Short Fiction, Leonid Andreyev [good e books to read .TXT] 📗

all, where the people have never heard about the sea⁠—a thousand miles away, five thousand miles away!”

“There is no such land.”

“There is, Khorre. Let us drink and laugh, Khorre. That organist lies. Sing something for me, Khorre⁠—you sing well. In your hoarse voice I hear the creaking of ropes. Your refrain is like a sail that is torn by the storm. Sing, sailor!”

Khorre nods his head gloomily.

“No, I will not sing.”

“Then I shall force you to pray as they prayed!”

“You will not force me to pray, either. You are the Captain, and you may kill me, and here is your revolver. It is loaded, Noni. And now I am going to speak the truth, Captain! Khorre, the boatswain, speaks to you in the name of the entire crew.”

Haggart says:

“Drop this performance, Khorre. There is no crew here. You’d better drink something.”

He drinks.

“But the crew is waiting for you, you know it. Captain, is it your intention to return to the ship and assume command again?”

“No.”

“Captain, is it perhaps your intention to go to the people on the coast and live with them?”

“No.”

“I can’t understand your actions, Noni. What do you intend to do, Captain?”

Haggart drinks silently.

“Not all at once, Noni, not at once. Captain, do you intend to stay in this hole and wait until the police dogs come from the city? Then they will hang us, and not upon a mast, but simply on one of their foolish trees.”

“Yes. The wind is getting stronger. Do you hear, Khorre? The wind is getting stronger!”

“And the gold which we have buried here?” He points below, with his finger.

“The gold? Take it and go with it wherever you like.”

The sailor says angrily:

“You are a bad man, Noni. You have only set foot on earth a little while ago, and you already have the thoughts of a traitor. That’s what the earth is doing!”

“Be silent, Khorre. I am listening. Our sailors are singing. Do you hear? No, that’s the wine rushing to my head. I’ll be drunk soon. Give me another bottle.”

“Perhaps you will go to the priest? He would absolve your sins.”

“Silence!” roars Haggart, clutching at his revolver.

Silence. The storm is increasing. Haggart paces the room in agitation, striking against the walls. He mutters something abruptly. Suddenly he seizes the sail and tears it down furiously, admitting the salty wind. The illumination lamp is extinguished and the flame in the fireplace tosses about wildly⁠—like Haggart.

“Why did you lock out the wind? It’s better now. Come here.”

“You were the terror of the seas!” says the sailor.

“Yes, I was the terror of the seas.”

“You were the terror of the coasts! Your famous name resounded like the surf over all the coasts, wherever people live. They saw you in their dreams. When they thought of the ocean, they thought of you. When they heard the storm, they heard you, Noni!”

“I burnt their cities. The deck of my ship is shaking under my feet, Khorre. The deck is shaking under me!”

He laughs wildly, as if losing his senses.

“You sank their ships. You sent to the bottom the Englishman who was chasing you.”

“He had ten guns more than I.”

“And you burnt and drowned him. Do you remember, Noni, how the wind laughed then? The night was as black as this night, but you made day of it, Noni. We were rocked by a sea of fire.”

Haggart stands pale-faced, his eyes closed. Suddenly he shouts commandingly:

“Boatswain!”

“Yes,” Khorre jumps up.

“Whistle for everybody to go up on deck.”

“Yes.”

The boatswain’s shrill whistle pierces sharply into the open body of the storm. Everything comes to life, and it looks as though they were upon the deck of a ship. The waves are crying with human voices. In semi-oblivion, Haggart is commanding passionately and angrily:

“To the shrouds!⁠—The studding sails! Be ready, forepart! Aim at the ropes; I don’t want to sink them all at once. Starboard the helm, sail by the wind. Be ready now. Ah, fire! Ah, you are already burning! Board it now! Get the hooks ready.”

And Khorre tosses about violently, performing the mad instructions.

“Yes, yes.”

“Be braver, boys. Don’t be afraid of tears! Eh, who is crying there? Don’t dare cry when you are dying. I’ll dry your mean eyes upon the fire. Fire! Fire everywhere! Khorre⁠—sailor! I am dying. They have poured molten tar into my chest. Oh, how it burns!”

“Don’t give way, Noni. Don’t give way. Recall your father. Strike them on the head, Noni!”

“I can’t, Khorre. My strength is failing. Where is my power?”

“Strike them on the head, Noni. Strike them on the head!”

“Take a knife, Khorre, and cut out my heart. There is no ship, Khorre⁠—there is nothing. Cut out my heart, comrade⁠—throw out the traitor from my breast.”

“I want to play some more, Noni. Strike them on the head!”

“There is no ship, Khorre, there is nothing⁠—it is all a lie. I want to drink.”

He takes a bottle and laughs:

“Look, sailor⁠—here the wind and the storm and you and I are locked. It is all a deception, Khorre!”

“I want to play.”

“Here my sorrow is locked. Look! In the green glass it seems like water, but it isn’t water. Let us drink, Khorre⁠—there on the bottom I see my laughter and your song. There is no ship⁠—there is nothing! Who is coming?”

He seizes his revolver. The fire in the fireplace is burning faintly; the shadows are tossing about⁠—but two of these shadows are darker than the others and they are walking. Khorre shouts:

“Halt!”

A man’s voice, heavy and deep, answers:

“Hush! Put down your weapons. I am the abbot of this place.”

“Fire, Noni, fire! They have come for you.”

“I have come to help you. Put down your knife, fool, or I will break every bone in your body without a knife. Coward, are you frightened by a woman and a priest?”

Haggart puts down his revolver and says ironically:

“A woman and a priest! Is there anything still more terrible? Pardon my sailor, Mr. abbot, he is drunk, and when he is drunk he is very reckless and he may kill you. Khorre,