The Paper Sea, Part One

It began with a blue sailboat with pale riggings, quivering in the shallows and bound to a scratchy dock. The air was grey as the sky was grey, and the ocean lifted itself in dark bulges to meet with the shore.

Keep Muskogee, a ten year old girl, tread past the trees and onto the precipice and was met with a wall of fog that undulated magnanimously with the wind. She had gone out alone that morning, a dangerous venture considering she was close to the cliffs and the rocks were sheeted with ice. She chose left, where there was yellow grass swept clean, and followed the edge of the cliffs with a careful foot.  There wasn’t any way she could have seen the sailboat yet. All she could see at present was the black teeth of the rock as it separated from the grass, and past that, a cauldron of grey and white and maybe just the slightest sight of the sea lapping against the stones below. Snow came harshly, without a gentle pretense, and dashed the fog away just enough for Keep to see a thin spine of rock descending to a pebbly shoreline. She knew better than to hurry. She forced her eyes not to get ahead of her feet and maintained her slow gait through the grass. If you were in a boat below her you would not have been able to see her. She was like a flower enveloped in the ghost of a storm. There was no discerning her curious brown eyes or her whipping hair. But she was there all the same, and that’s all that really mattered.

At last Keep reached the top of the rocky slope, paused to survey, and realized she was on the brink of a small cove. It was like a bowl that’s been cut in half and left for the sea to fill when it wants to. And there, standing tall but very alone, was the sailboat, lovely blue with sail down and sides breathing in and out of the shoals. It was a beautiful moment, because it was somehow obvious no one had visited the cove in a very long time, offering the idea that the sailboat had perhaps been forgotten. It was no small wonder how it was even there still and not smashed up somewhere in the reefs.  Keep stood still for a minute, absorbing its peaceful loneliness with a soft smile and wide eyes which nearly cried from the wind. She started warily down the hill, nearly forgetting safety, but hesitated with a sudden thought. Keep turned on her heels, giving a reassuring glance to the sailboat, and then slipped soundlessly back into the icy trees. It was time to retrieve her best friend, John Mark, from the house on the cliffs.

She rediscovered the way she had come. There was a broken twig, a brief line of her footprints where the ice had sagged, a fissure in the hardened ground she remembered jumping over. She was easily clever enough to navigate through the woods and emerge on the other side, where there lay a field of grey grass swaying vehemently from the wind and snow. At its edge was the house, a thin, vague figure fixed near a cliff. Some yards to its left stood the lighthouse. This hadn’t been used in years, but one could still go in it and climb up to the light loft where the lanterns were once spun to alert the fishing vessels. Being still very early in the morning, there were no lights on in the house. Its fragile flank was stark white at the expense of two dark windows. John Mark probably wasn’t even stirring in his bed yet. Keep began the dreary march across the field, bringing her purple cap down over her ears and wrapping her arms across her chest to fight off the cold. The snow wasn’t letting up and she innately sensed that the sea beyond the cliff was beginning to scorn the sharp rocks. It had been far warmer in the woods.

“And just where are you off to, Musky!” Keep jumped and twirled to her right. For a moment she saw nobody, though a second later she knew it was John Mark. His buoyant voice could carry in a crowded football stadium.

“You’re not too good at scaring people,” Keep laughed as he patched his way into sight.

“I wasn’t trying to scare you. Obviously I was wondering where you got off to. Where’ve you been?”

“I’ve discovered something. I was coming back to get you.” John Mark stopped in front of her, disclosing a ruddy, handsome face and a brown head of hair poking irrationally from underneath his bright red stocking cap. A sleek .22 rifle was slung over one shoulder.

“What are you going to try and shoot?” Keep asked.

“Sharks.”

“There will be plenty of time for that once you see what I’ve found,” Keep beamed. “Come on!”

Keep plucked up some speed and slid back into the trees . John Mark was also carrying a knapsack full of long term supplies such as kerosene stoves and powdered spaghetti. Pots and pans hung off of his belt and the .22 kept sliding off his shoulder, forcing him to submit to an unorthodox limp in Keep’s pursuit. “Bother it all,” he muttered. “She’s a wood elf.”

After multiple stops, backtracks, and gathering of fallen utensil, the two children found themselves at the cove where the sailboat had remained unfettered by the storm.

“Well?” said John Mark. “Are we going down or aren’t we?”

“Not until you put all that nonsense down,” Keep replied. “What did you bring it for anyway?”

“You don’t have to be smart with me,” said John Mark. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll need it for our voyage.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Aren’t we going sailing? That’s what you do with sailboats, right? You sail in them?”

“Now you’re the smart one. Whatever. Bring it along I guess. But don’t let it lose your balance.”

It was a slow time going down. Now the ice from the grass was up and behind them and hitting the skin on their necks. John Mark looked as if he could plummet to the ground below any second.

“Easy does it!” called Keep behind her shoulder.

John Mark gave step after step in diminishing caution. He was easily affirmed by himself and after a while was nearly hopping down the slope until he soared past Keep at an unalterable speed.

“John Mark, slow down you blockhead!”

It was far too late for that. John Mark couldn’t stop himself. His legs kept falling forward, faster and faster; the ridge expired, so he darted left, lost his footing completely, and tumbled to a stop in the frigid shoals. Grimacing, he raised his head to realize he was only inches from the sailboat’s bow. Its name was inscribed on its side, written in dark blue: The Fairy Tale. His fascination overtook his misery. He stood sopping and hopped aboard, discarding the knapsack and letting his eyes absorb every detail the boat had to offer. By then of course Keep had dashed up to the boat crying if he was all right, but John Mark was no longer concerned with the cold or the pulsing pain in his forehead. Something had taken hold of him like a hand takes gold.

