Northern Downpour

The Open Gates (XXII, XXIII)

XXII

Their twinkling had become much faster and coordinated upon one another, and Micael could notice how it was beautiful, and so did the wind. He could feel the caress of the wind upon his face, down to his arms and hands.

It felt like someone was touching him elegantly and precariously. He continued on playing the middle of the song, right after its chorus. It appeared like he was not distracted at all. Not really. Even by an inch, and the sailors around him concurred by replying with their violins and cellos instead of their voices. He could feel that everyone’s eyes were into theirs, and then he thought of someone, right before ending his accompaniment.

Is Jack even watching? I hope he does, for I want him to know that I am happy. Which I sound happy. His feet were like noodles and his arms were like a bunch of sticks wrapped together but his face. It’s the mask which renders me weak and useless. Am I really a lamb? Or maybe singing it aloud will make me one.

And then they had reached the ending of the song. Micael smiled and looked at the crowd. While he was standing up, he could see the crowd’s happy faces and hear their applauses and shouts. He also looked at the sailors, very places of which were just behind him, and they were happy, too. He went to the sailors’ places after standing and greeted them with thanks, apologies, and offered them handshakes, of which they had concurred upon. They were great musicians, after all. They made the crowd feel that it was no ordinary boat but a moving castle, and Micael went back to their table, while the sailors have started another composition of theirs.

They immediately started upon his walking, and he could still the touch of the night sky, reaching onto his stomach, where he was obscurely stabbed by Jack himself. It was cold, what’s colder was the stomach. He knew that the sky was trying to tell him something, far more than just hearsays, but he was never bothered at all, and continued walking. The moment he reached their table, there were much more than just applauses. “That’s one helluva show, Micael! We all loved it,” said Mr. Harry, who was up for another glass. Micael saw the littlest twitch of his eyes, which signed him that he was already tipsy. And went for his father, who quite drank almost half of the bottle as his mother would tell him, and his father did. Amy, on the other hand, was not talking at all.

She was just smiling, murmuring something on her own, and kept on drinking.

The only reply which Micael had even gotten at that very moment was the galling look from Amy’s eyes. It was beautiful, unique, and quite seducing for him, but he ignored the latter anyhow. Micael’s father opened another bottle, raised it above his head, and placed it back down on the center of the table. “Please do the honors, Mr. Harry,” he remarked. Mr. Harry smiled and grabbed the bottle, and poured its what he thought was extraordinary and mischievous content to everyone’s glasses, placed it back down on the center, and uttered:
“To our trip to the United Kingdom and France! May the heavenly above guide us all,” followed by the dink from the glasses, colliding into one another. There were spillages, but no one had cared, for all they would all want to care was the experiencing of how it had spilled, rather than how much had. They continued on drinking, talking, dilly-dallying and his father palavering, talking about how his teenage life went from the most basic dynamite into a most far-fetched weapon that could eradicate half of Australia’s wonderful land. They laughed distinctly, felt it under their skins, and they continued to glug some more as time was enveloping their very extravagant night.

XXIII

It took them a while before Amy got herself not sober at all. “You good, Amy?” Micael asked. “No. I think I wanna go downstairs. I am unwell right now,” she replied, why he could see the discomfort on her face. She still looked pretty and wonderful, and it would never change. Micael offered him a quick trip to their room, and Amy’s father replied with quite the voice: “You better be taking care of my daughter, Micael, while we have fun here above the decks.” He was not angry.

His face did not depict any sign of being angry, instead he looked like he was smiling, he was happy, and comfortable for Micael and his daughter. “Sure thing, Mr. Harry. I will take care of Amy.” He placed Amy’s right arm on his shoulders, and assisted her to walk at most straight. Before carefully going down the stairs, Micael looked at the upper deck one more time, seeing their roundtable as one of the happiest of all. He could hear the violins and the cellos’ quite beautiful sound, how they accompanied one another. It was something Micael could not remember (it sounded like it was sort of an impromptu play), but it was beautiful. He could sit beside the musicians and listen to their instruments all day long, but he knew there was something much better than the vibration of the strings. The splashes of the ocean as it hits the keel? Micael could not really even answer, but he knew what’s beyond his comprehension could foresee. They continued to go down the stairs, while carefully assisting Amy. “That’s what you get for drinking hard, Amy. You should’ve controlled yourself.” “And who said I am drunk? I am just tipsy!” she foolishly replied with a quite indistinct voice which made Micael think that she was really tipsy. They have reached the last step of the stairs, where they almost tripped. It was not because Micael did not see the step, but the weight of Amy pitched towards her side, which made them sway. Luckily, Micael was aware and he pitched a bit to his side, all throughout the laugh of Amy. Micael quickly grabbed himself incessantly, and they continued to walk down their way.

...