CHAPTER 1 - VOYAGES
Owen Cullings desperately needed to return to his cabin, evermore on the short side of jittery as his steamer neared Liverpool. From the dining hall, he followed the glowing milky glass bowls through the narrows of dark paneling as he held his breath through the straits, quickly releasing it to force another in before emerging into the next corridor. The soles of his boots scuffed harshly against the short nap of the crimson runner, the desiccated tongue of an ancient beast in whose belly he could rest. His hands were weak as if he had clutched his burden thus far through the summer, but even a brave knight sheathed his sword occasionally – he had not yet released his undertaking once. The handsome Cullings by no means failed to politely greet those he encountered, subservient to convention even when devastated beneath his ascetic exterior. He might have reached Neptune’s salon by now, he thought, though he was housed in a luxury cabin on the topmost passenger deck.
On the eve of setting foot on his father’s soil, where his parents were married and where Anna Liese purportedly died in an unknown place and of unknown causes, proximity to unanswered questions fueled the speed of his heart by a few beats each passing night and soaked his fair hair into curls each morning. He wanted to read the letters again, starting with the one from Lester Meryton with the atrocious news. They were hidden in his leather valise, in the rear lining torn open to form a private compartment. He was reciting Meryton’s letter in his head, “We regret to inform you, by way of this insolent and impersonal letter, of the death of Anna Liese Cummings on the Fifth day of June of our year 1855. Please be comforted by the news that her burial was attended to lovingly.”
Owen breathed only while walking around corners. Once arriving at his cabin, he forced his eyes closed with a painful intensity, not relieving his clenched jaw which ached up to his temples and down to his collar. Owen saw yellow geometrics form in his blind gaze, as they vibrated and grew while he pushed his fists into his eyes to gain more colors that waned and ebbed with the rhythm of his grief. Soon bursts of red and green appeared, and then pinks and blues danced into greater abstractions, suitably reminiscent of the day the letter arrived. It took several long minutes to adjust his blurry vision to the darkness of the stained wood paneling lit by a slow swinging lantern hung from the ceiling. It was nothing like a beast’s belly, with all the comforts of home.
During his journey, when he could not muster the concentration to think through the implementation of his multi-tiered plan – a list he had rewritten at least a hundred times until it was succinct and guaranteed triumphant, with multiple phases and alternative scenarios, all leading to bringing Anna Liese home – he had indulged himself with a book or a stroll upon the decks. He was guaranteed an interruption with innocent queries about his leisurely activities or a young gentleman interested in a discussion about his plans abroad. It disrupted his equable manner and this recent facet to his personality alarmed him to distress. He blamed it on the absence of Anna Liese, who had always soothed his exuberance and smoothed out the folds of worry. His even temper, even during the most heated debates or tense cross-examinations, was notorious.
On this last night aboard, he was coming undone. He was still seeing colors as he pushed his flexed index finger into the sharp chasm between his dazzling teeth until an acrid, metallic taste covered his tongue. The growl, formed deep from within, cut itself loose and tore at his throat. He breathed again, as if nearly drowned, but not reborn. Not energized. Not saved and weak, and again an only child, which he deemed more tragic than being an orphan.
