Steerage

Lucus Anthony Ren

Years Later
You’ll probably not believe any of this. It is a true story. It did happen. I should
warn you though before I begin, your thinking will change because of it, and I am
not accountable for any actions brought about. That is to say I do not fear your
ability in understanding the tales events, the very contrary. I am certain the
skillfulness of your minds attitudes for such are admirable, my concern resting upon
facts, one cannot truly trust ones own self, fore one hasn’t affectionately understood
the meaning of truth. In its entirety. Whole hearted, as it where, and here, exists the

issue

I too could barley compose myself upon hearing the full story as it were told
before several of us just as it is now, yet here for you alone. I’ll neither alter a
moment nor fabricate exclamation. The actuality will be stated pure as happened,
preference given in not causing fear, but that which of course we all knowingly have,
yet often neglect, that greatness of insight into, ourselves.
So, now, saved by the massive fire you’ve graciously built staving off colds
creeping fingers, we shall begin this evening’s tale of honor, death and all between.
Stopping not, until the end.
The late spring of 1928 was full upon us, our hunger for life and all it held, lay
open as we drifted through that water which the ‘Princess Salima' calmly making
headway, was in fact her last voyage. She was a 50 foot flat-top cruiser motor yacht.
The wheelhouse and saloon in the raised deckhouse, providing excellent visibility its
entire circumference, allowing one in walking freely her entire hardwood deck. The
deck its overhead shelter, provided by the “flat top,” which extends from the
wheelhouse back over the aft deck and beneath, having a grand Cleopatra sofa,
allowing leisure and grace upon the waters. This, the centerpiece of the entire vessel,
guests lounged hours gazing at the waters, discussing politics and sport, luncheons
and gossip. Her interior layout features two staterooms aft and crew quarters forward
of the galley. The galley and crew quarters are separated from the staterooms by the
wheelhouse and main salon. Therefore, even at her length, uniquely offers privacy
for owners who employ crew, which of course was always the case for the Mr and
Mrs. Wilkson, owners of the ‘Princess Salima’. A crew of three to be exact, the
usual, with Captain Marshall having over twenty-two years experience along the
eastern coast from New York to Florida at the helm, Steward Larson, and the cook
Miss McRoo. All having outstanding letters of reference from previous employers,
Mr. Wilkson was eager having the ‘Princess Salima’ underway as he had grand plans
indeed of her, thus immediately employed the crew, and within four days the five
Mrs. Wilkson as well, for she adored the open ocean, left their hail port of Greenport
Harbor located on the north fork of Long Island, for a two week voyage along the
coast stopping at various ports visiting friends and business associates, with
‘Princess Salima’ hosting events with sounding success.
Mr. Wilkson planed retiring the following year, purchased ‘Princess Salima’ for
his wife. Having stood by him on countless business adventures over the years
without complaining, for what reason would she seeing their wealth steadily
increase, allowing the purchase of two town houses in Long Island, another in
California. Mr. Wilkson a pilot during World War I returned applying his knowledge
from the war, further developing commercial aviation in the order of seven large
factories for research and design in aircraft manufacturing. They were a young
couple. Handsome, fitting well together, and highly respected. Their future still in
front of them, though childless, they wanted to experience the world for what it was,
and in part would be produced through the ‘Princess Salima’. She wasn’t the
grandest, or the most luxurious, but for the Wilksons she was their dream. Simple.
