(no subject)
Today the Pacific honors its name. It's one of those days the sea is dark blue and the sky is a lighter blue, and the line of the horizon between them is a perfect circle, and both are like twin tin plates reflecting the merciless heat of the sun. The wind is barely enough to push the stolen Spanish ship forwards towards Singapore, but not little enough to excuse the crew from work.
The scaffold rises in the middle of the fort's yard like the sun-bleached skeleton of a shipwreck. A monotone voice numbers the list of new crimes punishable by death under the East India Trading Company rule as the line of chained figures marches forwards.
So while below deck some people conspire to jump ship early and head for a certain temple, above deck sailors work in a dull silence under the stifling sun. The only sounds are the splash of the waves as the prow cuts through them and the creaking of the wood and the rigging.
Funny thing, how these little sounds can combine in a way that almost, almost sounds like they had a rhythm of their own, isn't it?
A thin, trembling voice rises from the gallows. The boy slowly turns the coin in his hands, eyes low.
" The king and his men
stole the queen from her bed
and bound her in her Bones."
How the wind and the voice of the ship itself seems to insinuate a melody into the crew's minds as they go about their duties.
"The seas be ours
and by the powers
where we will we’ll roam."
And through the rattling of chains, and the cry of the seagulls, hidden in the splash of the waves ashore and the howl of the Atlantic winds. In the crashing of glass and the roar of the cannon, the song travels. And those for whom its sung, even those who don't know yet, hear it.
The scaffold rises in the middle of the fort's yard like the sun-bleached skeleton of a shipwreck. A monotone voice numbers the list of new crimes punishable by death under the East India Trading Company rule as the line of chained figures marches forwards.
So while below deck some people conspire to jump ship early and head for a certain temple, above deck sailors work in a dull silence under the stifling sun. The only sounds are the splash of the waves as the prow cuts through them and the creaking of the wood and the rigging.
Funny thing, how these little sounds can combine in a way that almost, almost sounds like they had a rhythm of their own, isn't it?
A thin, trembling voice rises from the gallows. The boy slowly turns the coin in his hands, eyes low.
" The king and his men
stole the queen from her bed
and bound her in her Bones."
How the wind and the voice of the ship itself seems to insinuate a melody into the crew's minds as they go about their duties.
"The seas be ours
and by the powers
where we will we’ll roam."
And through the rattling of chains, and the cry of the seagulls, hidden in the splash of the waves ashore and the howl of the Atlantic winds. In the crashing of glass and the roar of the cannon, the song travels. And those for whom its sung, even those who don't know yet, hear it.