Mel's Planet

When the astronomers first spotted it in the sky, thousands of lightyears away, they thought that it was some sort of asteroid. No one really knows how or why it suddenly appeared, only that one day there was an empty patch of black space within the view of the Hubble telescope, and the next there was a mysterious celestial body emitting a piercing blue light. It didn’t take long for the scientists to determine that it was racing toward Earth, so they nicknamed it Mel’s Comet, after the researcher who saw it first.

It was estimated that Mel’s Comet would pass us in late spring. Supposedly, it would come so close that the entire night sky would be illuminated for several minutes. It was to be the astronomical event of the millenium.

You can imagine everyone’s surprise, then, when Mel’s Comet suddenly halted about 300,000 miles of earth, and turned out to be a planet.

After recovering from a moment of brief shock, the scientific community resumed its data collection, which revealed that the planet’s distinctive melancholic blue color was indicative of an atmosphere similar to that of our own. Further study revealed that it was covered entirely with oceans of water.

Preparations to visit the celestial body, now dubbed Mel’s Planet, began immediately. The astronauts who expressed a desire to undertake the mission were warned that, due to the high risk of the expedition, only one volunteer would be allowed to go. Being of equal skill and curiosity, we decided on a lottery to determine which one of us it would be. My name was drawn.

I’ve been here for a month now.

In the first few weeks, it seemed that our research had proven accurate--Mel’s Planet was a gentle, placid world. I ran tests on the atmosphere and found that it was indeed much like that of Earth, only thinner.

The water hasn’t proven to be much more interesting. It wasn’t saltwater, like we had conjectured, but fresh. It has an eerie glassy quality to it, and never seems to move more than the occasional ripple. I’ve done multiple scuba-dives, looking for some sign of aquatic life, but it’s completely empty. I’ve gone deeper and deeper each time, indulging the wild hope that there will be something to discover, something to bring home. I’m never met with anything but an overwhelming void of blue. I haven’t even managed to reach the bottom.

The spacecraft drifts like a leaf in a puddle, and I’ve found my mind drifting with it. For hours I’ve reminisced about the sounds of birds, and cars, and people talking to each other--anything but the ghostly silence that presses upon my skin until I feel completely enveloped, as if by an invisible veil. Every single night I’ve dreamed of shadowy, massive shapes moving in the water beneath me. They wail and moan in voices so low and resonant that it shakes everything around me, even the unmoving air. The sound waves penetrate my entire body, down to the bones, until I can feel them vibrate and rattle against each other. Eventually, the chattering of my teeth thrusts me back into the stillness of each purple-tinged dawn. Empty sky, empty sea.

But today something changed.

I was in the middle of another scuba dive. My plan was to go deeper than I ever had, if only to prove to myself that there is an end to the sleeping abyss upon which I have floated, aimless and replete with the peculiar, numbing dread that creeps in with prolonged solitude. Once again, I was unsuccessful. After I resurfaced, I ripped off my mask, screaming and thrashing about in frustration. As if in a gesture of cruel humor, the surface of the water splashed and rippled slightly, but then reverted to its impenetrable smoothness. I carried on for so long that I almost didn’t notice that something had appeared on the horizon.

A few hours ago, it was just a tiny gray dot. I thought I was imagining it. But it remained there, and it’s been growing. As of this moment I think I can make out a mast, and a single white sail.

It’s a boat.

It’s headed this way.