Easy to manage. Comfortable. Sheltered from his demanding work, the vessel
established, what they both so desperately hungered.
The accident came on one such restful cruise. Employed with the Wilksons for
nearly three years, the crew was well established among one another, knowing their
responsibilities. While hoping to outrun a pending storm they heading for anchorage
at Key Biscayne, both Mrs. and Mr. Wilkson were on the Cleopatra sofa aft talking
of their engagements during the stay in the Keys. Wanting to show her husband a
photograph brought of an old mansion worth restoring for sale at a good price, she
went below to their cabin too collect it. The crew often retired in their quarters
during the hot afternoons so their discussions were quiet not wanting to wake the
steward and Mrs. McRoo. Captain Marshall was calmly his normal self, steering the
motor yacht with little difficulty and she thought how naturally her husband and the
Captain both appeared, but a feeling of being part of something much larger came to
her mind on her way below, as she again noticed the black clouds on the horizon
encroaching ever closer. But the ‘Princess Salima’ was a fine vessel made of stout
timbers which, in her mind would last a thousand years, the longer she spent on her
the more she grew to love her. A strong fondness developed between the two almost
immediately, flourishing steadily since. Both her and Mr. Wilkson lingered hours on
deck at night watching the night sky, telling tails, thoughts, desires, yet that won’t be
the case tonight though, with such a storm probably spend the night ashore was her
thinking as she entered their cabin.
Having only taken a minute knowing exactly where the photo lay, returning
quickly topside, she found it immediately strange. Captain Marshall was not at the
helm. Straightaway she looked only to find the sofa where her husband was resting a
moment ago, empty. She turned gazing forward thinking perhaps they’d both be
there. Only the empty greeted her. Lifting the hatch of the engine compartment, but
in searching that too was empty of them. Becoming dizzy without result she went to
the crews cabins knocking on their doors. There was not a reply, only that of the
water lapping against the wooden hull. Turning the handle of Captain Marshall and
the steward’s cabin, the door opened freely into a space dimly light, for the curtains
were pulled, warding off the imposing afternoon sun, and that was all. Both bunks
empty. At least Larson should be here. Quickly she went to Mrs. McRoo, but
discovered the same. She returned swiftly up the stairs frantically screaming their
names with both fear and rage, yet in reaching the deck, she froze.
Now here I must pause asking do our deepest insights must, and should, appear
as lunacy, and under certain circumstances as crimes, when they come unsanctioned
to the ears of those who are not inclined and destined for them? Would you agree?
Reason of my asking the inquiry proved little. The ‘Princess Salima’ was thoroughly
searched. There were no bodies; no motive established in Mrs. Wilkson wanting to
kill any of them, least her husband. Their affection towards one another commonly
known; she had wealth from her father so money was not an issue. Nevertheless they
were gone. In a moment, nothing of the crew remained except their cloths along with
personal effects. The final decision of the court, Mrs. Wilkson fainted, as she’d
mentioned suffering from spells of dizziness, and in that period the crew accidentally
fell over board due to the storm, passed over from which Mrs. Wilkson awoke
sometime afterwards.
Mrs. Wilkson managed well in steering the vessel for safe harbor, contacted the
authorities, which promptly launched a full search and investigation. But these being
minuscule facts not worth mentioning in depth as the case in point of this story
doesn’t concern the search or even the investigation itself, rather what happened
during the ‘Princess Salima’ refit some forty years later.

