Viator

Eight

The morning following the first snowfall, a light snow that sugared the tops of the fir boughs and the boulders along the shore and left the decks slick, Wilander, sitting in the officers’ mess, phoned Jochanan Lunde to make his report, and when the old man asked if anything out of the ordinary had occurred, Wilander related the tale of his months aboard Viator, omitting nothing, inflecting each incident with a kind of venomous relish (You want out of the ordinary? Take a bite of this!) that, he thought, might have been brought on by his long repression of it—he told Lunde about the recurring dreams, the ropy flying creatures that dominated them, about Mortensen’s apocryphal admonitions, about the maps that appeared on the walls, about the wiccara and the qwazil, about the blazing lights and the groans that issued from the heart of the forest (a phenomenon repeated on three occasions thusfar), and he further related his thoughts and feelings about these matters, his ongoing invention of a history and ecology to suit Cape Lorraine and the Iron Shore, his idée fixe that Viator’s journey might not have not ended. And after the old man failed to offer an immediate response, other than to mutter a curse in Swedish, not a wicked curse, but a profane word used in astonishment, Wilander asked Lunde to explain why he had sent them to live onboard the ship, saying that he refused to believe that they were doing preliminary work for a salvage operation.

Lunde kept silent a few seconds longer and then said, I don’t wish to talk about this. Perhaps we can touch on it next time.

—Why not now?

—I have business to attend. But keep me informed, will you? It might be helpful for you to call more frequently. Every few days or so. Now…are you set with supplies?

—We have food and water for three months. We could stand to lay in some more gas for the generator. It’ll take longer to order once winter’s here.

—Very well. Order it. And call me. Call me Friday. From now on why don’t you call every Friday as well as Mondays?

At this juncture, Wilander, after months of worrying that the old man might become angry and terminate them, caught something in Lunde’s voice, an undercurrent of excitement breaking through his stern manner, that made him realize that he, not his employer, held the upper hand. You’re not hearing me, he said. I want to know what’s going on.

—I beg your pardon?

—With Viator. I want to know what’s happening to us.

—You’re not making sense. How can I help you with that? I’m not there with you.

—Yeah, you’ve said that before. But you were Viator’s captain. You were aboard when she ran aground. That’s what I want to hear about.

—How did you learn this? Lunde asked.

—Don’t worry about it. Just tell me what went on.

Flustered, Lunde said, It’s not in my interests to discuss the subject. I’m not permitted to, uh…There are legal issues, you see. I’m not…

—Let me be clear. If you won’t talk to me, I’ll pull the crew off the ship.

Lunde fell silent again and, afraid that his bluff would be called, because he wasn’t certain that he could pull himself off the ship, let alone the others, or that he could even find them all, because it had been a week since he’d seen Mortensen and several days since he’d seen Halmus, Wilander decided that the wisest course was to raise his own bluff and said, I’ll pull them off today. I may not be able to move Nygaard. And Mortensen may resist. But neither of those guys is capable of making reports. Nygaard’s a borderline idiot and Mortensen’s turned into John the fucking Baptist. And that’s what this is about, isn’t it? The reports? You need somebody to tell you what’s going on. There’s something about Viator you want to know. You must be desperate to know it. Why else spend so much money and effort to send us here?

—I can’t tell you anything, Lunde said weakly. You’ve already gone past…

Wilander waited for him to continue; finally, to prompt him, he asked, Past what?

—Maybe I know enough. Lunde’s breath came ragged. Maybe it’s time to end this.

—If you think you know anything, Wilander said, I want to hear about it.

Lunde chuckled. I know I’m not just a crazy old man. That’s more than I expected.

Wilander was dismayed by the chuckle—it implied that Lunde was looking from a remote, whimsical perspective upon a situation that he, Wilander, found deadly serious and far from remote. Do you want me to pull the crew? he asked. Or are you going to explain things to me?

