—Why not? Wilander asked. You came back to Alaska.
—I was many years in Sweden, attempting unsuccessfully to resurrect my career. The strain took a toll. I spent my health in the effort. Viator was always in my mind. I was convinced she was alive and wanted to understand her, to explore her. But I had no means of satisfying these ambitions. I worked for a nautical supply house. My commissions brought in scarcely enough for food and shelter. And then my parents died, passing within months of each other. My father had been prudent in his financial dealings, but the size of the inheritance was a shock for all that. I had the wherewithal to do anything I chose. My physical condition, however, was frail. I would not be able to endure life aboard a wrecked ship. I needed to be close to a decent medical facility.
A fishing boat steamed out from behind the headland, moving north and west, dark against the glittering blue water, heading—it appeared—for an empty quarter of the sea. Wilander felt an almost physical affinity with it. And so you came up with your plan, he said.
—There was nothing to keep me in Sweden. I had no children and my wife had initiated divorce proceedings as soon as she saw how things would go with my career. I flew to Alaska and bought the agency. And now I know I was right about everything.
—About Viator being alive?
—That…yes. And about the presentiment I had after we ran aground—that there was more to be done. More I had to do. I gave this short shrift in my story, but that feeling was stronger in me than any other I had during the entire experience. The company dragged me away so quickly, I had no opportunity to understand the role I was to play in Viator’s future. I knew she needed me. Whatever happened during the storm…and I’m not sure now the storm was significant. Or if it was, if it served to awaken the ship, no spirit came to us on its winds. I’ve come to think it was our lives, through some affinity, some freakish unity, that provided Viator with the energy she required to live. I believe she manipulated Kameus and the others to isolate me on board, so she could then direct me to run her aground in a specific place. I think her control over the five of us was imprecise and she needed to be precise in controlling me. For years I’ve believed as much, but I’ve had nothing to flesh out my belief. What you’ve told me makes everything comprehensible.
—I’m glad you comprehend it. I don’t.
—It’s not that I can explain any of it in rational terms, Lunde said. All events have a genius. When two people meet and fall in love, it can be explained. Biology. Social reasons. But there’s an inexplicable genius at its heart. We can’t explain it, so many of us pretend we’re being rational by ignoring it. You and I, though…We realize the genius of certain events cannot be ignored. Somehow Viator became alive and saved herself from the breaking ground. She has lain dormant for twenty years, denied the energy she needed to continue on her way. By the time men returned to her decks, she had rusted. Her life, her newborn vitality, had rusted as well and it took her months to be revitalized. To make repairs. Well, she’s made them and now she’s on her way. Where she’s bound, you have a better idea than I.
—I don’t know, said Wilander.
—You doubt it, then? Even after hearing what I’ve told you?
—Do I doubt Viator is bound for…another world? Or that she’s piercing a dimensional barrier? Those seem to be the options, don’t they?
—I’m sure you have some degree of doubt. It would be impossible not to. But can you deny what’s happening? I don’t think so.
Wilander’s anger, most of it, had been dissipated, diffused by his attentiveness, but now it resurfaced. I have to tell the others, he said stiffly. What they’ll decide, I don’t know. After that I’m going to pack and walk into Kaliaska.
—What will you do in Kaliaska?
—Not that it’s your business, but I’m going to try and repair a relationship.
—With the Daupinee woman?
—How did you know that?
—She called the office some weeks ago. She made several calls, I believe. Judging by her manner, I thought there must be more than a casual involvement.
Wilander chose not to comment.
—One night at dinner, Lunde said. Not long after we met. You told me how as a child you dreamed of being an explorer, of standing in places where no man before you had stood. Do you remember?
—If you say so, Wilander said, amazed that he had been so open with Lunde; but then, thinking back to those days, he recalled with some revulsion how desperate he had been to get off the streets, out of the shelters, the missions, and his eagerness to be befriended, to be acquired as a charitable venture.
—Will you walk away from that dream when it is so close to fulfillment? Give it up for an ordinary life?
—Dreams change. Having any sort of life seems extraordinary to me now.
—Childhood dreams express the true depth of our desires. You can learn to make accommodations, to settle for less, but when such a dream offers itself, surely this is not your response?
—I’m not certain it is offering itself.
—I grant you, what lies ahead is unknown. There is risk, but it’s one we all dare even if we’re not daring by nature. The unknown is always with us.
—If you’re convinced this is the right path, and you believe Viator’s truly on its way somewhere, why don’t you join us? Why not reclaim your command? You won’t have to endure a long wait now things have proceeded to this point.
—I would be pleased to join you, but the trip to Kaliaska might finish me off, Lunde said. I have a few months, they tell me. Less, perhaps.
The fishing boat had turned due west, dwindled to a speck, and the masses of clouds were also westering, as if the boat were towing them along on an invisible rope; the sky directly overhead was vacant, a pure wintry blue.
—I’m sorry, Wilander said, a comment that summarized an emotion more complicated and much less poignant than sorrow.
Lunde grunted in acknowledgement. As am I. Look, I’ll pay you to stay on board. I’ll pay you a lot of money.