A storm more furious than any before it shouted its rage to an unnamed ocean. Lightning cut across the sky, shedding light upon the small vessel caught in the storm's grasp. Rain laced wind whipped through the sails of the Hope, threatening to rip them to shreds. Waves crashed loudly into each other and a roar of thunder escaped the dark clouds above. The sea and the sky conspired together against the small ship caught between them.
The Hope fought through the furious waters toward no certain goal. The waves worked together to tip the wooden vessel, pushing to and fro on either side, but she pressed on. The deck was buzzing with activity as the storm unleashed its fury upon the ship.
The day was dark. Or was it night? No one aboard knew how long they had been in the storm. None of the crew knew anything other than their duties. All were focusing so intently on what they were doing that they didn't notice when one of their shipmates was washed overboard. No life ring was thrown, he was left to be devoured by the sea. In another instance a man's face was cut when a line snapped and he stumbled blindly over the protective railing. Everyone continued the tasks given them without a bat of an eye.
A loud crack could have been heard, if any were right-minded enough to hear it, as the main-mast snapped at the base and fell into the dark waters, taking the lookout and another crew member with it. The remaining deckhand working on that mast stopped what he was doing and looked at the commotion going on around him. Some men were tending sails that need not be tended, others were sorting out fishing nets, and one man was mopping the deck. That's when he noticed the storm. Something so trivial as mopping the deck was being carried out while a storm raged about them? He wanted to reach out to the man and shake him, but as he took a step toward him he realized the full gravity of his situation.
He was on a ship in a storm in the middle of the ocean and he didn't know how he got there. He tried to think about how he ended up here, about what he was doing, and then the question of who he was entered his mind. His mind began to race with even more questions. Did he have a family? How old was he? What was his name? It was too much, too fast. He wanted to scream but he opened his mouth and nothing came. At that moment the storm seemed to become angrier, as if it knew what he was feeling and was feeding from it. Panic took hold of him and he raced past the man with the mop to find a place to hide below decks.
The cook was lifting a large pot of boiling water as a boy barreled past him, knocking into him and consequently making him drop the pot. Scalding water splashed up into the old man's face and torso and he let out a howl of pain. Doubled over he looked around for his assailant but the room was empty, save for himself. Grimacing, he slowly made his way to his feet and shuffled over to a chair. He looked around at the unfamiliar galley and tried remembering exactly what he was doing when he was burned. He had picked up a pot, that much he knew, but for what reason? As he sat and thought he noticed the room was rocking. He quickly realized that he was on a ship! How could he have possibly gotten onto a ship and not remember it? He couldn't remember anything up until that boy bumped into him. Perhaps he knew something. The old cook stood up, knees groaning in protest, and made off to find the younger man.
His search didn't take long. There weren't many places to hide in the galley and the only other exit was the door leading to the crew's quarters. As he approached the door he thought he heard sobbing. “You in there, boy?” he called out as he rapped the door with his bony knuckles.
“Leave me be!” a voice called out between sobs. The old cook took a stern stance, arms akimbo, and furrowed his brow.
“I think not, young lad!” he bellowed at the door. “Ye burned me somethin' fierce! I think I deserve an apology at the very least.” The door cracked open and a teary eyed youth popped his head out.
“Ye don't look too badly burned t'me, old man.” he said, scowling.
“Well I'll be...” the older man responded, looking down at his hands and arms and feeling his chest and face. The burns were nothing more than a memory. “Must've just been the steam irritatin' m'skin.” he laughed, which sounded more like a cough to the boy. He looked inquisitively at the skinny, crumpled mess of a man and silently wondered how he was still alive. At his elder's behest he stood back and allowed him to enter the room.
“Ye mind?” the cook asked as he made his way to the bed and, not bothering to wait for an answer, sat down. “These old dogs need a rest.” he said, motioning at his feet. The boy nodded his understanding and took a seat cross-legged on the floor. “Now then, boy, what do I call you?”
The question hung in the air a while as they looked at each other. “I... I'm not sure.” he stammered.
“Very interesting.” the old man responded. He sat and stroked his beard thoughtfully for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he asked another question. “Well, what are you sure about?”
Another long pause. “I... don't know.” Filled with shame the younger man put his face in his hands and began crying.
