Lost cannon trapezes, was the instigating phrase,
Truncated Expanse
By Tyler Lucas Mobley
Fleet finds the wood and moor in a long bay. They lower boats while keeping glass on shore. Rowing men joke how they can hear treasure calling from a thicket along the slope. Not far from the ship a dense fog converges on the boats from both sides. Shore disappears in an instant along with the faces in the companion boats, murmurs of worry remain eerily clear.
“Tie Up” a voice shouts.
Ropes land in laps, slack ripples the calm. They pull in as far as the oars let them, fasten down and wait.
The men’s eyes go back and forth from one boat to another then back to their own. A broad loss of time falls upon the men, induced by the surrounding stillness, the onset sudden yet gradual.
A man in a hat jumps to his feet, salutes, “aye captain,” then dives into the water and swims without direction.
A few men begin to unbutton their shirts, intent to follow their mate assuming they missed the orders in their daze, though stop upon realizing it is only they. The rapid departure of their mate fails to set off any alarm among the small fleet, sullied by confusion. Trying to recall any detail about the day or past personal experience the men flounder with only each other to locate themselves.
The Captain sits, quietly stroking the feather in his hat. The men who tied the knots, slowly untie and retie them to their exact previous position down to the thread. Conversations between the worn grooves in the wooden oars and the hands who made them unfold with meaningful reminnisions.
Out of a dead silence the treasure’s roar hits in a gale, stripping the men of all their defenses. Some turn with terror in their hearts, others don’t dare move sure a winged lion’s jaws would find them any moment.
The captain remains steady, taking it as a sign he begins to search the waters. Before the captain can check all his quarters, a gentle knock rings out from the starboard boat, followed by the call of, “land!”
A spit of jagged rocks barely breaking the surface presents a possible path to shore. The men sobered by fresh hope, a feature to follow through the disorienting fog. Though some remain weary, as if having visited a particular day spa, unsure of how much time passed.
The Captain stands talls makes a quick gauge of his senses, feeling his gut for feedback then shouts, “make for shore, keep ground to starboard.”
Gold coins dance over each oar pull, anticipation builds in the men with treasure restored in the mind. Hardly a bead of sweat to be found when the call of “land,” comes from one of the boats. The men break from their stations and turn to look through the clearing fog at shore baking in sunshine awaiting their sea legs.
Chins raise skyward eager for a fresh smack of warmth to shake the cobwebs from their minds. One by one the men drop their gaze to confront the towering wood of their quest. Running the length of the slope the wood carries a dense foreboding stature that feels out of place with only a small grass field separating it from shore. The triumph of reaching land deflates upon confronting the glaring immensity of their task.
“And we have no other directions other than this wood on this island?”
“Uh huh.”
“Blimey, we could have double the boats and it’d still take a year to search all that, what are we to eat?”
A mate brings an oar down over the dissenter’s head at the direction of the Captain. “Anyone else like to come all this way to give up their share of the loot,” asks the Captain, giving a hard scan of his men, “anyone else?” The men fall silent. “Didn’t think so, as to how we will find the treasure, I have a plan. Make camp, the search begins tomorrow.”
By nightfall the blaze of fire extinguishes the day’s delirium; stories crackle over flames, bottles pass to the last drop. Coals glow hot, the men slouch on the silent verge of slumber, when from the belly of the wood comes a menacing roar. The sound washes over the camp like a tsunami, knocking everything off its foundation. The men gaze wide eyed into darkness, certain the end had begun. The Captain sits quietly on a log calculating the origin of the sound to set their course by light.
“At ready,” shouts the Captain, with the morning light cresting the mountain behind him.
Boots are tugged on, belts tighten, faces slapped to life till every last soul is in line before their trusted wind.
“As some of you already suspect today’s search will involve brushing bows with some deterrents, you might say. Don’t be alarmed, these traps only have the power you give them,” the Captain says, puffing his pipe ablaze.
Trekking single file through the dense wood, light struggles to reach the ground they tread.
“What did Captain mean by deterrents? Like that cannon that went off at camp last night?” one of the men toward the rear asks.
“That was no cannon doghead, that was the bloody wood,” gruffs the crewmen in front.
“How could a wood make such a…”
His voice trails off, interrupted by something in the distance. He comes to a stop, the line of men behind slink in return.
“Move it, what’s the hold up,” one says with a nudge.
The man doesn’t budge, in fact remains perfectly still. The man behind feels something is off, “What you hiding in there mate, you bring your own plank to walk?”
Over hearing this comment the last of the progress making men turns back to see what the commotion is about, and immediately regrets doing so. The skin of the crewman begins to harden into segments, roots grow from his boots, his hat rides the trunk sprouting out of his skull up to the canopy. Within a minute a pile of rags lay at the base of another tree indistinguishable from the others.
Terror grips those who witness his transformation. The man who spoke of deterrents gains insight as to what went through camp last night, the soul cries from within the trapped hollows of countless trees, each a living coffin.
The entire venture descends into chaos, a chain reaction, men running to get away vanish into full grown pines in an instant. Panic pulls the thought closer, the cautious strike an intent pace back to shore, trying not to focus on the trees.
The men gather prostrate along the tide line, hoping enough show to fill a boat. A shadow overcomes one of the men in sand, he looks up expecting to see a tree or the Captain. He peaks up toward the sea and is surprised to recognize the figure before him as the man who abandoned the boat and swam out to sea. How he stands here before him in a heavy coat of starfish and shells and a mermaid waiting on an idling seahorse just off shore was beyond him. Maybe he knew where he was going after all, or maybe he just got lucky.
The man in the sand prepares to speak, but stops as the shadowy figure raises a finger and gives the slightest shake of his head that says, no need. The other men in the sand detect a change and train their attention on their resurfaced mate. After a moment he retrieves an object from a pouch at his side then raises it to his lips while keeping it concealed in his hand. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his exhale creates a fountain of sparks from the hand at his lips, shooting high into the sky, accompanied by an exhilarating sound, putting the men in a cradle dangling over a cliff. After a good while a cloud of fizzy dust forms over the wood, when the sound stops the cloud falls over wood as though it were a pile of bricks.
A mist consumes the entire wood obscuring it from sight, within a few moments a convenient wind arrives at their backs clearing the mist to reveal thousands of sailors spanning centuries who find themselves as they were when truncated without a day gone by.
By the time the men in the sand think to thank their former mate they catch only a last glimpse of him riding away on his seahorse before becoming fully submerged.
The Captain, surprised by the sudden restoration of souls, sits patiently atop the treasure waiting for the second chaos.
The End
Letters of Measure 