I am not a skilled writer. This must be understood before we go any further. I enjoy a good book as much as the next fellow, but original creation is not my strong suit. When I inevitably leave out a detail or commit some cardinal writing sin, I must beg your understanding. There is no doubt that almost anyone else would be a better choice for the telling of this tale. However, as no one else is available at present, I shall attempt to convey to you the events that I have been fortunate enough to witness.
Our story begins on the day that the MS Morrigan appeared on the horizon. A thick fog was on the water that morning, so it is entirely possible that the ship had been there for hours without attracting notice. Even as the weather cleared, I admit that I did not give her a second thought. Merchant ships are a common sight in our harbor, always coming and going, so one more wasn’t exactly a novelty. I recall glancing out the window somewhere around midday, seeing the distinctive shape, and going about my business. Mind, I did not know that it was the Morrigan at the time. At the end of the day, I locked up The Broken Lantern (a tavern of some renown) and headed home. That night, a strange wind blew through the town; unseasonably warm and carrying some scent that I could not identify. It seemed to me a harbinger of ill tidings and filled my stomach with an uneasy feeling, though I could not tell you why.
The following dawn was accompanied by a torrential rain and The Broken Lantern was packed to the rafters with sailors, fishermen, and other folk whose livelihoods depend on fair weather. I scarcely had a moment to catch my breath as I filled glasses and ferried any number of plates to and from the kitchen. Amongst the many remarks about the unfavorable wet conditions and speculations about when the storm would break, I picked out the following conversation:
“…if it please Captain Barlowe,” said an old man with a red cap.
“Makes no sense,” agreed his companion, “Idle, at full sail, in the middle of this? Don’t know what he’s playing at. Should’ve put into port yesterday.”
“Ships were run with more discipline in my day,” said Red Cap, taking a swig of his drink.
As I continued to eavesdrop, the red-capped man caught my eye, perhaps sensing my interest. He nodded in acknowledgment, a silent invitation to join their discussion. I made my way over, carefully balancing a tray laden with tankards.
“Captain Barlowe, you say?” I asked.
Red Cap looked me up and down, then gestured for me to sit at their table. His companion, a weathered sailor with a scruffy beard, gave me a gruff nod.
“Aye, Captain Barlowe and his ship, the MS Morrigan,” Red Cap replied, taking another sip. “Strange sight it is, seeing her anchored just outside the harbor with no apparent reason. Barlowe’s not one to let his ship idle without cause.”
The scruffy sailor leaned in, his voice low. “I heard whispers among the dockhands. Some say the Morrigan brings with her more than just cargo.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Red Cap chuckled, a dry sound that hinted at a lifetime of salty wisdom. “Captain Barlowe’s got his reasons, no doubt. But mark my words, there’s a storm brewin’, and it ain’t just the one outside. Something’s afoot with the Morrigan, and I reckon we’ll all be caught in its wake.”
Just then, I heard my name being shouted from across the room. I excused myself and went back to work, but the old sailor’s words stayed with me. The rain eventually lessened, and the next time I had a free moment, I stood at the window and looked toward the horizon. The ship was still there, motionless and foreboding, and now I knew its name.
I had heard of Captain Barlowe, of course. Nearly every bit of news or gossip in town makes its way to The Broken Lantern at some point. Now, I must clarify so that you do not get the wrong impression- I’m not one to pry into the affairs of others. However, a man with a drink in his hand and trouble on his mind is, more oft than not, liable to start divulging secrets to the barkeep whom he perceives to be a most trusted confidante. What I knew of Barlowe came from such confessions. He was a skilled captain; fair and fearless in his pursuits. He was not known to tolerate a lazy crew member or to shirk from a challenge. Overall, I had a favorable impression of the man and no reason to believe that the current status of the Morrigan was due to dereliction of duty.
Hours passed, and the once-packed tavern began to thin out as patrons returned to their homes. The lanterns cast flickering shadows on the wooden walls as I wiped down tables. Suddenly, I heard shouting and the unmistakable slap of boots on cobblestones. I hurried to the front door to see what all the commotion was about. Several of my neighbors were running toward the harbor. A butcher, with whom I had often exchanged pleasantries, called out “Lend a hand!” as he passed. Without further consideration, I shut The Broken Lantern and followed.
A crowd had gathered on the docks. The voices of my fellow villagers overlapped, although I thought I heard the words “Morrigan” and “unnatural”. In the midst of it all, I caught a glimpse of a figure lying on the ground. I pushed forward with the rest, craning my neck for a better view.
“Alright, you lot. Give ’em some room! Back up, I say,” the authoritative voice of Constable Matthews broke through the fray.
The crowd thinned. The figure at the center of the commotion was a young man, drenched and shivering. His eyes were wide, staring into empty space, and his mouth opened, but no sound escaped. The good Constable bent down and laid a hand on the poor wretch’s shoulders.
“Where did you come from, lad?” said Constable Matthews, “Were you shipwrecked? Speak up now.”
There was no response. It was as if the young man was not even aware of the Constable or anyone else. He continued to stare and move his lips wordlessly.
“Let’s get him up,” the Constable motioned for help.
Two men stepped forward. However, they had scarcely grabbed his arms when the young man began screaming. The sound was so startling that I, and everyone around me, instinctively jumped back. The young man thrashed wildly, found his feet, and sprinted toward the end of the dock with shocking speed.
“Wait!” the Constable cried, “Stop him!”
Without thinking, I lit out after him. The young man might have made it to the edge and jumped, but by sheer luck, he tripped over some uneven planks. His resulting tumble gave me just enough time to catch up. I grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands.
