I, who have been far from ho, finally return once more. At this mont, I am no longer a castaway adrift in the vast deep sea, but a traveler returning ho. Forgetting my fatigue, I swim toward the shore. Distant ships dot this calm bay, bringing peace to my heart, and the surging seawater washes away all the previous gloom.
Listening intently, I seem to hear the sound of waves crashing against rocks, the sounds of joy from the small town, and the sound of ships blowing their whistles. The latter is not an illusion, for a shadow envelops , a sailboat returning ho like sails from behind. I stop swimming and wave and shout at the faint outlines on the deck, but they don’t notice my existence at all and continue to cast floats into the wake spreading from the sailboat.
I witness the sailboat pass before , being subrged and resurfacing amid the wake foad by waves, and swim toward the floats they cast, resting briefly by clinging to them. Next, I economize my strength by holding onto the float while swimming, making myself conspicuous to be noticed by people on the shore quickly and avoiding hopelessly drowning at my doorstep if caught by a rip current.
In my mory, the hotown bay was very safe, hurricanes could not approach, storms never touched, except for the rip currents that exist on any coast. If I could recover more mory, I would know where troubling rip currents might be, avoiding moving toward the shore three or four miles distant blindly like a person overboard holding onto a float.
The ocean without sunlight is deep and cold, fortunately, it is the rainy season; even without sunlight, it is more comfortable than in spring or winter. Nearly two hours have passed, I have reduced the distance to the town by half; I could already see the busy figures on the dock and pedestrians on the coastal street, they should also be able to see .
I ready myself to lean on the float to make myself more visible, but at this ti, a chill falls from the dark clouds, drizzling into the surging sea. The rain is not heavy, nor will it impede my return to my hotown, but I watch the pedestrians on shore hastily run past, workers and sailors on the dock also dodge away; the drizzly rain hangs like mist between and the small town.
Silent and weary, I hold onto the float and continue swimming; when I am exhausted, I cling to the float tightly, drifting with the unpredictable ocean currents. Perhaps the goddess of fate has never favored , for when strength-depleted I ceased moving my legs, I felt the shore gradually receding from ; even resuming treading water didn’t bring the distance any closer, and the unexpected rip current arrived, pushing into the deep sea.
Hope vanishing before my eyes caused to almost faint, throwing away the float, summoning residual strength to swim to the shore, only to be caught and dragged into the abyss of despair by the cold currents... Suddenly, with a "thud," I struck sothing with the back of my head, seeing stars as I sank to the sea bottom. I coughed up a mouthful of water, thanking heavens that fatigue spared from struggling and inhaling more water. Struggling to the surface, I saw the real culprit that almost knocked out: a small boat drifting on the boundless sea.
Faith inspires my spirit, I strive to swim toward the wooden boat, grabbing onto the boat’s edge to catch my breath, then gradually lifting my heavy body from the water, flipping into the boat.
The small boat sways gently, turning slowly in place with the push of currents. I temporarily disregard this, lying weakly in the raindrop-filled cabin; even the cold sea wind raising a layer of goosebumps on my pale skin couldn’t make get up.
Uncertain of how much ti passed, I climbed from the cabin floor, finding the rain-blurred coastal town again remote as when I had just awakened, rendering the efforts of the past few hours futile. The only good news is now I have a boat, with an oar.
I stripped off my clothes, reaching out to wrench out the seawater so it wouldn’t greedily sap my body heat, then wearing the crumpled clothes again, I picked up the oar and rowed toward the shore once more.
The wooden boat doesn’t leak, no whirlpools rise in the sea, rain doesn’t transform into a storm. Near the evening’s twilight, the fragnted dark clouds on the sea break open with gaps, revealing the dusk-silhouetted Kazgir Town growing clearer ahead. The old wind vanes, The Spire, roof beams, chimneys, docks, bridges, and the church all co into view; the boat bottom grounds on the shallows, I place the oar down, stepping onto the sandbank.
The most delightful thing is the local residents aren’t alard by my landing, treating as ordinary and normal as themselves. It seems all previous experiences were just the hallucinations of a drowning person, otherwise why do my clothes bear no bloodstains or dirt?
Enveloped in the sunset glow amid the continuous drizzle, I stride onto the street, walking toward the familiar direction. The shop windows along the street reflect my current dishevelnt. I gaze at my reflection and the clothes behind the glass, hesitating before entering the store; they wouldn’t like going back this shabby, nor do I want to return ho in such a state. I obtain a clean outfit from the racks and window display, a gray trench coat and wide-brimd hat, tossing the crumpled, old clothes into a corner trash bin.
Stepping out of the clothing store, I tread the water-laden cobbled road, along the street, emotions accumulating and stirring within . Finally, that house, which had never appeared in mory but lingered in my soul, appears ahead. Light glows from the window, I listen intently to the sounds within, seeming to hear the sounds of a loom and children reciting.
I stop at the door, raindrops drip from the brim of my hat and the hem of the gray trench coat. I feel sowhat nervous, fearing the cruel truth I might see after pushing open that door, but ultimately, I raise my emaciated hand.
Knock knock knock—
Lightly knocking on the old door, I wait montarily, hearing no sound from inside, thus knocking once more.
Knock knock knock—
In the midst of silence, my unease is festering, with only the sound of pouring rain as I knock on the door again.
Knock knock knock—
Unable to bear the waiting any longer, I stepped into the house.
I saw an oil lamp emitting dim light in the dim room, illuminating a pumpkin pie placed beside it.
Saw a mother and daughter embracing side by side on the bed, peacefully asleep.
The port is a harbor for ships, ho is my harbor.
My heart finally calms down. Completing the howard journey, I take off my hat, dripping with accumulated water, walking to the peacefully sleeping mother and daughter, crouching at the bedside, I rest my forehead on them, in fatigue and tranquility.
The weary and bewildered finally co ho, resting before the blood kin’s haven.
The little girl in her mother’s arms rubs her eyes and lifts her head, as if hearing the gentle footsteps of her father returning.
"Daddy...?"
The daughter’s call awakens the lightly sleeping mother; she gazes at the steady fla, the old pumpkin pie, silently holding her daughter tighter.
...
Raindrops patter against the window lattice.
The old, dirty room contains a severely decomposed body, long deceased, lying quietly by the cold fireplace.
"Nightmare" · Seven · The Surrealism Syndro End
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