The Portuguese fisherman, as it turns out, was not from Portugal at all. He had ridden the Pacific stream east, rather than Atlantic, West. He was a quiet man who seemed without words. I noticed and saw him the minute his boat graced our small harbor. It was an old wooden hull that glowed like the early sunshine of a fall day. He kept to himself, as many a seaman do, and went about his business. Only later would I learn that his silence bore a burden of sadness. As though he carried on his shoulders the entire weight of the globe, and Humanity as well. I would learn quite a bit from this man, I regret now that I hadn’t listened more carefully as it seemed his every word was filled with an encyclopedic silence.

“ The quest of discovery has been wrought by men of greed. All of mankind has suffered the hammer of personal gain at all costs. For me life is about happiness and fulfillment. My dream is my life, whatever that may be. What I have seen should not be. The East does meet the West. However this happened not in the Orient or the South Pacific, it happened in Maine.”

Or so he said. I met him on the dock down near the end of the commercial fishing pier where he had spent more than a week refitting his lines. We spoke during the only time, as far as I could tell, that he stopped moving onshore. He seemed always to be headed somewhere and at a pace that made the rest of my sleeping Port seem mired. Between the crashing of the waves he would weave his tale. As though it was the very sound of waves themselves that were speaking. Amidst the nets he had pulled for repair, he gave me a moment. The smell of the ocean was constant. The breeze was steady and cool, which kept the air fresh, a problem at this end of the wharf. The gulls, which usually swarm, were nowhere to be seen, as though a storm had pushed them to hiding.

He had traveled from the Philippines where he was born. In our talk that day he mentioned Tahiti and Guam, Hawaii and the Galapagos. He mentioned the capes, nearly all of them as I recall. He spoke of weather that amazed me like an August sun, and chilled me like a cold North wind.

He was a vegetarian I found out, I remember this because he was the first I had met.
“Not even Fish?” I asked, of course, being a seaman myself.

He ate what was available. How this was possible I did not know, and still wonder. I asked if he was an avenger for the planet. His theory having been refuted for over five hundred years, I thought he might be crazy.

With a smile that seemed to light up the sky and calm the wind, he said;
“Would I be telling you? An arrant boy at loose in the world with no regard for his Family, and History?”

At this I took offense. “ I write all the time!” email actually, but that is beside.

His face grew grim and a chill filled the air, glass like the water in the Bay, suddenly rippled to gray.

“What are your folks up to?”

My response went unheard.

“Then why aren’t you there? It is obvious you love them.”

I had never considered this question, and suddenly I missed my family, my answer was withdrawn.

“Why can’t you speak from the heart?” He asked.

I thought for a moment and composed my reply. Certainly this was a conversation worth maintaining. An occurrence that happens seldomly, it seems. Any man of the sea knows the importance of words; in whatever dialect that may be, in whatever language.

After a long pause and a distant view I replied.

“ Because I’m making my fortune.”

He sighed and the sky darkened, I looked up to see a giant storm cloud had pushed offshore and the sun fell behind its opacity. It actually may have started to rain, but I could be imagining this. He said nothing.

“Because this is what I’m supposed to do.” I exclaimed with a hint of urgency, as I feared the very dock of our perch might be soon washed into the Harbor.

I then saw a gleam, this time in his eyes, as though the sun was peeking to remind me that he was still there.
“Says who? Your Parents?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Everybody.”
“Why do you listen to everybody?"
“I don’t.”
“ You do, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

With that I was silent. Like the rocks on the shore, or in rivers and streams, I let his words wash over me. And in that moment I realized the mistakes I had made, the path I had somehow lost along the way. Suddenly I wanted to be home again.

“Then why do you travel?” I asked. “ Why aren’t you home with your only Family, as apparently I should be.”
“ Young Man, listen.”
I did, but couldn’t hear, all I could hear were the waves.
“No, Deeper.” He said. As though he knew my deafness.
“I have hope.” He said. “That the ways of the world will subside. That once again we too can become Kings.”
“Feudalism?” I asked. “ Isn’t that what we basically have now?”
He turned with surprise and met my gaze, startled by something. Then there was silence as though the entire world stopped in the echo of my presumption.

“I have spent my life traveling, so that one day, I might find a place to call home.”
“What happened to your home?” I asked, already knowledgeable of the region and it’s past. I realized immediately I shouldn’t have pried, as tears welled to the surface.

Looking out to the horizon he said, “ The very sea is filled with my tears, and those who have cried before me, and by those with me who cry now.”

