My father used to tell me the story of the ocean and how it came to be. It was befallen in the vastness of a color that can be described as the absence of all thoughts. He would say the emptiness is not left by the abandonment of man but rather the absence of their arrival. Forbidden entry by the depths of the obsidian tomb that no soul dared to venture within. He’d say that these waters, damn near impossible to discover, were of a goddess who longed for disciples she would never bear. Those who dared would thus be consumed by her love and lament, faced with her unwitting dissent. Many souls have been claimed, even more have been chained further than is possible to reach by beings as weak as us. As I look out at her waters now, I remember the excitement on my father’s face as he declared that he would worship the untamable goddess.
My father had a dream, and he chased that dream ever since he could run. There are tales within our small town of a boy who was determined to escape through the ocean. That boy would be out swimming, teaching himself tricks to stay afloat, and even attempting to build his own vessel as he aged. That boy, who was still very much in his youth when I came about, was my father. When I came around, he said he had to put his dream aside, though I don’t think he truly did. My bedtime stories were of the ocean and of the goddess who promised liberty. As far as he was concerned, you’d have to pry that dream out of his cold, clammy hands. He said many times that the only thing that could take his dream was death. He declared that the only way he’d die was by her hands or in her land– whichever came first.
The goddess in my father’s tales carried those who were grateful to a new life where they could be equals to her. So long as one respected her power, she delivered them safely to a land where she was waiting. That promise is what led my father to her waters all those years ago; he always knew he was too good for our small town. He said that he’d know he was in the right place when he could see the goddess, torch outstretched as she welcomed him home.
I tried to keep that thought of the ocean plastered in my mind– a kind, loving goddess. A goddess who would protect me from harm; who promised passage so long as her forbidden beauty was adequately admired. My father journeyed on her open waters nearly 50 years prior to this night. That was the last time I ever saw my old man, though he wasn’t very old then. My father’s face was smooth and he wore a boyish grin that I can sometimes see mirrored in my grandchildren. I’ll never forget the way he smiled as he told me he was off to accept the promise that the ocean made to him. I don’t know if she ever made good on her promise and delivered him to the land he spoke about. He told me that he might be able to write, but he would need to learn the language of the goddess first. I don’t suppose he ever learned– I never received his letters, anyhow.
I like to imagine that he grew old and adopted wrinkles that now reflect on my own face. He would have settled down in the land of the free, finally achieving what he had wanted all along. He would take the goddess’ hand and she would tell him that in this land, everyone was equal and everyone was free.
I can almost see her in my mind as I board the boat with a few young men from my hometown. They are both much younger than I; they remind me of my father when he left. They are courageous and have that look in their eyes that tells me the world has not beaten them down yet. At the age of sixty-five, I am much older than the average passenger.
I was satisfied with my life in the motherland. Truly I had settled down, and I had married. I had a few children of my own that taught me more than I could have possibly imagined. It was only when my youngest grandson asked about my father that I had even thought about the ocean. I vividly remembered the stories my father would tell me of the cerulean goddess with her torch shining as she accepted the grateful passengers. Yet, I had not gained my father’s adoration for her. I had neglected his legacy and now, I look out at her waters and beg for forgiveness. However, words were not enough and I knew that. My fate was buried in my genetics– I had to see that cerulean goddess with my own eyes. I want to face the equality that my father was promised and see with my own eyes what the land that led my father away could be like.
My grandson stands on the docks now, a grown man himself, as I begin my journey. He looks quite like my father, that same boyish grin. He calls the goddess and her land by a different name. One in a language that cannot penetrate my mind for I have waited too long to try and understand. Unlike my father, I never felt like I would be too much for this town; not until recently. My grandson wants to visit her land, but I could not bear the thought of never hearing from him as I did my father. I told him I would go to meet her first to make sure I could be with him. After years of convincing and saving enough money to pay the kind man to take me over her waters, it was time.
