Problems in Port Sarim

The red sun began to ascend from behind the green hills, finally dispelling the clouds that lingered from the nights before. The light illuminated the dockyards and taverns of the harbor. The sea, now obediently calm, gently lapped against the shores of Port Sarim in ironic contrast to the storms that has torn through the region.

The sailors gossiped freely of the hurricane that had ripped through the Chalcis province to the south. Horse-drawn ambulances raced through the streets, transporting fugitives and victims of the powerful typhoon. The sailors were happy; the storms had only brushed the port, so trade continued, and profits prevailed.

Nathan stirred slightly, the white light from the sun finally penetrating the boy’s serene rest. He pressed his eyelids shut, a vain attempt to fight the burning light that streamed in through an open window across from him. He sat up, yawning and stretching experimentally. His muscles felt surprisingly limber. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, before examining his surroundings.

He was in a white room, filled with medical equipment, nurses, and other people, all lying in identical white cots. A hospital, Nathan thought. He looked for something that would give any indication of where he was.

A light breeze wafted through the open window, ruffling Nathan’s tousled brown hair. He breathed in, smiling slightly as the aroma of spring entered his nose. As far as he could tell, all evidence of the storm had disappeared.

He felt odd, as if he had too much energy. His legs tingled slightly, yearning to run and be set free. He noticed both hands were tied to the cot he was resting in. He tugged at the ropes fruitlessly, before a passing doctor noticed his actions.

“Lie down please,” said the doctor, shining a light in Nathan’s eyes. “Do you know who you are?”

“Nathan Raferian,” said Nathan, squinting against the bright beam. Apparently satisfied, the doctor placed a cool hand on Nathan’s wrist, checking his pulse. After several moments, he grabbed a clipboard by the bed, scrawling several notes on it.

“Do you know where you are?” asked the doctor, after a moment. Nathan shook his head, while attempting to rub his legs to dispel the uncomfortable feeling. The doctor observed Nathan for several moments. “You’re in the Port Sarim General Hospital Psych Ward,” he said.

“The psych ward?” asked Nathan confusedly.

“So you remember nothing of the past three days?”

“I remember falling off a building,” said Nathan. The memories of that night roared back to him. Why am I still alive? he thought. The doctor gave him an odd look, before writing another note on the clipboard.

“Nathan, you did not fall off any building. You were found in perfect physical health, aside from a slight fever. You have been in a state of psychosis for the past few days."


 * What kind of psychosis?” Nathan asked.

“Well,” said the doctor, flipping through his notes, “you were found wandering the streets of Remeris shouting in some other language. Seems you’ve come out of it though…anyway, I will fetch your parents.” Nathan watched the doctor go. So, his parents were here. Familiar trepidation filled Nathan’s chest as the realization that his father would soon arrive dawned on him.

“Nathan!” his mother cried across the room. She hurried over to his bedside, enveloping the protesting boy with a bear hug. Nathan spotted his father, regal and conceited, standing noiselessly at the foot of his bed. “I’m so glad you’re alright!” gushed his mother, eliciting an embarrassed smile from Nathan.

His father was now talking quietly with the doctor, emphasizing his words with violent hand gestures. Nathan had seen this impatient mood before, and he wondered how much booze was swimming in his father’s bloodstream now. His father’s words were becoming louder, and the doctor turned pale as his voice reached a shouting level.

“What do you mean you don’t know what’s wrong with him?” he snarled, pointing at Nathan. “You found him chanting in the middle of a bloody hurricane!” His father’s handsome face was contorted with alcohol-fueled anger.

“Look for yourself,” the doctor said weakly. “He’s perfectly healthy, lucid, and aware of his surroundings. It could be some sort of emotional trauma fueling a sort of nervous breakdown, but—”

“What the hell were you doing out there anyway?” said Nathan’s father, turning his wrathful gaze on his son.

“For heaven’s sake Arthur—” his mother began to protest.

“Shut up Martha, if I’m going to be accused of parent neglect by some second-rate doctor I’ll be damned if I don’t know why. Out with it boy!” At this point, two burly hospital guards appeared behind his father’s shoulder, dragging the inebriated man back. He swore loudly, fighting the guards’ grip.

“He had a few drinks,” said his mother in a small voice. She wiped tears from her eyes as she gripped Nathan’s hands. She sighed, closing her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You gave us quite a scare.”

“I’m okay, Mom,” Nathan reassured. He placed a hand on his stomach, which rumbled eagerly. “I could do with some food, though.” His mother chuckled.

“We wouldn't want a growing boy going hungry, now would we?” she said cheerily, the tears forgotten. She kissed his forehead lightly, her iron-grey hair falling from her head, tickling his face. “I’ll be right back.” Nathan sighed, closing his eyes. The tingling sensation in his legs had disappeared.

The image of him babbling chants in the rain sent shivers down his spine. Was he actually insane? At this point, he did not he know what was reality, and what was fiction. He opened his eyes, gazing out the window in front of him. The dockworkers were hard at work. Sweat poured down their bare backs under the heat of the midday sun. He was filled with an overwhelming urge to join them.

He looked down with his wrists. The rope that had bonded him to the cot was on the floor. He rubbed his blistered wrists curiously, trying to remember if the doctor had removed the rope at any time. He hopped out of bed, throwing on a weathered robe that lay on a chair.

He navigated the halls with no incidents, save for the curious looks he drew from the nurses and patients. He stayed against the walls, should his doctor spot him trying to make a getaway.