—You may be disappointed with what I have to say. You’ve told me far more than I can tell you. But…why not? Hang on. I need to speak with my secretary. Muffled voices; papers rustling; a woman’s laugh. All right. I’m back.

—I’m waiting.

—I was with Viator less than a year, Lunde said after a substantial pause. The company had promised me a new tanker, but there was a labor dispute. The tanker’s construction was delayed. They gave me Viator as a temporary command. At the time she serviced a route between Yokohama and Magadan in Siberia…and on occasion down to Vladivostok. She was seaworthy, but in constant need of refitting and not long after I came aboard they decided to scrap her. The crew was Russian, mostly. They disembarked at Magadan, and five of us, five officers, a skeleton crew, were ordered to take her to Panama, where she would be broken. We were a few days…

—Five officers? Were they of Scandinavian blood, like the five of us?

—They were Swedish, Lunde said. The company’s Swedish. The majority of officers are Swedish.

—What in God’s name are you up to?

—You asked to hear my story. Now let me tell it. I’ll explain as much as I’m able. Lunde made the sort of mild complaint that old men tend to make when they shift in their chairs and then went on: A few days out into the Bering Sea, we encountered a storm. It was nothing special. The sort of blow one expects in those latitudes. But we had no weight. Our cargo consisted of two small crates. Gifts from a company official to friends in Panama. That was all. The sea tossed us about as if Viator were a rowboat. On one occasion we nearly capsized. Then the engines failed, and it was a miracle we stayed afloat. If the winds had lasted an hour or two longer, I doubt we could have survived. Ulghren, my engineer, did an inspection. He told me that with two or three days, he could have the engines running. I consulted with my superiors, they consulted with theirs. It was decided that we would make repairs and continue our voyage south. Should another emergency arise, they would send rescue. Despite Ulghren’s estimate, the repairs took more than a week. Eleven days, to be exact. He found it necessary to fabricate parts. The weather was holding. There seemed no cause for alarm. But during that time, things changed.

Lunde coughed and had difficulty in clearing his throat. This happened so long ago, he said. It’s difficult to know how memory has transformed events. As I recall, the change was seamless. There were no moments of recognition when I said to myself, Aha! This is what’s going on! It all happened so quickly, much more quickly than it’s happened with you. Yet it was gradual. I noticed the changes, of course. The shifts in behavior, the differences in the way I thought. They seemed odd, these things. Odd enough to comment upon, but not anything I needed to be concerned about. Initially the men became secretive. I became secretive. And I began to have dreams. This is where our stories have the closest correspondence. My dreams were very like yours, except the flying things…I saw them as well, but they made me think of microscopic life. Like the creatures I observed under a microscope when I was a student.

—I recall thinking that myself, Wilander said. It was how they moved. It looked sometimes as if they were swimming, not flying.

—Swimmers, yes. That’s how I perceived them. But the most compelling change was the sense I had—the sense we all had—of a subtle presence. I suspected that something had come to us during the storm. Nothing so ordinary as a ghost. Something not so easily describable. At times this feeling rose to the level of a frisson, but for the most part it was just something I was aware of, something disturbing in the back of my mind. Like a word you’re seeking, one you can’t quite put a finger on. Ulghren claimed the presence was Viator. Viator was alive, he claimed. Spekke and Ottendahl, my first and second mates, sided with him. Since they’d been assisting with repairs, I assumed Ulghren had influenced their opinions. And Kameus…

—You said you were secretive, all of you—yet you discussed what was happening?

—We had sailed together for almost a year. Kameus and I…Peter Kameus. He was my radio officer for almost eight years. So, yes, we discussed it. That was our training, our habit. But we discussed it superficially. We did not speak everything we thought. Not by a long shot. And as I was about to say, Kameus, my friend, my best friend…he deferred to me, he sided with me. But eventually I discovered that he had been paying lip service to my opinion.

—The point I’m making, Wilander said, is whatever the similarity between our stories, there’s one major dissimilarity. You discussed what was happening among yourselves and we’ve done very little of that.

