He had departed these shores twelve times before, intent on rounding Cape Bojador and crossing into what lay beyond the end of the world. Each time he had returned in failure, with no explanation for failure to offer Prince Henry. His failure was a mystery even to himself, locked away like a secret dream.
Of course, along with failure and mystery he brought back knowledge. With each voyage he learned more about the scented winds off the east coast of Africa, and the strange currents, and how both winds and currents aligned with the singing stars at night. He learned how the bow of his ship cut through foreign waters, and how at times they did not cut cleanly. He was visited by whispering voices while dolphins leapt to starboard, telling geometric tales of ships that could cut thorough faster, and more truly, pushing forward cleanly, wood hewn to more penetrating angles, more uplifting planes and curves.
He had seen how members of the crew might be overcome by a sudden wave of fear, and how they may be inspired with hope, and how some more than others could embrace a wave of fear and find hidden anchorage deep within it to hold steady against capricious currents inside their hearts and beneath their feet.
All of this he put into his reports to the Prince and his scholars at the School of Navigators - the mathematicians and astrologers and map makers, the naval engineers, the old priest who had charge of men’s souls, the old craftsmen who could forge better instruments for sighting stars and landscapes, better and stranger devices for discovering where one sailed on the silent sea under darkening skies.
The Prince and his Scholars believed that this knowledge was valuable, fuel for new ship designs, naval charts, and manuals for navigation.
But Gil Eannes believed that the knowledge that mattered was hidden inside a dream, locked away from his own understanding.
The same dream held the mystery of each failed voyage. Each time, he could remember approaching the seas off Cape Bojador, the surface like heaving, molten silver, the water itself thicker, heavier than in northern seas. He saw great schools of silver fish within the heaving sea, swaying now this way, now that, rising and falling with a sound like the breathing of a single giant, or a god. And he beheld a woman rising up from the waters, walking towards him across the surface of this sea. Her arms were stretched out towards him, bidding him to turn back or to come forward he could not tell. But he went to her outstretched arms, carried on the backs of silver fish. Her hair like spun gold, her raiment like invisible silk, her breath like cloves and cinnamon, she folded him into her arms and pressed his tired head against her breast and breathed songs stranger than any human should ever hear.
And then he is awake, alert at the helm of the ship in his charge, steering a sure course back into the harbor from which he had departed. How he got there, how many weeks or months had passed, he did not know. Of the return voyage, he remembered nothing. But he felt no surprise. Each time, the Captain simply guided the ship expertly home, the crew carrying out their duties as usual, casting lines and securing the vessel after its long voyage.
No one on board spoke of the return. Perhaps, Gil thought, every man had dreamed like this. Perhaps every man on board had dreamed the same dream. But it was not a shared dream.
The ship’s captain and his crew were silent on each return, silently going about the well-known familiar tasks of bringing the ship into port with downcast eyes. At times, Gil thought he saw his men casting suspicious, sidelong glances at him and at each other, as if wondering what was known, as if each man held close some guilty knowledge that could not be spoken aloud, a guilty, secret memory, hidden deep in each solitary heart.
A single dream, but not a shared dream. Gil did not have the understanding necessary to unpack the meaning of such a thing.
The quickening breeze over water brought Gil back to the task at hand, and he turned to see the harbor master waiting patiently. The master handed him the ship’s log, stamped according the decree of the King, Prince Henry’s father.
Without fanfare, Gil stepped from Portuguese soil onto the ship. With a few terse orders, the crew set the sails, and the sails filled with the light wind. As if drawn by distant hands, the ship moved out into the bay, gathering speed, cutting through the sea swell like a thrown spear to a target beyond the end of the world.
* * *
Jamie’s Note:
Prince Henry the Navigator, of Portugal, sent twelve ships off to sail past Cape Bojador on the east coast of Africa, crossing an imaginary line that marked either the end of the world, or a sea route to India. They all failed. Then in 1434 the thirteenth attempt was a success. Gil Eannes was the captain of that ship. This is a story about the voyages that came before lucky number thirteen.* * *
No comments:
Post a Comment