Northern Downpour

The Open Gates (XXI)

XXI

Nobody informed him or his parents that it was. What they KNEW was that it was going to be like, a glug hub for the night? Nobody really knew as the captain himself liked to pull off some trick off his sleeves, and better be not messing with his sleeves, or he might mess with us, said Micael inside his head. Liquors were placed on their table by some of the sailors, of which Micael never noticed that they were approaching everyone’s table. There were also foods to eat, as well, mostly seafood. There were squids, mussels, shrimps, tuna, and salmon, all of which everyone would love in this kind of setting: S.S. Mary enveloped by the night sky, adorned by the beautiful twinkly little stars, the moon, all while in the middle of high waters, let alone marine nothingness. If Micael could look around him, he could see nothing but the blank horizon and the fact that they were indeed moving by a particular knot, of which one could not tell. He got himself his own glass arranged from the middle of their roundtable, and the others followed. His father got the liquor, opened it, and poured some unto everyone’s glasses. “To our journey, both of French and the Brits!” said his father, then everyone raised the glasses. They all looked so happy, laughing and whatnot. Louis finished pouring the liquor into every glass, and the splash of the fermented liquid continued for a moment, and then stopped. They all grabbed the liquor-filled glasses of their own and all they went for a toast, while some of Amy’s liquor were flowing out of her cup for her carelessness.

Splash! The luquid uttered as it hit the side of the table's white linen, staining it with a reddish black color and a distinct odor one liquor-inclined guy would recognize.

There were unpleasant reactions, but no one actually cared by some extent, and they dinked their glasses, and all went to drink theirs. “We have talked with captain right awhile, Louis, and he said the trip will be taking another route. He said that it will be much safer if we first land ourselves in the United Kingdom rather than of France. I do not know why, though, but he is the captain,” said Mr. Harry after drinking his glass halfway. He gave this kind of expression of which someone who recently drank would give. The eyes almost closed, his cheeks emphasized and lips were wide, as if smiling, but not really. “Oh, really? Either way, it will be one helluva trip, right?” Micael’s father replied, while offering Mr. Harry a toast, and they did. There was a dink! but Micael was the only one who was unaware of anything. In fact, at that very moment, he wasn’t really one. He just kept on looking at his surroundings and he wanted to capture it inside his very mind, for he knew that it would be a long time before he gets back to Melbourne. There was incandescence around them which helped the moon and the stars to enlighten the ship. From afar, indeed, you could see the boat from afar as it was really alight.

Upon his wondering, a shout from the musicians on board and were gracefully making music for them was heard: “Anyone who knows how to play Pachelbel’s Canon? It would be a pleasure if someone does.” It caught Micael’s attention, for he knew that it was a calling, and it was his. No one raised a brow on what the musician had said, which echoed along the silent deck as they stopped playing, hoping for a reply. After a mere five seconds of silence. Micael’s father uttered convincingly: “Oops. Looks like he was calling Micael rather than a musician. Go ahead, my boy, and show them what a Pratt can do.”  He willingly agreed with his smile and stood up like a stick yet elegant like a bird. He fixed his suit, got himself a pinch of a drink and went on to the stage, which was just basically crates covered with a nice blanket. He walked towards the stage, without noticing the great fact of which the eyes of the audience were with him. They were following him from his great shiny shoes into his neatly brushed hair. It was not silent, neither. The crowd was giving their respective applauses, and some were cheering and shouting, which Micael felt even on his bare forearms. He could feel the cheers as touches on his skin, like caresses. The sense gave him goosebumps, but he never backed out nevertheless, for he knew this was the only he was good at. The heels of his shoes were thumping the wooden floor of the decks, which could be heard if the crowd was silent, but they weren’t. This time Micael’s ears were tickled by the sound which the crowd had made, for it had really been a while before he could hear such.

A mere second more, and he reached the stage, where the sailors moved the piano above the platform. “This is your seat, mate, and let’s start the jam on the tracks,” one sailor followed, and followed again by the other.

“Should you find yourself something to put on your mouth, do ask us, for we have lollies on our pockets and sleeves, right, mate?” and everyone followed quite the laughter while Micael was finding himself comfortable on his seat. The sailors found themselves their comfortable places, and so did Micael. He had practiced Canon since his 6th grade, of which he was still such quite different, of which he was never expecting be one.

He had put his hands and his virtuosic fingers into the keys. The piano was wide, his talent wider. He pushed the keys on the 4th octave, and it was lonely yet it sounded nicely. For what he was thinking while playing that note, it was in the key of D, and the sailors have felt it. They grabbed their attention quickly and listened to Micael’s internal metronome, and checked his bar and they followed. At his ninth bar, one of the sailors accompanied his playing, though Micael was the really one who was accompanying them. He played the same note, but with the higher octave, and it was harmonious. No one had really expected that sailors too can play from the very beginning, which left no one aquiver.

They knew it was going to be memorable, but no one would remember how they played it, but only how they sounded like. The chorus of what they were playing the core of their presence. It sounded like it was being played by Pachelbel himself. Micael’s soul was dancing whilst he was playing, and so did the stars.

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