Hope on the Seas

I had a dream last night that the iron bars and moldy brick walls were gone. Stranger still, I didn't notice at first - as one only can in a dream.

I had awoken to find the side of my cell had crumbled. Like a cannonball or stick of dynamite had created a blast through the outside wall; bricks lay scattered about, bits of rubble ricocheting off my shoes as I inched towards freedom.

Ah yes, my subconscious was prepared for this journey into the unknown. My shoes were the comfortable boots I had been relieved of when initially imprisoned, and my clothes the kind that only the impoverished wear.

What pulled my attention to the opening wasn't the blast itself or the potential for redemption. Rain fell outside the walls, but that wasn't what alarmed the somethings-off-receptors in my brain.

It was the silence.

It drew me out, calling with its vacancy. Screaming out from a place where the air never ceased to vibrate with the overlapping expression of lives moving on ad infinitum - the silence was all-consuming.

Was it me? Did I lose my hearing in whatever made the blast through my enclosure?

Nearing the gash, I could hear the soft drum of the rain and the beckoning heartbeat of the waves across the distant rocky beaches, hastened by the steady aerial onslaught of rain and fog.

This prison lay on the cliffs above a steep drop-off where the angry ocean lapped eagerly below.

I could remember the ride up to it, every painstaking moment of it. I had still carried the wounds of the countless beatings I had endured along my path to silent slaughter. They were now telling-scars, and I was still awaiting the death after long since dying in the memories of others.

I didn't deserve to be here, truly, for I know who really killed her. I told you where to look, read you the post mortem, you even saw the corpse, you know it was not me.

The truth was swallowed up by the void of ignorant busy lives, now seemingly replaced by a fragmented ghost of the marketplace below.

Like I said before, this was a place where rain didn't scare off the persistently hardy people whose livelihood depended on the daily dealings of the market. This was a place where dogs nipped at the heals of lives herded onto ships, people milled about with forever occupied hands, and where secrets could not only survive but thrive in the transitioning shadows.

Sure, there was the question of living so close to a prison, but the cliffs were a solid deterrent to potential escape attempts. The armed guards that used these peaks and ridges to look out for enemies coming in across the sea added an additional layer of security to the town's inhabitants below.

As I stepped out in the rain, I had no sensation of the cool morning air blowing in over the water, nor the rain that soaked through my clothing. The silent city below whispered out to me, an almost soundless melody riding on the breeze that made its way up the cliffs from the harbor.

I wordlessly followed it, out through the bricks and bars that were no more. They had effortlessly fallen before me, allowing me to pass.

My feet were moving towards the harbor, towards the place where I was once pushed and shoved, where I once mindlessly moved about life like the rest of them, attending to tasks that only felt important at the moment.

Being trapped in a cage of your own mind has a way of revealing things. It has a way of showing you what matters and what has only been an illusion.

The cobblestone made painful echoes under my boots, the soft sounds bouncing off the empty walls and corridors, spider-webbing out into the city. I kept waiting to see a rat dodge out of sight or hear the faint laughter of children as they crept out of sight but close enough to grab scraps that were dropped or kicked. There was nothing. It was like the world had stopped, like life had moved away to another harbor, leaving behind skeletons and false hope.

My ears tickled; they caught an utterance on the breeze. It wasn't the whistle of the sea air or the cries of gulls. It was a voice. Only audible enough to cause my eardrum to twitch in faint recognition and my neck to twist towards the breeze.

Something called.

Was it calling?

My feet moved faster across the road, the strength that had slowly waned away in ten years of sitting in my own limitations, now returning as I moved more confidently down the path before me.

I knew where I was headed in my dream-like state, although it seemed more instinctual than thought out. I was going to the dock, the one on the right in particular. That dock was the longest, reserved for only the largest shipping vessels, the ones destined to sink or swim in glory, regardless of what was lost during their lifetime.

With each step, the voice was becoming louder, clearer. The delicate whisper that could've been confused for the swirling water now buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Still, I drew nearer until the buzzing softened into syllables.

