Golden Fields

The boat occupies much of the interior space of the wood-shop. It appears some of the shop’s upper landing had to be cut back to accommodate the vessel. The rest of the cramped space is filled with the detritus of hurried work: packing materials cover most of the floor and corners, a stack of broken down delivery crates teeters ominously to one side, and sawdust fills in any remaining gaps.

The sailboat itself has been modified almost beyond recognizability. Its hull is covered in hundreds of sloping silvered-glass panels, reflecting a distorted image of the room. The mast has been taken down and replaced with a field-interchangeable rig. The sailcloth, stacked in piles against the keel, is painted in strange patterns: great whorls, dots, and streaks of black against its bleached white canvas. A steam propellor has been added, its drive shaft routed through the transom. All interior conveniences have been stripped, save a storage locker.

The Letters

The first letter, handed over by the boat builder, is written in Karl’s handwriting:

November 11
Finn,

I know this is a very unusual set of requests, but I must call in all of my favors here. Enclosed with this letter is as much coin as I felt safe sending by courier. More will arrive in the following days. There is a project of mine: a sailboat by the name Golden Fields. I need some peculiar modifications done, with as much haste as you can manage. It will need to be picked up from Summer’s Breath. Attached to this letter is a list of materials. It is of utmost importance that you get them as purely and specifically as possible. For instance, the silver content of the mirrors must not drift far from the list. I cannot explain why.

I’m sorry that I could not come see you. I hope to do so as soon as you can finish this work. It will be good, after all these years. The fight here has made me weary. I sometimes feel there are no longer good choices to be made, only compromises. Some days, I feel for sure that I have lost sight of the cause. I keep secrets now, compulsively. Even those closest to me have no idea about this work. My sleep continues to lessen. Do you believe, my friend, that we can find answer in our dreams?

-K

It is accompanied by a list, in tiny scrawled writing, of very precise specifications for much of what lies around the shop.

The second letter is found within the boat’s locker, crumpled and torn, as if discarded there in anger. It is also written in tiny scrawling hand writing:

Afore the next new moon my gardens shall
again fall empty

strangling weeds, invaders from distant lands
choke out the sun and the stars and the light
and I, old in year
frail in form
wise in histories
know

they seek me now.

so, a journey
to a place even weeds dare not take root
to a place the shadow of their fury still
walks
sings
hunts.

up the poisoned river
under the watching eyes of that sentry glade
past the old bridge, with its stories of before
around those bends (take care, take heed!)
around those bends again (take shelter!)
around again and towards the rise of day
and when day rises
so does danger
so does memory
so does fear
take shelter then and trust to the currents
take shelter then and trust to the mirrors
take shelter then and hope.

afore we may meet again.

8