“Reynier,” you said, again speaking the new language, “go tell the bosun Joubert is to be relieved of duty for two days. He needs rest. Work would only finish him off.” Once more you put the cup to my lips to drink. “Do not fear, your suffering is a commonplace thing. Flogging is cruel and stupid and utterly futile, serving only to break men and to set them against their masters.” You cradled my hands in your own and I began to weep. To relieve my torment, you gave me laudanum to drink. Unable to sleep on my back in a hammock, I fell into a fitful slumber right there on the surgical table, lying on my stomach. You settled into a chair beside me, to spend the night keeping vigil over your patient. I was woken in the middle of the night by your screams.

My wounds healed quickly enough. Before long I was back at my post, standing on lookout high among the sails, where I could meditate at my leisure upon recent events. The Solide continued to be carried by the trade winds into the fogs of the north Pacific. But from a distance, every night, I heard you calling out in your tormented sleep. The nightly hullabaloo you raised soon began to stoke the flames of superstition in the crew. Sailors sleep poorly even in the most placid sea, and are in the habit of stewing on their grievances like a cook stirring his soup. These nocturnal disturbances became a favorite topic of conversation among the more conspiratorially minded, who gathered together below decks, whispering at first and later declaring their speculations boldly to all who would listen: the doctor had been possessed, they said, that night on the island, by the spirit of the dead boy.

I avoided the idle gossip and wild speculations, though they were truer than any reasonable man might have imagined. I had speculations of my own to confirm. I could not understand what had happened. To begin with, I’d been certain that you had made a crossing. But in denying me you had planted in me the seed of a doubt, a seed that found fertile ground. Was I all alone on this boat? Had I left the island for no good purpose? Had I desecrated the Law in error? My intent had been to follow and protect you, to help you return to the island, to uphold the Law and our love, but now it appeared that in trying to honor the Law I had only succeeded in desecrating it. This thought tormented me.