Year of our Lord 1423, in the sea between Nippon and China
‘Raise the…’
‘What!?’
‘How the heck do I know! Raise that bloody thing, matey!’
‘You mean what, that sail?’
‘Hell yeah!’
‘Who raises sail in a storm? You crazy?’
‘You are the sailor, for god’s sake!’
‘Sailor? Me?’
‘You ain’t? Blimey! Who the hell are you then?’
‘A frigging merchant! I live on land! I never…’
‘Aw, grrrreat.’
He ran to the other side of the ship, which wasn’t that war away, the ship being a medium-sized Chinese junk. How is that side called? He thought. Bom-prom-bramsel? No, that’s probably a sail. Raft? Shaft? What the heck. He wanted to find the other bloke, his unwilling companion in the breakaway attempt.
‘Gonsallo? Gonsallo? Hey, matey? Where are you?’
There was no reply, only the small mast squeaked madly under the wind. Anselm looked around. The sea was going mad around him, throwing gigantic walls of water against each other and against his junk.
Maybe, he thought, it was not such a good idea after all to escape on a junk. Maybe, all things considered, remaining captive would have been a much better choice. Maybe, maybe…
He grabbed a rope hanging from the mast, as a chilly wave covered the vessel. ‘Aaahh!’ he screamed, diving out of grey coldness. ‘Gonsallo, you still alive mate? Laddy, answer me, you son of a bitch!’
He could see that he was now alone on the junk; but his heart refused to believe that. ‘Gonsallo! I am sorry! I am so sorry, mate!’
Soaking wet all over, he decided that keeping aboard was his first priority. The fate of the Portuguese trader was something he was determined to avoid at all costs.
He did not have to struggle much, though, as his tiny ship was thrown against a rock which he could not see in the darkness. But even if he could see that fateful rock a bit North off the coast of Ishikawa – what could he had done? The force of the collision tore him away from his ship, and, clutching the useless piece of rope in his hands, he fell into the frenzied sea.
‘How much time do people survive in cold water?’ he thought, struggling to keep on top of the waves. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Gonsallo, Gonsallo, I am so sorry…’
- - - - -
Warmth was spreading through his body. The kind of warmth they say comes just before the cold swallows you.
He collected himself mentally, getting ready to plunge into death.
The warmth was getting deeper into his muscles, relaxing them, untying the nervous knots. The heat spread through his body in waves, as if he could feel the under-currents of the sea rubbing against his body.
Dying like that, he thought, is not that unpleasant.
The waives spreading the warmth were becoming more pronounced, and soon he began to think that someone’s hands were massaging him, very gently and rhythmically. He did not know what to make of it, so he spent some time with no thoughts in his head, giving himself to the bizarre and pleasant sensation. For never in his life he had someone touch him so gently.
Visions began to float in front of his closed eyes. The cold sea waters, the colour of heavy lead, closing over his head. The strange play of light and darkness around him, the feeling of loosing control over his body, giving this control away to a force stronger that any force known to a man: the power of the sea. He saw his body thrown around just under the waves that were dancing madly in the air so close above him but which he would never again see; and as he went deeper, strange creatures started to touch him, caress him, probe him. He saw a loose ball of seaweed float up his body… a wave of warmness spreading deep inside him. Someone’s white hand caressed his breast... was it a hand, really? More like…
Good lord, a tentacle of a man-eating sea monster! He screamed, and tried to break away. The creature locked him in a tight embrace, and fight as he might, there was no escape.
‘
Gaman,’ the monster said in a soft female voice. ‘
Gaman, gaman!’
Anselm opened his eyes. The face of the monster was right next to his, white as death, with a black oriole around its head with things prortuding from it. Its red moth was opening and closing, full of small sharp teeth, and it was saying something in a tongue he had never heard spoken.
Unable to withstand the horror, Anselm’s soul fell back into the cold darkness.