The sound of the waves thundering against the shore threatened to drown out the voice entirely, especially as I continued to get closer to the ocean. They threatened to pull the words under the tow altogether, perhaps silencing my dreams before they even had a chance to reveal their possibilities.

Where the dock began, my feet stopped, and I looked down at the threshold wearily. Stone lay, sturdy and unmoving under my feet but only inches ahead lay weathered and crudely held together planks of wood that could be confused for shifting as the water under it moved, creating miniature hallucinations.

A gust of wind-battered my face, drawing my attention away from the next few steps and to what lay on the horizon. The shifting storm clouds seemed to relax as I gazed at them. Their churning became more docile, and the intersection of where the sky met the sea becoming more exposed.

As the words hit my ears, my eyes met the lovely curves of a sail and the ship they confidently carried through the storm, towards the shore, a sight that must offer some comfort after a journey at sea.

Hope on the seas;

Will you choose your own destiny?

I stepped onto the planks, anxiety pooling inside me as I moved down the dock towards the open sea.

There were no ships, canoes, or catamarans in the harbor today. Just wind, waves, and possibilities swirling around in the mist like a strong wind rips through the dandelions; new life takes to the wind.

Will you squander what was given to you?

Even if it requires this life to fade?

My feet were moving faster, confidence in my decisions increasing.

I could see the strong mast and the front of the ship now. It was moving towards me, although it was still too far to see its cargo or crew.

Fading is not the turning off of a light.

Memento mori, my dear.

Your values are needed elsewhere.

I wanted to run to catch up. The voice wasn't of my mother's, but it felt like a lullaby gently sung to babies, encouraging them to make the most of their time, to hold their head high, and to not cry.

Don't lose yourself to time and perception,

You are owed, not indebted,

Come to hope that lies in the sea.

You're only one lung-full away from drowning in our waves.

Come closer still, my dear, you're only one away from a new life,

A new world with no past, onto a future missing of imprisonment.

You've paid your dues; now it's time to go.

Breathe in slow…

At the end of the dock, the wind stole my breath and threatened to push me off the pier. The ship was getting closer, and I could barely make out the curved lettering of 'Hope' on its stern.

The last words shifted into the ghost of a moan on the wind as it hurled the sailboat upon me.

It was moving in quickly, showing no signs of slowing, the hull charging soundless through the harsh waves that already threatened to pull me into their depths if I ventured too close.

I couldn't see anybody on the ship - nobody to control the sails or man the helm. But I felt thousands of eyes probing into my being. I could feel the consciousness creeping over the sides of the ghostly sailboat and make its way across the water, reaching me in mere seconds while the boat seemed to move in venomously slow motion.

The ship glided towards me until I felt certain it would smash into the dock and my frail existence, erasing everything along with it. All it would take was for me to close my eyes, and I would feel it connect with my body, ending me in seconds while it took hours for my mother to bring me into this world.

When I woke up this morning, I didn't need to open my eyes to know that the wall was still assembled. I could hear the muffled shouts of merchants in the markets, the terrified bleating of sheep and goats as they were loaded onto boats, and the braying of horses and mules as they were whipped into their day's tasks.

There was a sprinkle outside that dampened the smell of the animal shit and, by evening, would soak my clothing without ever coming into direct contact with it. Water was collecting in the pail beside the window.

I got up, my feet bare now, my shirt hanging loosely over my skinny, weak body. My toes scraped against the floor as I stumbled to the window in the wall.

Hope bloomed within me.

Storm clouds gathered on the horizon where the outline of a ship fluttered in the rising sun. My eyes fell to the bucket beside my feet. I could put my entire head in it if I were to try.

The ship caught my eye again. It was headed for port.

Was it coming for me?

Would the hope of it coming, accompanied by whispers of freedom, be enough to keep me going another week if it weren't?

I hummed the tune that followed me into my waking day and waited for the guards to come to relieve me, my back against the sturdy brick walls of my prison cell, my eyes flicking to the bucket that would be full after the storm that was sure to wash in with the ship.

We'll see which comes first.