Outside, the air was cool and calming. A clear sky hung overhead, dotted by the magnificent sun. He could barely make out the gentle whirl of passing gnomecopters, and the shouts of the dockworkers. Bells clanged loudly, announcing the arrival of another ship, the crew no doubt ready to spend a wild night in the taverns after weeks on the seven seas.

A feeling of nostalgia passed over Nathan. He remembered when he was young; he would come with his loving grandfather to the docks, to watch the busy port go about its business. His grandfather’s face flashed in his mind; he remembered his bright blue eyes, sharp, but wizened with age, and his mellow, wrinkled face.

Grandfather is dead now, Nathan thought despondently. Poisoned by a business partner, jealous of the shipping empire the old man was forming. After that, the uncles had all vied for a slice of the old empire, his father turned to booze, and another uncle died in the subsequent struggle. His father had then moved the family to the growing port town of Remeris, in the Chalcis region.

Nathan walked along the docks. He nodded hello to any of the workers he passed. Port Sarim was about as different from Remeris as can be. Port Sarim was a place where colossal corporations controlled the seas, reaping in profits for themselves. Remeris had never quite reached its full potential, so those who sailed the seas did so to keep their families from going hungry.

Finally, the boy arrived at his destination. A lone ship was moored in this section of the docks. Its sails were ripped, the boards splintered, and its last paint job had happened years ago. A fading white signature was barely hovering over the pulsing waterline. “The Sunset,” it read.

Nathan climbed onto the last surviving boat that had belonged to his grandfather, listening to the elderly vessel creak and groan in protest. He climbed onto the bow of the ship. He felt it move gently with the tender waves. He inhaled the salty air, letting the rocking of the sea take him back to better days.

Nathan stood up, walking slowly out to the edge of the bow. Bending his knees, he jumped, diving gracefully into the cool salt water below. The shouts of the docks and the crows of the seagulls faded away, replaced by a profound silence. The water massaged his eyelids as he descended further.

A thought occurred to him.

Did he really want to return to the troubled world above? To his drunken father, and his crying mother? His lungs began to burn now. One breath was all it would take, one breath to cast him from the mountains of consciousness and troubles. One breath to free him.

What would his grandfather say?

He propelled himself upwards with a violet butterfly kick. He broke the surface, gasping for air. He pulled himself onto the wooden wharf, lying on the ground and panting for several moments. He laughed as he thought of what his mother would think when he returned looking like a drowned rat. As he made his way inland, the dockworkers chuckled and hooted at his condition. Nathan grinned good-naturedly, even joking along with them.

“Nice day for a swim, eh kid?” cracked one worker.

“Beautiful day, though it looks like your swimming in belly fat, at the moment,” retorted Nathan. The other workers howled with laughter, before being quelled by their overseer.

Knowing that his mother was used to his unexpected absences, Nathan guessed that the family would be housed in his grandfather’s old cottage. Money was short, and the expensive taverns of inland Port Sarim could no longer be afforded.

His grandfather’s humble abode was ahead. Nathan smiled slightly as he spotted Burgundy, the family’s horse, tethered outside. He looked at the house, and his smile slipped away. The house looked dark, and the windows were shattering. An odd sound came from inside the house. A lump formed in Nathan’s throat.

Nathan entered the dwelling guardedly No lights were on. His boots crunched loudly on broken glass and splintered wood, resonating through the silent home. He flinched as a soft, broken moan emanated from a corner. A hunched figure was crouched, shaking. Nathan recognized her immediately, before kneeling next to his mother.

Blood dripped from her head, running down her bewildered face. Her eyeballs danced a frightening jig in their sockets, and she moaned louder.

“Mother,” whispered Nathan, scanning the living room for danger. “Mother, what happened?” She didn't seem to hear him, only whimpering loudly. Nathan jumped as loud crashes emanated from the bedroom, followed by a series of swear words. He grabbed an iron crowbar leaning against the wall. He entered the bedroom.

His father was leaned against the wall, a bottle of heavy liquor in his hands. His eyes were bloodshot, and his brown hair, the same color as Nathan’s, was matted to his forehead by sweat and blood. Nathan couldn't help but gasp, and his intoxicated father noticed him.

“There you are, you goddamn trouble maker,” he growled, taking an unsteady step towards the boy. “Your mother’s been worried sick ‘bout you. I told ‘er you need a good whopping to keep ya in line. Well damn it you’ll get a whopping, I tell ya.” Nathan raised the crowbar, but his father was too fast. The crowbar spun out of Nathan’s hand as his father’s fist connected with his nose.

For a moment, Nathan was blind, but sight returned as his father hoisted him to his feet. Nathan was vaguely aware of the blood pouring out of his broken nose. His father raised the liquor bottle, bringing it down on the defenceless boy’s head.

As it connected, a blinding flash illuminated the room. Nathan dropped to the floor, dazed and confused. He sat up, touching his nose. To his surprise, it felt fine, and even the bleeding had been stopped. Breathing heavily, he looked to his father, who had been thrown back and slammed into a bookcase. A look of absolute surprise was frozen on his face. Nathan approached him cautiously, placing a jittery hand on his father’s neck.

Nothing.

Bronze Scripts
Season One: "Storm in Chalcis" | "Problems in Port Sarim" | "My Fathers Son" | TBA | TBA | TBA | TBA | TBA |