“Steady!” I said, “No one is trying to hurt you!”
He looked through me; his gaze seemed fixed on some unseen horror. Besides the obvious fear, there was a look in his eye that I did not recognize. It was clear that he carried the weight of an experience beyond the average man’s comprehension, and I could only hope that time would allow for his recovery.
The Constable and his men arrived moments later, and I surrendered the poor soul into their custody. As they maneuvered him toward the town, the young man abruptly jerked his head around and looked back in my direction.
“Here.”
A single word, spoken in such a low tone that I scarcely registered its meaning. The young man’s escorts pulled him forward, and I was left standing alone on the docks, trying to make sense of it all.
–
I have always felt that the finest mornings are those that follow a storm. The air carries a crispness, as if the world itself has taken a deep breath and sighed away its burdens. The streets glisten with the remnants of night’s deluge, puddles reflecting a sky scrubbed clean of its former fury. Even the scent of the earth is richer, the brine of the sea mingling with the familiar smell of damp wood.
The sea had quieted to a rhythmic pulse against the harbor walls. The MS Morrigan remained at anchor, an unmoving specter upon the water. As I went about my daily tasks, I confess I could not get the memory of that young man on the docks out of my head. His hollow stare, his desperate flight, the single word he had uttered; they gnawed at the edges of my thoughts, demanding attention.
At last, unable to quiet my unease, I resolved to seek out Constable Matthews and learn what had become of the unfortunate wretch. If answers were to be found, surely the good Constable would have them by now. Leaving word with the cook that I would return by midday, I slipped away at the first opportunity.
The offices I sought were a good twenty minutes away on foot, but I covered the distance with steady purpose. When I arrived at my destination, I was surprised to see a bit of a gathering at the door. Indeed, it seemed many of my fellows from the docks had come about the same business. I had half a mind to turn back when I heard my name being called over the chatter.
I turned to see Constable Matthews himself standing at the threshold, his broad frame filling the doorway. He waved me forward. The gathered townsfolk parted as I approached, their murmurs ebbing into a quiet hum of expectation.
“I was just going to send for you,” said the Constable, stepping aside to let me pass. The door shut behind us, muffling the sounds of the street.
The office was a modest affair with sturdy wooden furniture, a single oil lamp burning low, and the scent of damp wool and pipe smoke lingering in the air. Behind the Constable’s desk, a hallway led to two small detention cells which were hardly ever full. At a small table near the window, a clerk was scribbling furiously, occasionally pausing to dip his pen in an inkpot. Beyond him, I spied another figure who, even in repose, carried an air of restless disquiet.
The young man from the docks.
He sat in a chair by the hearth, wrapped in a blanket, his posture hunched as though warding off some unseen chill. His clothes, though now dry, bore the rumpled evidence of his ordeal. He did not look up as I entered.
“He hasn’t spoken a word,” Matthews lowered his voice as he guided me toward his desk.
“Has the doctor visited?” I asked.
“He has,” the Constable gestured for me to take a seat, “Physically, the lad is fit. Nothing that a cup of tea and warm bed can’t put right, but his mind is…elsewhere.”
He paused, and for a moment, we both regarded the young man in silence.
“How might I be of assistance, sir?” I finally asked.
“Ah, well, it seems you’re literally the only person to get a word out of him. Perhaps seeing you again might be reassuring.”
I glanced toward the hearth once more, studying the poor wretch as he sat motionless, his hands curled loosely around the edges of the blanket draped over his shoulders. The fire cast flickering light upon his hollow face, emphasizing the deep shadows beneath his eyes. If he was aware of my presence, he gave no indication.
“I hardly think my presence will make a difference.”
Matthews exhaled, rubbing a hand over his chin. “I’ve no better notion at present. We tried questioning him this morning, but he barely seemed to know we were there. Stares at the fire mostly. Whatever happened out there, it’s left its mark.”
I nodded, then, without further deliberation, stepped forward. The wooden floor creaked underfoot, yet the young man did not so much as flinch. I hesitated, uncertain of how best to proceed. A gentle approach seemed wisest.
“You gave us quite a fright last night,” I began, keeping my tone light. “That was quite the sprint you made for the docks.”
Still nothing.
I drew up a chair beside him, taking care to move slowly, as one might with a skittish animal. Up close, I could see faint scratches on his hands, the sort one might acquire from scrambling over jagged rock or splintered wood. I looked back at the Constable.
“I think we could all use a nice cup of tea,” he said, his tone ringing with forced cheer, “Fennick?”
His clerk set down his pen and went to fetch a tray. The young man did not react to the mention of tea, nor did he acknowledge the shifting movements around him.
“No one knows his name? No other captains have sailed with him?” I asked.
Matthews shook his head. “No papers on him. No name stitched into his coat. If he’s from these parts, no one has stepped forward to claim him.”
Fennick returned a moment later, balancing a tray with careful precision. The scent of steeping leaves filled the air as he set it down upon the Constable’s desk. He poured three cups, sliding one in front of me before making his way to the young man.
The lad flinched when the cup was placed before him. Only slightly, but enough that I noticed.
“Easy now,” Fennick murmured, stepping back as if not to startle him further.
The young man’s gaze flickered downward, his fingers twitching. I moved to try again.
“Last night, you said something to me, do you remember?” I bent low, as though speaking to a child, “You said the word ‘here‘. What is here?”
For a moment, I thought he would remain silent, as he had with the others. But then, ever so slightly, he turned his head. His eyes, still wide and brimming with something I could not name, met mine. His lips parted and out came the slightest of whispers.
“She is here.“
CRAFTING VISUAL NARRATIVES THAT INSPIRE 