Inspiration can come from anywhere. Be sure to read the backstory at the end for how this story came about.
My brother's tongue hangs out, cracked and dry. I know the sign – a blink and a glance at the sky means he's thirsty. Our mother asked us not to talk very much, so we made our own language with blinks and twitches. She wasn’t being curt. It’s safer if we stay quiet.
There are three of us; mother, my brother, and me. But our boat has room for four, and I wish father was with us. My brother doesn’t understand he isn’t coming. We all miss him – Mum most of all, I think. She covers her eyes when she’s crying, but I can see her face. We have the same chin, a “matched pair” she says. My brother’s dark eyes look like father's, the way he would look at the sky, searching.
I write in this journal every day, sometimes writing the same parts over again so I can remember them. Ink pens are my favorite but all I have is a pencil. Sometimes I start to think about other things, but I always come back to finish my sentences.
We collect rain in a pail for drinking but there hasn’t been much lately. The rain flows down the tarpaulin, through a funnel and into a bottle. We always try to keep four bottles full in case we need it since we can’t drink the water around our boat. I spilled a bottle once. My brother pretended he did it so I wouldn’t get in trouble. He refilled it with seawater and then drank some to show that everything was alright. He got very sick. Since then, he says he’s thirsty but won’t drink much of the good water. I think he’s afraid to get sick again.
My brother and I watch from the front, sinking down into our beds made from bags of belongings. The rest of our things are lashed along the inside of the boat, balancing the weight. During the day, we hide under the canvas tarpaulin for shade. We have to do that a lot recently since there have been no clouds.
Our boat is small but sturdy. My mum steers from the back wearing father’s hat low to cover her eyes. I think she likes the hat the best of all our things. It is old and needs to be mended, but I tell her it looks dashing anyway. When I ask my mum where our new home is, she says it’s on a future horizon.
My parents built this boat for our family. When the wind is good, we let out the bigger sail and pick up speed. Four to six knots, mother says that’s good. Today, we’ve been moving very fast but I don’t know our speed.
“Cybelle is strong,” I tell her, “she’ll take care of her brother”
It’s quiet now, early evening when the stars are newest and the fog is yet to roll in. We can’t hear the artillery or marching of tanks but we know they’re coming. Couriers have reached us from the towns beyond. London, the one we know, is no more. By tomorrow the channel will be full of boats trying to escape. I write these memories, knowing they may be all that’s left of our story.
“I can’t—,” she says to me. Her words drop to the ground with her eyes, followed by her shoulders. We planned for this – she’ll take the children and follow our route.
“You’re the better sailor…” I say trying to lift her spirits but it’s no use,“You are my love, my life–”
Her frame stiffens, eyes set on mine. She gives me a half-smile, repeating our directions from a time when they were just that, “Cracking pace to de la Hague…”
I finish her words, ”…then to open ocean.”
Last week, another boat was on the horizon. My mum used her spyglass but I could see a man when I peeked. He looked hunched and tired. As we got close, the man raised an orange flag for us to see. Mother stared at him a good while before telling us it was alright to sit up. My brother held up the orange flag we carry.
My brother blinks asking who the man is. I tell him it’s one of us, but I don’t recognize him. I remind my brother that we are from all different countries traveling to our new home.
The boats move close to one another, like our paths are going to cross. Our boat makes a much larger wake and causes him to bobble from side-to-side. Mother and the man tie our two boats together, then call us to get some fish and water for the man. Mother keeps a pistol used for flares hidden at her side.
The man asks to join us in our boat since we have extra room. Mother tells him it is best that we do not take on more passengers. This angers the man, who takes the fish and water without saying a word. The man doesn’t cook the fish. He pulls large pieces and stuffs them into his mouth. He eats until he’s full. Mother, my brother, and I watch him as he washes his face with the ocean water and takes a long, deep drink of the good water from our bottle. He sits back with his eyes closed. With a small burp, he finally says thank you.
The man points his route, his bearing is different from ours. He has directions written inside the wall of his boat. It has been scratched over several times, replaced. I want to tell my mother to show him the map we have, but she has warned us to keep quiet when visitors are near. My father made our map out of leather.
I remember my father studying maps for weeks before we moved underground. The oil lamp was barely enough light. Mother’s stitches on the map are neat as rows in our vegetable garden. I pretended to sleep as they whispered about the goings-on in London late into the night.
We have been on the water for two weeks. That’s how long my father has been gone. He stayed to hide our escape and, Mum won’t say it, to fight.
The sun plays hide and seek behind the clouds. The wind has changed, making it cooler than recently, even the water. Mother says it's because we're further from land than ever before. I feel restless today. Mother pushes her hat up and says we’re not far. She’s in good spirits today. She often sings a hopeful song about our trip, humming the melody and making up funny words.
