Viator

Had he given it the least thought, Wilander might have anticipated the reactions of his shipmates on hearing Lunde’s story. Arnsparger wanted to know if they would continue to be paid, and Halmus scoffed, saying, Why should I believe you? Or Lunde, for that matter? If that’s really the story he told, what proof can you give me that it’s the truth? I don’t know what you’re up to, either one of you, but I’m not buying it. Nygaard barely listened, sitting on the chair in Wilander’s cabin, his attention commanded by a faucet handle he was holding, admiring it as if it were a chrome daisy with four petals, and as for Mortensen…After giving up on finding him, Wilander was at the table in the officers’ mess, idly working on his maps, feeling listless each time he engaged the idea of walking into Kaliaska, worrying that Arlene might turn him away, when Mortensen appeared in the door that opened onto the passageway, gaunt and ghastly looking, his shoulder-length hair matted, his beard begrimed, yet uncustomarily cheerful—he smiled as Wilander retold Lunde’s story, ruining his image of revenant saintliness with a display of crooked brown teeth, looking instead as if he were the spiritual relic of an especially noisome odor or the astral guardian of a landfill, and once the story was complete, rather than responding to it, he poked at the maps with a bony, whitish-gray forefinger, like a parsnip in color, and praised Wilander for having devised so intriguing a destination (he had taken the liberty of studying the maps while Wilander was otherwise occupied), saying also that while he had doubted Wilander’s suitability for the captain’s cabin, he doubted it no longer. And when Wilander asked why he had used the word devised, Mortensen said, Didn’t you listen to Lunde? It should be clear what’s happened. The life force of Lunde and his officers fused with Viator during the storm. They were wedded to the instincts of the ship, her instinct to survive, to travel, just as the ship’s life was ultimately wedded to the life of the forest. Since Lunde proved to be most in accord with her instincts, the ship chose him to plot the course of her survival. Now that you’ve taken Lunde’s place, in union both with Viator and the forest, you’re creating not only maps of the land to which we’re traveling, but also the land itself, the (here he shuffled the maps about, peering at their legends)…the Iron Shore.

This astonishing recitation, so glibly delivered that it seemed practiced, left Wilander speechless.

—Arnsparger and Halmus view things somewhat differently, Mortensen went on. And yet I wouldn’t call their views contrary. They’re more complimentary, I’d say. Variant.

Still astonished, Wilander asked, You knew about the storm? And about Lunde?

—Not in so many words, but it was obvious something like that had happened. It’s happened to us, after all. Maybe you’ve been so wrapped up in your mapmaking, you haven’t had the opportunity to step back and view the situation, but…

—You believe the maps, my maps, are making this place real?

Mortensen gave a sweeping gesture, like one a preacher might employ when enthusing about promised glories, and said, There are worlds of possibility out there. Real as mist. Your mind, in alliance with Viator and the forest, with their power, their steadfastness, is influencing one of those worlds to harden into physical form. The signs of its three creators are present in your maps. The forest, the sea, the city. Surely you can see it? Even Nygaard sees it in his simple-minded way. Every reality is given form by means of a similar consensus.