—It’s as I said. We were a crew, conditioned to work together. If I could have recruited Swedish merchant officers to live aboard Viator, I would have done so. I hoped to recreate the conditions of the voyage as closely as possible. As things stood, I was forced to recruit five strangers. Men who had suffered psychological damage due to their homelessness and were conditioned to be distrustful. That you discuss the matter less than we did is hardly surprising. In retrospect, I think I may have been overly exacting. I think I could have put anyone aboard Viator. Their racial heritage, the number of men—I doubt these things were crucial.

Seething, Wilander said, A moment ago, when you said you weren’t just a crazy old man…What the fuck’s wrong with you? What gave you the right to use us?

—For twenty years I’ve been obsessed with what happened to Viator. I will admit to…

—I don’t give a damn about your obsession. You had no right to make us part of an experiment.

—I won’t deny it. But stop a moment! Think! Mortensen and Nygaard would not have seen the winter if I hadn’t intervened in their lives. As for the rest of you, look at yourself. When you came into the office, you had nothing.

—No, no, no! Wilander said. Don’t try to paint yourself as Saint Lunde. That’s not going to fly.

—You had nothing, Lunde insisted. No prospects, no money, no friends. No hope. How much longer would you have lasted if I hadn’t extended a hand? Another year? Two? Tell me how I’ve injured you.

—I don’t know how. That’s the problem. That’s what we’re talking about.

—Well, let’s talk about it, then. I’ll finish my story. That addresses your problem. After that we can discuss these other issues.

Wilander left his chair, too angry to speak, annoyed by Lunde’s patronizing calm, and went to stand in the outer door of the mess. The day had grown bright and still, the air crisp, the firs were etched against the light. He stepped out onto the deck and walked toward the stern.

—Hello? Lunde said.

—Go ahead. Tell your story.

—Very well. Where was I?

—Repairing the engines. Discussing things.

—That’s right. Yes. Lunde coughed again, a delicate cough this time, like punctuation. Our discussions were informal. If I was on the bridge with Spekke, say, the subject would come up. When I went to the engine room to check on the repairs, Ulghren and Ottendahl might mention it. Yet we never sat down to hash things out. We didn’t talk at all when we were off-duty—off-duty, the men hid in their cabins. There was no more socializing. No drinking, no chatting. Nevertheless, the discussions, such as they were, grew heated. And it became apparent that our thoughts concerning Viator were developing along similar lines. The central thought, the one we agreed upon, was that Viator did not wish to die. What we failed to agree upon, however, was what should be done about this. On that matter, there was no consensus. Kameus, for instance, believed Viator had her own purposes and that we were interfering in them. An outsider would have thought us insane. But…Well, you’ve experienced life aboard Viator. You understand how the insane can come to seem rational. Whenever I was alone, on the bridge or in my cabin, I plotted courses north and east from our position. I did not rely on the master charts; I made my own. Another officer would not have been able to read them—I coded their referents, wanting to keep them private. They expressed Viator’s will. She guided my hand as I drew. I knew her mind. I believed all this implicitly, although I tried to doubt it. It terrified me. If true, it was beyond my ability to understand. If false, I was crazy. And yet I also felt…blessed. I knew something remarkable was taking place, something that I could characterize generally, but couldn’t put a precise name to.

—It’s the same, Wilander said. There are differences, but the same thing is happening again.

He had stopped at the point on the rail where Viator’s stern emerged from the forest. Beyond, the sea stretched a glittering blue beneath a sky crowded with white clouds so huge and stately, they might have been migratory nations bursting with the purity of their founding ideals. The sight comforted him, not by its beauty, but by the fact that he seemed removed from it, as if it were something he was seeing through an airplane window.

