Viator

—It’s not that I can explain any of it in rational terms, Lunde said. All events have a genius. When two people meet and fall in love, it can be explained. Biology. Social reasons. But there’s an inexplicable genius at its heart. We can’t explain it, so many of us pretend we’re being rational by ignoring it. You and I, though…We realize the genius of certain events cannot be ignored. Somehow Viator became alive and saved herself from the breaking ground. She has lain dormant for twenty years, denied the energy she needed to continue on her way. By the time men returned to her decks, she had rusted. Her life, her newborn vitality, had rusted as well and it took her months to be revitalized. To make repairs. Well, she’s made them and now she’s on her way. Where she’s bound, you have a better idea than I.

—I don’t know, said Wilander.

—You doubt it, then? Even after hearing what I’ve told you?

—Do I doubt Viator is bound for…another world? Or that she’s piercing a dimensional barrier? Those seem to be the options, don’t they?

—I’m sure you have some degree of doubt. It would be impossible not to. But can you deny what’s happening? I don’t think so.

Wilander’s anger, most of it, had been dissipated, diffused by his attentiveness, but now it resurfaced. I have to tell the others, he said stiffly. What they’ll decide, I don’t know. After that I’m going to pack and walk into Kaliaska.

—What will you do in Kaliaska?

—Not that it’s your business, but I’m going to try and repair a relationship.

—With the Daupinee woman?

—How did you know that?

—She called the office some weeks ago. She made several calls, I believe. Judging by her manner, I thought there must be more than a casual involvement.

Wilander chose not to comment.

—One night at dinner, Lunde said. Not long after we met. You told me how as a child you dreamed of being an explorer, of standing in places where no man before you had stood. Do you remember?

—If you say so, Wilander said, amazed that he had been so open with Lunde; but then, thinking back to those days, he recalled with some revulsion how desperate he had been to get off the streets, out of the shelters, the missions, and his eagerness to be befriended, to be acquired as a charitable venture.

—Will you walk away from that dream when it is so close to fulfillment? Give it up for an ordinary life?

—Dreams change. Having any sort of life seems extraordinary to me now.

—Childhood dreams express the true depth of our desires. You can learn to make accommodations, to settle for less, but when such a dream offers itself, surely this is not your response?

—I’m not certain it is offering itself.

—I grant you, what lies ahead is unknown. There is risk, but it’s one we all dare even if we’re not daring by nature. The unknown is always with us.

—If you’re convinced this is the right path, and you believe Viator’s truly on its way somewhere, why don’t you join us? Why not reclaim your command? You won’t have to endure a long wait now things have proceeded to this point.

—I would be pleased to join you, but the trip to Kaliaska might finish me off, Lunde said. I have a few months, they tell me. Less, perhaps.

The fishing boat had turned due west, dwindled to a speck, and the masses of clouds were also westering, as if the boat were towing them along on an invisible rope; the sky directly overhead was vacant, a pure wintry blue.

—I’m sorry, Wilander said, a comment that summarized an emotion more complicated and much less poignant than sorrow.

Lunde grunted in acknowledgement. As am I. Look, I’ll pay you to stay on board. I’ll pay you a lot of money.

—Why would you do that? You said you knew enough, your curiosity’s satisfied.

—Perhaps because it’s all that’s left for me to do. And it would be pleasant to wake one morning and learn that Viator has vanished to another sea. That might reassure me as regards the nature of the voyage I’m soon to take. To tell the truth, I have so many reasons, you could likely construct a reason of your own and it would be at least partially correct.

—How much will you pay me?

—Twenty thousand.

—Fifty thousand, Wilander said. Put fifty thousand in my account by tomorrow, and I’ll consider staying.

—You’ll consider it? I would expect a guarantee.

—That’s a risk you’ll have to take. In fact, I can assure you the money will have minimal impact on my decision…though it may have sufficient weight to make a difference. Give some money to the others, too. Ten thousand each.

—Why less for them?

—If things don’t work out for us here, Wilander said, or they don’t work out for me in Kaliaska, if we end up with nowhere to go, alone on this filthy wreck, I don’t expect they’ll need as much as I will to drink themselves to death.

Nine

“…Come here…”