“Filled?” I asked.
“Again, you are lost in words. The people have been robbed of their Earth.”
“ What do you mean?” His dialogue a mixture of tongues and colloquial dialects I did not know. He spoke a language of time it seemed, of the ages.
“There was once a time when this planet was for everyone. Now, we have changed that. Not you or I, but we as in people.”
“Why?”
“You tell me! You are the one who is listening.”
“I don’t know.”

“Show me what you have in your pockets.”
Dutifully I emptied them. A weary traveler at the mercy of his guide. I have been a collector for some time. Perhaps it began when I was small and meek, an effort to hold onto the passing days I so cherished during my childhood. Since I had grown, yet still I collected. Not for the sake of ownership, but for the sake of remembering. The value, my own.

I first pulled out my pocket rock. It was a rock I had found on Jewell Island, a remote spot at the head of Casco Bay.
“What is that?” He asked.
“I told him the story.
“I understand. What else have you?”
I looked down at my opened palm and saw acorns that I had picked up that morning on the walk to town.
“Ah, as old as the trees.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He said.” I remember plantings from my youth. Someday I hope to return.”
“ I looked out at the ocean and the waves. The sun had returned, as I knew it would, and the Ocean seemed brighter and blue like I had never seen before. I was thankful that day, and to this Philippine Fisherman I gave an acorn.

And he was Thankful too.

It wasn’t the next day, it had been many, fall had passed and we were well into winter. There were few boats left in the water these days the cold sucked through the harbor like an arctic death exhale. The sea fog had burned away to sunlight that day. Down the now empty dock, his boat still moored. The decks were cleared, the sails stowed.
“ Permission to come aboard.” I yelled over the gunwale. My voice chilled over the still harbor like a shock. A near million of stars watched as I stepped aboard. Light glowed from the quiet cabin. I had never set foot on so fine a vessel; I could smell the tropical spice through the frozen air. My heart raced as I rang the bell and yelled again. I was startled when a voice rose up from across the bay.
“He’s deaf boy, go!”
The cold coupled with the surprise of so close a neighbor froze me longer than it should. As I reached for the hatch it opened itself. In the delay of the moment it was then that I realized the voice was screaming to me. Still frozen I was blinded by an arm outstretched, attached to my friend the Fisherman.
“ Ahoy! Welcome. Come inside.”
I made quick feet, as I knew boat heat to be sacred. A tiny wood-stove had the temperature near eighty. Sunshine-bright heat, welcoming. The Fisherman had a glow and a smile as warm as the air. Below deck was his domain. I could not believe what I saw.
            I think about that moment still, to this day. I was speechless. As I sat down tentatively in the spot provided he was a rush of words, running, the story took a moment to catch up.
            “ This is (A) you see.” Holding open his empty palm.
            I didn’t follow but I nodded, the awe and heat, weighing heavy my eyelids, as though in a fog. But then I awoke, just as the Hurricane lantern popped on the oil of Aristotle. The silence that followed frightened me.
            “ To Zinc, you see. The mess is aft.”
            “ Wait, I said. I have no idea what you are talking about. I said still very much lost inside the cabin. “ Where are we?”
With that he smiled and said; “ We are right here.” And suddenly the Tardis of a boat was a galaxy and he and I just passengers.
“ Right, Sorry.”
In the silence that followed I regarded. In my studies I had focused on culture. It is culture that defines and age. It is both the spring and the fall, a balance. It is both the future and the past. Right now, right here. This balance was natural. The cabin was filled with artifacts from every corner of the globe. Long carved masks from Ghana, and tall carvings from Kenya. A totem from the Pacific Northwest was most prominent its’ face dominated an entire wall. It’s eyes staring out to sea through portholes to starboard. In a cabinet behind him smaller treasures shone, figurines from the Inca and the Aztec. It was as though I were in a museum that surveyed mankind. A below deck Smithsonian.
“ I apologize for my lack of civility, sir.” He said suddenly in a thick southern accent. The type of accent that recalled moss covered branches and quiet squares. It is in that square, on a quiet afternoon, that laughter rises up like birds from the invisible courtyards. I dwell in that thought until the subject was changed. I thought about my own travels and the treasures I myself had collected, all tiny parts of my history. Through time I had given many away. I imagined myself living there on that boat. I imagined myself as that fisherman. I could see myself in a wintry storm; I could see myself in the sunshine of the tropics. I could see myself here below deck on an early winter evening entertaining myself. It was at that point that it got confusing. I suddenly realized I had been silent for almost ten minutes. Startled I met the Fisherman’s smiling eyes.
“ Well?” He asked.
I was silent, still trying to remember why he had mentioned Zinc. I reached in my pockets and found I had nothing. I searched through my days since I’d seen him last. I searched through my dreams.
“ What is it you want? “ He asked. “ Why did you come down here today?”
I didn’t have an answer. I had wanted to hear a story, but when I got below deck I found there were too many to hear and I was silenced. I thought about it, more, and then heard my muffled voice speak out.
“ I want to know what you have learned in all the places you have gone, all the things you have seen.”
With that he was silenced, I saw his eyes grow deep and his face ashen.

