—I don’t know how. That’s the problem. That’s what we’re talking about.
—Well, let’s talk about it, then. I’ll finish my story. That addresses your problem. After that we can discuss these other issues.
Wilander left his chair, too angry to speak, annoyed by Lunde’s patronizing calm, and went to stand in the outer door of the mess. The day had grown bright and still, the air crisp, the firs were etched against the light. He stepped out onto the deck and walked toward the stern.
—Hello? Lunde said.
—Go ahead. Tell your story.
—Very well. Where was I?
—Repairing the engines. Discussing things.
—That’s right. Yes. Lunde coughed again, a delicate cough this time, like punctuation. Our discussions were informal. If I was on the bridge with Spekke, say, the subject would come up. When I went to the engine room to check on the repairs, Ulghren and Ottendahl might mention it. Yet we never sat down to hash things out. We didn’t talk at all when we were off-duty—off-duty, the men hid in their cabins. There was no more socializing. No drinking, no chatting. Nevertheless, the discussions, such as they were, grew heated. And it became apparent that our thoughts concerning Viator were developing along similar lines. The central thought, the one we agreed upon, was that Viator did not wish to die. What we failed to agree upon, however, was what should be done about this. On that matter, there was no consensus. Kameus, for instance, believed Viator had her own purposes and that we were interfering in them. An outsider would have thought us insane. But…Well, you’ve experienced life aboard Viator. You understand how the insane can come to seem rational. Whenever I was alone, on the bridge or in my cabin, I plotted courses north and east from our position. I did not rely on the master charts; I made my own. Another officer would not have been able to read them—I coded their referents, wanting to keep them private. They expressed Viator’s will. She guided my hand as I drew. I knew her mind. I believed all this implicitly, although I tried to doubt it. It terrified me. If true, it was beyond my ability to understand. If false, I was crazy. And yet I also felt…blessed. I knew something remarkable was taking place, something that I could characterize generally, but couldn’t put a precise name to.
—It’s the same, Wilander said. There are differences, but the same thing is happening again.
He had stopped at the point on the rail where Viator’s stern emerged from the forest. Beyond, the sea stretched a glittering blue beneath a sky crowded with white clouds so huge and stately, they might have been migratory nations bursting with the purity of their founding ideals. The sight comforted him, not by its beauty, but by the fact that he seemed removed from it, as if it were something he was seeing through an airplane window.
—It’s happened much more slowly for you, Lunde said. And perhaps the rest of the story speaks to that. By the time we finished the repairs, the relationships among the five of us had become strained. It remained my intention to continue south to Panama. Despite having faith in the charts I’d drawn, despite my belief that Viator had influenced their creation, I refused to acknowledge that Viator’s will was of more consequence than my career concerns. I wanted that new tanker. None of the others agreed, however, and tensions were high. One morning I was in my cabin, preparing for the day, when Kameus asked to speak with me. My memories of what occurred thereafter are unclear, but I imagine I turned my back on him. The next I recall, I was lying on the floor, my head throbbing. Kameus was standing above me, shouting something about Viator. I lost consciousness again and didn’t wake until the mid-afternoon. Kameus had bound me and the sun was low before I managed to free myself. I took my side-arm and went searching for him. The ship was empty, the launch missing. They had abandoned me. I ran up to the radio room, intending to call for assistance, but Kameus had destroyed the receiver.
Lunde paused and Wilander heard a faint rapping that might have been the old man drumming his fingers on the desktop.
