truth, and make the metaphor real. My head aches, my hand trembles, I cannot lift it to set the sails. The dead man’s prophecy runs round and round in my brain.
I do remember that Cretans are always liars. I know that for a fact, because one of them told me so himself once. But somehow that memory is only cold comfort to me now.
Ah, when will my torment end?
It’s after midnight here - or that’s what long-suffering Truman Capote told me when he woke me up to stand watch. "Where are we?" I asked him.
"Still in the Cimmerian harbor," he answered wearily.
"Then how do you know what bloody time it is? We haven’t seen sun or stars in four days. They don’t get those here."
"Don’t remind me," he groaned. He didn’t answer my question, but turned wearily toward his bunk. On a thought, he turned to face me partway, and I had a sudden glimpse of the sea-commander he had once been, and could become again. "Just get out there and do your job, Sailor."
I am now in the crow’s-nest of the Eriphyle, looking out at a dull black sky, a dull black sea, and some dull black rocks. By the fog-dimmed light of the harbor beacon I can just imagine the outline of the Cimmerians’ city on its ridge. The lamps of the town have all gone out. (That must be how Truman knew.) The salt air lacks motion or temperature. The very waves seem quieted, dulled, as they wash the shore. When we got here four days ago, I thought we were literally in Hades.
Turns out I was wrong, because that’s where we went from here. I’m still shaking.
Never mind that we had to disembark and walk that stony road by the weird river whose name I forget. Never mind the way the dead people -- spirits restless like my own -- gibbered and yowled at us when they smelled the blood we spilled for them. Okay, pay some attention to that, I guess, because that’s when it happened. I heard someone calling, "You, Octave, over here!" And I turned to look.
Standing there, grinning like a skeleton, was the guy I’d pushed over the gunwale into the Hellespont our first or second night on board. I’d forgotten all about him, but --
"You rat bastard!" I shouted. "You took enough off of us with those loaded dice. You got what was coming to you. Do you want some more? Is that it?" I rushed him and tried to pin his arms, preparatory to breaking one or both, but somehow he got free, and he was still grinning.
"Can’t kill me no deader than you already have, friend."
"I can still hurt you, you--" I threw a rabbit punch. He didn’t dodge, and yet I missed completely. As I stared at my unbruised hand, reason began to return.
"Wrong again, my friend. But it don’t matter. I haven’t come to fight. I came here to say one thing to you, and that’s Welcome to Hades. We’ll be seeing you in these parts again real soon. Maybe one-two weeks..."
At another time and place I would have just laughed at his Cretan drawl. But here and now I was listening intently in the darkness, and my rage, as quickly as it had come, revealed what it had really been all along: screaming fear. I ran all the way back to the ship with ghosts laughing in my ears, while my crewmates’ shouts faded in the distance.
That was the day before yesterday. Now we wait for a wind to return us to the lands of open sky, and I stare out at a cold mist the color of charcoal, blanketing all this part of the world, the mirror of my despair. How did this voyage go so wrong? Have we offended the gods? Was it that I killed a guest? Was it Dunam - greatheart that he is - or Axiallus with his fire-winged arrows, offending some strict divine sense of propriety with their raids on our rivals’ ships? Was it because I listened to the cook, and gained the name of a mutineer by following his advice? Or only because I delayed too long to take action? Considering my patron deity, it could be any of these. Gray-eyed Athena, whichever the case may be, I know I have failed you in wisdom. I am the greatest and damnedest fool on this ship of great damned fools, and I am blind as a bat on a moonless night - or as any fluttering shade in skyless Hades.
And very shortly, very likely, I go to damnation in truth, and make the metaphor real. My head aches, my hand trembles, I cannot lift it to set the sails. The dead man’s prophecy runs round and round in my brain.
I do remember that Cretans are always liars. I know that for a fact, because one of them told me so himself once. But somehow that memory is only cold comfort to me now.
Ah, when will my torment end?
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