I
John醒了过来，他听见了歌声：
O Johnny’s gone to Liverpool, 约翰尼去了利物浦，
To Liverpool, that Yankee school! 利物浦那个洋学堂！
Those Yankee sailors you'll see there,见到那些洋水手，
With red top-boots and short-cut hair.穿着红靴留短发。
O Johnny’s gone to Baltimore 约翰尼去了巴尔的摩，
To dance upon that sanded floor!要在那沙地舞池起舞！
O Johnny’s gone to Callao; 约翰尼去了卡亚俄港，
Those Spanish gals he'll see, I know!西班牙姑娘在岸旁！
O Johnny’s gone for evermore! 约翰尼一去不复返！
I’ll never see my John no more! 再也盼不到他归来！
He opened his eyes. His head was propped against the driftwood, which he had until this moment thought to be a pillow in Site-184’s personnel quarters. A dull pain ached in his abdomen, and he suddenly felt the pangs of hunger.
他睁开双眼。他的头倚靠在一块浮木上，直到此刻，他才明白那不是Site-184员工宿舍里的枕头。腹部传来一阵绞痛，他突然感到饥饿难耐。
He looked up. He was on the beach, of course. It had been no more than a few hours since he'd stepped through the portal that was a doorframe, gilded in those ominous words, on the ship that shouldn’t exist. The air was brighter than it had been before he slept, but he had no sense of the passage of time; it could be the crack of dawn or the waning light of dusk.
他抬眼望去，这里当然是海滩。从迈过那道传送门的门槛算起，不过短短几小时。那扇门上刻有不祥的金色铭文，立在那艘本不该存在的船上。天色比他入睡前明亮了些，但他却毫无时间流逝的感觉。此刻或许是黎明破晓，亦或是暮色初临。
He looked to his right; the campfire was long dead, having been snuffed to a thin sheet of black ash. The sand around it was kicked and disturbed, forming little mounds around where heavy boots had once been. John sat up, grimacing through his achiness. Ahead of him was Irving, the hackneyed old fisherman. He was gashing away at the blubber of the carcass, whistling some ancient shanty. John could see a cleaver of sorts in his right hand, rusted through and wrapped in dirty, bloody tape. He was timing his cuts with his song, swinging down forcefully with each rhyme. Sometimes he would stop, rip a chunk of the meat free from the heap, then resume. At his feet were slabs of fatty white viscera and several other sharp, serrated blades. Despite its grizzly nature, the scene was oddly idyllic.
他转向右侧：篝火早已熄灭，只剩薄薄一层黑色余烬。周围的沙地被笨重的靴子踩得凌乱不堪，堆成一个个小沙堆。John忍着浑身酸痛坐起身来。他的正前方是Irving，那个老油条渔夫。他正一边哼着古老的船歌，一边从尸体上割取油脂。John能看清他右手握着某种剁肉刀，锈迹斑斑的刀身缠着肮脏的胶带，胶带被血液浸透。他和着歌声的韵律挥刀，唱到每句尾音时都用力一劈。偶尔他会停下，从肉堆里扯下一大块，然后再继续。脚边散落着肥厚的白色内脏切片，还有几把带锯齿的利刃。尽管场面血腥，但竟有一种古怪的诗情画意。
John tried to channel the strength to stand but found there was none. The hunger grew sharper, and he let out a stifled groan. Irving must have heard because he stopped his whistling and turned, a grin spreading on his face.
John试图鼓起力气站起来，却发现根本使不上劲。饥饿感越来越强，他忍不住发出一声低沉的呻吟。Irving显然听见了，口哨声戛然而止，他转过身来，脸上露出了笑容。
“Ah, there you are. Sleep well, did ya?” He dropped the saw soundlessly to the sand and started walking over to where John lay.
“啊，你醒啦。睡得还好？”锯刀无声地落入沙中，他朝John躺卧处走来。
Crouched on one knee, he said: “Brought you something while you were out. You’re lucky, the Carp don’t usually come up to these waters.” He reached into his coat and pulled out something wrapped in brown paper. He peeled back its layers to reveal a lump of meat, drained of color, steaming in the open air. “Kept it warm for ya.”