“We’re pushing off,” he declared as Keep clambered beside him and began to medically investigate his forehead.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

“All the better,” John Mark replied, whisking past her. “It’s time for seafaring.”

There wasn’t any denying that the sailboat was unique. There was a shiny metal steering wheel at the back while the single white sail towered ten feet high at the bow, its triangular flap bulging with wind. John Mark moved the wheel back and forth, intrigued by the sail’s succinct obedience. Keep ducked to avoid the swinging boom.

“Fascinating,” he whispered.

“My grandfather would want us to know where we’re at,” Keep said, though she couldn’t retain her own delight.

“Sometimes there are good excuses for doing crazy things,” John Mark said. “Come on, Keep, help me untie her.” The moment The Fairy Tale’s ropes were undone the boat caught a wave and lodged itself into the sand. John Mark automatically volunteered to shove her off again since there was no getting any wetter than he already was. He pushed until his soggy feet sank into the sand, and once he made progress, stood knee deep in the pulsating water. Keep managed to steer into a positive wind just as John Mark clambered over the rail and flopped on deck. He leaped to his feet and overtook the wheel. They were wafting away at a surprising speed, meeting the waves headlong and enduring walls of freezing sea spray. It can’t be described any better other than telling you they were sailing by some sort of magic. The storm was at its climax now; snow and ice gnashed all around them and made blinding constellations like spilling stars. Yet on they sailed like a fine blade. John Mark kept a steady hand on the wheel while Keep issued directions at the bow, binoculars fastened to her face and her lithe body leaning over the sea. The water was fitful and pressed buckets of water up to meet her.

Far off into the ocean it appeared to be almost peaceful; through the haze the water lay flat except for a few dull undulations. Keep encouraged John Mark to steer to the left where she discerned a promising expanse of dark blue sea free from the waves. John Mark agreed and swiveled left.

A few moments reflection supported the notion that the children were no longer guiding the vessel at all. It was as if this boat was pulling and steering itself, whispering to Keep and John Mark what to do and where to go. The Fairy Tale made for the still water beyond the bay, and met a cold shine of sunlight as it bounced off a final wave and smoothed itself into a fine track headed north. There was no longer any wind and no more snow, though it had grown colder and the water was somehow darker, yet clearer, than before.

“This is weird,” Keep remarked. She left her station at the bow and sat down by John Mark, who had his eyes pasted on what was left of the storm behind them. It was nearly gone and sucked up into the air, headed west. Its deep clouds apparently took all the noise with them. There was no sound. Their own heartbeats were clanging.

“We may hit Nova Scotia by nightfall,” John Mark predicted.

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Keep. “You know we have to get back sometime soon.”

“Why are you such a defeatist?”

“Been reading again?”

“Hush up. I want to know where we are.”

John Mark cautiously stood up and dug into a denim pocket for his compass. Once he pulled it out, he stared at it for an unnecessary amount of time, as his habitual fascination with directions demanded, and concluded they were indeed headed straight north and only icebergs would delay. Keep dipped her hand into the water. Its chill was otherworldly.

“This is really weird,” she said. “There’s hardly any wind and yet we’re still going like we were in the storm.” John Mark had returned to his compass and was stroking its protective glass. “North,” he whispered. “All the way to the end.”

The shoreline was vanishing quickly. Keep gripped the stern and stared after the crags until their dark crowns were gone and there was only ocean in each direction. She was renowned among her friends as a brave girl, as the text would submit to, and as a matter of a fact she was brave at that very moment, not because she wasn’t scared, but because she didn’t want to turn back any longer. They were in an inviolate sphere, as John Mark would mention later. Protected, but still at the disposal of raw nature.

An hour passed. John Mark no longer touched the wheel. A strong wind pursued them from behind and kept pushing them northward, straight as an arrow. Mystery was pressing down on their senses more and more every minute. The world around no longer seemed worldly. The lolling expanse of the water was too tame for nature and yet too wild for it at the same time.

“A delicate quandary,” John Mark noted to himself. Things began to change immediately after he said that.

Suddenly, and as the mystery reached its summit, both children felt a leap of excitement in their chests for no apparent reason. It was as if a hand reached into them and pulled their deepest longings to a touchable surface. They knew it in each other’s eyes, in the crystal dark of the water, and finally in the snow which beat down like little diamonds shining in the sunlight. There was not a cloud in sight. The Fairy Tale approached a curious boundary in the water where the water turned pale and clear and you could see sharks and enormous whales wriggling dozens of feet below in the depths. The snow kept pouring down. John Mark touched Keep’s hand and she responded by opening her palm and clasping his fingers. Neither one of them knew what was happening. They hadn’t particularly thought of dying or what was beyond it. They were only in fifth grade.

“You think I’m just dreaming?” John Mark said, a bit crestfallen at the idea.

“Of course we’re not dreaming,” Keep replied with a laugh. “We can’t both be having the same dream.”

No, they knew themselves and could determine their senses. So why was the cold warm? Why was the snow golden? Why did the wind turn their hair into shambles although they had never felt such gentle air in their lives? Keep and John Mark began to smile wildly in bare delight. They stood up, figures alight, and couldn’t feel fear.

“Keep? John Mark?”

Keep sat up to find herself being shaken awake by her Grandfather, the strong, familiar hands recollecting her composure. John Mark was sitting on the edge of his bed across the room and staring at her with an affectionate glory in his eyes. They were back at the house on the cliffs and Grandfather had wanted to show them the snowstorm before it moved westward.