The night after the race, I went to sleep with violent dreams. They crashed against my consciousness, dark waves against a lone lighthouse in the night. I held on, terrified that the light would be extinguished.
I awoke with a start. I was trembling; my covers were soaked. I looked out my window at the cold full moon, and then there were only dark tidal waters. I was in the boat with the rest of my crew as we moved, our rhythm perfect against the stillness of the night. Our oars swept through the water, then moved back again, slow above the rapidly passing water, slow as a building spring. We swung forward in perfect unison.
Lights glimmered from the shore. We could see the submarine base, a familiar sight, although nothing around us was familiar. Our world was only dark silhouettes and a night sky filled with low-hanging stars. But there wasn’t a soul in sight as we pushed through the misty waters, past those slumbering metal beasts that hung below the surface, waiting.
“Know where we’re going?” I said.
“We’ll know when we get there,”
“And when might that be?”
There was no answer, except for the rhythmic rocking of the oarlocks and the trickle of the dark water sliding past. The long and ghostly drone of a nearing train wandered through the air. It was a familiar sound, and close, but there was no sight of land. Only water. Again it sounded. The rumbling began, deep and powerful. I could feel it in my body and in my hands. The rough wood of the oar’s handle felt good in my hands. The rumbling suddenly grew more audible, and a blinding light emerged from the dark waters ahead, rising steadily, growing closer. The horn sounded again, nearly deafening, no longer a distant part of the night, but now right upon us.
A hulking metal body emerged from the water, charging, steaming, its blinding light glaring at us. The noise was overwhelming. There was no changing course as it plowed through the water, gaining until it was right behind us. Its horn blared as it closed within a few meters from our stern. It moved straight and unchanging. No sooner did we pass through the water was it pulverized with miles of tempered steel, charging relentlessly after us. The train was upon our fragile boat, but for all its power it could not destroy.
My heart pounded, but its beat no longer came from within –or was it a mate in front or behind me whose heart I felt? Every stroke we took so that we could but only take the next one, clinging to life beat by beat. We pressed on, somehow knowing that peace would come soon. We passed through the arch of a wrought iron gate. Our pursuer did not follow. One last tremendous blow of its horn and it vanished beneath the water with remarkable grace, leaving a hissing wake as far as I could see. It was gone but for the distant rumbling that grew weaker and weaker…
Relief. My blade swept through the water and cracked hard on something beneath. The stone head of an angel emerged above the surface, then another. They became higher. Their chiseled wings had grace and strength. The tip of a stone marker nudged its head up from the receding grey waters. There were many of them in perfect rows, growing more and more visible. The statues grew higher and higher as we descended. Then the water was gone, the boat with it. The earth felt damp but solid beneath our feet, as if it were well trodden. Waves could be heard crashing in the distance and the smell of salt consumed us. Around us in the overgrown cemetery, the angels, with their stone wings, looked down upon us with somber gazes.
I awoke in the dim morning light to the sound of a coastal train. My body was sore, stiff, well rested. I felt alive.
