Baptism

‘I once owned a sailboat, in the morning hours as the golden kingdom would rise to take its dominion over the night sky, we would untie the sails. The morning breeze was cool, and alluded to the coming day. Under our feet the boat would gently rock, the sea our mother and comforter. Peace and loving companionship and unity prevailed, we should’ve known then, we should’ve seen the sea put on the cloaks of Brute’, should’ve seen the wind slither amongst us in paradise with evil intention.’
Numah looked up out into the void, the sun was still reigning in its kingdom, and as a peasant Numah endeared his harsh penance. Was it cooler now? Did the sun ease its strength while whipping its servant? Numah laid the pencil down on the notebook.
He felt a sort of confession in his letter, he knew his body was not long for this side of exile, but maybe writing would be a gateway to the entrance to the other side, his soul felt lighter. With this Numah closed his eyes accepting-though not fully-the fate that had been dealt to him. His strength was waning, he would awake-he thought-in a new land, and perhaps Se’jus would guide him in his dreams to the conversion of the afterlife. As the dream had started, he felt lightness and serenity carry him. It was okay. Everything was okay.
What might’ve been two days in a dream, Numah awoke. The sun was gone, yet yielded no stars or moon. A cool droplet slid down his cheek, was he crying? Then another slid down his cheek, as if a revolution had begun. Seconds later he felt the cool pang of tears slide on the sunburnt skin of his arm. It was raining. The droplets gained more and more members in the revolution, and raided the sky and sailboat in a counterattack against the drought.
Numah was soon baptized, and as if a priest was lowering him to salvation, Numah leaned back to take a drink from the sky’s gauntlet. Feeling revived Numah shot to the cabin and threw his notebook out of the rain, there was a small cup that held some pencils and other miscellaneous items, and so he dumped the contents of the cup and let it become full to the brim with baptism.
The conversion lasted nearly all night, though no heavy wind nor high wave came to assault. His body was revived by raining rite. Though this was no salvation, for six years this pattern would emerge, and as he would write he would drink, but never thrive. For six years Numah rode on the midnight sea, sometimes a breeze would lend a hand in his endeavor as he sailed by the stars. For six years Numah journeyed on the Open Sea in a quest to regain his unity, emptiness growing with severity every passing year. Until the seventh year, when Numah hit the wall of fog and cold.