Northern Downpour

The Open Gates (XXVIII)

XXVIII

“You see that, gentlemen?” he asked while his eyes and fingers pointing straight towards the painting closely and he stood his feet on the grey wooden floor with his buttocks lying above the cushioned seat. The painting was obscure, but there was no other thing to look at from Micael’s and his father. Their eyes were stuck like glue into the painting. It was beautiful and yet ambiguous for Micael. There lied the painting of a naked woman (with her bosom sagging a little and pale brown nipples with its apotheosis crossed by thin indiscernible green leaves), who was holding an urn on both of her hands, holding it tight, and behind her, was indiscernible mess. There were guys with black capes and skull masks, of which looked like real and far from being fake.

On their hands were short scythes and dull serrated blades, with blood dripping from their eyepieces. The ambience was dark, and the moon bled red. The woman looked angry and worried at the same time, was her head was turned towards the whereabouts of the unfortunate, which were killed just past her back by the bandits. It took a while begore Micael could ask what’s with the urn the naked woman was holding, for he might ask something very indifferent from the captain’s think-abouts.

It was ghost-quiet, and only the noisiest thing that they could hear were the thoughts inside the back of their heads, which were not really connecting at any sort at all. There were killers, the urn, the body of the naked woman, and the moon which was bleeding red down the world’s horizon, until Micael had come to a point to be brave enough to ask, and he did. Soon enough, Micael had lost his vision the woman on the painting, for she was beautiful, and he found himself looking at the lower left corner of the painting, of which he thought the painter’s signature would be located.

He had seen one signature, and it was very clear. The signature was familiar, too, for he had seen it on their ship ticket which was given to them a month ago, and it was the same signature, and he thought of it once more, and he realized that it was the captain’s own painting, and he then asked the captain about his think-abouts.
“That’s a very nice painting of yours, captain,” he uttered, which shocked his father and gave him quite the look. “It was his?” “Yes, boys. I have painted that when it was my first time aboard. My thought process, you ask? Nothing much. You see the urn?” Both of them looked at the urn with quite focus. It was resting above the woman’s bosom and was grey. It was covered by its cap, which was tight. And looking upon it, they saw a label, of which indiscernible from afar, especially Micael without his round glasses. He looked at the captain, and asked what was the writing on the urn. “What’s engraved on the urn, cap?”
“The Shroud, Micael. The Shroud.”
“What does that mean?”

“You see, there is so much more to ask yourself when boredom hit your very nerves, some of which may break you, but it is inevitable, and you just have to go on. Forget the past without forgetting what’s in front of you. Going back, the shroud is basically one’s fear of getting back to his past, that’s why she was running while holding it very tightly, and she never wanted the urn to be touched by the barging bandits, of which resembles her past,” told the captain whilst wearing a sincere eye and a soft voice while talking, and then he asked Micael while grabbing him one more glass of wine: “Anyhow, have you escaped your past, Micael?” His father’s look unto him was priceless. The captain’s even more. It took him a while before answering. He could see the eyes and the soul of his father and the captain thoroughly unto his, which were like waiting for your coffee in a slow coffee shop. He could feel them, too. The heat of their bodies wanting to have such answer, their looks were piercing beyond his clothes and on his skin, and eventually beyond his soul, as if they were looking for the right answer, of which he was not really aware of what to enunciate, or whose past, anyhow. Is it Aleck’s or Micael? He couldn't even decide and utter some words, and soon his sweat was again dripping down to this crotch. He was outcasted by the two, felt like something was to happen id he did not answer it correctly, let alone honestly, but he did. His past was never bright at all, but Micael was not really still able to bring it past his mouth, of his he wasn’t really able of uttering since both the beginning and end of time.

“Why look at the darker side of the spectrum when we can stare at the glaring white?” he replied, with smile though as fake as a swimming unicorn. The captain quite gave thin the look and uttered: “Well, vague, but indeed. It’s better to be blind than to be dead, I must say?” then he grinned and laughed on the latter, and of which Micael and his father did as well. Captain grabbed the bottle of wine which was halfway full, poured some into their glasses, and asked for a toast. “To our beloved trip, which will turn out safe, to the United Kingdom!” he said while raising his glass, and the Pratts raised theirs, too.

“Cheers!” uttered his father happily, with a smile on his face and they all went on to dink their glasses, and their talk-abouts and drinking continued throughout an hour, while talking about the different things inside the captain’s desk, which rendered Micael and his father amazed, and they finally found a place where being illicit had ceased to exist, and so does time, for it would be days to count and new horizons would be visible before their very eyes.

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