Far away, mother spots another traveler, she says it's an airship. My brother and I see only a tan bubble above the water. The swells push us closer, and we see a basket of people. They see us too and descend just above the waves. Our ships align with each other but are a football pitch away. We wave to one another.
Mother calls out to them and asks if they have seen anything. At once, they point off in the distance. Mother smiles and tells us that we have been going the right way. The map, the one she and father made, is correct. It’s not long now until we reach our new home, she tells us. I think I see tears in her eyes.
My brother and I exchange smiles. We do not have to say anything with blinks to know this news makes us both happy. To be near the end of our journey makes me wonder about our old home.
My countrymen, my neighbors, are arm-in-arm as we’ve taken up positions. While well-fortified we will be no match for their machinery. It’s not lost on any of us that we should be so close to Hastings in another battle. This time the invasion isn’t from the sea but the heart of our beloved country
When we left Fairlight, my brother kept asking about our father. Mum calmly made him be quiet while we set sail. In the dark, I could hear my brother crying. Mother has not told me any more about father, but I am old enough to know he won’t be coming to meet us. He and my brother were very close.
Father woke us late, got us dressed. I climbed onto the boat as we had practised, but my brother needed help. He is three years younger than me and still needs some assistance. We kept the sail low until the following day. There weren’t any other boats in the channel that time of night, and the water was very still.
Our first day on the boat was exciting. My brother and I stood in the boat because my father had made it very wide and sturdy. We looked out as far as our eyes would let us and could not see land. We know to say port and starboard. My mother taught us to wrap up during daylight to keep our skin from burning. At night, we bundle up in woolen coats and hats that she has made.
Sometimes, we see fish from the boat. Father said we would catch and cook fish to save our other food. Mum always gives us a tangerine for dessert. It tastes like candy. She calls our boat meals adventure food and promises exotic spices to tingle our mouths when our journey ends.
The bombardment has begun. My loves, I pray the sun is shining on your faces.
It is night. Mother is awake but tired. She sometimes asks me to steer because I am older. I do my best to keep the stars in sight and zig-zag as the wind changes.
My brother is the first to see the lights. Because it is dark, he has to use words, but they come out as squeaks. This wakes mother, who sits up and uses her spyglass. She tells me to continue heading toward them, but we lower the sail so we won’t be seen.
Hours pass as we get closer. We lay along our bed, just watching, listening. We are close enough to hear voices now. The voices are talking, laughing. My brother looks at me. It’s still dim but I can see his eyes blink with excitement. He makes a grumble-whine sound.
My mother raises our orange flag and lights the lantern so we can be seen. The voices we hear hush one another before a voice calls to us, saying “Ahoy!”
We can make out shapes rising and falling with the swell. As our boat inches closer we see more lanterns directing us. Mother turns us toward them as morning light bounces off a thousand boats! They're made of shiny metal and wood, lashed together like an island. Mother tells us we have found our new home and it’s okay to talk now. My brother devours the last of our tangerines, a final taste of home. I want to shout for joy, but something catches in my throat. Instead, I keep quiet.
***
Music to read by: Sons & Daughters by The
Backstory
I often write to music but this is my first homage. I hope The Decemberists and
will excuse the dour mess I’ve made of it. Though, truthfully, Sons & Daughters feels like a juxtaposition on its own. So, maybe it equals out?In the spring of 2005 a friend and I happened into a show by a band I’d never heard before, The Decemberists. I was mesmerized. Since then I’ve seen them perform a few more times and it always feels like a group of musicians tailoring a show for that specific audience (after all, they belong to us).
By Decemberists standards, Sons & Daughters is sparse, barely more than a few lines, but a whopper of a story. The implied story caught my ear and I’ve been lolling around with it for a while – who would arise from the bunkers? Why would you want to live on the water? Which shores? These tangential thoughts leave the listener a jigsaw puzzle to construct a world – even leaving many ideas behind – without the burden of box art.
I wrote an initial draft in 2019 which included many lines from the song, to buttress the narrative, but it never felt quite right. Having someone else’s words eschewed my own thinking to make it a stand alone work. So, into the digital packrat file it went.
As I started considering the types of stories I wanted on Tiny Worlds this one came to mind. I wanted to take another look and see if I could twist a couple narratives together. The daughter, primary narrator for most of the story, was always the central character. It’s her world view that gives us the breadth of the world we’re in. A later addition was to give a second storyline to her father. There needed to be some emotional carnage to the transit, a reason to wonder why leaving in the dark mattered – though, it’s kept it intentionally vague. Also, as I wrote there turned out to be an interesting generational symmetry to journaling: one starting a new life, one ending.
Throughout the new draft I kept whittling down the superfluous — playthings on the boat, learning to use a sextant, and alas, how they knew about a flotilla of boats somewhere in the Atlantic. These things simply wouldn’t have mattered to a kid and shouldn’t trouble to the reader if I’ve told an engaging story.
I hope you enjoyed it.
-j.