A network of wrinkles covered the fisherman’s face, and his hair was graying, but he could not have been very old. His body was strong, and the muscles of his bare chest and arms rippled as he rowed us further out into the bay. When he smiled, he showed two sets of neat, pearly teeth, and his eyes shone with a vitality that brightened his whole face. His entire manner was as of one who was happy to be alive, but did not fear death overly much, or at least did not think of it very often.
He had held a smile in his eyes as I had walked up and introduced myself. The corners of his mouth had pulled up halfway and his eyes crinkled kindly as he agreed to take me out in his boat, and he continued to give me this half-smile every time he looked at me. But it was not until I asked whom he had named the boat after that I saw his face light up with what must have been the most beautiful expression the gods had given to any man. I sat there, the fishing gear I had been fiddling with forgotten, and blinked at him as one who turns his face to the sun.
“Why, I named this ‘ere boat after the most amazing woman yer eyes ever did see,” he answered, “a woman as beautiful and unpredictable as the sea. If any name be powerful enough to protect against the fury of the waters, it be the name of her whose spirit matches the waves.”
I half expected and angry Poseidon to appear, and wreak havoc upon the mortal who dared to compare a mere woman to his realm, or some sort of an avenging nymph or wrathful sea dragon. The only response of the ocean, however, was to send a bigger wave than normal, which splashed against the boat and sent salty sea spray into my face.
Assured by the man’s calm demeanor, I ventured another question. “Who, if I may ask, is this lady of whom you speak so highly?” Something about being out on the ocean, with no signs of civilization or the effects of society within near sight, caused me to relax the restraint with which I would usually speak. Confronted with the wildness and desolation of the empty waters around me, my habitual skepticism shrank almost to nonexistence, and my neglected imagination awoke from its long slumber.
Images filled my head of such a woman as the fisherman would admire. I pictured a refined, queen-like countenance, with deep ocean-blue eyes, and long black hair that seemed alive in the wind. She progressed quickly from a primitive idea in my head of the fisherman’s lover, passionate towards him but cold towards others, to a lady of high status, one who would not deign to cast eyes upon the despairing yet gentle gaze of the man she passed by. But my eager fantasies went farther than that. Soon she became a spirit of the ocean, the waves themselves made flesh – the incarnation of a storm. In a matter of seconds, she had risen from the status of mortal to goddess.
I was distracted from my thoughts by the sudden change of the fisherman’s expression. Just as his face had resembled a sudden sunrise before, now it quickly lost all light, in the thunderclouds that passed over it. He turned his dark eyes towards me, and they seemed filled with pain.
“She’s my wife.” He said simply. It was as though he said, “Just my wife, nothing more.”
It only took those three words to send the golden pedestal crashing to the ground. The goddess fell into the mud, her bare feet and clothes – no longer flowing gowns, but a coarse dress and apron – stained and dirty. Her face took on the wrinkles and worn look that must be the appearance of any fisherman’s wife.
I suddenly felt that any other thing she could have been would be better. The sadness and regret in the man’s voice was so potent, I was sure he felt the same way. Yet how could he feel regret now, when just a moment ago he was singing her praises? His face shining with love, adoration, and reverence?
He turned his eyes away from mine and gazed out to sea. The choppy waves rocked the boat, and the water sprayed in both of our faces. Thick, gray clouds hung heavy on the horizon. I was stricken by a strange feeling of oppression, and my heart seemed weighty enough to drag me down through the deep waters. I wondered what could have happened to cause the sorrow in the fisherman’s eyes. Was he mourning for loss of beauty? For discovery of some harsh truth? What had he lost that he longed for now?
A strange, calm sort of panic hit me. I felt perfectly aware and in control of everything I did or said, and yet I had the odd sense that my life depended on my actions. Leaning forward, I focused my eyes intently on the fisherman’s face. My voice trembled with restrained energy. He silently turned his eyes back to mine, and listened.
The rest of the world was miles away as I formed words that hardly had meaning or reason behind them, but that I felt must be said.
“Who was she?”
Strangely, the fisherman relaxed and leaned back in his boat, fixing his half-smile upon me. His eyes held a kind of gentle pride that lighted his face once again.
“She was the pope,” he said.482Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoi5XAwU9bY