“I will tell the goddess of you, my boy,” I promise him. He stares into my eyes the same as everyone else had. They don’t believe my tales of the goddess, but I know she is true. My father was many things but there was one thing for certain, he had met that goddess before. For him, this journey was just a way to reunite with his forbidden love– I doubt it was ever about the land. If my father said he had seen this woman, cloaked in the colors from which she came, then I believe he did. I believe he ventured to feel her gracious gift of freedom for life.
My body shivers against the rough salty air and before I could stop him, my grandson removes his own coat and places it in my arms. The coat is beautifully striped in white and blue; it belonged to my father, and I had given it to my grandson as a gift many years back. I smiled and with a nod, wrapped the coat around me. It would protect me from the wind, and I would return it to him once we see each other again.
“Don Santiago,” My grandson looked past me to the man driving the boat. With his wiry beard and sharpened smile, he almost resembled a brush wolf.
Their eyes met and they shared words I was not invited to understand. I know my grandson is worried about me, but he speaks in a tongue that he knows I do not understand in order to appear kind when speaking of me. I wish I could tell him that no matter the language he uses, it is his body that gives away his emotions.
He didn’t have to worry about me understanding what he said, his body already told me. We humans are much like the ocean in that way; our waves tell a story that our tongues cannot even begin to comprehend. I do not wish to sour my relationship with my grandson, so I’ll play my part and tell the goddess once I meet her. I’m sure she’ll find it humorous that our version of equality where I am from has limitations based on how others see you and what they believe you can understand.
The brush wolf man promised us a journey that would be unlike any other, and he was right about that. He was just unaware of how right he could have been, and how much he would regret ever speaking those words.
Our journey began just four months ago. The brush wolf man smiled at me as he adjusted his coat and brought the engine to life. The young men across from me finally settled down. As the engine roared to life, I thought about what their reasoning may be for this journey. However, I have no need to ask them their reasons.
They would likely lie and tell me a tale, removing the most vulnerable parts of their journey. Those same parts that made it real and scary. I would simply read them as the ocean does; their bodies paint beautiful stories that share nothing but the truth.
The brush wolf man makes this journey every few months so long as the patrons down payments have been made, his reasoning is simple. He traverses her waters for the money of the desperate, and I cannot fault him for that. What he does not tell is that he is working for his sick father, so that they may become worshippers of the goddess themselves. Their family has been in our small town for many generations, a single dream of meeting that freedom-bringing deity tying their souls together. They have been trapped here, whether it was lack of money or illness, and they want nothing more than to get out. He knows what it is like to feel like a caged animal and believes no man should have to feel that much anger and fear. So he takes the money of the desperate, despite the evil looks he gets from the townsfolk. If they had stopped to look at him, maybe they would understand he is just as desperate as those who employ him.
The two young men could be brothers, maybe cousins, but they sit close to one another. The older of the two has molded his mouth into a thin line, there is something bothering him. He stares out at the ocean with fear and respect, though his expression is left blank. It is obvious he doesn’t want his younger relative to know that he is fearful. His knees are locked and sweat forms on his brow, yet he makes no movements to remove it. The younger of the two, no older than fifteen, wears a bright smile across his face. As he clings to his relative’s side, his body shows no signs of fear. He reminds me much of my father in that way; there is nothing but excitement flowing through his veins.
Their family, too, has been in our town for many years but not quite as long as the brush wolf man’s. I remember when their father came into town, he was a merchant from a neighboring country. He met and fell in love with a woman from our town, but there was always something that was missing within him. He passed away just a month ago, got caught in the blades of his tools and wrapped himself around a tree. When he met his unfortunate fate working in our lumber yard, he was found clutching a picture of a young girl. Scrawled on the back was an address in the country of the cerulean goddess. Perhaps that is why these young men have decided to leave home– for answers, whether they want the truth or not, is for them to decide.
The tragedy struck when we were four months into our journey. The young men had grown tired of the ocean and had begun to curse the sea. There was never a day when they were not sick, which only made their dehydration that much worse. Our supplies had grown desperately low, and while he did not say a word about his feelings, I could tell the brush wolf man was nervous. He had grown tired of my stories of my father, I had not spoken in days. There was a cloud of darkness around our boat and we had nowhere but darkness to fall to.