“We'll not unravel this mystery with you blubbering in a corner now will we?” the cook barked, leaning down and pulling the sobbing boy's hands down. “Stop that crying and listen up, lad, I'll not repeat myself.” He then recounted his short tale of coming to a realization of things around him after their encounter and his inability to remember anything about himself or the circumstances in which he found himself in a cook's position on this ship. Wide eyed, the younger of the two marveled at how similar their stories were. He told the old man of the broken mast and the storm, and of the strange acting crew and how he couldn't remember who he was or how he came to be on this ship. While the mention of the storm worried him somewhat, the old cook was most interested in hearing about the crew.
Were they just as absentminded as their shipmates before all this? Why were they the only ones who were thinking rationally? What made them any different than the rest of the crew? Something else was bothering him too. “How many shipmates did ye say we had up there, lad?” he asked, pointing upwards.
“Fifteen, maybe twenty. Why do ye ask?”
“Well, as far as I know this is the only room on the ship and it strikes me as odd that it's outfitted fer only one person.” the older man responded, gesturing at the entirety of the small cabin.
“Aye, you're right!” the boy shouted, jumping up suddenly in his excitement.
“Was there any other doors that may have led to another room up there?” the cook asked, hoping to himself that there was a reasonable explanation for all of this.
“Just the one t'the Cap'n's quarters. Some stairs a bit to the right but those just lead to the helm.”
“Perhaps it'd be best if we spoke t'the Cap'n about this then.” the old man responded as he slowly stood up. The boy offered his shoulder for support and together they made their way back through the galley and out into the storm.
The main deck was nearly devoid of any life. About five crew members were visible around the mass of yet another broken mast. The fore-mast had snapped off about halfway up its length and fell down onto the weather deck, creating a massive hole big enough for a man to climb down into the hold. As the companions made their way past it they could see that the hull had been breached and that they were taking on water. They quickened their pace to the captain's quarters, both of them nearly tripping over a discarded mop, and tried the door. It wouldn't budge. “Must be locked, I don't see any damage done to the door.” the boy called out over the din of the storm.
“The first mate'll have the key, I'm sure!” the cook shouted back, but due to his old age his voice could hardly be heard over the noise of the wind and the waves. Instead he pointed up towards the helm and gave the boy a gentle push. The boy got the message and ran up the stairs, the old cook following as fast as he could.
The first mate, a taller bearded man, had a tight hold on the helm and a stern look on his face, staring ahead intently. The boy spotted a ring of keys on his belt and grabbed at them. The big man quickly caught his arm before he could get them but then recoiled when he realized the severity of the storm that seemingly appeared from nowhere. The boy took his second chance and snatched the ring away from him and quickly returned to the old cook with his prize, leaving the first mate behind in his confusion. They made their way back down to the captain's quarters, unlocked the door, and swung it open.
The interior was furnished with a desk, a chair, and a lamp, with various papers and writing utensils scattered across the surface of the desk. The chair was facing the wall opposite the door, a crystal bottle, filled with bourbon, was sitting on the floor next to it. “Close the door.” a voice croaked from behind the chair. “Ye'll let all the warmth out.” The pair stepped further into the cabin, leaving the chaotic storm behind them, and shut the door.
As they did so movement could be heard and a shadow appeared against the wall, outlined by the candle, and out from behind the chair came the frail looking form of the captain. He was an old, shriveled, tired looking man. His dark brown rain coat dragged on the floor behind him as he walked, and the sleeves had to be rolled up so his hands could be seen. He had an old leather captain's hat on and an unlit pipe hung from the corner of his mouth. The two companions looked at him in utter disbelief. How could such an old man be the captain of a ship such as this? He was even older than the cook!
The boy was about to comment on this but the captain spoke before he could. “So, the ship is fallin' apart?” he asked, cryptically. The two chanced a sideways glance at each other and nodded in unison. “And I suppose yer both wonderin' what's goin' on?” They nodded again.
“Aye,” the boy said. “We're wonderin' why we don't remember gettin' on this ship, or anything before even that.”
“Memories don't need t'remember anything, other than that fact o'course.” the captain replied nonchalantly.
“Memories?” the confused cook asked. They came to this man seeking answers and all they were getting was more questions.
