There was darkness. And then.
And then. And then. And then there was not.
There was a sudden brilliance. An unbearable light. I was scalded by white-lightness, I was in the heart of a flame. I closed my eyes, yet light still came from above and below. I covered my face with my arm.
I had come from a place of calm cessation. Then light came and gave me form.
I could hear the distant slap of water. Sensed taut shadow of sail. My hands were resting on cloth. Sailcloth. I could feel a raised spine of stitches down its centre.
The light subsided and I opened my eyes and saw blue. Saw the ocean, a perfect mirror.
A shadow passed above. Feathers against the sun.
An angel, I thought.
The wings grew larger and memory stirred in me. The powder and the pain and the whale. And Thea.
Where was Thea?
Wings, feathers burning with light.
The cloth beneath my hands. I noticed a crowd, bent-headed. Was she there? Was she there with me?
The wings drew closer, beating against the sky. Rippling it. Cut the light with feathered knives.
Thea?
There was the whisper of turning pages against the sound of wind.
The light paled then and I saw that the angel was an albatross. Wings spread to the wind, crucified to the sun. Holy host of sky.
My father was singing. I blinked into the hymn and saw that I was upon the open deck of the Kristi, surrounded by a standing solemnity of passengers. Voices rose. Around me, familiar faces, singing.
I opened my mouth, but before words could meet air, I glanced down and saw that my hands were resting on a body, sailcloth sewn to the chin so that people might say a last farewell.
It was my own face.
You are dreaming, I told myself. This is not possible.
Someone had combed my hair with water. I touched it and felt that it was damp.
This is a dream. You will wake up.
But I did not wake up.
The lips upon the pale face were ajar. I placed a fingertip upon them and was frightened to feel them so cold and ungiving when the hand I extended was alive. I ran my fingers across my own mouth and felt that my skin was warm and soft. I did not understand how I could be standing over my own body when I still inhabited it, familiar and living.
Shock kept me still. I was afraid to do more. I noticed the thread hanging from the last stitch in the sailcloth, the needle at its end, glinting in the sun. Waiting for the end of the hymn.
I did not understand why, knowing it all for a dream, I did not wake up.
I am here, I thought. I am still here.
The hymn faded. A sob interrupted the pause and I turned and saw Magdalena Radtke crying, eyes sunken with tears and her arm entwined with my mother’s.
Relief swept through me.
‘Mama!’ I walked to her, threw my arms around her neck and waited for her to return my embrace.
Nothing.
I stepped back.
Her eyes did not shift to my own.
I pressed my forehead against hers, and I could feel the hair escaping from her bonnet against my skin, but she was looking beyond me at the sailor folding my face into the cloth.
‘No, Mama,’ I said. ‘That’s not me. I’m here. Look at me!’ My fingers stroked her cheeks. I tried to meet her eyes. ‘Look at me!’
She was still, as though a great weight were balanced upon her shoulders and, if she moved, it would topple and crush her.
It was only when the sailor threaded his last stitch through the nose that she turned away. A stitch to make sure of insensibility. Embroidery for the dead who die at sea.
I was afraid and heartsore. I did not understand what was happening.
A nightmare, I thought. It is only a nightmare.
The sailor nodded at my father. Papa placed his heavy hands upon the shroud. Then Matthias – my brother! – came forwards from the men standing shoulder to shoulder and was held steady as he bent to the body. Tears were slipping down his face, and he was letting them fall. I knew my brother. I knew he was ashamed of crying. I recognised those tears as the same he shed for Gottlob, silent and angry. They dripped from his nose and chin as Papa gripped my brother’s shoulders and lifted him upright. Matthias broke down. My father gripped the back of his neck, steadied him with a small shake. He stopped crying.
And then, my mother. Arms by her sides. Stone-faced and pale as milk.
Mama stood over the shroud and did not cry.
My father lowered his mouth to her ear; his holy eye slunk sideways to the waiting ocean. He murmured.
Mama shook her head.
Papa nodded at the sailors and they tipped my likeness into the sea. Everyone flinched, waiting for a splash that did not come, that was not heard. I stood on the deck, staring at the place where the shroud had been. My mouth slowly filled with sea water. I spat it out upon the dry boards of the deck and saw that it did not mark them. I fell to my knees. The ocean was pouring through my hair without a drop hitting the wood beneath me. On all fours, I felt myself sink through a cold so complete and encompassing it awed me. I felt the hard corners of bricks at my ankles, felt them drag me down as my arms lifted in weightlessness. Sediment gathered under my tongue.