Episode Six: The Captain
“What have you done?”
A voice from my childhood, approaching from my right, all but yells. I am slow to react. It occurs to me that I had seen no movement, no shadow, to indicate that someone had joined us in the tavern. Like the speaker had just appeared with us. But, knowing what I know now, I'm not exactly surprised. I turn when I see the tavernmaster cower. His face flashes something like a child's who has been caught doing what he should not. And for just a moment I am sure that my life is over.
A tall, powerfully – but lithely – built, devilishly handsome Persian man is standing next to me, decided disappointment decorating his magnificently bearded face as he glares at the tavernmaster, evidently all but ignoring me. He is haloed in golden light. Storm clouds surround him, threatening lightning. In nearly the same motion that he turns to regard me, with eyes of ozone blue, he touches me with the first two fingers of his right hand on my forehead. My awareness goes black.
In choosing to recound my story in the way that I have, I have brought us to a crossroads, Listener. I might, if I were better at this thing I am doin, simply tell you only what I knew at the time. I might give an account only from that vantage which, for much of my life – most of what you might call its Natural part – was the only vantage I had upon my past: My memory, that is.
I am no longer constrained by Time as I was.
I am, now, standing in that tavern with the men I knew then as the tavernmaster and The Captain, beside the very unaware body of my younger self. Communicating to you thought V like an explorer on a radio apparatus. He will, no doubt, polish my prose before I help him attempt to recreate their voices, this moment. If they know that I am here, they are not letting me know.
How horrifying that would be.
I prefer not to consider whether I were fated to be here.
I have strayed off the course of my narrative, yes. But I feel that I should tell you— That past version of me, his – my – awareness is simply gone. Like any television set or good robot, I have been shut off. I will return to my self by the end of this episode. I could simply have made this the end of the last. But I have a feeling that you might like this better. I am not hypnotized. Hypnotization is like a light sleeping state, like dreaming the song you hear on the radio. You are still able to experience your senses.
What The Captain did to me, he wanted to make sure I couldn't hear what comes next.
My head slumps forward so that my chin clacks my teeth together against my chest. The Captain shoots his glare back to the tavernmaster. The tavern is as dark as it had been when I entered, but he looks no less ready to slay the tavernmaster with bolts of lightning.
“What the fuck,” he says, then yells” “What the fuck? What were you thinking, Toad?”
The tavernmaster is, again, his fat, bald, bearded self – if he ever was anything but. His features scramble with fear. His mouth works, but only half-words will come from it. The Captain slaps the bar.
“Dammit, Toad! I told you to bring him here and tell him about the girl and the serpent – to keep him busy until I could get here, and to keep him away from my ship. I didn't tell you to trap him in a pocket dimension and get him to bare his soul for the Ennead and anyone else looking in to see!”
“I'm sorry, Lord En—“
The Captain slaps him across the face. Insulting more than injurious. “Do not you dare say my name.”
The blow had been but a surprise; his tone and the finger he held mere centimeters from the tavernmaster's nose was a promise of much worse.
“Yes, Lord.” The tavernmaster inclines his head.
The Captain looks at my body, in my favorite seat. For a second there, I thought he was looking at me. His face is not pleased.
“What am I supposed to do with him now? What the fuck where you thinking?”
“You told me to play my part... Captain.”
“That The Captain to you. Say it, Toad!”
“Sir— The Captain,” the tavernmaster croaks out. “Old habits die hard.”
“Old habits.” The Captain literally spits. “You haven't practiced your habit in 1300 years. Don't look at me like that. You're lucky I don't kill you myself. I can't fucking believe you would nearly throw away the game like this. Order would be merciful to destroy you quickly.”
“Order had mercy on me once. He has need for me, yet, or you would have no choice but to destroy me.”
“The Lamia.”
“The Lamia,” the tavernmaster agrees.
The Captain sighs. “What am I supposed to do with him now?”
“I've already done the hard part. Give him what you came to give him and be gone.”
“And if he sees me for what I am – as he has no doubt seen you?”
“He is the Fulcrum. Why should we need to hide?”
“It is against the Rules.” The Captain hisses like a sheet of rain in a high wind.
“The Rules,” the tavernmaster scoffs. “What has Chaos ever obeyed the Rules?”
“You're beginning to sound like you've been swayed by Chaos.”
“And if speaking with the Fulcrum has swayed me? Do not be so stunned. Lamiya breaks the Rules by sending her Daughter at all. It will not be long before there is all-out War once more. You used to be a king of kings – make a choice.”
“You have forgotten your place, Toad.”
“I have forgotten nothing. Perhaps you and you years aboard ships, sailing your beloved—“ The Captain raises a slapping hand, and the tavernmaster cringes silence. “The School has been fractured a long time. My place forgets me.”
The Captain nods and diverts his attention to me. When he touches my forehead once more, I sit upright. Before my eyes open, he says:
“Do not open your eyes yet. When you do, do not look upon me until I tell you to.”
My eyes flutter open, but aim themselves at the floor. This is where I return myself backinto my perspective. And when things start on their way to really getting weird.
“Come on, Boy. It's my turn to talk to you.”
Without really thinking about it, I get up and start following The Captain to the door. The golden glow filling my eyes – and flooding in from outside – is almost blinding. The last thought I have before exiting – and for much of the rest of my coming experience – is that it reminds of the The Light. The same Light Plato described shining into his Cave – the same light Near Death Experiencers and Mediums alike describe waiting for us after life.
“One second,” the tavernmaster calls over my shoulder. The Captain stops but doesn't look back.
“What?” he asks.
“I played my part. I just want to know one thing: did you really see him? The man in the taverna?”