Faithless Damned Voyage

Now, I must tell you one important point not mentioned prior for the simple
reason, it would have meant only a glance held within your focused thoughts. As it
does in this particular time, so have a pause and think it through a moment,
questioning yourself as in what’s the one important element not mentioned yet in all
this? What would have drawn great attention in the disappearance of Mr. Wilkson?
You see, it now? Why of course you do. The media. Rightly so, they were
immensely attentive with the entire setting as it were. The vanishing of such a person
rang bells around half the world, and in what circumstances one might add consumed
their audience for months during the inquiry, but not a trial, that would not be heard
of in launching such a spectacle upon the dear grieving Mrs. Wilkson, and the
families of those departed crew members, who naturally attended the formalities
with great interest, an interest not in the normal sense of the word, not by far. But
which shakes the very foundation of evil that ever was, for in that ship, for those that
didn’t return ashore with Mrs. Wilkson, for those remains of which never recovered,
lies only one possibility of which not even the dead speak of. They’ve never left the
‘Princess Salima’.
Now rush as you may into that room, best hiding what in your heart must be
true, how else could it be with those not returning? For the media did have its time.
The gossip and speculations ran a wildness dragging all involved with vengeance
through a cyclone of twisted thoughts, slander, and passions lost of abandoned souls,
for only those with unpardonable sins able to weigh their judgment upon this case,
thereby seeing the true verdict. Yes. Now you see. For look at the facts! THE
FACTS!! Clear irreproachable in the name of almighty!! How could she cause the
deaths? She hadn’t the strength or the will. She loved her husband with unbounded
passion as he with her. And the Captain, strong of a man, stout, filled with bravery,
and Steward Larson quick as they come, not able to sneak upon, deliver ill-fate upon
the young man and into the water as a weighted ragged doll. Mrs. McRoo, for
heavens let us stop this maddening thought, for her size alone Mrs. Wilkson could
barely move when willed from both. No, I say the truth is only in the eyes of those
not from this place, who passed from it as hands of a clock. This can be of no denial.
For what had Mrs. Wilkson done when returning topside after witnessing below
decks completely empty? Indeed. Stiffened. Like that of ice or better, for ice does
melt, but that of…wood. Immediately upon returning from below decks she did
harden as a block of massive timber from which the ‘Princess Salima’ herself born
of.
Now, good soul, here we have the final to all of this. A question as obvious as
the sun, though whose answer lays below the deepest sea, of why? What be the
cause, whereby a women of comparable standings from educated nurturing assume
such a device? One with great worldly outlook and premonitions? What had she
seen! Dear, for many of those in that life's period as hers, will never know as she
took that knowledge alone, unto herself. Till death. She never spoke of that day, nor
any that follow. Succumbed to silence forever, the blackness in each too our own in
passing, Mrs. Wilkson never an utterance passed her lips, never a simple syllable, not
even a cry in pain or fear. For my friend in this lateness of evening, we are about to
conclude, our business of real happenings in that faithless damned voyage.