—It’s happened much more slowly for you, Lunde said. And perhaps the rest of the story speaks to that. By the time we finished the repairs, the relationships among the five of us had become strained. It remained my intention to continue south to Panama. Despite having faith in the charts I’d drawn, despite my belief that Viator had influenced their creation, I refused to acknowledge that Viator’s will was of more consequence than my career concerns. I wanted that new tanker. None of the others agreed, however, and tensions were high. One morning I was in my cabin, preparing for the day, when Kameus asked to speak with me. My memories of what occurred thereafter are unclear, but I imagine I turned my back on him. The next I recall, I was lying on the floor, my head throbbing. Kameus was standing above me, shouting something about Viator. I lost consciousness again and didn’t wake until the mid-afternoon. Kameus had bound me and the sun was low before I managed to free myself. I took my side-arm and went searching for him. The ship was empty, the launch missing. They had abandoned me. I ran up to the radio room, intending to call for assistance, but Kameus had destroyed the receiver.

Lunde paused and Wilander heard a faint rapping that might have been the old man drumming his fingers on the desktop.

—I knew they must have made for Gambell on Saint Lawrence Island, Lunde said. It was less than a day from our position. But I have no idea how they managed to act together after being so thoroughly divided. No clue as to what informed their decision…or even if there was a decision. One of them may have taken control by force. At my hearing, they told the company I had gone mad and thrown them off the ship. How could I refute their story? They were four and I had run Viator aground. Those facts outweighed everything I said, anything I could have said. After I’d been stripped of my license, I telephoned Kameus and begged him to explain why they had done this, but he didn’t trust the phone and he refused to meet with me. All he admitted was that he had been afraid. You know what I said to him? I said, You should have been alone aboard Viator. Then you could talk to me about fear. He hung up on me. My friend had abandoned me again and this second occasion was more painful, because he was no longer influenced by Viator. He was serving his own interests. Lunde let out a sigh. I’d never been afraid of the sea. I understood, of course, that it killed men and ships, but I had long since come to terms with that. Yet alone on Viator, I was afraid. The weather continued to hold. If I steered due east, I would harbor at Gambell in a matter of hours. I had no reason to fear, but I was panic-stricken. Partly this was due to the feeling that I was a flea riding atop an enormous metal beast. The ship’s life seemed larger and more important than my own, and that of itself was frightening. But to this day I believe it was mainly Viator s fear I felt. The product of her understanding that she would not survive another storm. Her desperation to reach land…though not just any landfall. She had a specific destination in view, one defined by my charts. With the engines half ahead—I didn’t dare run them full—I steered north and east, bypassing Saint Lawrence and making for the Alaskan coast. Those next three days and nights, so much was going on in my mind, so many strange thoughts…of that time I can only clearly recall that I was afraid. I didn’t sleep, I ate little. I trembled before the prospect of death, living in a fearful delirium, surrounded by my enemy, the sea. Until the very end. Until I saw that green haven north of Kaliaska. Then I was deliriously happy. It was early morning, mist everywhere, but I knew where to aim the bow. I lashed myself to the pilot’s chair and ran the engines full ahead. To starboard, a fishing boat emerged from the mist, bearing straight for midships. There was a moment when my heart was in my throat and I feared we would be rammed, thrown off-course. But whoever was manning the fisherman’s wheel avoided a collision. Watching the shingle widen ahead, I grinned as if I’d won some great contest and had no thought that I was about to destroy my career. The hull grating across the sand sounded like the bottom was being ripped out. If I hadn’t secured myself to the chair, I would have been flung about and likely killed. And then the trees came up. Viator slewed and veered to port. I thought we would go over, but the boulders on either side kept us on an even keel. The noise…It might have been the end of the world. Groans, shrieks, concussions. A wall of boughs loomed close. I ducked my head as the windows exploded inward. We kept on plowing forward, smashing deep into the forest, chewing up towering firs as if they were papier-mâché. And at last Viator was still. There were settling noises, and then silence.