“That's what you want to know?” The Captain shakes his head slowly. “No. He was already gone by the time I was there to get the girl. But you didn't lie to him. He was there. It happened just how I told you. She showed me that much, at least.”
“I see.”
“No. You don't. Neither of us does.”
And the next thing I know, I am walking through that blinding rectangle into.... If I – or you, for that matter – expected anything besides Genoa's usual plaza, unusual only for the gaity of Calendimaggio, I was disappointed. And yet I was not.
Once my eyes have adjusted to the extraordinary brightness, I am very nearly mezmerized by the sights I am beholding. The colors – of the flowers, the clothes, the ribbons that seem to stream everywhere – flow into the motion of the revelers in one living essence. An indescribable metaphor for the motion of Life, energy, the very Mind of the Cosmos itself. I was lost in this at the time; but reliving it now, experiencing it again... I am lost for words. Awe and wonder do nothing to articulate this overwhelming majesty. Beauty is by orders of magnitude too inexpressive a word.
I cannot say for certain that this feeling within me is the goal the original organizers of this celebration intended; if it was, what a wonder it would be to see their festivals undiluted by time and amnesia.
We are, all too soon, through the plaza and walking along the docks. I have no interest in the ship, and pay them no heed except to notice, distantly and distracted by The Captain's sudden monologuing, that we are, evidently, alone but for the ubuiquitous gulls.
“Sorry if I seem... unlike my usual self, today. It's this damn Hindi merchant. You ever hear of a Hindi wanting to sail the Mediterranean? Me neither. Yet here we are. And this prick insists on stopping at every single port worthy of the name along the way. I told that son of a bitch if he wanted to make any real money, we may as well sail straight for Velencia or Malaga. Christians don't have no gold! – no, really. And they've definitely got no interest in Hindi goods. May as well go straight to the Moors and be done with it. Does me no good, though. Does he listen to me? Of course not! What do I know?”
Producer's Note: I just want to jump in here a moment. When Rob said the tavernmaster used an amount of profanity that could make a sailor blush, I thought he was being funny. He clearly did not mean this sailor. The profusion of colorful curses suddenly flooding my head are without compare to anything have ever heard or thought before. For my own sake, I am heavily editing The Captain's speech. Otherwise this would look like a government document – more redactions than not. Like a Rap radio edit. Nobody wants to hear this kind of language. Sorry. Anyway:
“I'm only The mother fucking Captain! A man so synonymous with the sea, my trade is my name! Blugh! Genoa. Never wanted to come to Genoa. But, hey! We're here. My ship. You remember her?”
“We've stopped, I realize. We're standing at the base of a gangplank leading up to a ship I am honestly not sure I could differentiate in any meaningful way from any other.
I won't say whether I answered, nor how The Captain reacted to it. What happened next was that The Captain's hand waved across my face; and the next thing I know, I'm standing in perhaps the most lavishly decorated cabin ever conceived in naval history. I have said before that I have no interest in things nautical, and I risk insulting those that do by saying so again – and, frankly, by trying to describe what I am seeing. For the sake of setting the scene, suffice to say that every square inch of this cabin – the walls, the floors, the ceiling, even his ostentatiously and unnecessarily huge desk and chair (maybe that's where the diea I got for mine) – are decorated with a profusive melange of artifacts from every corner of the world. Many of them even I (then) do not recognize their point of origin. Many of those which I do are of priceless antiquity; no few thought lost to time.
I might have thought, Ah, so that's where that went. I didn't, but I might have. I didn't think anything. Just walked over to and sat down on the sofa waiting for me opposite his desk, smiling, blandly and patiently, for him to make himself comfortable in his chair.
“Allllllll right, then. Here we are. Here you are. With me.”
I don't know where it has gone, but dimly I am aware that the golden radiance is gone from my being – and my sight. And that there is no source of light in this windowless – or, should I say, port-less – cabin. Yet, lit it is: comfortably, if not brightly. And the Captain— Neither stormclouds deck his shoulders, nor magnificently curled beard his face. His cheeks are as smooth, as they say, as a baby's buttocks.
I pay this no mind – almost like I've been compelled to do so.
“Don't know why I said that. You can't respond. It's fine. Maybe I should have left you asleep.” A great, conflicted sigh puffs out his cheeks and deflates his lungs. “What is she thinking? What was he thinking? What am I going to do?” He practically shouts this last, laughing.
Considering me a long moment, he continues: “The Fulcrum of fucking Fate. In my cabin. Can't say I thought I'd ever see you again. Not like this. Not after what they say happened in Constantinople. Genoa, though? Really? Kid, if you're going to go into hiding, you've actually got to go into hiding. Hide, dammit! You didn't think the Scholeio Demiourgoi have agents here? Jesus, I hate that name. You didn't recognize the Toad as one of their number?”
He looks to the ceiling as if sending a lamentation directly to watching gods. “What did you teach him? How is he supposed to....” He blows a sigh out of his nose. “Fine. It's not my place to question the Master, and I never got anything but misery from trying to question Lamiya – or her mother.
“Come here. I have something for you.”
I stand and walk over to his side, behind the desk, between him and the door.
He touches my forehead, and everything goes black.
“Remember nothing of me. You bought what I'm giving you from a Hindi merchant – just because. Don't use it until you're good and ready. Now – go home. Or to that office of yours. Whatever. I don't care. I just want to get the Hell out of here and as far away from you as I can get. Oh. And quit using that opium shit. It makes you stupid. And you don't want to be stupid for what's coming next. Maybe stay away from the weed, too. And... Kid... be careful. Shit is about to go very very bad for you, here. The Daughters of Lamiya are no joke. No fuckin joke at all.”
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