The Captain's Log
By sean mcnulty
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‘There might still be people here,’ Katrine suggested, her voice faltering. The island had meant little to her before. It was just a place. Her mother’s place. But the pallid mood of it had her wondering. Even hoping. Some answers would be gladly received. And also: she craved a bit more from this would-be memorial.
‘Is that your preferred outcome?’ asked Masterson of her. ‘If there are people here, I’d say be on your wares. It would be a mad sort that would live in a place like this. Who knows what they would make of us? Did you bring that pistol, Captain?’
Littlewood nodded in silence.
‘There must be people. Someone had to have planted those flowers.’
‘That would be the permanent gardener of Eden who did that,’ beamed Geissel, smugly.
‘Eden – that’s a bloody stretch and a bit.’
‘Where are we supposed to bury the body?’ interrupted Stinson. ‘The land is full of holes.’
He was referring to deep crevices which ran through the ground below them like open wounds.
‘What could be down there?’
‘God knows – but it’s probably sunnier than up here, I can tell you,’ said Masterson.
‘Of course. Australia.’
‘Aidan, my boy, you are so ignorant of the geographical sciences,’ said Geissel. ‘You’d come out in China, not Australia, everyone knows that.’
‘I was only playing.’
‘There must be decent soil over there,’ said Littlewood, pointing towards the sunflowers as tall as trees.
So they began to make their way across the decrepit domain. And were careful to avoid all the holes.
‘Do you think this is even the right island?’ asked Stinson as they started off. Everyone gave pause when he said this – then shrugged it off, and continued walking.
They slogged for many miles. The sun squinted through the cloud at one stage but it was unwilling to let them see it or experience the light it had to give. And all that northern starburst had skedaddled.
Littlewood had them stop after a while; he approached Stinson, who was still carrying Grimur’s case, and he went inside it until he found the bottle of whiskey.
‘We’ve had our differences, Captain,’ said Masterson, as Littlewood opened the bottle. ‘But you have a brilliant mind.’
A big swig of it followed. Then he passed it around.
They weren’t far from the sunflowers when Katrine spotted something a few yards out: a thin white material – like a fabric – was skipping over the ground ahead of them. As a leaf blows pointlessly in the wind. She dashed forward and tried to grab it.
‘Careful,’ said Geissel. The priest was right to caution – for in her haste Katrine tripped and nearly fell into one of the crevices.
‘Jesus Christ – and sorry, Fathers,’ exclaimed Littlewood.
‘I’m okay,’ she called back.
After taking a few more perilous steps, Katrine reached the leaf-like thing – she grabbed it and held it upwards.
‘Words,’ she then shouted back to them.
‘What’s she going on about?’ Geissel said.
‘Words,’ said Masterson. ‘It’s a piece of paper, I think.’
‘Ah, so there were humans here. I will bet it’s a page from scripture. Who wants to bet?’
‘I’ll bet it’s a notice of suicide.’
‘I don’t gamble,’ said Stinson.
Katrine returned to them with her discovery and said: ‘It’s handwritten. In Norwegian.’
‘Read it to us. Don’t skimp on the details.’
‘It’s not very legible. It looks like it was written in poor conditions. The penmanship is...sluggish.’
‘Is it the word of Our Lord?’ asked Geissel.
‘No, it looks like a diary. Or it once was part of a diary.’
Katrine took a moment to read over the 9 and a ½ sentences and when she felt it was ready to be rendered meaningful, she opened her mouth and read:
‘There were many dead when I arrived. Some appeared to have been incinerated, others buried with small flowers to mark the graves. How they found flowers is anyone’s guess? This land is dying. There is a smell of death all around. I found leaves last week, but no trees. Where did they go? It is like the ground opened up and took them.
I know now I am not alone. If you are reading this –’
And then it ended.
‘Well, whoever it was, smart they were to keep a diary. Even in such a barren place, the human spirit endures in letters.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Littlewood. ‘But it’s not much help to us.’
‘Don’t you keep a log, Captain?’ asked Stinson.
‘No, no. I would only write down all my bitterness in it. There would be a lot to share. It wouldn’t make for good reading.’
This was true. For Littlewood had lately tried to record a log of his travails.
Captain’s Log ?-?-1953
I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know where I’m going.
I have a pain in my arsehole.
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Comments
Some wonderful flashes of
Some wonderful flashes of humour in this
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Continues to be brilliant. :)
Continues to be brilliant. :)
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