他单膝蹲下，对John说道：“你昏睡时我给你捎了点好东西。算你走运，鲤鱼平常可游不到这片水域。”他从外套里掏出一个棕纸包裹的物件，层层剥开，露出一块失去血色的肉块，在空气中冒着热气：“特意给你暖着的。”
他将肉块递给John，后者投去怀疑的目光。
“上等好肉，”Irving说道，“我自己先前尝过了。”
Next to the carcass, John spotted other wrappings of brown paper. He took the meat, peeling off a piece, and took a bite. It was tough and salty but tasted fine. A bit like crab mixed with some anonymous white fish. He gagged, and thought of it coming from the same waters that produced the fetid thing across the sand. He downed the rest of the lump, feeling warmth return to his body.
在尸体旁，John瞥见还有几包棕纸裹着的东西。他接过肉块，撕下一片送入口中。肉质又硬又咸，但尚能下咽。味道有点像螃蟹混着某种不知名的白鱼。他喉头一哽，想到这东西与沙滩上那恶臭扑鼻的东西来自同一片海域。他将剩下的肉囫囵吞下，暖意渐渐流回身体。
“谢了。”他的声音沙哑。
“Aye. I was hungry too when I woke. But that was long ago.” He turned to look back at the carcass. “Got a head start on it. It’s a tough one, but it’ll crack like the rest. Two pairs of hands are better than one, but only once you have your strength back.”
“客气啥。我刚醒时也饿得慌，不过那是老早了。”男人转头望向尸体，“先收拾着。这玩意儿很难处理，但终究会像其他家伙一样被我剖开。两双手总比一双强，等你缓过劲儿来。”
“要这些肉做什么？”
“Angel meat has all sorts of purposes. For one, it burns like hell, if you can get it to light.” He lifted a greasy canteen from his coat pocket and swished it around. “The oil’s what you want, really. The meat’s no good to eat unless you’re in a real pinch. I’ve got enough Carp to last a week, maybe more.” His tone shifted to a whisper. “The Angel’s flesh is useful, but it's vile stuff. It’s what’s underneath. That’s what we’re after.” His face contorted into an awful grin.
“天使肉的用处可多了。就说一点，这玩意儿烧起来猛得很，只要你点得着。”他从外套口袋掏出一只油腻腻的水壶晃了晃，“说真的，咱们要的是油。除非真到万不得已，不然这肉吃不得。我存的鲤肉还够吃一星期，或许还能更久。”他忽然压低嗓音，“天使肉虽有用，但实在腌臜。真正的好东西在底下。这才是咱们要的。”他的脸挤出一个骇人的笑容。
那一刻，John突然意识到自己有多么不信任这个男人。可那句话却如箭矢般刺穿了他的思绪。底下的骨头……骨头……它肯定有骨头对吧？那我为什么不……
“I see that look on your face.” Irving’s smile vanished, and he looked very cold. “It's the look of a madman. The look of people who try to hold it all up here.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “You can’t picture it until you see it with your own eyes. Until then, it's like trying to see a brand-new color. You’ll lose your mind.” He stood up, rubbing his hands against his coat. “It’s hard work getting to the bones. Lots of gristle on this one. Come join me when you got the strength to stand.”
“瞧你脸上那副神情。”Irving的笑容消失了，眼神冷得像冰，“那是疯子的表情。是那些想把所有事儿都塞进这里的人才会有的表情。”他用手指敲了敲太阳穴。“除非亲眼瞧见，否则你永远想不出那模样。在那之前，这就好比要你想象一种全新的颜色，你会疯掉的。”他站起身，用外套擦了擦手，“要挖到骨头可是苦差事，这里面有很多筋骨。等你站得起来，就过来搭把手。”
他哼着那首漫不经心的歌谣走开了。
John heard the distant voice of Randal Karter in his head: Watch this one, Johnny. He’s got the eyes of a jackal. And the tongue to boot. Still, the old man was endearing. He reminded John of his own father, a hardworking man who wanted nothing more in life than a white picket fence. He was an honest man and had worked a job in construction as a foreman. He built buildings he would never have the money to set foot in. Most of the time he was quiet, especially around John. But once or twice, when John had snuck out of class to watch the yellow metal behemoths crush boulders of concrete, he would catch his father on the job, barking orders and tending to the chaos, his eyes ablaze in the mad fervor of work. He recognized the same look in Irving as he hacked away incessantly at the carcass.