“ What I have learned and what I can tell you is something that you must remember always. In every village I have been, every port I have moored, every mountain I have climbed, and the single most enlightening, and profound experience is that of Love. I have seen it and it is true. Love is something that is beyond words. It is eternal. When two people have loved for a lifetime, when they have suffered through the good and the bad, through the sickness and the health. They become together, something greater than themselves. They become. If you want to find happiness find love, hold on to it and never let it go because once you do, you’ll wish you had it back.” 

 

The Portuguese Fisherman: Part 3

After that evening I found myself saddened. I had listened to his stories until I could see the light shade lighter on the horizon. There were many and each seemed to hinge upon an artifact he had stored in his cabin. Through all of the stories and all of the night never once did this Fisherman redress his thoughts on love as though the very thought were too painful.

I spent the next few days writing letters, letters to friends, letters to family, and some whom I hadn’t spoken in years. In my remembrance I recalled moments from my past forever frozen in time. Moments, it would turn out, that we all remembered.

I was called away to the Lakes early the next day. The Ice Harvest had arrived and I was the muscle, and lift. The task, with practice, was more of a dance than a labor. Regardless of weather everyone had a good time. We filled the Ice shacks and told stories around the fire, just as we had done the year before.

In the rush of excitement I had forgotten my friend the Fisherman. On occasion, when the din of laughter about the ice hole waned, I thought about him. Sailing through the archipelago of distant tropics. In the frozen tundra of my surroundings the thought warmed me as briskly as Mr. Grant’s cider. Which, I had learned the year before, was not to be consumed early in the day.

We had all returned to town near about the same time. The wind was changing and the darkness seemed to get darker. We were in for a storm. I was staying with the Fairchild’s that season just north of the town square. The house was perched just below the peak of the hill, and just above the roof of the church that anchored our town. Out my window I could see little else but the steeple. However, in the mornings if it was clear I could just make out the boats in the harbor. I awoke some time later to the church bells ringing. I thought it odd that they would ring in total darkness amidst a storm. I was at the window when I nearly died.

Mr. Fairchild, without his usual lantern had stuck his head in the room and in a voice of dramatic urgency he yelled.
“ Close those Shutters tight, the North Wind blows.”
With my heart beating in my throat by the startle, I said I would. I opened the panes to a rush of air at the speed of a gale. Mr. Fairchild was immediately by my side offering up orders. I was in the habit of this practice so the shutters were closed before the floor was even wet. Well, too wet.

“ Good, now help me with the others.” He said, as he rushed out.
I was quick on his heels and we had battened the hatches without losing a single pane. The rain had picked up into sheets. It fell with an urgency to flood. The cold air froze it as it plashed on the ground creating a glazing of ice that seemed to bear it’s very own light, light from a source unseen.

By this time I had pretty well frozen, as the upper rooms of the house were never too warm. Below my covers, however, my sleep waited. Inside I got back to thoughts of rest and dreams of better weather. Mr.Farchild’s voice came down the hall with thanks, just as I drifted away.

It is hard to say how long I had been asleep, or what hour it had become. Such is the plight of sleep in a storm. I awoke to the sound of my shutters violently fluttering in the wind. The latch, I thought, had undone. I leapt to the window, the sash was up and I was leaning out. Somehow Mr. Fairchild had arrived from down the hall in close to the same time, I felt his hand grab my belt as I leaned out into the storm.

The rain seemed a deluge, a stream falling strait from the clouds, yet the stream at that point was parallel to the ground and directly in my face. Within seconds I was completely soaked through and the floor where I stood had become a pool. I reached out, only to have the shutter suddenly swing back and smash into my outstretched arm. There was a splintering noise, which I remember still, as my hand went through the shutter in a tear of wood and flesh. In a scream I tried to pull it out. Mr. Fairchild, meanwhile, was trying to pull me out of the window, which made the situation worse. I did get my hand out and re-latched the shutter before any additional damage was done.

