Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ruminations in the Middle of the Sea

When Mack left the cabin and walked out on the deck, he felt seasick—sick of the sea's vacuity and heartsick for dreams drowned five fathoms deep and homesick for good stories and innocent laughter—and he was desperate for fresh air. He leaned against the leeward rail and gazed beyond the ocean to the northern stars above the horizon. The stars were so bright and close, it seemed he could touch them. He reached out his hand and felt the emptiness. He filled his lungs with the ocean air and exhaled moist breath.

In one respect, the most obvious respect, his journey at sea had just begun; the Indrani hadn't yet entered her first port. Gibraltar was still a week away. Only then would the "real" adventure begin, entering palaces and shaking the hands of people who thought they were important. Eating exotic foods on small tables in trellised courtyards. Climbing mountains. Drinking concoctions that tasted like paradise. Fondling girls and making love to them. That's what men think of as real adventure.

In a less obvious way, however, Mack's journey was already over. What could he see, what could he experience that would in any measure compensate for Baxter's Bone Tour? Yes, Mack had accomplished something no one in Neosho, Missouri, had ever achieved: He had recreated himself into a knight clad in purple who had become the topic of many conversations, been feted by many mayors and featured in many papers. He had mesmerized young girls in their own bedrooms beneath the eyes of trusting fathers. He had lied to enthusiastic crowds in churches, schoolhouses, and Masonic lodges. He had ridden Roz from the middle of nowhere to the edge of everywhere.

He was, by God, T. Allen "Mack" McQuary, the Purple Knight of the Ozarks!

And look at the good he had done: He had preached love in Indiana and reconciliation in Ohio and tolerance in South Carolina and self-sacrifice in Kentucky. He had reconfigured the tragic endings of meaningless tales into modes of consolation. He had brightened people's lives and helped them forget the horrors of the recent, intestine war, and he had made them laugh.

And now, look at him!

He was on a ship in the Atlantic steaming toward Europe! He had not only escaped the printing press and the straitjacket of his father's pieties and the dreary town of Neosho; he had also trespassed his own limitations. He, T. Allen McQuary, who had been ignored by teachers who thought he was dull, dismissed by girls as a hopeless dreamer, and mocked by peers who thought he was odd, had accomplished something none of them could imagine.

He was going around the world!

I am freer than any man who ever lived because I absorbed every fantasy and fiction and mythology I could find and birthed them into my own reality!

So, to hell with Baxter and his bone tour! It's just one more story, and I can believe it or reject it as I desire.

"But why would he make up such a terrible tale?" McQuary said to the darkness.

I think he's a fool made bitter by his own failures, so he consigns every hero to dirt and every myth to an empty cave. Now, he's caught like a wolf in a steel trap, and he snarls and snaps at those around him.

Pause. Breathe. Reconsider.

He sure as hell snarled and snapped at me.

What did he mean that I've been on the bone tour ever since I left home?

Oh, wait…I know what his problem is: He envies me! That's why he said that about someone paying my ticket. No one's ever paid his way, and he hates anyone like me who's had it good.

He's got an 'evil eye,' for sure.

Well, who cares what he says? When I'm done with this part of my life, I'll repent. Isn't that what every sinner does? Has a great time, feels guilty, repents, and goes on to live a life of serene boredom?

A voice from the darkness said, "To whom will you repent? Remember? No one's there to hear you."

Then who are You?

"No one. I'm inside your head. You can call me Outis if you like: Mister Nobody. Or you can call me First Mate Alistair Baxter, at your service. Or Dad; you can call me Father. Or Mother. Or Mack. Or Vetrude. Or even God if you want to. It really doesn't matter to me. Just don't call me late for supper."

Uh, begging your pardon, I don't think God would say he doesn't exist. Mack scoffed at the voice.

"Are you listening to me? There's no need for pardon because there's no pardoner. Sheesh."

This conversation is taking me nowhere. I'm going to think of something else.

The indifferent stars twinkled far above, and Mack pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders. He took a tobacco pouch and some papers out of his pocket and rolled a cigarette. He struck a match—an infinitesimal spark in the immense blackness of the Atlantic—and lit the cigarette. He flicked the match overboard.

Maybe the Hindoos or the Chinese know a story I can believe in.

And the Darkness said, "Do you really think you can deceive yourself again? Do you really think you can turn yourself into a Buddhist or a Mohammedan or a Taoist?"

No, you're right. I'm going to stick to my own story.

"You mean the whole purple knight shtick?"

Yes.

The tip of the cigarette glowed red when he inhaled.

The voice said, "Then you really are cooked."