My boy began drawing on a large white napkin,
holding it up to the captain when he was finished.
Doesn't look like much to me, the captain
said, turning the napkin around this way and that.
It's not his picture, I said.
It's a transcription of his name to his image.
The boy can do that with most sounds.
He can do that with your name if he wants.
I have no name, he said, looking frightened.
So don't be asking me for one.
None of us have names neither, said the man in the blue shirt.
Isn't that right men?
No, no, they said in a chorus.
None of us have any kind of names.
Because when you say his name, I continue, the sound of it
vanishes into the air and he vanishes along
with it keeping all his power with him.
The captain remained silent for a moment
and then beckoned his men together about him
in a circle where they spoke in crowish barks,
very sharp and very unsettling.
I was fearful and thought of quietly taking my son back
the way we came, back to the dinghy and over the dark water,
back to our house where we again be safe.
Let's go my boy, I whispered.
Let's leave here while there's still time.
No dad, he said firmly.
You go if you want.
I need to stay.
I was so amazed by his audacity that I almost
forgot he was just a boy and that I was his father
and with a father's authority.
But just as I was about to assert myself,
the captain broke from his men returning to us
his arms crossed, his face a powdery white smoke.
We have decided to keep your drawing
and to keep your grandmother's soul to boot.
What do you say to that?
That death has many names in many languages and that now,
you have his image in only one language.
You can steal my picture, but you still
won't have the drawing of his other names, drawings
that I could trade with you when you needed me to.
A valiant answer from such a small boy.
But then even for such a brave boy, you are a brave boy,
the captain said, giving me a look
I took to mean that in the area of courage
the son surpassed the father.
The blue shirted man came up and whispered
into the captain's ear a long whisper,
the length of a woolen string.
The captain nodded slowly and turned to me and my son.
Let's go above deck.
Before I could say a word, we're all above deck
and under a black heaven, moonless and distraught.
I put my arm around my son's waist and held him fast.
You've won, my boy.
The captain said your grandmother's soul
is going where it belongs.
Let me see it, my son asked.
You can't see it, the blue shirted man said.
It has no visibility nor weight, nor color,
nor odor, the captain added.
It has none of the qualities--
none of the qualities you expect in your world.
He will know-- how will I know you freed her soul then,
my boy asked.
How will I know you've kept your word?
Stand very still, the captain ordered.
And you right beside him, he said
pointing to me with his sword.
Notice that there is no wind, no breeze, no movement of air
and that there's only stillness and the flat screen
of the night.
Yes, I said.
There's not the faintest stir.
Now, hold your breath, the two of you.
We stayed very still, not breathing
and suddenly felt for the quickest of seconds
a feathery whisper brush our faces.
That's that then, the captain said.
That's what, I asked, annoyed by his mumbo
jumbo, by what I thought were his theatrical airs.
Her last breath just flew by you, he said.
Her last breath carrying her soul.
At his final words, we found ourselves, my boy and I,
returned to our house.
The ship had vanished, leaving where it once
had been a black line of sea.