A Novel: Of Song and Water

He climbs without faith, the ladder unsteady, the wooden rungs brittle, each step filling the air with the sound of old bones. Don’t look down, he thinks, watching the slow drift of his shadow, seeing its darkness on the long white surface of the hull. He stops, checks his grip, and struggles to turn his head, the cramp in his neck burning. He strains again, harder this time, until something moves – a snap – at the base of his skull. The stiffness gives way. Clusters of stars whirl, trail off, and vanish. He reaches the top and steadies himself before loosening the cover. Two days ago, he found the boom tent dusted with snow. Tonight, it’s dark and dry. He waits for the smell, the heavy scent that begins with canvas, a strange min- gling of wood smoke and old skin, but it doesn’t come. Too cold, he thinks. He clambers onto the deck and crouches on one knee, listening to the stillness. From his perch, he looks toward the channel. Everything visible is white, silver, or gray. Untouched snow covers the buildings and docks; it clings to the empty cradles and the towering hoist. Snow reflects the light from a few tired lamps, imbuing the dark with a spectral glow. Swirls of low-lying fog, impos- sible in such cold, rise up around rusty trailers and fuel tanks, moving through the marina like men in long coats. The shifting outlines make him uneasy. The ghosts of sailors, he thinks. They’re here to pass judgment. Call him an imposter. Tell him to give it up.