fLoOd--Part Twenty-Five

Hope and Memory

tWeNtY-fIvE

   While the bow passengers were holding quite still, with Peterson and Smith gripping their places for dear life and Jones sitting as if his frozen form were attached to the seat, the stern passengers were somewhat more of a lively crew. On our way to visit this more exciting area of the vessel, we pass by Davis (still sleeping) and Wilkerson (sorting out his collection of trunk items). Brown we find in a one-sided conversation with his urn, for the most part held in a volume too low for apprehension, but our ears prick up when he flings one arm wide and says, "He ate it before it could move a muscle." His pause at this point leaves us deep in a state of curiosity and slight uneasiness, but then the dialogue, which we hope is actually a monologue, resumes, again in a tenor which will not admit of observation. Looking towards Johnson, we find him wielding his instrument like a man possessed. Our current speed seems to have lashed him into a frenzy of inspiration as he churns out a driving melody, mostly of his own composition, alhtough here and there can be discerned strains of Beethoven, Gershwin and George M. Cohan.

   And finally, although in no way least conspicuous, our eyes and ears light upon Murphy. Murphy appears to have come to the opinion that this entire boat journey has been orchestrated for his personal inconvenience and he has not found that discovery to be an edifying one. Let us eavesdrop upon his vocal meditations.

   "Ye'll not take me down this way." (I fear we've joined Murphy at a point already in progress.) "I can handle anything ye can dish out. Ye think these crazed leprechauns of yeers" (indicating his fellow passeners) "can keep me from getting me hands on the most glorious treasure stolen from Ireland in all the centuries past? Why, look at 'em! A bunch of lily-livered potato-stealers! They'll not take this boat anywhere but where I care to drive it. Go faster! Go faster! Ye'll just get me there that much sooner! Ye can't take me the wrong way for all ways lead to me journey's end! Ha! And by the time I get there ye can bet I'll be ridin' this vessel ALONE! HA! All yeer little munchkins will have joined ye in the deep deep well of black muck ye call yeer heart. Ha!" (Here Murphy rises.) "Blow winds! Crack yeer cheeks!" (Is it possible our Murphy is a Shakespearean scholar? Or might it be simply that great minds think alike? Let us see how he continues.) "I dance a jig to the tune of yeer wild music!" (Here Murphy attempts a step or two but the surface he chooses for dancing is none of the steadiest and after a moment, he finds himself sitting beside the unconscious Davis. Murphy glances at the boy's head, the only part of him visible, heaves a sigh and resumes.) "An innocent...A boyo...Just like me own." (His eyes grow dim with memory.) "Ah, me own boyo, where are ye now? Why wouldn't ye stick wi' yer da? We'd have found the treasure together and taken it home to yer ma and sisters and lived happily ever after." (Tears are gently rolling down either side of his nose.) "See us now in the little cottage, the girls playin' on a swing and yer ma hangin' clothes, the cows lowin' in the pasture and the sheep browsin' on a hill. 'Tis like a picture in a book. But where are ye? And where am I? I'm here and ye're nowhere. Why did ye have to betray me?" (He turns again to Davis and this time the look in his eye is menacing.) "Ye're no longer any son o' mine! Ye'll not deliver me to th' asylum or tell yeer ma I'm not in me right brains." (Murphy suddenly quietens and ceases all motion.) "Ye'd be best off if ye didn't come any further on this trek, me boyo. Ye'd best go and look for the treasure somewheres else...perhaps down below." Slowly Murphy wraps his arms around Davis, blanket and all. He moves onto his knees to give himself greater leverage. He finds that the boy isn't nearly as heavy as he'd expected. He gets Davis' legs up onto the side of the boat, but just as he is about to heave the rest of him into oblivion, the newly arrived potted plant crashes down on his head and he and Davis both slide down into the bottom of the boat. There, Murphy, Davis and the plant lie in a jumbled heap.

   Wilkerson's first concern is for the plant. He scrapes up as much earth as can be retrieved from the shattered remnants of the pot and crams it into one of the shoes collected in his recent forage. He digs out a space in the soil and gently presses the roots of the plant into it and covers them over with the earth mounded around the edges of the shoe. He reaches over the side, into the rushing water, and gathers a bit to sprinkle into the newly inhabited footwear.