—I knew they must have made for Gambell on Saint Lawrence Island, Lunde said. It was less than a day from our position. But I have no idea how they managed to act together after being so thoroughly divided. No clue as to what informed their decision…or even if there was a decision. One of them may have taken control by force. At my hearing, they told the company I had gone mad and thrown them off the ship. How could I refute their story? They were four and I had run Viator aground. Those facts outweighed everything I said, anything I could have said. After I’d been stripped of my license, I telephoned Kameus and begged him to explain why they had done this, but he didn’t trust the phone and he refused to meet with me. All he admitted was that he had been afraid. You know what I said to him? I said, You should have been alone aboard Viator. Then you could talk to me about fear. He hung up on me. My friend had abandoned me again and this second occasion was more painful, because he was no longer influenced by Viator. He was serving his own interests. Lunde let out a sigh. I’d never been afraid of the sea. I understood, of course, that it killed men and ships, but I had long since come to terms with that. Yet alone on Viator, I was afraid. The weather continued to hold. If I steered due east, I would harbor at Gambell in a matter of hours. I had no reason to fear, but I was panic-stricken. Partly this was due to the feeling that I was a flea riding atop an enormous metal beast. The ship’s life seemed larger and more important than my own, and that of itself was frightening. But to this day I believe it was mainly Viator s fear I felt. The product of her understanding that she would not survive another storm. Her desperation to reach land…though not just any landfall. She had a specific destination in view, one defined by my charts. With the engines half ahead—I didn’t dare run them full—I steered north and east, bypassing Saint Lawrence and making for the Alaskan coast. Those next three days and nights, so much was going on in my mind, so many strange thoughts…of that time I can only clearly recall that I was afraid. I didn’t sleep, I ate little. I trembled before the prospect of death, living in a fearful delirium, surrounded by my enemy, the sea. Until the very end. Until I saw that green haven north of Kaliaska. Then I was deliriously happy. It was early morning, mist everywhere, but I knew where to aim the bow. I lashed myself to the pilot’s chair and ran the engines full ahead. To starboard, a fishing boat emerged from the mist, bearing straight for midships. There was a moment when my heart was in my throat and I feared we would be rammed, thrown off-course. But whoever was manning the fisherman’s wheel avoided a collision. Watching the shingle widen ahead, I grinned as if I’d won some great contest and had no thought that I was about to destroy my career. The hull grating across the sand sounded like the bottom was being ripped out. If I hadn’t secured myself to the chair, I would have been flung about and likely killed. And then the trees came up. Viator slewed and veered to port. I thought we would go over, but the boulders on either side kept us on an even keel. The noise…It might have been the end of the world. Groans, shrieks, concussions. A wall of boughs loomed close. I ducked my head as the windows exploded inward. We kept on plowing forward, smashing deep into the forest, chewing up towering firs as if they were papier-mâché. And at last Viator was still. There were settling noises, and then silence.
Lunde made a clicking with his tongue, a vocal gesture that seemed to signal regret. I was dazed, he said. Dazed and groggy from shock, from lack of sleep, from stress. I sat staring out the glassless windows at the misted peace of the firs and was overcome by a feeling of calmness and security…though not of completion. I had no sense of finality. There was much more to do, I thought. What had gone before was just the beginning. I untied myself and made my way out onto the deck, going on unsteady legs toward the stern, intending to inspect the damage. The fisherman had followed us in, anchoring so close to shore, I could read its name and port of origin painted on a white tire that hung from its side: the Fat Allie out of Mayorkiq. They put forth a small boat bearing half-a-dozen men—Inupiat, judging by their complexions. They jumped out into the shallows and scrambled up the shingle. Some, I saw, carried rifles. Had I witnessed a ship run aground in a similar fashion, I would not have investigated without benefit of arms. Who knows what one might find onboard? But I assumed these men were bent on thievery and capable of worse. I hid in a storage locker off the bridge until I could no longer hear shouts and movement. Then I sneaked into the stern and watched them load their boat with tools, the big microwave from the galley, the crates consigned to Panama. Later I discovered they had stolen personal items from my cabin. And they were only the first vultures. Before the Fat Allie could get underway, townspeople began arriving in outboards and on foot through the forest. There must have been a hundred of them. Entire families bent on acquisition. Women with toddlers and old men with canes accompanying those who did the actual stealing. They swarmed over the ship. I didn’t bother to hide. I wandered in a fog among them, all but unnoticed. Soon I felt lightheaded and I took a seat on a hatch cover. I must have passed out and someone must have noticed me then, for I woke that afternoon in Kaliaska. The following morning, a company plane flew me to Anchorage; two days later, another plane flew me to Stockholm. I haven’t set foot on Viator since.