The Wanderer didn’t recognize where he was until he saw the ship.
He blinked and had to look again.
The vessel was just like the one he had been on five and a half years before, except for the name on the stern. When the horn blew, he started, suddenly aware he was on the wharf, immersed in a mass of people swarming around him.
The crowd blew kisses to the passengers on deck, while they leaned over the railings, waving to the loved ones sending them off as the crew hoisted ropes from the dock.
His heart squeezed from the joy and sadness around him.
But the sight of an old man crying and shouting good-bye to a youth on the ship stopped him in his tracks.
In that moment, he saw his grandfather as he had been on the day he’d left. Their Patron and Patroness had stood on either side of him. The gnarled hand had been at the level of his heart and the Bard had never stopped waving, growing smaller from the Wanderer sailing away.
But he had remained on the deck, waving back long after his grandfather was gone.
A surge rose from the depths of his belly and returned the Wanderer to the day he knew his grandfather had passed, that moment the Bard’s soul passed through him.
His vision flooded from the tears streaming down his cheeks, making him blind to the stranger drawing him close.
There was warmth and strength in that embrace, and he sobbed into the unknown shoulder. After a time, the other pulled back and the Wanderer looked into the whiskey brown eyes of the old man he saw waving good-bye to his grandson setting sail for his grand adventure.
“Son,” he said. “It always hurts to lose someone. But the pain is worse if you hold on when it’s time to let go.”
Before the Wanderer could say anything, the horn bleated farewell. The old man touched his face and slipped away.
The Wanderer watched as the old man turned back to the boy on deck of the departing ship, waving with one hand and blowing kisses with the other. The youth’s face was filled with the bittersweet of excitement and sorrow, just as he had been five years before.
The Wanderer couldn’t stop crying.
He left the crowd behind for a lone stump down the wharf. There he faced the sea and surrendered to mourning.
His heart throbbed in the same manner whenever the girl from No Man’s Land had angered him. But this time, he was thinking of the last time he saw his grandfather.
Shocked, the Wanderer tried to push it away, but the sentiment wouldn’t be denied. Breathing deeply, smoke from the ship’s furnace mingled with the salt of the ocean, both acrid and refreshing at once. His tears dried up and he wanted to curse at the sky. His limbs were taut with the urge to run and make his escape.
But he didn’t.
The Wanderer finally admitted he was angry with the Bard for insisting he leave, and with himself for going when his heart told him to stay.
He remembered his first sight of the boat and the blinding white of its sails. He felt again that rush of guilt when he knew he wanted to get on board more than anything in his life, even while his grandfather was dying.
He couldn’t breathe when he thought of how alone he had been since the Bard passed on. Loneliness was the one thing in life he found unbearable.
Then the memory of his parents’ murder rushed in and the tears came again, a torrent of sobs wrenching him apart.
But this time, the Wanderer didn’t fight it.
He allowed the terror to consume him, just as it had that night.
He flinched when he remembered the intruder who had come to his room. Then he saw himself, suddenly overcome with tenderness for the terrified child he had been. He finally recognized the shame he had carried all his life for surviving an ordeal his parents didn’t.
Something lifted from the Wanderer. The relief made him giddy, so much he almost fell over.
Then he continued through his memories of those early years with his grandfather when he was trapped in a world of terror and helpless rage. That prison disappeared in the onslaught of love showered on him for the rest of his childhood.
Then the Wanderer had nothing but a deep gratitude for the grandfather who had saved him from the abyss of darkness that could have consumed him for the rest of his life.
He could still see the Bard’s face, with its deep lines and black eyes filled with the wisdom of life well lived.
And the Wanderer wept again until no tears were left.
Alpenglow streamed across the sky once he was done.
He felt empty after the storm of grief that he’d surrendered to. But the sensation was not unpleasant.
The Wanderer turned around and saw that the crowd had long dispersed, and the ship was tiny at the edge of the horizon. He smiled at the last glimpse of the vessel before it disappeared into the eastern mists.
He felt as if he were a shade above the ground when he stood up, the buoyancy like nothing he’d ever known in his life.
“Go home.”
The voice was soft, but the Wanderer saw nobody when he turned around.
“It’s time to go home.”
Then he realized the murmur came from inside him, the voice of his heart echoing through him.
Suddenly the Wanderer yearned for the village, for his friends and neighbors.
Then the Bard’s cabin came to mind. Instead of cold darkness, the windows and door were lit up from within because of course, a fire blazed in the hearth on his return.
He saw himself enter, and savored the aroma of wood burning, the heat warming him to the bone.
Everybody was inside to welcome him home, voices tinged with affection.
The image was so vivid he almost believed he was there until the call of the fishermen pulled him back to the wharf.
The smell of fish made him grimace and the Wanderer listened to the salt rough voices of seamen shouting to one another how well they fared.
But when he looked around, the Wanderer recognized the changing hour when the day people came to their finish and the night people to their start.
Fishermen hauled nets, their muscular necks straining while the ladies of night sauntered along the dock, their rolling hips an exaggeration of availability.
Dusk was forgiving of these women, lending the illusion of bloom over their defeated faces. They loitered near the boats and ignored the disapproving glares of passersby, their eyes narrowed slits fishing for the men looking for them.
The Wanderer smiled at the furtive couples he passed as they made on their way to the bordellos.
Life after dark was the same all over the world. But here the night people struck a deeper note inside him. They were a part of him, citizens and outcasts of the same country. Listening to them speak in his native tongue, the Wanderer finally knew he had come home.
Then he saw her.
