A Fisher's Parade
by Julian Button-Nadon,
QWF College Writers Award Winner, 2021
“Gramps, why does the sea sing to me?”
Dry the socks, always dry the socks—never wear a wet pair too long else they’ll cut yer foot off, or worse the fish’ll get in—squirmin slidin intah yer bones. Eat yer food fast else you’ll not get tah finish, never talk back tah the ribbons else you’ll be the first tah keep night watch. The sea’s loudest at night—DON’T LISTEN. Just before dawn you’ll be woken, remember tah check the Krebs for holes, a single leak’ll be enough tah drown a man. Always settle yer bed and beard first thing else you’ll be doin push-ups, or worse, night watch. Keep yer service pistol well oiled and always have a round ready tah be chambered. I used tah tell my ma how everythin was fine n that, that I’d be home tah join the forest of bone ash. No, I wouldn’t be eaten by fish, though in my heart I knew even if the fish hadn’t eaten me, they’d already eaten me. When you forget tah dry yer socks and yer legs start tah tingle, that’s when they take out the saw—whole leg needs tah go. Don’t listen tah the fish, the sea or yer friends else it’ll echo in yer ears—their screamin. Remember tah spread yer rum ration, you’ll need some at least every night shift... So many night shifts... When dryin yer socks remember tah keep em outta the water. Some lads soak their socks in the water, not even losin a leg could save em. They’d say the fish weren’t so bad, friendly even, but I’d seen what those fuckers did. I knew... I knew tah always dry the socks. Everyone who died, who got eaten, deserved it—they were stupid or lazy or bad n if you do it right it’ll never happen tah you, no never you. The little chocolates that come with yer rations are nice, if you don’t like chocolate you can trade em for cigs or rum or whatnot, or you can boil some water and melt the chocolate—so warm... Don’t, just please, remember you can’t listen tah the screams, never the screams... Push through, endure, you’ll be back home soon I promise. Soon the battle’ll be over, soon the war’ll be finished, you’ll return home with badges and little else. Don’t listen tah the screamin, and remember, keep one round—it’s for you.
Rotten soil - barren,
a soldier sailor's waking dream,
foregone conclusion.
My gramps was a sailor, at least that’s what the oldies say. Everyone born before 2065 says he was a soldier, so maybe that’s true instead. I only ever knew him smokin his hayseed’s pipe on the veranda, starin out at the sunken buildings off the coast of Saskatchewan. All season I used to walk along the coast, listenin to the sea sing to me. At the end of the day I’d go back to our veranda, where my gramps spent most of his days. He’d be rockin back and forth with a tack tack tack, smokin a pipe, barely hidin a mischievous grin tween the fumes. I remember askin him “Gramps, why does the sea sing to me?” He turned to me, grippin the stump where his prosthetic began, and said “Boy, whatever you do don’t sing back.” He had only ever made a face like that when he spoke to the oldies of his tour in the Fourth Cetacean Population Control Expedition. He never needed to hide his smile again. I pestered him damn near every day but he only ever muttered “don’t sing back,” his unlit pipe danglin from his lips. After a while grandpa didn’t speak at all, no matter what you said to him. The villagers gossiped behind my back, maybe thinkin I put one of those baataamo upon him, that thing the oldest of the oldies murmur of. Some months later I found him in his usual place, to ask how I could make it better, how I could apologize. He always knew how to make things better. He wouldn’t respond so I shook him, gently, but he slipped out of his chair, his pipe spillin old ash. Well I never got the chance to apologize to him, and ma said that I wouldn’t until I joined him in the pyre, the sea of ash coverin the bone forest, where locals were dumped after cremation. Eventually I grew up, stopped imaginin the sea singin to me, stopped believin in the oldies’ bullshit. Now I barely remember my childhood, only a few memorable smatters remain. Food eventually dwindled on the island. I was forced to leave for one of the more industrial colonies, that place the old folks still call Ontario. My old man knew a few mainlanders and managed to get me a job on a commercial fishin boat, the White Ship.
Five broken branches,
a rotten king tinged yellow
wood ring, palisade.