John脑海中响起Randal Karter的遥远声音：盯紧这家伙，Johnny。他长着豺狼的眼睛，还有条能说会道的舌头。然而这老头莫名有种亲切感。他让John想起自己的父亲，那个勤劳的男人一生所求不过是一栋带白色栅栏的房子。他为人老实本分，在建筑工地当工头，盖着那些自己永远没钱踏足的大楼。父亲大多时候沉默寡言，尤其在John面前。但有一两次，当John逃课去看黄色的金属巨兽碾碎混凝土块时，撞见了父亲工作的模样：一边大声喊着指令，一边周旋于混乱之中，眼中燃烧着对工作疯狂的热情。此刻他在Irving身上认出了同样的眼神，那老人也同样不知疲倦地劈砍着尸骸。
John pushed up off the ground, head spinning as he fought off a wave of nauseous exhaustion. He covered his nose with his sleeve as he approached Irving. The stench was invasive, and he worried for a brief moment if it would ever wash out of his clothes. Then he remembered his situation and forgot about his need for professionalism. Irving must have sensed him coming because he reached down and lifted one of the spare blades by his feet without turning around or breaking his song.
John撑地从沙地上起身，眩晕与反胃的疲惫感如浪潮袭来。他拉起袖口，掩住口鼻走向Irving，那股恶臭令人作呕，在恍惚中他担忧这味道能不能从衣服上洗掉。随即他想到了自身的处境，便将所谓体面抛诸脑后。Irving必定察觉了他的靠近，因为他并未回头，也没有中断哼唱，只是弯腰从脚边拾起一柄备用刀具。
“Careful around the blades… don’t want to cut yourself with that.” A deep gash ran across the carcass, revealing spongy white viscera beneath a thin layer of rubbery skin. Steam emanated from the corpse in hot streaks. Up close, the thing glistened in an alien, iridescent color. Oil poured from wounds where there should have been blood. Irving scraped his hand through the gash, pulling out a fistful of slime. He ran it over the cap of his canteen, collecting some and letting the rest drip to the sand. “There’ll be more than enough for the two of us.” He handed John a rusty saw. “Follow my lead, and don’t forget to breathe.” He gave a wheeze and resumed hacking at the gash.
“当心这些刀……可别把自己划伤了。”一道深邃的裂口横贯尸身，橡胶质感的薄皮下露出海绵状的白色内脏。尸体蒸腾出滚烫的汽雾，凑近看时，那东西竟泛着某种异样的虹彩光泽。本应流血之处汩汩涌出油脂。Irving将手探进裂口，掏出一把粘液，装了一些到水壶里，残液滴落到沙地上。“够咱俩用的。”他将一把生锈的锯子递给John，“跟着我做，别忘了呼吸。”他喘着粗气，继续劈砍那道裂口。
John感到胃里一阵翻江倒海。
II
The two cut for most of the day. By the time the sky turned the color of ashen smoke, the white meat lay in tall mounds on either side of the men. The whale was eviscerated; what was left of its main body was a slurry, out of which thin bones poked like dead trees on a winter mountainslope. John remembered the surprise he had felt when he first saw them, several hours ago.
近乎是一整天，二人都在切肉。待到天色渐如烟灰，两人身侧堆起了白花花的肉山。鲸鱼的内脏已被掏空；主躯干剩下的部分只剩下一滩残骸，细瘦的骨头从中探出，犹如冬日山坡上的枯树。John想起几小时前初次见到他们时的惊讶。
Irving had peeled back another layer of blubber and gave a sharp yell, as if he had just spotted a rattlesnake curled underneath his bedsheets. John stepped back wearily, wondering if something had gone wrong. “Don’t touch them,” Irving spoke low as if the whale was listening. “Don’t cut the bones; bad luck to cut the bones of an Angel.” He resumed slicing, this time much slower and more methodically. “I think we’re in luck, boy.” He said this as if John was a third-grader who just found a penny on the sidewalk. “This one’s got a pearl, yes it does. A ripe one, ready for picking.”
