When the Song Left the Sea. Kevin Ph.D. Hull

had the power to give a man the strength to suffer another day, as he searched for that which cuts so deeply and fills his emptiness with a glimmer of hope?

      Most days went something like this: long walks on the broad beach, the dull sheen of driftwood in the encroaching fog, the fragrance of eucalyptus, wild rosemary, bottlebrush and sage, the brown hills covered in tall mustard plants; the micro-climates’ strange influence on earth and man alike – cool, foggy coastal summers, hot sun-drenched golden hills inland. Suddenly one crossed the demarcation line between cool tatters of fog and serious heat, the unpredictable sea and the whale’s journey; dolphins and sea lions too singing ocean joy – as if to teach the land-locked world. Then there was Morro Rock, beautiful and imposing, decorated in gull excrement, home to the once endangered Peregrine falcon.

      This was the world Hector haunted now – a pint of Jack Daniels in his back pocket, a small notebook and pencil in his shirt pocket. He simply wandered aimlessly, belonging to nowhere and nothing. He was in a different war now – not the ‘wrong’ wars greed and stupidity had created from Korea to Iraq; no, this was a true ‘Jihad’ or holy war in which a human being tries to transmute flesh into spirit – and he was the battlefield, the general, the president, as well as the dutiful grunt.

      David had witnessed, in hiding, the scene between Martha and his unhappy father, uncomprehending. But a question was forming inside him, a question that he could not put into words but whose meaning was even then beginning to weigh upon his heart, knowing, in his childish innocence, more than he could assimilate.

      He climbed the stairs to his room and pulled a box from under his bed. A toy car was on his windowsill but he had yet to see it. Previously, Martha had given him some toys and various items – some of which he kept in his box. He slowly removed the lid and searched among baseball cards and action figures until he found what he was looking for. He saw the mysterious toy car and put it beside the box, on the floor, while he reached inside and brought out a picture.

      For a few moments he studied the face in the photograph, the long dark hair and the reckless smile, the dark eyes, arms akimbo, before a background of ocean surf. He studied the face, as it were, for some kind of answer, a feeling of vague longing pressing on his chest. . . And a response seemed about to congeal in his throat, only to fade away. Then he put the picture and other items away and picked up a shiny metal car; a detailed replica of a ‘49 Ford, painted bright green. Martha had not given him this either; he had simply found it on his window-sill just a few days before. Just as he would find the others. No one had said anything. Momentarily he put the first car and the photograph away and sat on the floor, absent-mindedly holding the lid.

      Martha had taught him his first word. He whispered that word now, not knowing why, unable to find any better word for the strange feelings that were suddenly welling up inside him.

      “Daddy,” he whispered, and placed the lid neatly on the box and slid it gently back beneath his bed.

      Dear Antonin,

      If I may be so familiar. Your music has spoken my name, so, yes, I know you. You sing like the great whale, a cry of echoes shimmering beneath a membrane of light and darkness – the mysterious deep. Of course God exists! You seem to be saying. But this does not mean he is maintenance free. We are too weak to sing his songs, to take the world back to where it belongs. And because of our weakness nothing changes.

      Beneath the covers in the dark room, the little boy pulled his blanket tight against his chin and once more whispered the word “Daddy,” and soon fell asleep, clutching a shiny toy car to his chest.