“ Are you alright?” Mr. Fairchild said in a voice that seemed more frightened than I felt.
“Yes, though it hurt.”
“ I bet, let me see.” As to this point we had been in complete darkness he lit the lantern.
My hand was not nearly as bad as it felt. There was a gash but it would heal. I calmed Mr. Fairchild by saying it was nothing. All I needed was a midnight nursing from Mrs. Fairchild.  He bid good night and I waited for the bleeding to stop.

As I was walking back to the covers, I missed so dearly. I caught a light out of the corner of my eye, through the very hole in the shutter my hand had just made. Upon closer inspection I could see a lone lantern swinging from an outstretched hand. Through the rain and beneath the wind I knew immediately that it was none other than my dear friend the Fisherman.

I was halfway down the stairs when I heard the concerned voice of Mrs. Fairchild down the hall.
“ Is everything alright?” She asked.
I was to the door and out before her question had been spoken. All I could picture was the ruined boat of this wonderful man. He obviously needed my help, how he had found where I lived was a question I had not considered.

“ Good, Boy, I thought that was you. “ He said with a motion up to my shutter, hole and all. “ I wanted to tell you something very important before I left.”
“ What you are leaving? Now? In the middle of this?” I exclaimed with a scream loud enough, surely, to hear for miles on a clear day. That evening the sound fell and sank like a stone in deep water.
“ Yes, I have to, isn’t it obvious. I have to go!”
“ Where? Where are you going? What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”
“ Boy, listen, I haven’t much time.” His voice was tired and his clothes soaked through. “ I didn’t, I couldn’t, tell you everything. There is always something more. There is always a next chapter. My story of Love misled you, I am sorry “

From the door Mr. Fairchild yelled out. “ Boy what are you doing?”
“ It’s alright, it’s alright.”
I could see on his face his concern. Here I was his border out in the worst storm we had had in recent History talking with a strange man who obviously wasn’t from town. He nodded and ducked back inside. I knew full well I would have a barrage of questions to answer.

When I turned back to the Fisherman he was already halfway to the square. I ran to catch up.
“ You see boy. Nothing is ever as clear as it seems. No matter how far you travel or where you go, there is always something more.”
With that there was a thunderclap that seemed to awaken beside my head. It shook even the cobblestone street, it’s light making day in a night that was definite. The rain was a constant and the deluge complete.

Now to the boat, we arrived in a flash. Somehow since last I had been aboard he had rigged the sails and prepared his vessel. The sea was a maelstrom a wicked froth of white and darkness, lapping beside the boat and tearing at her face. I nearly fell into the drink as I stepped aboard.

“ Come below, Boy, this is important.”
As the night had gone I wondered how further I could descend into danger. Below deck the cabin was unchanged, albeit more noisy, as the rattle and hum of the storm created a constant weave. I held on.

“ I have been thinking about our last evening since it happened. I have been thinking about our last words. I realized that the words that would last were not those I intended. “

“ What do you mean? “ I asked.

“ Boy you only half listen and I only half tell. There are last words and words that last. And our time together would be lost if the words I had told you weren’t clarified.”

At that moment a wave knocked the boat and one of the shelves behind him cleared itself of its contents. To the floor were sent shards and a shatter of artifacts I could only vaguely remember.

“ What is it you want?” He asked. His voice slightly louder than before as the storm was certainly pounding to get in. I remember this time well, because through all of it he seemed as calm as a summer day. As though the world had stopped and nothing could happen would change that.

My mind was distracted. I looked down at my bloody hand, crusted with a crimson face. I thought about the acorns I had given him, lost somewhere in the building skater that once was the order of his domain. I thought for a moment, thoughtfully stepping around a truth that I knew was evident.

“ I want be self-made.”

With these words came a calm so unexpected it was as though the very world had stopped it’s spin. The planets, the people, the galaxy, halted. In his face I saw the glow and reflection of something I could never define. It was a sparkle and a smile so genuine that I felt as though I was in the company of a wisdom in a man, I have rarely seen.

With a smile, and with the world still immobile, he asked; “ Why”

The answer was out before I even had time to think about it.

“ You are right.” He said. “ Now I will tell you a story told to me by the songbirds of the Boreal. It is a song and a wisdom far greater than any I have ever known. It is a story that has no beginning and it has no end. In the chaos of the moment I listened, as his words drew paisley shadows about the corners.

But alas I get ahead of myself. The steps I had taken to arrive at this moment were certainly as notable as those that which were about to transpire. It was back at my house, before the square and beneath the rain. It was definitely before I found myself on board once more.  In the deluge and flood I’ve misled.