Irving剥开又一层鲸脂，突然尖声大叫，像在被窝里发现了蜷缩的响尾蛇。John疲惫地后退一步，不知道出了什么差错。“别碰它们，”Irving压低声音，仿佛鲸鱼能听见似的，“别割骨头，割天使的骨头会招来厄运。”他又开始切了起来，这次要慢得多，也更有条理。“咱们走运了，小子。”他说话的语气，就像John是个在人行道上捡到一分钱的三年级学生。“这头鲸有珍珠，没错。它熟透了，正是采摘的时候。”
Presently, the bones themselves were beautiful; simple yet elegant. The color of white marble. They looked to be made of ivory or something equally regal. John thought he saw lines of gold running through the bones like blood in veins. The full presence of the beast was greater now, but its true form as it would have appeared in life was still a mystery. The thought of the carcass hurt less now; that had both relieved and terrified him.
此刻再看，那些骨头本身也很美，简洁而优雅。颜色洁白如大理石。看似由象牙或某种同样高贵的材质所制。John仿佛看见金色的纹路流过骨头，如血液在血管中奔涌。巨兽的全貌比先前更清晰，可它生前的真实形态却依然是一个谜。想到这具尸体，他的痛楚减轻了不少；这既让他感到释然，又令他恐惧。
The two’s pace slowed as the sky darkened. So time does change, John thought. He didn’t want to think about the nights here. He trusted Irving had a plan. John stepped from the carcass for the first time in hours, letting fresher air fill his lungs. He dropped the glossy saw and sat down.
两人的动作随着天色转暗而慢了下来。时间确实在流逝，John心想。他不愿去想这里的夜晚，他相信Irving自有安排。几个小时以来，John第一次离开尸骸，新鲜的空气灌满了肺腑。他放下那把反光的锯子，坐了下来。
Irving was still knee-deep in the viscera, cutting vigorously into the gristle. Something in his posture had changed; he had stopped his cheery song some time ago and was now focused solely on the carnage. He seemed to peer through the flesh of the beast to something beyond. The yellow fervor crept back into his eyes, and he looked truly, undeniably insane. Then he stopped and reached a fist elbow-deep into the slurry. His expression shifted, from madness to surprise to euphoria. With a shout, he hoisted his hand out to reveal something clutched in his fist.
Irving仍站在齐膝深的内脏里，使劲切割着软骨。他换了一种姿态：他早就不唱那欢快的小调了，此刻正全神贯注于这场屠戮。他似乎正透过这头巨兽的血肉，凝视着更深层次的什么。那种狂热的黄光又浮现在他眼里，让他看上去彻底陷入了癫狂。接着他停下手，把整只拳头探进那团黏糊的物块里。他的表情变了，由疯狂转为惊讶，又变为狂喜。他大叫一声，猛地举起手来，露出了紧握在拳中的东西。
“By God, I’ve done it!” He laughed a thunderous laugh, then clambered down to John. “Ol’ Irving’s done it at long last! Damn my old eyes, I’ve got it.” In his hand rested a large, spherical object the size and shape of a billiard ball. It was a dusty rose color, dripping with oil and other fleshy bits. It looked like a pearl and shone with a brilliance John hadn’t seen before.
