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Authors: Daniel Mason
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adjectives.
Ah—forgive me—I am gossiping like a schoolgirl. Come, let’s
take some air before I have to return to work.”
They rose and
walked outside to the deck. In the bow stood a lone figure, wrapped in a long
white robe that fluttered about his body.
Edgar watched him. “I
don’t think he has moved from that spot since we left
Alexandria.”
“Perhaps our strangest passenger of all. We
call him the Man with One Story. He has traveled this route for as long as I
can remember. He is always alone. I do not know who pays his fare or what his
business is. He travels in the lower berths, boards in Alexandria and
disembarks in Aden. I have never seen him make the return journey.”
“And why do you call him the Man with One Story?”
The
Captain chuckled. “An old name. On the rare voyages that he chooses to
speak, he tells only one tale. I have heard it once, and I have never forgotten
it. He doesn’t make conversation. He only begins the story and
doesn’t stop until it is finished. It is eerie, as if one is listening to
a phonograph. Mostly he’s silent, but for those who hear the story
… they are rarely the same again.”
“He speaks
English?”
“A deliberate English, almost as if he is
reading.”
“And the subject of this …
story?”
“Ah, Mr. Drake. That I will leave for you to
discover, if you are meant to. Really, only he can tell it.”
And
as if rehearsed, there was a call from the galley. Edgar had other questions,
about Anthony Carroll, about the Man with One Story, but the Captain quickly
bid him good night, and disappeared into the dining hall, leaving him alone,
breathing the scent of the sea air, loaded with salt and premonition.
The next morning, Edgar awoke early to the heat pounding
at the porthole. He dressed and walked down the long corridor and up to the
deck. It was bright, and he could feel the sun even as it barely hovered over
the eastern hills. The sea was wide, and both shores could still faintly be
seen. Further aft he saw the man in the white robes standing at the rail.
He had become accustomed to taking this stroll every morning, circling the
ship’s deck until it became too warm. It was on one of these walks that
he had first seen the man unroll his prayer rug to pray. He had seen him often
since then, but he said nothing.
Yet on this warm morning, as he
followed the same route of his usual stroll, aft along the railing, toward the
man in the white robes, he felt his legs weakening. I am afraid, he thought,
and he tried to tell himself that this morning’s walk was no different
from the previous day’s, but he knew it wasn’t true. The Captain
had spoken with a seriousness that seemed oddly out of character for the tall,
lighthearted sailor. For a moment, Edgar thought that perhaps he had imagined
the conversation, that the Captain had left him in the dining hall, that he had
risen to the deck alone. Or, he thought several steps later, the Captain knew
they would meet, a new traveler and a storyteller, Perhaps this is what is
meant by the gravity of stories.
He found himself standing near the
man. “Fine morning, sir,” he said.
The old man nodded. His
face was dark, his beard the color of his robes. Edgar didn’t know what
to say, but he forced himself to remain at the railing. The man was silent.
Waves washed against the bow of the ship, their sound lost in the roar of the
steam engines.
“This is your first time in the Red Sea,”
said the man, his voice deep with an unfamiliar accent.
“Yes, it
is, this is my first time away from England, actually—”
The
old man interrupted him. “You must show me your lips when you
speak,” he said. “I am deaf.”
Edgar turned. “I
am sorry, I didn’t know …”
“Your name?”
asked the old man.
“Drake … here …” He
reached into his pocket and pulled out a card which he had had printed
especially for the journey.
E DGAR D RAKE
P IANO
TUNER —E RARDS - A -S PECIALTY
14
F RANKLIN M
Ah—forgive me—I am gossiping like a schoolgirl. Come, let’s
take some air before I have to return to work.”
They rose and
walked outside to the deck. In the bow stood a lone figure, wrapped in a long
white robe that fluttered about his body.
Edgar watched him. “I
don’t think he has moved from that spot since we left
Alexandria.”
“Perhaps our strangest passenger of all. We
call him the Man with One Story. He has traveled this route for as long as I
can remember. He is always alone. I do not know who pays his fare or what his
business is. He travels in the lower berths, boards in Alexandria and
disembarks in Aden. I have never seen him make the return journey.”
“And why do you call him the Man with One Story?”
The
Captain chuckled. “An old name. On the rare voyages that he chooses to
speak, he tells only one tale. I have heard it once, and I have never forgotten
it. He doesn’t make conversation. He only begins the story and
doesn’t stop until it is finished. It is eerie, as if one is listening to
a phonograph. Mostly he’s silent, but for those who hear the story
… they are rarely the same again.”
“He speaks
English?”
“A deliberate English, almost as if he is
reading.”
“And the subject of this …
story?”
“Ah, Mr. Drake. That I will leave for you to
discover, if you are meant to. Really, only he can tell it.”
And
as if rehearsed, there was a call from the galley. Edgar had other questions,
about Anthony Carroll, about the Man with One Story, but the Captain quickly
bid him good night, and disappeared into the dining hall, leaving him alone,
breathing the scent of the sea air, loaded with salt and premonition.
The next morning, Edgar awoke early to the heat pounding
at the porthole. He dressed and walked down the long corridor and up to the
deck. It was bright, and he could feel the sun even as it barely hovered over
the eastern hills. The sea was wide, and both shores could still faintly be
seen. Further aft he saw the man in the white robes standing at the rail.
He had become accustomed to taking this stroll every morning, circling the
ship’s deck until it became too warm. It was on one of these walks that
he had first seen the man unroll his prayer rug to pray. He had seen him often
since then, but he said nothing.
Yet on this warm morning, as he
followed the same route of his usual stroll, aft along the railing, toward the
man in the white robes, he felt his legs weakening. I am afraid, he thought,
and he tried to tell himself that this morning’s walk was no different
from the previous day’s, but he knew it wasn’t true. The Captain
had spoken with a seriousness that seemed oddly out of character for the tall,
lighthearted sailor. For a moment, Edgar thought that perhaps he had imagined
the conversation, that the Captain had left him in the dining hall, that he had
risen to the deck alone. Or, he thought several steps later, the Captain knew
they would meet, a new traveler and a storyteller, Perhaps this is what is
meant by the gravity of stories.
He found himself standing near the
man. “Fine morning, sir,” he said.
The old man nodded. His
face was dark, his beard the color of his robes. Edgar didn’t know what
to say, but he forced himself to remain at the railing. The man was silent.
Waves washed against the bow of the ship, their sound lost in the roar of the
steam engines.
“This is your first time in the Red Sea,”
said the man, his voice deep with an unfamiliar accent.
“Yes, it
is, this is my first time away from England, actually—”
The
old man interrupted him. “You must show me your lips when you
speak,” he said. “I am deaf.”
Edgar turned. “I
am sorry, I didn’t know …”
“Your name?”
asked the old man.
“Drake … here …” He
reached into his pocket and pulled out a card which he had had printed
especially for the journey.
E DGAR D RAKE
P IANO
TUNER —E RARDS - A -S PECIALTY
14
F RANKLIN M
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