The Fisherman led a quick pace for an Old Seaman. His short legs carried him well. I am usually quite sure of foot, but the cobbles were slippery. Many of the streets had become waterways nearly impassable. The rain in its torrent had created a vertical Venice.

“ Ah, Lausanne.” The Fisherman said.
I couldn’t make the connection as my attention was focused on keeping my feet in the darkness.
As we got closer to the docks our path was diverted. At the Fisherman’s heels, I found myself walking through a neighborhood I had been told to avoid, and always had. There were many citizens in town that would report immediately to Mr. Fairchild, had recognition been made.

It was night and a storm was upon us. I stopped, and the Fisherman noticed.

“ It’s alright you’re with me.”

I was so I followed. I can tell you reader, that I was not unafraid. The streets were narrow and the darkness deep. IN the porticoes I could see the shapes of men. I could see their eyes. I could hear their muffled voices murmuring, a mere mumble above the storm.

“ This way.” The Fisherman said. I still was chasing his footfalls. An alleyway loomed and the Fisherman was gone. I stopped and turned; the eyes had moved. They were closer. There was no turning back. I stepped into the alley.

I was immediately cloaked in darkness. The rain had stopped and I was blind. In that moment I stepped into a hole, the cold water filled my previously dry boot. The cold sent a shiver up my spine.

With my arms outstretched, I walked gingerly into the abyss. There was no sound, there was no light. I walked on. When the path is unclear all you can do it hope that forward is true. Suddenly a wall sprung up, it seemed to at least, because somehow I bumped strait into it. My arms and hands had missed it, but the visor of my cap had not, and bent forward saving my nose a bleed. I stopped and listened. A rush of voices rose out of the silence. To my left, a faint light. Was that where the Fisherman had gone? I could hear footsteps. I listened, they were behind me, they stopped. My heart no beat faster than the flutter of a luffing sail. I headed left to the light.

“There you are Boy, I thought I had lost you.”

My skin crawled and left and was gone. The shock of surprise melting the single nerve I had left.

“ It’s alright, we are safe here.” The Fisherman then put his invisible hand on my invisible shoulder and my skin welcomed me back.

“ Sorry to startle you Boy, but time isn’t what we have much of, at this point.”

With that he turned; I could see his silhouette faintly. We rounded a second corner and came to a street lit partially by gas lanterns. It was strait and narrow and by each lantern that I saw there was a sign, indicating the business located within.

This was the Hole. I knew it was the minute I saw it. No one from town ever came down here, save the owners and they were silent as rocks though we all knew them by name.

As we stepped from the shadows a man flew between the Fisherman and I. He landed in a puddle that immediately grew deeper as he landed. The splash from his decent soaked me quite well. The man let out a stifled scream as the door from where he had come slammed shut. The echo rattled through the street like a cannon shot. I hastened to catch up with my guide.

Near the end of the street we stopped. There was a single gas lantern overhead. This, separate from the rest, by a distance. The sign read “ The Boot”, below the sign was a red door. On the door was a brass plaque that I could just make out in the flickering light, it read: “ The Trunk of the Czar.”

“ I need to talk with some people inside, you can come in, or you can stay here.”

My eyes, I am sure, were as wide as they could be. Fear stung bitter on my lips. I immediately began to shiver. The Fisherman made a step and the door swung in, two men sprung out and knocked the Fisherman to the ground. I, two steps behind and nerved by the splash avoided collision.

In less time than my step the two men had drawn knives. The steel flashed the light of lantern overhead. The air whipped as the blades swung in what seemed nearly a dance. I watched in horror as the men cut ribbons of their clothes. The rain soak made the process more deadly as these ribbons soon clung to flesh.

“ We have to get out of here.” I screamed as I helped the Fisherman to his feet.

“ No” was all he said.

One of the men, as if by echo, screamed too. His body fell to the cobbled street. His knife skidded away as if by retreat. The other, re-scabbard his blade and turned to me and smiled. I will remember his face always, permanently embossed on that night.

I stepped back in fear that I would be next.

“ Brother, did I get you?” He said reaching down to his fallen adversary.

“ No, but I got you.” He said as he pulled the first to the ground beside him. There was a laugh and the two were on their feet in an instant as though nothing had happened at all.

“ Let’s go.” And the two men disappeared down a nearby alley with their arms around each other’s shoulders. They began to sing. I had never heard the tune but it was not unhappy.

The Fisherman laughed. “ Those Gypsies are a peculiar lot, no? That’s good luck you know.”

I thought of the missing knife on the street. I wondered how that could be good luck. I did not know. But before I could ask the Fisherman, he had disappeared inside.