English
“Ithinkmyleftsideisgoing,”WolfLarsenwrote,themorningafterhisattempttofiretheship.“Thenumbnessisgrowing.Icanhardlymovemyhand.Youwillhavetospeaklouder.Thelastlinesaregoingdown.”
“Areyouinpain?”Iasked.
Iwascompelledtorepeatmyquestionloudlybeforeheanswered:
“Notallthetime.”
Thelefthandstumbledslowlyandpainfullyacrossthepaper,anditwaswithextremedifficultythatwedecipheredthescrawl.
Itwaslikea“spiritmessage,”suchasaredeliveredatséancesofspiritualistsforadollaradmission.
“ButIamstillhere,allhere,”thehandscrawledmoreslowlyandpainfullythanever.
Thepencildropped,andwehadtoreplaceitinthehand.
“WhenthereisnopainIhaveperfectpeaceandquiet.Ihaveneverthoughtsoclearly.IcanponderlifeanddeathlikeaHindoosage.”
“Andimmortality?”Maudqueriedloudlyintheear.
Threetimesthehandessayedtowritebutfumbledhopelessly.Thepencilfell.Invainwetriedtoreplaceit.Thefingerscouldnotcloseonit.
ThenMaudpressedandheldthefingersaboutthepencilwithherownhandandthehandwrote,inlargeletters,andsoslowlythattheminutestickedofftoeachletter:
“B-O-S-H.”
ItwasWolfLarsen’slastword,“bosh,”scepticalandinvincibletotheend.Thearmandhandrelaxed.Thetrunkofthebodymovedslightly.Thentherewasnomovement.Maudreleasedthehand.
Thefingersspreadslightly,fallingapartoftheirownweight,andthepencilrolledaway.
“Doyoustillhear?”Ishouted,holdingthefingersandwaitingforthesinglepressurewhichwouldsignify“Yes.”Therewasnoresponse.Thehandwasdead.
“Inoticedthelipsslightlymove,”Maudsaid.
Irepeatedthequestion.Thelipsmoved.Sheplacedthetipsofherfingersonthem.AgainIrepeatedthequestion.“Yes,”Maudannounced.Welookedateachotherexpectantly.
“Whatgoodisit?”Iasked.“Whatcanwesaynow?”
“Oh,askhim—”
Shehesitated.
“Askhimsomethingthatrequiresnoforananswer,”Isuggested.“Thenwewillknowforcertainty.”
“Areyouhungry?”shecried.
Thelipsmovedunderherfingers,andsheanswered,“Yes.”
“Willyouhavesomebeef?”washernextquery.
“No,”sheannounced.
“Beef-tea?”
“Yes,hewillhavesomebeef-tea,”shesaid,quietly,lookingupatme.“Untilhishearinggoesweshallbeabletocommunicatewithhim.Andafterthat—”
Shelookedatmequeerly.Isawherlipstremblingandthetearsswimmingupinhereyes.SheswayedtowardmeandIcaughtherinmyarms.
“Oh,Humphrey,”shesobbed,“whenwillitallend?Iamsotired,sotired.”
Sheburiedherheadonmyshoulder,herfrailformshakenwithastormofweeping.
Shewaslikeafeatherinmyarms,soslender,soethereal.
“Shehasbrokendownatlast,”Ithought.“WhatcanIdowithoutherhelp?”
ButIsoothedandcomfortedher,tillshepulledherselfbravelytogetherandrecuperatedmentallyasquicklyasshewaswonttodophysically.
“Ioughttobeashamedofmyself,”shesaid.Thenadded,withthewhimsicalsmileIadored,“butIamonlyone,smallwoman.”
Thatphrase,the“onesmallwoman,”startledmelikeanelectricshock.Itwasmyownphrase,mypet,secretphrase,mylovephraseforher.
“Wheredidyougetthatphrase?”Idemanded,withanabruptnessthatinturnstartledher.
“Whatphrase?”sheasked.
“Onesmallwoman.”
“Isityours?”sheasked.
“Yes,”Ianswered.“Mine.Imadeit.”
“Thenyoumusthavetalkedinyoursleep,”shesmiled.
Thedancing,tremulouslightwasinhereyes.
Mine,Iknew,werespeakingbeyondthewillofmyspeech.Ileanedtowardher.
WithoutvolitionIleanedtowardher,asatreeisswayedbythewind.
Ah,wewereveryclosetogetherinthatmoment.
Butsheshookherhead,asonemightshakeoffsleeporadream,saying:
“Ihaveknownitallmylife.Itwasmyfather’snameformymother.”
“Itismyphrasetoo,”Isaidstubbornly.
“Foryourmother?”
“No,”Ianswered,andshequestionednofurther,thoughIcouldhaveswornhereyesretainedforsometimeamocking,teasingexpression.
Withtheforemastin,theworknowwentonapace.
AlmostbeforeIknewit,andwithoutoneserioushitch,Ihadthemainmaststepped.
Aderrick-boom,riggedtotheforemast,hadaccomplishedthis;andseveraldaysmorefoundallstaysandshroudsinplace,andeverythingsetuptaut.
Topsailswouldbeanuisanceandadangerforacrewoftwo,soIheavedthetopmastsondeckandlashedthemfast.
Severalmoredayswereconsumedinfinishingthesailsandputtingthemon.
Therewereonlythree—thejib,foresail,andmainsail;and,patched,shortened,anddistorted,theywerearidiculouslyill-fittingsuitforsotrimacraftastheGhost.
“Butthey’llwork!”Maudcriedjubilantly.“We’llmakethemwork,andtrustourlivestothem!”
Certainly,amongmymanynewtrades,Ishoneleastasasail-maker.
Icouldsailthembetterthanmakethem,andIhadnodoubtofmypowertobringtheschoonertosomenorthernportofJapan.
Infact,Ihadcrammednavigationfromtext-booksaboard;andbesides,therewasWolfLarsen’sstar-scale,sosimpleadevicethatachildcouldworkit.
Asforitsinventor,beyondanincreasingdeafnessandthemovementofthelipsgrowingfainterandfainter,therehadbeenlittlechangeinhisconditionforaweek.
Butonthedaywefinishedbendingtheschooner’ssails,heheardhislast,andthelastmovementofhislipsdiedaway—butnotbeforeIhadaskedhim,“Areyouallthere?”andthelipshadanswered,“Yes.”
Thelastlinewasdown.Somewherewithinthattombofthefleshstilldweltthesouloftheman.
Walledbythelivingclay,thatfierceintelligencewehadknownburnedon;butitburnedoninsilenceanddarkness.Anditwasdisembodied.
Tothatintelligencetherecouldbenoobjectiveknowledgeofabody.Itknewnobody.Theveryworldwasnot.
Itknewonlyitselfandthevastnessandprofundityofthequietandthedark.
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