Northern Downpour

The Open Gates (XVIII, XIX, XX)

XVIII

But Micael wasn’t dead. He was far from dead. Micael went awoke on his bed, of which he seemed shocked. His eyes were not lazy, and there he offered himself time and looked at the window. The rain had stopped and the sun had started to envelope the seas once more, but he had not forgotten that Jack was enveloping him, as well.

If Jack was never my enemy, how come he could kill me, willingly? I may not better be asking, but it was just something which obstructs my very mind from the thinking that fact that… he… was… there, and killed me willingly.

He touched his stomach, where he felt the stabs from Jack, and lifted his shirt.  He was sure he felt the pain: the knife through his flesh, the twist, and it being done over and over and over. He touched his stomach once more, but he could feel none, and he could see no scars or wounds at all. It was all just a bad dream, perhaps. Out of both worlds, why get stabbed and shot in the head? It was the same as finding a key in a eoom of millions of doors, and one would have to try every door in order to tell which door is which, and he could not figure it out. But there was no sweat dripping, this time. He was not scared, but only buggered and palavering.

“How was your sleep, honey?” his mother said. “Good. And hey, the rain had finally come to a stop. Are there any events later this night?” “There is one, honey. More like a glug, I must say.” They were happy, for the rain was the only one talking on the past weeks. They could now finally find themselves comfortable after days of dilly-dallying inside their respective rooms. “And, should you come tonight, please do prepare. And by the by, do eat your breakfast. It’s quite three hours before Lunch, darling,” she said, and proceeded to do her own chores; she walked out of Micael's unorganized room spontaneously Micael, on the other side, had found himself something, too. He got the letter from his father, and slowly read it while sitting on his bed. He lied down, browsed the letter a little bit more. He could feel the texture of the rough paper kissing the edge of his finger, and there, he saw something quite unusual for a letter, let alone unaligned to what the Fortunate thing would mean.

Let the waters flow through its very river, for messing with it will assure disorder.

He kept on looking at it, trying to decipher what’s behind and beyond the words. He looked so focused, more than one lad could think of himself, and he kept on thinking. “Disorder, huh?” he said inside his mind, and he continued forth onto thinking.

XIX

Ten hours had passed and then the night had come. The moon was again alight, without any rain and thunders this time. It was peaceful, yet the splashes were bold enough to remain chaotic, if it was the only mean to give calmness to everybody else. Everyone on the board was there. Though they were strangers, Pratt and Peeks family would not want to not budge all throughout this particular event, as they knew they would find someone interesting to be with in the latter of their journey. There were the sailors, the captain (of which they had forgotten the drink he had offered to both Micael’s parents), the workers below decks and, of course, some whatsits of which they were unaware they were with them, as they were quiet, until that night.

“G’day, m’lord and m’lady! Welcome to our extravagant event,” said the captain, where the setup entrance of the place where made.

Many had passed by the entrance, even the Peeks family and Micael’s parents did. Micael wasn’t really able to join them at the entrance as he was busy doing his things. He wore a quite formal dress for that very occasion. A very neat neck tie, and a grey vest, as he wanted to look like his father. He combed his hair, done it with wax (in a brushed-up fashion) and left their room; he could hear the comb sweeping his hair upwards and beyond his view, and so he asked the mirror to aid (the mirror wasn't friendly, too; he never answered).

He looked at the mirror sharply, and he was satisfied. Micael placed the comb right inside his right pocket (it was just little) and then rubbed his palms upon another, and talked quietly: "this is fine." He faced the door right beside the mirror and twisted the knob with his hand, and opened it; Micael quickly went out of their room as he was late and maintaining his own image to Amy, too.

XX

He then reached the upper deck, where the event was currently taking place, and he was not too late either. His leather shoes were carefully shined, like something to be worn on an oh so memorable promenade. He was looking for someone, and it was Amy, and he saw her from a far with his glasses. He rushed towards their whereabouts, passed the captain, of which they hadn’t really talked about something as he was indeed rushing, and he seated on the circle of his family and Amy’s.

“What took you so long, honey?”

“Nothing, mother. I just drank some milk and drank some more,” Micael replied, then he looked at Amy. He never really bothered the looks of her parents as they were indeed wearing something very indulging to look at (the very typical wearing of parents on similar events), but no one really swerved his vision from Amy. “You look gorgeous, Amy,” he said while looking to her, and it was glaring. He looked at her from her heels, the yellow cocktail dress, her emphasized breasts because of the contour and the shape of the dress (this was apparent to Micael), the necklace he gave her, the freckles on her cheeks and his very done blonde hair. “You really are.” “Oh, thank you, Micael. You look great, too. Seems like you prepared for this, huh?” Amy replied, along with a smile and laughter. “I sure did! One must not look like something awful before your eyes.” Micael looked around after his small chitty-chatty. He was amazed how the deck of this ship was adorned by lamps, garlands, and linens of different colors.

There were blue, white, purple, and whatsits within the spectrum of blue. It was blue. Some were arranged by the sailors while some were arranged by the passengers. It was beautiful, and Micael had never expected one kind of a setting for quite of a celebration, or was it a celebration?

...