“Aye.” the captain responded. “Yer my memories. Yer me, t'be more precise. Have ye done anything that might've harmed ye since being awake? Were you a normal man you'd bear the proof of blood or blister.” he added, absentmindedly. The captain shuffled toward them a bit more, stopping only to pick up his bottle, and came around to lean up against the desk. He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deep, some of the alcohol spilling out of the corners of his mouth and into his beard. After he had gotten his fill he stoppered the bottle and gently set it on the desk. The boy noticed that the liquid had not lowered at all. “One of the truly great things about being in a place like this.” the captain said, noticing the boy's gaze and motioning all around him. “The whiskey never runs out!” he finished, cackling at the thought of an endless supply of booze.
“What are ye talking about, what place!?” the boy shouted. He'd had enough of this old fool. He came here for answers, not to hear the ramblings of a mad man.
“What!? Ye haven't figured it out yet?” the old captain laughed. “This is Hell, boy!” he shouted. “No, wait... or is it Heaven? I haven't decided which. Some days it's one and some days it's the other.” he added, laughing more.
“If ye know what's good fer ye ye'll tell us what we came here to learn, and then some.” the old cook threatened, holding the boy back. The ship was sinking and all its captain could do was make cheap tricks and spout nonsense.
The captain chuckled a bit at that but otherwise took the cook seriously. “Yer right. Now that yer awake I s'pose I do owe ye an explanation. My name is, or rather was, John Morgan, and you, my friend, are a past memory of meself.” he explained.
“That storm out there,” he went on, pointing at the door, “is a representation of all the hate and rage and anger that I built up in my soul. I held onto it throughout my entire life, from age sixteen,” he said, nodding towards the boy, “to sixty.” resting his eyes on the older man. “I built this place. Started as a glass of water and I poured until it overflowed, and then I poured some more. Every drop represents a sin against man, against myself!”
“I am charged with sailing this... this Sea of Rage until I find my salvation.” he added. “As you can see I've been sailing for a very long time.” he laughed again, raising his arms and turning in place.
“Ye expect us t'believe that pack o'lies?” the boy scoffed. The captain shrugged and laughed some more. “What about all the rest of the crew then?” he asked, crossing his arms.
“All memories of meself.” the captain responded, suddenly becoming very sad. “There t'remind me of all the things I've done that led me to this place. A life filled with sadness and sorrow and what eventually turned into hate and anger. All of ye, even the first mate, are t'remind me of the life I once lived.”
“But soon there'll be nothing left to worry about. The storm grows angrier and the ship grows weaker. Any moment now I'll meet my end, receive my just rewards, and ye'll cease to be and become nothing more but memories once again.” He laughed weakly at that and raised his bottle up to his lips once more.
“You're pathetic!” the boy screamed. The cook's eyes grew wide. If this was just the ramblings of a drunken man then this boy could get them into serious trouble.
“And what do ye know about me, boy!?” the captain shouted angrily, the storm outside growing in intensity as he grew angrier. “Ye cannot even recollect who or what ye are!”
“I know a coward when I see one, old man!” the younger man retorted. “I see a man a shadow of his former self!” the image of the burly first mate came into his mind. “I see a man who has resigned himself to failure and has holed himself up in his quarters with a bottle of whiskey waiting for the end! If this is what I grow t'be then I'd rather brave the storm myself than sit in yer presence a minute longer!”
“I've sailed this sea for longer than I can remember.” the little captain replied, seething. “There is no redemption out there for me. If there were I'd have found it by now. There comes a point when a man has to recognize that he just can't go any further. This is my own personal Hell, boy, every aspect of it, and there's no salvation to be found in Hell. Now begone with ye, indefinitely. I'd like t'enjoy my last moments in peace.” With that the boy and the cook looked at each other to find that they were fading away.
The boy sighed and resigned himself to the fate that had befallen him. “Your hope was never out there,” he said solemnly, pointing to the door. “It was right here the whole time.” he finished, resting his hand on his chest as he faded into nothingness. The cook's laughter was the last thing the captain heard.
“From the mouths of babes.” the captain mused as realization struck him. He stood up and slowly walked to the door, exiting his cabin. He walked out to the middle of the weather deck and took one last look at his broken vessel as a massive wave washed over the ship, embracing it and taking it down into the ocean with it.
There, in the aptly named Sea of Rage, the small ship known as Hope sank.