Lunde made a clicking with his tongue, a vocal gesture that seemed to signal regret. I was dazed, he said. Dazed and groggy from shock, from lack of sleep, from stress. I sat staring out the glassless windows at the misted peace of the firs and was overcome by a feeling of calmness and security…though not of completion. I had no sense of finality. There was much more to do, I thought. What had gone before was just the beginning. I untied myself and made my way out onto the deck, going on unsteady legs toward the stern, intending to inspect the damage. The fisherman had followed us in, anchoring so close to shore, I could read its name and port of origin painted on a white tire that hung from its side: the Fat Allie out of Mayorkiq. They put forth a small boat bearing half-a-dozen men—Inupiat, judging by their complexions. They jumped out into the shallows and scrambled up the shingle. Some, I saw, carried rifles. Had I witnessed a ship run aground in a similar fashion, I would not have investigated without benefit of arms. Who knows what one might find onboard? But I assumed these men were bent on thievery and capable of worse. I hid in a storage locker off the bridge until I could no longer hear shouts and movement. Then I sneaked into the stern and watched them load their boat with tools, the big microwave from the galley, the crates consigned to Panama. Later I discovered they had stolen personal items from my cabin. And they were only the first vultures. Before the Fat Allie could get underway, townspeople began arriving in outboards and on foot through the forest. There must have been a hundred of them. Entire families bent on acquisition. Women with toddlers and old men with canes accompanying those who did the actual stealing. They swarmed over the ship. I didn’t bother to hide. I wandered in a fog among them, all but unnoticed. Soon I felt lightheaded and I took a seat on a hatch cover. I must have passed out and someone must have noticed me then, for I woke that afternoon in Kaliaska. The following morning, a company plane flew me to Anchorage; two days later, another plane flew me to Stockholm. I haven’t set foot on Viator since.

—Why not? Wilander asked. You came back to Alaska.

—I was many years in Sweden, attempting unsuccessfully to resurrect my career. The strain took a toll. I spent my health in the effort. Viator was always in my mind. I was convinced she was alive and wanted to understand her, to explore her. But I had no means of satisfying these ambitions. I worked for a nautical supply house. My commissions brought in scarcely enough for food and shelter. And then my parents died, passing within months of each other. My father had been prudent in his financial dealings, but the size of the inheritance was a shock for all that. I had the wherewithal to do anything I chose. My physical condition, however, was frail. I would not be able to endure life aboard a wrecked ship. I needed to be close to a decent medical facility.

A fishing boat steamed out from behind the headland, moving north and west, dark against the glittering blue water, heading—it appeared—for an empty quarter of the sea. Wilander felt an almost physical affinity with it. And so you came up with your plan, he said.

—There was nothing to keep me in Sweden. I had no children and my wife had initiated divorce proceedings as soon as she saw how things would go with my career. I flew to Alaska and bought the agency. And now I know I was right about everything.

—About Viator being alive?

—That…yes. And about the presentiment I had after we ran aground—that there was more to be done. More I had to do. I gave this short shrift in my story, but that feeling was stronger in me than any other I had during the entire experience. The company dragged me away so quickly, I had no opportunity to understand the role I was to play in Viator’s future. I knew she needed me. Whatever happened during the storm…and I’m not sure now the storm was significant. Or if it was, if it served to awaken the ship, no spirit came to us on its winds. I’ve come to think it was our lives, through some affinity, some freakish unity, that provided Viator with the energy she required to live. I believe she manipulated Kameus and the others to isolate me on board, so she could then direct me to run her aground in a specific place. I think her control over the five of us was imprecise and she needed to be precise in controlling me. For years I’ve believed as much, but I’ve had nothing to flesh out my belief. What you’ve told me makes everything comprehensible.

—I’m glad you comprehend it. I don’t.