“老天爷，我找到了！”他发出雷鸣般的大笑，然后从鲸尸上爬下来，走向John。“老头我总算找到了！我这双老眼没瞎，我找到了。”他手中托着一个硕大的球状物，大小和形状都和台球差不多。它呈干枯的玫瑰色，滴着油脂和细碎的肉屑。看着像是一枚珍珠，散发着John前所未见的光彩。
“令人震撼。”John惊叹道。
“That’s because it is! This here’s a God-pearl, or so the tales go. This thing is eons old, formed in the bellies of the Angels as they drink themselves silly on the souls of men. Some say it holds the power of a star.” He rotated it in his hand. The thing glistened in the fading daylight. “It’s said to bring untold fortune to those brave or foolish enough to go looking for one. Gah, if I were a little younger I could tell you the name of the Angel from the color of this pearl.” He gazed across the span of the beach. “Let's get a fire going, it’s getting cold.”
The winds from the sea were picking up, sending gusts of frigid air over the beach. The surf itself was more violent than it was during the day, and John could hear the water breaking on the sand like claps of thunder. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he could see black shapes breaching the surface of the sea. It was too dark to know for sure.
Irving gathered some bits of damp wood and dirty paper over the ashen remains of the last night’s campfire. He drizzled some of the oil from his canteen over the kindling and pulled out a carton, a blue matchbox with a mermaid printed on it, and lit a match. The fire burst immediately in an explosive flash. The flames shot up almost to John’s eye level, and he reflexively pulled back. Then they subsided and settled at a low murmur. Their color was a bright white, with turquoise undertones. The air around them was quickly brought up to a comfortable temperature, and John finally relaxed.
“This will burn all night if we’re lucky,” Irving said. He too relaxed, stripping off his coat and hat and setting them messily against the driftwood. Underneath he wore a black shirt stained by sweat and grime. His arms were scarred by deep slashes, but otherwise lean and muscular. Around his neck, he wore a lace fitted with pale white objects.
Bones? John thought. Definitely. But too delicate to be a whale. The light of the fire gave Irving eyes of burning coal, and for a moment he looked like a demon. He saved my life. He might keep me alive. But I won’t trust him, not until I get some answers.
“Who are you?” John didn’t expect to get a straight answer, but he asked anyway. Irving flashed a confused look.
“I told you my name.”
“I don’t mean your name. I mean who are you? Why are you here? Why am I here?”
“You were called, just as I was many years ago. We have something in common, you and I. It’s why we ended up here and not somewhere up there in the mountains. I don’t see what’s so hard to understand about that.”
“But why.”
“You know why.”
“Fuck you,” John muttered under his breath.
Irving’s eyes flashed pure steel. “What was that?”
“You heard me, you crazy old man!” John was yelling now. “I wake up here cold and alone, you give me a piece of metal and tell me to hack away at that thing all day. You feed me food that might kill me, and you don’t have the decency to give me a straight answer about a Goddamn thing. If we’re going to die out here, then say it. Tell me we’re dead already.” He stood up as if to leave, not sure where to go.
Irving shot up to match, his eyes burning with hot fury. Fear shot through John, and he suddenly felt very small.
“Keep your voice down, maggot. You’re here because you were called by the void. I see it in your eyes, that wanderlust. All your life you’ve wanted to sail, to lose yourself on that good quest. Well, here you are! You’re looking at it, take it in. You want to go off to die all by your lonesome? You want the sea to steal your breath away? Then go! You wouldn’t be the first.” He ripped his necklace free and dangled the bones over the fire. “Here they are, every sorry sap to crack under the pressure and throw it all away. Me, I’m well acquainted with Lady Death, I’ll put a good word in for you. So what’ll it be? You want to quit? All you have to do is walk out there, and it’ll be done.” He pointed to the pitch-black water. “Make your choice, but do it fast. I’m tired, and I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
John said nothing for a long while. Then he slunk to his knees. Irving was right. Right about everything. He'd felt the lure of the quest all his life. Chasing it had led him this way and that, but now the fishhook had pulled him here, pierced straight through his heart, to this dreaded beach. It was time he admitted that this was what he had always wanted. Irving towered above, and John was reminded of the giant wave he'd seen in his dream. He wondered if they were the same forces.
“So it is decided. You’ll stay as long as you can. but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The two sat in silence for some time after. The air was tense, but both felt like a weight had been lifted from their collective shoulders. They were bound by the quest, whatever it might be. And it wouldn’t end until they were both dead, or until they held the world in the palms of their hands.
