understood more than I thought I did. Maybe the truth was already
waiting to be acknowledged in the canyons of the subconscious-or in the
abyss of the heart.
When I could breathe, I said, “What do You mean?”
“If You think about it for a while,” he said, “really think about it,
maybe You’ll realize that You have nothing to gain by pursuing this
thing-and so much to lose. Knowledge seldom brings us peace, son. A
hundred years ago, we didn’t know about atomic structure or DNA or
black holes-but are we any happier and more fulfilled now than people
were then?”
As he spoke that final word, fog filled the space where he had stood on
the afterdeck. A cabin door closed softly; with a louder sound, a dead
bolt was engaged.
Around the creaking Nostromo, the fog seethed in slow motion.
Nightmare creatures appeared to form out of the mist, loom, and then
dissolve.
Inspired by Roosevelt Frost’s final revelation, more fearful things
than fog monsters took shape from the mists in my mind, but I was
reluctant to concentrate on them and thereby impart to them a greater
solidity.
Maybe he was right. If I learned everything I wanted to know, I might
wish I had remained ignorant of the truth.
Bobby says that truth is sweet but dangerous. He says people couldn’t
bear to go on living if they faced every cold truth about themselves.
In that case, I tell him, he’ll never be suicidal.
As Orson preceded me up the gangway from the slip, I considered my
options, trying to decide where to go and what to do next.
There was a siren singing, and only I could hear her dangerous song;
though I was afraid of wrecking on the rocks of truth, this hypnotic
melody was one I couldn’t resist.
When we reached the top of the gangway, I said to my dog, “So . . .
anytime You want to start explaining all this to me, I’m ready to
listen.”
Even if Orson could have answered me, he didn’t seem to be in a
communicative mood.
My bicycle was still leaning against the dock railing. The rubber
handlebar grips were cold and slick, wet with condensation.
Behind us, the Nostromo’s en ines turned over. When I glanced back, I
saw the running lights of the boat diffused and ringed by halos in the
fog.
I couldn’t make out Roosevelt at the upper helm station, but I knew he
was there. Though only a few hours of darkness remained, he was moving
his boat out to his mooring even in this low visibility.
As I walked my bike shoreward through the marina, among the gently
rocking boats, I looked back a couple of times, to see if I could spot
Mungojerrie in the dim wash of the dock lights. If he was following
us, he was being discreet. I suspected that the cat was still aboard
the Nostromo.
. . . the reason most of them revere You is because of who your mother
was.
When we turned right onto the main dock pier and headed toward the
entrance to the marina, a foul odor rose off the water.
Evidently the tide had washed a dead squid or a man-of-war or a fish in
among the pilings. The rotting corpse must have gotten caught above
the water line on one of the jagged masses of barnacles that encrusted
the concrete caissons. The stench became so ripe that the humid air
seemed to be not merely scented but flavored with it, as repulsive as a
broth from the devil’s dinner table. I held my breath and kept my
mouth tightly closed against the disgusting taste that had been
imparted to the fog.
The grumble of the Nostromo’s engines had faded as it cruised out to
the mooring. Now the muffled rhythmic thumping that came across the
water sounded not like engine noise at all but like the ominous beat of
a leviathan’s heart, as though a monster of the deep might surface in
the marina, sinking all the boats, battering apart the dock, and
plunging us into a cold wet grave.
When we reached the midpoint of the main pier, I looked back and saw