“The
boat departs at midnight,” the captain says. “It’s a cold journey, tonight.
Bundle up.”
The
wind is cold as a ghost’s breath across the deck, whistling in the sails. The
lanterns flicker with it.
You
depart with no suppositions about your destination. The journey alone is an
adventure. There is a map of stars above your head, continents of
constellations, the river of Orion’s Bow.
You
are among others as you stare into the mist, then, as the mist dissipates, at
the large dark mountains, like the backs of sea beasts rising above the water.
These kindred spirits marvel with you over the sweet taste of the air, over the
star studded surface of the water, over the tiny lights appearing in the
mountains like candles.
The
captain has vanished to the top deck. He is little more than a shadow against
the light. You wave and, after a moment, he waves back. There are refreshments,
timed exactly when the passengers begin to get hungry: champagne in glasses
with coloured flutes, confections of cream and sugar and jam, and spices too
exotic and strange to name.
Soon
you forget that you are headed for a destination at all. The night reaches
their pinnacle, and as it wanes, as the dawn bleeds over the mountains, the
strange question re emerges. But there is no use wondering. The mist seeps
across the lake once more. The captain has all but disappeared. But the ship
shows no signs of stopping.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
Art by Anonymous
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