Most sailors spend their time and money whorin or boozin, but I rarely do. Not to say I can’t appreciate some quality spirits or streetwalkers but I always feel off balance on this land, like the concrete was made of shiftin quicksand. If the cap’n let me I’d spend all my time on ship. Lackin that I spend most of my forced leave wanderin the port and alleys. You see all sorts of oddities when wanderin a city at night, at least you do in this one. The snakin alleys feel much the same, like explorin different cells in a single life form. Except this time when I entered an alley off Kiln Street, I could see it was off, more so than the standard strange. Deserted, save for one swayin pile of what must have been a person, a vagrant maybe. The walls throbbed, but I told myself it was just the whiskey, though I had drunk no more than a drop. I thought I’d tasted every kind of flavour this city had to offer, but I don’t think I’d ever tasted an alley like this. It looked exactly the same as every other alley I’ve seen, but it was unexplainably different. As I walked forward the walls oozed scarlet, almost as if a dyer’s vat had ruptured. The ground clung to my feet, wet like the bones of the livin. I considered turnin back but I felt a wetness on the back of my neck which changed my mind. It was like some fool spilled the remnants of his whiskey down my back, yet I knew not a livin soul was behind me. I had to press onward. As I pushed forward I neared the pile of cloth and stink, a head slid out, his eyes lockin with mine. He lay curled up on the ground, his back bent at what seemed like an impossible angle. His face was wrinkled, reminded me of a prune forgotten in the sun for weeks, an unlit pipe danglin from his lips. We stared at each other, and the more I studied his eyes the more perplexed I became. In those holes I saw a childish innocence, an emptiness like that of a newborn babe, and a recollection. His eyes locked onto mine, his head rockin back and forth, to and fro, dancin to a tune only he could hear. Abruptly he broke eye contact, as if it meant nothin. I walked past and bared my back, feeling a hard hand grip my shoulder, a vice so tight I couldn’t take a step further. I had to look back, his eyes locked onto mine once more. Pride prevented me from runnin, yet I wanted nothin more than to sob home, to escape his manacle of aged flesh. We stood like that, for what felt like quite a while but maybe wasn’t. The longer I stared into his eyes the more I saw, the more I understood. I saw past the pustules, past the emptiness. A whispered melody broke the silence and I saw past the cataracts, past the innocence. The whispered mutter turned to a hum, one I swear I’d heard before. At the very back of his head I saw the shattered mind, the broken sanity. He smiled a mouth full of puss and blackened teeth, sweet maggots of sound pourin from his mouth and crawlin into mine. A final whisper escaped his mouth as he released me, crumplin to the ground. “Don’t sing back…” I ran and ran and ran, till I reached the ship. I hadn’t intended to, yet there I was. Now only one thing lingers in my mind. What was that melody?
Slate sky, cutting moon,
ocean’s dance, a fish parade!
A song sung by fools.
As I board I cannot help but ponder that murmur, that melody. Hours pass and still I can barely think of anything else, even leavin port barely settles my nerves. The few whispered notes crawl to and fro inside my skull like so many dragonflies feastin upon the softest parts of my mind. How could I be expected to hear his infernal muttering!? What was that melody…
The White Ship lazily drifts through the sea, the deck crowded with overflowin crates, presumably some new scheme the cap’n came up with. He always liked to run a tight ship. With a jerk the White Ship begins to cut through the water at breakneck speed, the ocean hardly presentin any resistance at all. I could hear the cap’n’s bellowin laugh, presumably about the good fortune, one part superstition and two parts speed. The crew celebrates around me, yet I cannot. That melody... That melody from the thing in the alley, it’s dancin in the back of my throat. At first I can’t quite discern it over the sounds of the ship and sailors but soon the melody becomes clearer and clearer. A few of the lads begin to wobble, dismissin it as sea sickness, which makes no sense. Sailors don’t get seasick on smooth waters like these. My legs also wobble but not with nausea. No. With euphoria. My heart pounds and pounds, even though my legs feel like jelly. I struggle to drag myself to the bow, where the sound is the strongest, the clearest. What is this melody? I’ve heard it, thousands of times maybe, yet it slips away. I mumble along desperately tryin to match pace, to catch the tune, every melodious ounce within me dedicated to rememberin that song. The sea jumps and rolls along with the beat and I can tell it too is doubled over in euphoria, doubled over in song. The ship rocks back and forth, even I can hear the cap’n screamin out orders, desperate to prevent it from capsizin. Worthless. Fish soar through the air like they swim through water. I can hear it now, they too are singin that melody. Still I cannot grasp this wondrous crashing chorus. A few of the crew begin to double over in pain, wheezes slidin outta their mouths and into the air, sailor sopranos of a magnificent opera. Those close enough to see but not hear shift nervously, though their worry means little. They too will join. It doesn’t matter. I struggle to grasp, to remember, but this melody still eludes me. I begin to hum along louder and louder, desperately tryin to remember, and I hear the White Ship join in song, creakin and snappin along with the beat. The mast dances in the sickenin moonlight, cracklin like splinterin ice, the metal guardrail worbles and warbles, a beautiful percussion instrument in the stingin, brackish breeze. Starboard, stern, port, bow—all shiftin and screamin in the moonlight, thick as blood. I sing now, the tune burrowin into the back of my throat, inches from my brain. Now the sailors fall in tune, screamin and poppin along in glorious rhythm. The melody is on the tip of my tongue, like a long forgotten nursery rhyme. My voice grows louder with confidence. I glance briefly away from the sea to a sailor, a man I think may have been a friend once, I can no longer recall. His eyes beggin me to stop, but how can I ever leave this symphony? The gunwale pops the hull ruptures the keel wails and everything begins to slide into the wondrous symphony that comes from the sea floor as the song empties from every pore of my body only one thought dominates my mind: WHAT IS THIS MELODY?
The screamin continues
Oh...
the vessel falls silent, deceased
The sea...
the drink silences the howls
The ocean…
the music is between the devil and the deep blue sea
It feasts on me.
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Aspiring author. Julian Button-Nadon tends towards Lovecraftian and dystopian fiction. Winner of the Quebec Writers’ Federation’s 2021 College Writers Award. @JulianBNadon on Twitter.