File #501: "Mosaic vol. 1 1993_011.jpg"

CAPTAIN'S SONG
BY CHRIS GRIFFY
Butons thordet
for
oy in
The storm was getting worse. The captain watched as the clouds turned from white to gray to a dark color that was a CROSS between black and purple. The waves tossed the little boat about like two children with a ball. The tiny boat was old and couldn't take much abuse of this nature. There was little chance of reaching land before the brunt of the storm hit. The crew watched him with a look in their eyes that bordered on mutiny. He didn't blame then, they had repeatedly warned him of the coning storn, but he had given the order to push ahead. He could tell by their pained expressions that they felt he had signed their death certificate. But they didn't understand. He did it for the boy. All for the boy...
The boy in question was the captain's son. The boy was six years old, not old enough to understand why he did not have the things that all the other boys in his school did. He and Rhonda had the baby when times were better for shrimpers. Back then, you could fill your nets every day and never travel more than two miles from home. But then the Factory came. Their big ships and huge nets were too much for the local shrimpers, causing them to have to move farther and farther away, until half your day was filled with finding a place to drop your nets. The shrimp were getting scarcer and scarcer until the nets were barely yielding enough to live on. But still the Factory, with it's fleet of ships and its computers, took in hundreds of thousands of shrimp a day, depleting the supply and causing many fishermen to go broke. Many went to work for the company, making slaves wages while some fat slob in an office made millions. The local fishermen had tried to talk to the people when they moved in, but they were motivated by greed, as were the city councilmen who approved the zoning for the company and went home with their pockets full. And so the boy had gone to bed many a night with his stomach empty. Too many nights. Today the nets had continuously come up empty. With every empty net an image of the boy, with his deep blue eyes that were too tired for any six year old, asking him why he had to be hungry tonight. The image was too much to bear so he pushed ahead, in spite of the nervous suggestions from his crew as the storm drew closer. Now he feared he would never see the boy again.
To try to outrun the storm at this stage would have been foolish. His only hope was to try to skirt the storm. He gave his crew the orders, then returned to the deck to try to find a break in the storm. He looked down at the water as the ship cut through it like a knife through skin. Adolphin swan beside the ship for a time then turned and sped away. obviously to avoid the storm. Overhead the gulls dove and swooped and flew about nervously as the wind currents began to pick up. It was becoming increasingly harder to stand up as the waves crashed against the ship. The captain held on to the railing and said a silent prayer. He went down below deck and gave his crew the exact coordinates where he thought the storm would be the lightest. He then walked back up to the deck. As the ship entered the storm, the captain thought of the boy again. "I did this for you will he muttered as the ship disappeared into the mist.


Journal Entry November 8, 1610
By Terry Lane
Today, in court, I was convicted of the crime of being a witch. I am to be hanged at sunrise. Many of the people that I called friends testified against me. The local minister gave credence to those who claimed to have seen my specter. The judge accepted the testimony of my accusers while he grossly ignored or discounted my words. Do these, my friends and neighbors, really believe that I am a witch?
I have gone over this many times in my mind and still can make no sense of it. Living in a small cottage on the land I inherited from my father, I have learned to commune with nature. I often talk to the animals and, on occasion, have taken sick one into my house until it was healed. Now I am accused with consorting with all sorts of familiars. In fact, some of the people who came to me for the very purpose of being healed are the instruments of my death.
As a young child my grandmother taught me the medicinal powers of certain plants and herbs. She also taught me to invoke the spirit of the plant for guidance and always to give thanks for its help. Grandmother said that I had a sense of intuition that would enable me to use my powers to benefit mankind. I have always tried to do what my grandmother told me. Now I am accused of concocting poisons and chanting incantations.
Am I being used by this strict, unyielding Puritan society to strengthen their beliefs? Do Puritan leaders believe that, by proclaiming me witch and saying I practice black magic, they will encourage that superstitions of the people and regain some of their lost influence? Are my accusecs merely using me as a scapegoat to vent their own aggressive inclinations without fear of retribution? Who will inherit my land and my cottage after I am hanged?
I was advised during the trial, to make a full confession. Perhaps, then, I would have been shunned but not hanged. I could have lived out my life in the quiet solitude of the woods Surrounding my home. But something inside me would not let me confess. I could not betray the animals and the plants and even the spirit earth herself by giving in to their wishes. I could not deny my innocence and that of the spirits who made my way of life possible. In the strength of my convictions, I will die tomorrow at sunrise, and true to the definition of a witch, I will feel only joy and pain.