Become

That quietest, making always the loudest rumble is but of one thing: love. And
in what shape it assumes, only holds the imagination, a very distant and almost lost
comparison by far. For the true dignity of the very breath our being endures is that of
once ourselves totally, without inquisition whether true or not, understanding loves
beguiled. Regardless of the where’s or how’s these but trivial signposts relate
nothing. Fore in their weightless definition one can only pray, of being lost. Forever.
I was so fortunate, and not, in having traveled such territories once in my life.
Blessed in being touched by something more important than myself, further cursed
as the drug took hold, its addiction sever. In telling you this now, I truly understand
the Wilksons, concluding, it is possible she killed her husband. And that is where
many false redemptions lay of those having heard what media produced, a mythical
resurrection of hope as it where, in love conquering all. Our understanding from its
significance is far from that. As to comprehend this, true you must understand love,
but of another source. But, you will ask from what can there but one birthplace be for
love, that only in the heart. True! Very true! But from our story there is no heart to
tell of. What happened to the crew that sunny afternoon has no heart…of which we’d
recognize…of which froze the very one in Mrs. Wilkson.
In reaching those final steps upon the ladder she’d known of no danger the likes
of what produced itself in front of her. Had she, then certain rules would have
applied. Ones which bolted a person, chained away, keeping society safe from them,
preferably in a pit. Bottomless. An abyss of eternity. The sight seen that sunny
midday would take sanity for an expedition into territory not wanting any
navigational plan, in the occurrence it escaped while retreating. After all a map could
lead it anywhere. And frankly, wasn’t a possibility pondered. So the mind closed
itself. Refused to witness any other action but that of survival meaning, to not recall
upon, at any future time. Ever. Though always would it lay dormant within her
thoughts and, worst still, her dreams, wherefrom out they strolled. A lover’s
promenade.
And right she would be keeping her silence, mentioning not a word, fore itself
would taken then, recognition of that faithful day while consider thereafter what
she’d endured setting the vessel on its course toward anchorage, when contact with
those authorities whom now could only assume a simple series of facts contrived
allowing their sleepless nights a fitful end. Who would challenge judgments made?
Would dare? Had truth be known their thoughts never again touched sanities shore.
And those less fortunate, those wandering deranged beaches, those who during the
reconstruction of the ‘Princess Salima,’ found bleeding human bones and teeth
imbedded among the timbers of her hull, had but one thought ringing their mindless
eternity, ringing a warnings bell of ever those who so disturb the resting of these,
they too shall join this cursed endless voyage.
And dare say I cannot go further in this evenings tale, dear friend, it brings that
dampen chill upon my own bony structure reliving the ‘Princesses’ meal of Mr.
Wilkson and invited others. It is that keeping Mrs. Wilkson silent. That holding
tongues of workers restoring the ‘Princess Salima’ their silence ever broken
consequent to eternity's deathless sailing. So then you might ask how can it be, that I
am here before you, this chilling evening if all since swore their mute-hood?
Because, I too were there you see, on board the ‘Princess Salima’ when Mrs.
Wilkson returned topside after searching below. I saw what she saw. What workers
saw during the vessels refit years later. Rather in-part. Seeing the puzzled look
crossing your face allows me the opportunity only a very few have had, in hearing,
that of the ‘other’ story, fitting we become prisoners of words what better
entombment. But I shall be quick for I know you wear easily, wanting the end told so
as to retire, no doubt the seclusion and peaceful night of soft dreams await.
Furthermore from your hospitality inviting me for this discussion, you were so avid
wanting all the details of such a forgotten account, I feel inclined, desperately so, in
clearly stating, that wont be possible. You see, any hearing the story of the ‘Princess
Salima’ their soul itself is consumed of it. Willingly as it were. Reason the story was
scarcely mentioned. Till now, for your deserving heart.
Now, not wanting anymore waste of the precious time remaining for us, indeed
it is late, let us finish. It all began with the timber for the construction of the
‘Princess Salima’ herself. Not oaken as believed in publications, but that from the
ebony forests which no longer stands in another far away land. Logged years ago,
this being one of the last removed from the grounds of a once prominent duke, who
cheated and lied his wealth from many till the many sought a curse on him and all his
kind. Starved, worked to near death they traded their last wealth, for the words
chanted one special cold winter afternoon, the sun being higher then it should, but
few took notice as the duke passed along the villagers squalid livings. In speaking
the curse not a thing did change. Not, what the eye could see. In time as will all, not
what one has, but what one holds dear takes root, and with the evil heart of the duke
spawned evil times for those closest to him, and his holdings. Including the ebony
forest. And it was that timber shipped over the ocean, with its scourge, now the heart
of ‘Princess Salima’. Did you think Mr. Wilkson gained his wealth honestly? Or the
father of Mrs. Wilkson? Does anyone for that matter? For what do we gain with an
honest heart in mind? Yes. The color your face shows no secrets.
Now as you have by now surmised the curse took those whose dealings stood
long side that of the dukes. And most none the ware of it. As with those whom sailed
upon ‘Princess Salima’, so too had their end if the cursed tale be heard upon their
very ears, or hearts following the dukes. Such as yourself. The moisture upon your
forehead, is not your own. That trembling in the pit of your belly either. For the
sweat of your stinking thievery smells that of the bilges from ‘Princess Salimas’
own. True it is. And soon your stomach will be ripped from you as she had done with
those that faithful afternoon which Mrs. Wilkson saw, those shredded and devoured
alive drained into the very timbers of its blackest forest! Ingesting their souls forever,
held captive with others the ‘Princess Salima’ sailed on, in the hands of the most
capable new owner, Mrs. Wilkson, understanding all well how stakes in this game of
malignancy rose. Knowing silence her new relative, she lived it till her end, a bargain
birthed both from sorrow and it’s opposing twin. But why, you might ask with your
putrefying lungs in life's failing last breath, could she, Mrs. Wilkson survive? Why
yes of course a very good question as every good man desires so strongly, so whole
heartedly their bequest unto this world, since often not entirely truthful, nor required.
And at most, pointless and unwanted. Nonetheless I will honor it in confirming, she
was the ‘Princess Salimas’ own spirit come alive …
In a moment you’ll perish, join those too in the swelling of the ‘Princess Salima’
and the many questions withal, dance in your eyes. Fear not they will be answered, it
is no real tragedy at hand here, purely the long tangible proof this sarcastic play we
live out each day in our lives is a forest, dark full of fear, and mystery, not our own
tempo with its style, which has its basis in the character of what, we can become.

-End- +

source: by Lucus Anthony Ren