We had all but given up hope when I spotted her– my beautiful cerulean goddess was so close, I felt I could hold her. The brush wolf man’s eyes began to light up as he saw what I, too, had been looking for. The sick young men, pale from their ailments, stood up and breathed for the very first time since we had left. The oldest unlocked his knees, the youngest smiled once again. I knew then that my father was looking down at me, just as he always had. I could feel his hand on my shoulder, telling me that the goddess was ready to welcome me.
At least, I thought he was looking down at me. I felt a tug at my shoulder and watched as the men around me lost their hope as quickly as it had returned. There was loud shouting in a language I could not understand before the brush wolf man grabbed my torso and pulled me onto him. It was then that I realized I had been injured, maybe shot, though it was hard to tell. I watched the blood flower against my coat, blooming against the beautiful blue and white.
More shouting continued as I watched the youngest man fall straight back, grasping his torso. He had never looked more like a scared child, he had lost his facade. It was one shot after another and we were unarmed. The water began to invite itself into our boat through its own wounds. The near-obsidian liquid fell at our feet as it mixed with our crimson, the soft white sea foam turning a dull pink. My ears filled with the cries of the boys in front of me, they were begging not to die.
I cried out for my goddess, that same goddess that I could see with her torch stretched out, to save me. I had done nothing wrong, these young men had done nothing wrong– but she couldn’t hear me. If she could, she was choosing not to listen to our cries for salvation. She stood, stone-faced and perfect, staring out past me as if I meant nothing to her. As if my life and sacrifices were not enough for her to stop the men shooting at us. One last loud bang flew beside me as I watched a small red dot form against the brush wolf man’s head. His eyes, previously scared, cleared before his weight dropped against our vessel, turning it completely on its belly.
As my face hit the icy waters, I accepted her grasp as if she were my oxygen. I felt her pulling me down and wrapping so hard around me that I could not breathe. I could have sworn that I had seen her on that shore but now I am falling further within and I cannot claw my way out. Perhaps I did not worship her enough. I took her offered asylum for granted. Maybe I should have been more like my grandson and learned her tainted native tongue– then would I have been worthy enough for her acceptance? What made me less of a human than those who stood on her shore and fired at us like we were rabid animals?
I looked around and saw the young men flailing around me. Our glassy eyes meet and I simply shake my head. I need to save them, they are just kids. Yet I know just as well as they do that I cannot save them. I could not even save myself. As the world becomes darker, I recall my father’s bright smile when he left our town. He wouldn’t have fought against her hold, he would have let go. So I did just as he would have, and accepted that I was not worthy enough to see her again.
In my final moments of descent, I could have sworn I saw her face. Not the same one that was constructed on the shore– no, this was one real. She was a porcelain teal, with cracks lining her face. Her hands were tied behind her back, chained and rusted. The very idol of freedom had been caged. The very symbol that welcomed everyone had been banished beyond what was reachable by those weak enough to think they are better than her. Abandoned by those that she had saved, tears lined her cheeks. Her torch laid beside her but the light had gone out.
She had been destroyed and malformed into something barely recognizable. I try to reach out and speak to her, but my starving mind cannot form the words. I want to ask her if she, too, found humor in the irony of equality. I want to tell her about my grandson and how he paid the brush wolf man to take me to see her. I want to ask her why I was not worthy enough. I wanted to beg her to let those poor children live– to just take my soul and my sins instead.
As I fall to her feet, I can finally see her eyes. They are hollow and tired and she simply shakes her head as if she could read my thoughts. My final moments are spent at her feet, hearing as she brokenly sobbed out to me–
“Lo siento, mi hijo. I’m so sorry.”
Comments from contest judge Zackary Vernon: “A Freedom Legacy” is hauntingly beautiful and possesses a near mythic quality, as it details the intergenerational struggles of a family to find a place they can call home.
