Part 11 (1/2)
”Either I have lost my mind from this gin, or a s.h.i.+p is being wrecked near by. How they are crying!”
He looks out of the window.
”No, no one is here. It is the wind. The wind feels weary, and it plays all by itself. It has seen many s.h.i.+pwrecks, and now it is inventing. The wind itself is crying; the wind itself is scolding and sobbing; and the wind itself is laughing--the rogue! But if you think that this rag with which I have covered the window is a sail, and that this ruin of a castle is a three-masted brig, you are a fool! We are not going anywhere! We are standing securely at our moorings, do you hear?”
He pushes the sleeping man cautiously.
”Get up, Noni. I feel lonesome. If we must drink, let's drink together--I feel lonesome. Noni!”
Haggart awakens, stretches himself and says, without opening his eyes:
”Fire.”
”Here it is.”
”Something to drink.”
”Here it is! A fine wind, Noni. I looked out of the window, and the sea splashed into my eyes. It is high tide now and the water-dust flies up to the tower. I feel lonesome, Noni. I want to speak to you. Don't be angry!”
”It's cold.”
”Soon the fire will burn better. I don't understand your actions. Don't be angry, Noni, but I don't understand your actions! I am afraid that you have lost your mind.”
”Did you drink again?”
”I did.”
”Give me some.”
He drinks from the mouth of the bottle lying on the floor, his eyes wandering over the crooked mutilated walls, whose every projection and crack is now lighted by the bright flame in the fireplace. He is not quite sure yet whether he is awake, or whether it is all a dream. With each strong gust of wind the flame is hurled from the fireplace, and then the entire tower seems to dance--the last shadows melt and rush off into the open door.
”Don't drink it all at once, Noni! Not all at once!” says the sailor and gently takes the bottle away from him. Haggart seats himself and clasps his head with both hands.
”I have a headache. What is that cry? Was there a s.h.i.+pwreck?”
”No, Noni. It is the wind playing roguishly.”
”Khorre!”
”Captain.”
”Give me the bottle.”
He drinks a little more and sets the bottle on the table. Then he paces the room, straightening his shoulders and his chest, and looks out of the window. Khorre looks over his shoulder and whispers:
”Not a single light. It is dark and deserted. Those who had to die have died already, and the cautious cowards are sitting on the solid earth.”
Haggart turns around and says, wiping his face:
”When I am intoxicated, I hear voices and singing. Does that happen to you, too, Khorre? Who is that singing now?”