III
They first heard the cry of God in the early hours of the morning, just as the white-colored sun peaked above the jagged teeth of the mountaintops. It sounded different to all people, just as the corpse of the Angel looked to John upon him first seeing it. To his ears, though, the cry sounded how his baby cousin did when she was born: an infant’s wailing, a desperate cry for attention across time and space. It struck John like a bolt of lightning, and he jolted up from his light slumber.
Irving was up already, his body locked in a trance as he stared down the beach. In one hand he clutched the rose pearl. In the dim light of the morning, John could see that he was crying.
“Never would I think in all my life,” he choked through haggard breaths, “to be graced by the voice of God, that beautiful song of white.” His eyes snapped to John’s. “What do you hear, boy? What is he saying to you?”
“He’s crying.” John didn’t know how he should feel about this, so he spoke in a neutral, matter-of-fact tone. He knew it was God, that much was clear. No other voice in the universe could carry so far, so clearly. But what that voice was saying, he could not tell. Irving only nodded, wiping the tears from his cheek.
“He’s telling me that I’m ready. That I’ve been good and that I’m ready. Have you any idea what this means?”
John shook his head.
“It means we’re saved! We’re getting out of here, you and me.” He pointed up the beach, towards the approximate direction of the aimless noise. “Up there, I know not where exactly, but there, up the beach. We’ll find him, my God. And we’ll be free from this madness.”
John felt excitement well in him. “You mean to tell me that there’s a way out? A way back?”
Irving smiled. “That, and so much more.” He swooped down and retrieved his hat and coat from their spot on the driftwood and stamped out the remains of the dying fire. “Come on, boy. There's no time to wait! Up and at ‘em, hup!” It was as if a festive joy had seized him. Like a kid on Christmas morning.
John couldn’t help but feel excited too, but for what he could not say. They grabbed what little they could, some wrappings of food, bottles of oil, and an assortment of Irving’s trinkets (including the God-pearl, which now sang a flush pink), and left the rest strewn around the carcass. As they trailed up the beach, leaving two rows of footprints in the pristine sand, John gave one last look at the place of his rebirth, and the carcass which lay beside it. It could have been a trick of the light, but for a moment it seemed as if the carcass was sinking wholesale into the sand, like a wounded animal in a pit of tar.
Irving’s carefree singing once again brought John back into focus:
O Johnny’s gone for evermore!
I’ll never see my John no more!
IV
The first thing the two of them came across as they crossed the beach, besides the endless sand, was a body.
It was approximately human-shaped and lay flat on its stomach face-down in the direction they were headed. Its skin was a matte gray with speckles of white discoloration. Upon closer inspection, these spots appeared to be small tears, giving way to fresher skin underneath. John pictured a rattlesnake he had seen once at the zoo, curled up as it tore its old skin free from its body.
The corpse was naked, its long arms grasping helplessly in front of it as if it was trying to crawl through its final dying breaths. As John traced his eyes from the back of its head to its feet, he noticed that its lower half was buried in the sand. He impulsively kicked around where its feet should be, but discovered that there were none; its body merely ended, as if its legs had been fused together. What looked to be a tail of sorts was revealed during the kick, and John felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He was staring at a mermaid.
He held a palm up to his mouth and looked at Irving. The man only looked down with somber reverence. “This one was good in life, aye. A real devotee. It must’ve been called like us. Shame it couldn’t make it.” He squatted next to it and brushed the sand from its shoulders. “Ah well, we’re all soon to die anyway. This one’s swimmin’ with the Angels.”
“What was it?” John managed to croak as he choked down the urge to vomit.
“Child of God, likely. Well we all are, I suppose, but this one had something to show for it. I’ve seen a few in my time here. Supposedly they spend most their time down there.” He gestured to the expanse of water beside them. “We must be on the right track. A worshipper’s never far from a temple. And where there’s a temple, there’s a God.” A smile crept up his face, and he suddenly looked like a giddy schoolboy again.
