The Enduring Sin

No one cared about the cold and fog that came in that night. It was the dead of winter and fog often drifted down from the lighthouse, curling through the ankles of any out in town too late at night. But on that moonless night it curled thicker, dampening the streetlights and pressing against the windows in search of entry. It didn’t fade by morning, so the dockmaster walked through still-sleeping streets, the sun grey and dim and scattered overhead, unable to see the houses from the pavement.

He was the first to see the ship docked in the oldest port. Old sails black with mould and limp rigging trailing in its wake, it was the kind of build that hadn’t been seen at this port in centuries; the kind that had children called in early and those with native blood slinking back between the forests. Its gangplank was down, inviting. By midmorning a crowd had gathered around the police barricades, uneasy excitement rippling through the town. No one recognised the name painted in flaking letters across its bow, and no strangers had been spotted among the townspeople. There had been no movement on the deck of the ship, not even a breeze to shift the sails. On the shore, though, there was a shift in the people; those who had been there generation after generation felt a familiar hum sparking in their memory. They came to watch but didn’t step a foot off the land, as if the wood of the docks would have them pulled suddenly into the waiting ship.

It was mid-day when the dockmaster and chief of police crossed the plank. The ship sat silent, no creak or groan or whisper from the wood underfoot. The sun was high and warm, but on the deck there was only grey light and thickened fog and silence — the murmur of voices and song of birds and daily life going on, curious and nosy behind them, were reduced to a silence so thick it rang in their ears. Unease prickled in the very air and they searched the ship quickly, never more than a few steps apart. It was empty, ancient and fresh in equal measures. The captain’s quarters were torn apart, ink-stained papers illegible and still dripping with cold water; the galley was spotless, preserves and half rotted fruit carefully packed away; there were casks of dry gunpowder, the scent still strong, their lids scattered with coins and dice that belonged in a museum. There was no sign of trouble, no blood stains or fallen weapons, no signs of life and no signs of death. But everywhere, the fog clung to their clothes, cold fingers drawn across bared skin. They delved deeper until they reached the stomach of the ship. Here, finally, the old boat groaned as they wrenched free the hatch, shrieking louder than anything natural had the right to be. They fell away, hearts hammering, hands shaking, but when nothing more came they rose again, every step forward taking every nerve they had. Fog rose to greet them, blinding until batted away, but there was no escaping the stench — worse than a sickroom, it was decay, pure and unfettered, tepid and cloying on their tongues with every shallow breath. They hunched over the entry for an eternity, eyes refusing to adjust, the pressure growing thicker in their ears, their heartbeats louder and faster and harsher until it wasn’t their hearts at all.

It was humming. An old tune, the words unintelligible but the tone — their pain — unmistakable. The policeman lurched away, covering his ears and shaking, but the dockmaster stood fastened in place, the smell growing familiar, the song settling in his ears like a maggot digging into flesh. He knew this room, remembered sleepless, humid nights, bodies pressed too close for too long, sickness you couldn’t avoid — that the skinless refused to treat — remembered the feel of the waves rocking against the other side of this wood as the storm worsened.

If not for the policeman, the dockmaster might’ve stayed rooted in place there, as at home as in a prison cell. But the policeman, repulsed beyond what words could speak, hauled him free and they staggered back across the gangplank into the cold and fog drifting with the dusk down from the lighthouse. It spilled from the gunports, crashing across the still, black water, darkness growing on either side of the horizon.

The town was restless that night, turning in their beds, worried by shapes they shouldn’t have known, the fog winding its way into their homes. Others took to the hidden streets, finding themselves among themselves, years old animosities pushed aside in the wake of an older song, growing louder as it passed from one person to the next, their anger hidden in the fog as it climbed and climbed and climbed. They did not sleep but the dreams remained, curling from one clasped hand to the next, ancient memories of monstrous acts, all rooted in the bowels of that strange ship, pouring out from the gunports and gaping hatches and settling in their lungs, wrapping around their brains, until their eyes ached and their ears bled and sense fell to memory. It had been so long, but these crimes had never truly faded, clinging to their daily lives — a sneer from the grocer, hesitation from the bank teller, cruel hands in the schoolyard. 

The fog hadn’t faded by morning, the bloody dawn bleeding thick through the sleeping streets. When the doors opened and the ground grew as wet and red as the air, no one in the town saw the ship drift from the dock, its sail slack and rigging trailing. 

They didn’t need the ship next time; there were plenty left singing in the streets even after their bodies melted into the earth.