After weeks of floating aimlessly through the vast ocean, the paltry sight of land was salvation to Chesil’s exhausted eyes. Delirious and head plagued with exhaustion, he blinked and rubbed his eyes once more, waterlogged lashes flattening under the palm of his hand. He couldn’t trust his own mind. Was this all another hallucination after being at sea for so long?
A large island dotted with lush purple trees like plump berries in healthy underbush rippled tantalizingly in the middle of the neverending expanse of shimmering waves, as if it were calling out his name. And he responded.
A weak croak from the back of his parched throat was all he could muster; shame creeping up his neck when all that met his desperation was the usual silence of the open sea. Embarrassed, though nobody was there to witness anything; he, at this point, was convinced he was losing his mind. Only the notions of insanity, the delirium, and the constant pangs of hunger that screamed through the pit of his stomach accompanied him. There wasn’t much else to think about when the only thing that ran through his mind was survival and fear.
He leaned over the edge of the raft; unable to see his face in the startlingly opaque water, which mirrored the gloom of the violet streaked sky instead of his own reflection. Although his perception of his appearance was long lost, he knew he lost several pounds from the way he could feel the gaunt hollowness of his cheeks as he ran his shaky fingers over his face. Chesil brought a trembling hand to his damp hair, which clung to his face from the moist, nearly solemnly still ocean air. He brushed the strands from his eyes with a slow sweep of his wrist to gain the somewhat comforting view of the island once more.
It was sheer bad luck that there was no wind to move the skiff along…but what was the point? He was too tired to keep rowing, and as much as a little breeze would be a relief to nudge him along, the journey was mostly manpower. He knew this: and he spent all of what little he had left in him. The lack of light at the brink of each passing day always brought Chesil unease. It wasn’t so much as to him worrying for his safety, but how he needed not to hold concern for creatures ambushing him, a hostile ship passing, or at the very least a jellyfish meandering by, more of a lifeless wad than a living being. The sea was empty. It reminded him of just how alone he was. Moonrise came early, flashing like a pearl through the beginnings of sunset. It was third quarter tonight, a slice of grapefruit stretched in a grin atop the dome of the sky. Ha-ha-ha-ing at the expense of Chesil’s foolishness.
Stranded in an unknown sea was nothing but a death wish; his death wish—self inflicted and inevitable. He pinched his temple bitterly in deep thought. He was a fool for believing he could pull such a stunt again and succeed. Perhaps this was the universe’s final curse against him. Perhaps it would finally kill him so he wouldn’t need to run any longer.
Either way, cruel fate or not, even the largest gale wouldn’t bring Chesil to salvation. The spent Pétales for another wrapping of fabric to warm his aching bones—pried from his fingers and coaxed, rusty yet priceless, into a desperate merchant’s savings; the dwindling rations that hadn’t done much to supply another layer of much-needed flesh upon his map of gangly limbs and jutting ribs—seemed to be for nothing. If there were sharks, eels, perhaps a school of killer guppies as desperately starving as he was, flocking around him and waiting for a lapse in his waning lifeline, the only sustenance offered by Chesil’s waiting corpse would be the meager scraps of flesh on the white of his bones. He shivered at the thought, and the remains of his last meal, choked down some days ago, threatened to resurface. All he needed to do was stay alive. And getting to the island was his bail out of hysteria.
Chesil tore his eyes away from the surface of the ocean to tend to his growling stomach, the thought of starvation provoking the feeling of hunger he’d so desperately shoved away. He reached for a half-empty traveling satchel that rested at his side and shook out the contents; but all that tumbled out were a few unappetizing withered apples and a piece of stale bread. They rolled beside him, and his hand quickly shot out to stop his precious provisions from falling off the skiff. Food was scarce when he was in the middle of nowhere — he would’ve never forgiven himself if so much as a single breadcrumb was lost in the endless depths of the sea.
He had tried fishing for food, sharpening the end of one of his backup oars to make a spear. After a hundred, thousand, million, fruitless tries, he disappointedly ruled out that the accursed ocean turned out to be inhabited by absolutely nothing. He was already wary of the waters surrounding, which seemed to spark with a malevolent energy much like the sky above. It was nothing like the coast of Eridiya, which was blessed with beautiful, nearly transparent rolling waves; the only imperfection within, if one could call it an imperfection, were the weightless mounds of seafoam that floated like clouds against the crystal waters. Eridiya was bountiful, fish nearly overflowing from its shores. But this wasn’t Eridiya. If nothing was to be found in this sea, it was a sure sign that Chesil had set himself up for inescapable danger, the uncountable nights floating that were ahead of him, growing more gaunt at the lack of food until he finally he’d be reduced to a skeleton, a husk of himself that would finally attract the attention of maybe a single guppy—unless. His eyes strayed on the island, and he felt his arms go slack at the thought. His stomach growled in protest to his doubt and reluctance.