A little while later, the two spotted something on the horizon. It broke the seamless shore like a black knife, slicing the air in two perfect halves. It was a plume of smoke, black and thick, the kind you see on the evening news after some horrible industrial accident. It shot straight up into the windless sky like a beacon, drawing two moths to a flame.
Irving’s face was drained of its color in an instant. His voice quivered as he shot out a hand in the direction of the smoke. “There! Oh Lord, tell me it's not true…” He wobbled forward on shaky knees.
John only stood back, confused. “A… fire? Here?”
Irving said nothing. His weariness transformed into explosive movement, and he broke into a run, his arms flailing in exasperation. “Tell me it’s not true, please! Tell me!”
As the two neared, it was revealed that the smoke emanated from the ruins of a building. The flames, if there were any, were hidden deep between the structure's crumbling bricks. The building rested a few paces from the shoreline, and looked like a small shack of some sort. It was made of faded mud bricks, which stood mostly intact amongst the charred remains of whatever wood was used for its thatched roof and floors. A black shape lay half-buried in the sand some distance from the building, but at this distance John couldn’t tell what it was.
Irving’s hysterics calmed once he saw what had been consumed by the phantom fire. His running slowed, and he collapsed to his knees. His panting for breath turned into a strange breed of ravenous laughter. “God is good, Johnny! God is good. It only be a fisherman’s shack. No matter. Fire’s been known to consume indiscriminately; had this been a sacred place, we’d be in some trouble, boy.” He slowly clambered to his feet. “Let’s take a closer look, aye?”
Upon inspection, the building was far more unusual than it had appeared from a distance. It was something of a mix between a prairie homestead and a gothic cathedral. Its roof, which had been entirely made of straw or some other perishable material, had burned away completely, leaving only the brickwork skeleton of the main structure. Thick smoke prevented the two from entering the building, although it was strange that no fire was visible, even up close. The half-buried shape revealed itself to be a ship of some kind, long past its function. Its twisted metal poked through the sand in a fashion eerily similar to the carcass of the dead Angel. The two opted to investigate a smaller detachment of the building around back, a few rooms made mostly of wood, which remained untouched by whatever had ravaged the main building.
These rooms appeared more homely than the charred brick architecture. Inside was what looked to be a bedroom, kitchen, and study. Upstairs was an attic, empty save for several crates of black, rotten food. The living spaces were mostly spartan, but the study held several bookshelves, filled with old, sunbleached tomes. John flipped through some, only to find he couldn’t make out the language. He did notice several pencil sketches of behemoths emerging from cold seas, screaming to the sky in rage and relief. One book, which looked about ready to crumble, had on its cover an engraving of a dark mountain cloaked in heavy fog, on one side a flat ocean, and on the other a wall of fire. Hidden underneath a pile of blank pages was a hand-drawn sketch of what looked to be the moon, but with patterns John couldn’t recognize.
He set down the papers and looked around. Irving, who hadn’t said a word since they'd entered the building, was standing in front of a table at the far end of the study, looking down. John approached cautiously. On the table were cold pools of melted wax amidst a collection of relics. Statuettes of whale-like Gods, blue-gemmed amulets, and, front and center, a bas-relief of a human, arms reaching up in pleading reverence, adorned by a beautiful blue dress that partially masked its grey, sparking cetacean fluke. The thing shone like starlight, even in the dimness of the musky room.
Irving spoke nothing of it, and John didn’t ask. The two seemed to be under a mutual understanding; this was a place of holy reverence that had been spared from the fire by some greater force. John felt a wave of inexplicable relief wash over him. He felt like he could gaze at that table for the rest of his life.
V
It was Irving who broke the trance of that moment by abruptly clapping his hands, as if concluding some silent prayer. With one final sweep of the musty building, the two set off in the direction of parts unknown.
Later, when John noticed the stone of the righthand mountains creeping onto the dusty beach and turning the sand the color of night, he became deeply wondrous of the expanse of the world. It was never something he'd truly considered until now, besides the fleeting moments of panic he felt during his dreams. The existence of the mountains was becoming something more than a backdrop of the beach. They were becoming tangible, a present danger. He couldn’t see much of them, only their jagged teeth when the fog broke every so often, but he felt their presence, their looming sadness. He felt untold anguish, memories wrought into every crevasse, every boulder torn free from its smooth cliff faces. “What’s up there, Irving?”
