...My son lay down in the boat as the oarsman labored. He kept his eyes shut, bathing the tender skin in the morning sun. He knew that when he tried to see again, that the faces of his captors would be revealed slowly from behind a wash of redness, enveloping every corner of the universe.
The waters were calm, and he focused on the sound of rhythmic breathing and the oars slapping the sea, the sensation of warmth on his skin, the air smelling bright and green. It occurred to him that the distance between this moment and the next was infinite. That entire lives might be led in the space between contemplation and captivity. Each life dividing the distance in half, and so long as there was a distance to half, the final bridging could never be made. It had been a riddle posed by the Englishman, who attributed the trick to a magician from Greece, who had discovered the infinity of turning inward by watching animals chase one another.
The sea was cupped by the lip of the boat. He, held within, atop, beneath. Listening for the dream of the dragon's shores, but hearing only the voice of the oarsman, humming some sailor's tune, Does this remind you of rowing up the river with a woman in summer, my son asked, I should think not, the oarsman replied, Try and let it remind you of that, said my son, the oarsman became cold, I have never done it and so it can't remind me of any such thing.
My son allowed a few moments to go by quietly, and started to whistle a slow and innocent tune, mimicking the high whoops of a crane, the low rush of fresh water. Are you reminded yet, he asked, Not in the least but if you will be quiet I will say that I am...
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