Chesil frowned. A vagrant didn’t worry about food. Foraging for berries, wild mushrooms, and picking up boar hunting skills weren’t as difficult as expected. During the bitter winters, people were happy to pay anyone for labor and provide shelter for one as helpless as an unanchored traveler.
Placing down his paddle, Chesil sighed and rubbed his calloused hands softly. Gathering the slice of bread and an apple, he cut into fruit carefully with a miniature dagger pulled from a sheath, swaddled by the bundles of heavy, traditional Eridiyan fabric that clothed and shielded him from the bitter cold. He sandwiched the apple between the bread, which resulted in something that resembled a pitiful looking pastry. As unappetizing as it seemed, he felt his stomach grumble in anticipation. Closing his eyes as he ate, he relished the last of his rations, guiltily reminiscing the taste of roast boar, warm soup, piping-hot Blightroot tea that streamed in a perfect arc from a once-coveted porcelain teapot…flavors he knew he’d likely never have the luxury of tasting again.
He reopened his eyes reluctantly, wistful thoughts fading to nullity. Brushing away the unbidden memories, he glanced at his map, tracing his finger from the mainland to the blankness that resembled the sea. According to the supposedly accurate piece of parchment, all around him for countless miles was an endless ocean with no sign of land anywhere. Yet there it was, floating in the dark rippling waves. Land. Maybe he was absolutely insane; if he just lingered for a little while, it would disappear, just like the other figments of his imagination.
So he waited.
And waited.
The beating sun began to dull down, and the island was still there, taunting him, illuminated in the orange glow of the sunset. He swore he could see the dark silhouettes of trees swaying in the sudden gust of wind up ahead– the slopes of purple and blue in the middle of the empty ocean welcoming him with solid ground, and trees, and food, and—stay focused. For all he knew, it could be plagued with strange, murderous monsters. He shuddered, partly because of the foreboding notion, and partly because of the sudden frigid gust that had suddenly edged the skiff through the waves; salty water splashing over the side and soaking the wood logs as it receded.
Chesil took up the oar, fingers trembling with something strange and electrifying sparking through his veins. His eyes darted beneath him as the water crackled and boiled. He yelped as the surface exploded with a flash of purple, ice cold water splashing his body, chilled droplets like knives piercing his bare skin.
It didn’t register as the raft suddenly flipped over, slamming down on Chesil’s head, crushing his body into the waves, the push and pull of each surge beating relentlessly at his battered body. His vision blurred, dull light throbbing in and out, fluttering across the thin membrane of his waterlogged eyelids. His eyes shot open, then his mouth, as if to scream into the seething void. He instantaneously regretted it. Bitter saltwater rushed into his throat, churning in his trachea like the bile rising from his stomach. Whatever strength was left in him jerked his limbs to life. Wrestling the heavy fabrics twisting his arms and legs off of his body, Chesil felt a painful ache in his chest, sharper than the swelling pressure of water flooding every opening of his body as he watched his beloved clothes sink into the sea. His vision ebbed in and out, a pinprick in the distance searing into his vision like the last fading flashes of a dying firefly. Something metallic and sickly bloomed in Chesil’s mouth. No. His eyes were unfocusing. His body sinking. No. Swim. His arms twitched, floating uselessly out to his side.
No. Not yet. He flailed, eyes clouding, stinging, an involuntary sharp inhale causing water to rush into his lungs. He gasped. He was close, so close. It wasn’t his fate to die here. Swim. Swim. Chesil pumped his arms, his legs, his head through the churning water to breach the suffocation pouring into every opening of his waterlogged body.
Spluttering and coughing, he gasped for air as he broke the surface. Chesil treaded water, nearly dry heaving at the mixture of bile and saltwater that splattered from his mouth. As his throat cleared, air rushed into his lungs once more, and he gulped down the biting wind with desperation. Over and over. Till his lungs pounded with the heaviness of oxygen, not water. Oxygen. How strange that one didn’t think about the luxury of air until the ability to breathe was lost.
Avoiding the tendrils of electricity dancing on the surface of the water, he swam towards his precious ticket to surviving another day. Chesil knew he couldn’t linger any longer. He was so close, the hope of reaching land suppressed the fear of being struck down by the storm approaching.
A violent clap of thunder, threateningly near, resounded around him, snapping him out of his thoughts—the sky was turning a deep purple, and twilight was falling fast, a heavy velvet blanket cascading over the heavens.
Clambering back onto the soaked skiff, he grasped his paddle, dismissing the stinging feeling rippling through his aching, salt-soaked body. The image of Eridiya and its lost paradise scrambled from the depths of Chesil’s frazzled mind. The island in the distance threaded with a notion, so fantastical and idyllic it struck him with a guilty pang of hope.
He had a chance, a hope; possessed a semblance of what was left of his past. After all, what was there to lose?