—It’s not that I can explain any of it in rational terms, Lunde said. All events have a genius. When two people meet and fall in love, it can be explained. Biology. Social reasons. But there’s an inexplicable genius at its heart. We can’t explain it, so many of us pretend we’re being rational by ignoring it. You and I, though…We realize the genius of certain events cannot be ignored. Somehow Viator became alive and saved herself from the breaking ground. She has lain dormant for twenty years, denied the energy she needed to continue on her way. By the time men returned to her decks, she had rusted. Her life, her newborn vitality, had rusted as well and it took her months to be revitalized. To make repairs. Well, she’s made them and now she’s on her way. Where she’s bound, you have a better idea than I.

—I don’t know, said Wilander.

—You doubt it, then? Even after hearing what I’ve told you?

—Do I doubt Viator is bound for…another world? Or that she’s piercing a dimensional barrier? Those seem to be the options, don’t they?

—I’m sure you have some degree of doubt. It would be impossible not to. But can you deny what’s happening? I don’t think so.

Wilander’s anger, most of it, had been dissipated, diffused by his attentiveness, but now it resurfaced. I have to tell the others, he said stiffly. What they’ll decide, I don’t know. After that I’m going to pack and walk into Kaliaska.

—What will you do in Kaliaska?

—Not that it’s your business, but I’m going to try and repair a relationship.

—With the Daupinee woman?

—How did you know that?

—She called the office some weeks ago. She made several calls, I believe. Judging by her manner, I thought there must be more than a casual involvement.

Wilander chose not to comment.

—One night at dinner, Lunde said. Not long after we met. You told me how as a child you dreamed of being an explorer, of standing in places where no man before you had stood. Do you remember?

—If you say so, Wilander said, amazed that he had been so open with Lunde; but then, thinking back to those days, he recalled with some revulsion how desperate he had been to get off the streets, out of the shelters, the missions, and his eagerness to be befriended, to be acquired as a charitable venture.

—Will you walk away from that dream when it is so close to fulfillment? Give it up for an ordinary life?

—Dreams change. Having any sort of life seems extraordinary to me now.

—Childhood dreams express the true depth of our desires. You can learn to make accommodations, to settle for less, but when such a dream offers itself, surely this is not your response?

—I’m not certain it is offering itself.

—I grant you, what lies ahead is unknown. There is risk, but it’s one we all dare even if we’re not daring by nature. The unknown is always with us.

—If you’re convinced this is the right path, and you believe Viator’s truly on its way somewhere, why don’t you join us? Why not reclaim your command? You won’t have to endure a long wait now things have proceeded to this point.

—I would be pleased to join you, but the trip to Kaliaska might finish me off, Lunde said. I have a few months, they tell me. Less, perhaps.

The fishing boat had turned due west, dwindled to a speck, and the masses of clouds were also westering, as if the boat were towing them along on an invisible rope; the sky directly overhead was vacant, a pure wintry blue.

—I’m sorry, Wilander said, a comment that summarized an emotion more complicated and much less poignant than sorrow.

Lunde grunted in acknowledgement. As am I. Look, I’ll pay you to stay on board. I’ll pay you a lot of money.

—Why would you do that? You said you knew enough, your curiosity’s satisfied.

—Perhaps because it’s all that’s left for me to do. And it would be pleasant to wake one morning and learn that Viator has vanished to another sea. That might reassure me as regards the nature of the voyage I’m soon to take. To tell the truth, I have so many reasons, you could likely construct a reason of your own and it would be at least partially correct.

—How much will you pay me?

—Twenty thousand.

—Fifty thousand, Wilander said. Put fifty thousand in my account by tomorrow, and I’ll consider staying.

—You’ll consider it? I would expect a guarantee.

—That’s a risk you’ll have to take. In fact, I can assure you the money will have minimal impact on my decision…though it may have sufficient weight to make a difference. Give some money to the others, too. Ten thousand each.

—Why less for them?

—If things don’t work out for us here, Wilander said, or they don’t work out for me in Kaliaska, if we end up with nowhere to go, alone on this filthy wreck, I don’t expect they’ll need as much as I will to drink themselves to death.