Viator

Lunde made a clicking with his tongue, a vocal gesture that seemed to signal regret. I was dazed, he said. Dazed and groggy from shock, from lack of sleep, from stress. I sat staring out the glassless windows at the misted peace of the firs and was overcome by a feeling of calmness and security…though not of completion. I had no sense of finality. There was much more to do, I thought. What had gone before was just the beginning. I untied myself and made my way out onto the deck, going on unsteady legs toward the stern, intending to inspect the damage. The fisherman had followed us in, anchoring so close to shore, I could read its name and port of origin painted on a white tire that hung from its side: the Fat Allie out of Mayorkiq. They put forth a small boat bearing half-a-dozen men—Inupiat, judging by their complexions. They jumped out into the shallows and scrambled up the shingle. Some, I saw, carried rifles. Had I witnessed a ship run aground in a similar fashion, I would not have investigated without benefit of arms. Who knows what one might find onboard? But I assumed these men were bent on thievery and capable of worse. I hid in a storage locker off the bridge until I could no longer hear shouts and movement. Then I sneaked into the stern and watched them load their boat with tools, the big microwave from the galley, the crates consigned to Panama. Later I discovered they had stolen personal items from my cabin. And they were only the first vultures. Before the Fat Allie could get underway, townspeople began arriving in outboards and on foot through the forest. There must have been a hundred of them. Entire families bent on acquisition. Women with toddlers and old men with canes accompanying those who did the actual stealing. They swarmed over the ship. I didn’t bother to hide. I wandered in a fog among them, all but unnoticed. Soon I felt lightheaded and I took a seat on a hatch cover. I must have passed out and someone must have noticed me then, for I woke that afternoon in Kaliaska. The following morning, a company plane flew me to Anchorage; two days later, another plane flew me to Stockholm. I haven’t set foot on Viator since.

—Why not? Wilander asked. You came back to Alaska.

—I was many years in Sweden, attempting unsuccessfully to resurrect my career. The strain took a toll. I spent my health in the effort. Viator was always in my mind. I was convinced she was alive and wanted to understand her, to explore her. But I had no means of satisfying these ambitions. I worked for a nautical supply house. My commissions brought in scarcely enough for food and shelter. And then my parents died, passing within months of each other. My father had been prudent in his financial dealings, but the size of the inheritance was a shock for all that. I had the wherewithal to do anything I chose. My physical condition, however, was frail. I would not be able to endure life aboard a wrecked ship. I needed to be close to a decent medical facility.

A fishing boat steamed out from behind the headland, moving north and west, dark against the glittering blue water, heading—it appeared—for an empty quarter of the sea. Wilander felt an almost physical affinity with it. And so you came up with your plan, he said.

—There was nothing to keep me in Sweden. I had no children and my wife had initiated divorce proceedings as soon as she saw how things would go with my career. I flew to Alaska and bought the agency. And now I know I was right about everything.

—About Viator being alive?

—That…yes. And about the presentiment I had after we ran aground—that there was more to be done. More I had to do. I gave this short shrift in my story, but that feeling was stronger in me than any other I had during the entire experience. The company dragged me away so quickly, I had no opportunity to understand the role I was to play in Viator’s future. I knew she needed me. Whatever happened during the storm…and I’m not sure now the storm was significant. Or if it was, if it served to awaken the ship, no spirit came to us on its winds. I’ve come to think it was our lives, through some affinity, some freakish unity, that provided Viator with the energy she required to live. I believe she manipulated Kameus and the others to isolate me on board, so she could then direct me to run her aground in a specific place. I think her control over the five of us was imprecise and she needed to be precise in controlling me. For years I’ve believed as much, but I’ve had nothing to flesh out my belief. What you’ve told me makes everything comprehensible.

—I’m glad you comprehend it. I don’t.