The old man didn’t have to look at where John was pointing to know what he was talking about. “Nothing, Johnny. Not anymore. Never been up there myself, to tell you the truth, but I’ve heard old wives’ tales about those peaks. They say men used to live there, back when the sea was still young, before it birthed God. If you can believe it. Aye, man’s hubris, they say, was what killed the mountainfolk. They say there are ghosts up there, in the caves and the valleys. I don’t buy it, nay. There are ghosts everywhere.”
“People lived there? Like, real people?”
“So they say. But that was a long time ago. There’s not much in the name of towns anymore.”
The silence of the beach was deafening. John could hear the voice of God if he concentrated on the silence, the emptiness between each crash of the waves. But it was so constant, so droning, that he had internalized the sound long ago. It seemed to have become part of him, like the sound of his own breathing or the pulse of his heart.
John broke that thunderous silence. “What’s past the mountains?”
At this, Irving’s eyes grew wide, and he brought a finger to his lips. “Speak not of the lands beyond. Bad luck, they say. Tis’ a sin to speak of it.” The silence returned with the tide.
VI
They reached the end of the beach by late afternoon. What had just been a flat, desolate stretch of polished sand and shallow waves had at once become a dynamic, angry space. Before the two men was a towering cliff face, as sheer as it was tall. It careened over them like an impossible skyscraper, threatening to collapse at the touch of a particularly strong gust of wind. At its base were monstrous waves, tiny in comparison to the total mass of the rock but cyclopean to the men, who were but insects in the face of such unobstructed power. There was no way forward that did not lead to total pulverization by the hungry waves. Each crash of the water upon that rock face was like an explosion, peeling boulders off the cliff like chalk, reeling back, then striking again. In the distance, perhaps above the cliff or maybe beyond, John could see distinct flashes of light that breached the fog and strained his eyes, a blaze that could only mean lightning. The sight was madness, not because it posed any direct danger but because it felt like the first real thing he had seen since he woke.
Above the din of the waves and the storm, the two men could hear the pleading cry of something divine, something whose patience was wearing thinner by the hour.
“This can’t be the end, nay, God will provide.” Irving was pacing the beach, looking for something to rescue the voyage, to take them beyond this impassable space. He dropped to his hands and knees and began clawing at the sand, chanting the same phrase.
God will provide, God will provide.
Despite the little, pleading, ever-shrinking voice that was his rationality, John felt no doubt about Irving’s words. He merely smiled, thinking of nothing but the moment he might see the mouth from which that divine sound was coming.
VII
Across space and time, a ship the color of night caught the scent of the next as it rounded the coast of Greenland. It was closer now, and its iron frame rattled impatiently, but it was not time yet. No, the second was not ready. Not as the one called The Sailor had been. He was ripe for the voyage, the terrible ship thought. The next will not go that easy. And so that Dread Ship would have to wait a little longer, as it had waited eons before.
Its ancient pipes rattled, conjuring briefly the face of The Sailor, a newborn plucked from the crib. He would now be on that beach, that endless sand and tide. Somewhere a pipe burst and showered its deck in steam and hot oil like blood from a vein. Another image flashed against its rusty hull. A man, cloaked in yellow, with lines on his face that told a story of madness beyond mortal obsession. Its pistons and pulleys hissed involuntarily, and a mixture of primal rage and fear boiled as it remembered the man it ferried a lifetime ago, a man whose door held two short words and exuded blasphemy like radiation: The Whaler. It howled through gritted teeth made of splintered shrapnel. It will meet those flame-yellow eyes of his once again, in this world or the next.
For the rest, it did not matter what happened to the people it ferried across the sea of time. All that mattered to the Dread Ship was the voyage. The first, the second, and then the third, the fourth, the fifth, sixth, and so on after that. Each must be found, each must be taken, each must be delivered. That was its job.
It was very good at its job.
