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Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat,
only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our
pilgrimage to no country and to no end.
In that shoreless ocean,
at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies,
free as waves, free from all bondage of words.
- Rabindranath Tagore, Sail Away
With the pebbled shoreline and distinctive concrete steps of Sheerness to his right, and the usually golden sand of Southend to his left washed pale by the grey skies overhead, Dream rows out into the bay. Clearly no one else has been taken by the sadistic urge to sail in such miserable weather; the threat of looming rain has driven off any other optimistic rower from this stretch of the Channel. And so Dream pushes on in his kayak, the horizon only broken by the odd shipping vessel far off in the distance and the vague shadow of France across the water. There is not a single soul visible anywhere on the beaches or in the sea ahead.
This is Dream’s happy place.
His work in London has him bent over a desk from nine to five seven days a week, and sometimes longer than that, crammed into a cheap office chair that plays havoc on his body and mind alike, and staring into a screen that gives him migraines. Architecture has always been his passion, but since he is too stubborn to rely on the blessing of nepotism so generously offered by his otherwise absent millionaire parents, he has resigned himself to climbing up from the bottom of the ladder. So by day, he handles all the busywork that none of the higher ups want to do, and by night he fantasises about the buildings he will someday craft with his own hands. Impossible things of glass and steel, of beauty and strength. Daringly defiant of such poor restraints as gravity and time.
And on the weekends, when the weather is rotten enough to put off even the most serious of sailing enthusiasts, Dream rides the hour and a half train east from London to Sheerness and heads out into the water. He loves the capital - it is the city he calls home, that he chose for himself - but here its lifeblood, the Thames, is free of shopping trolleys and tourist ferries and the odd unfortunate corpse, breathing out into the wild sea. Dream breathes with it, the familiar and beloved sting of salt at the back of his throat as he drives his paddle into the water with renewed vigour.
His spirit is buoyed further when he realises he is being watched after all. Not by human eyes, but by an audience of seals. And the attention of one pinniped in particular catches his focus, as it commonly did; an unusually inquisitive individual, with a unique dimple in its chin that Dream had always assumed was some sort of pockmark. The speckled seal - dark brown in colour and littered in other silvery scars of survival - dives into the water from its perch on a rock with a hearty splash and starts to race under the surface at a speed that would have likely intimidated someone else. But Dream knows he is not in any danger. Strange as it may seem, he knows this one like he might know a friend, as few of those as he has in his day to day life. He often shares with the seal his designs of buildings he hopes will one day rise with his crafting. Despite the language barrier inevitably caused by their species, Dream always feels like he has been heard whenever the two of them cut through the cold water together, and consequently he returns to London a little lighter than he had been upon departure.
Warm brown eyes that seem to hold some sort of amusement appear next to his boat. Dream feels that he ought to chastise himself for imprinting such a human emotion on what is clearly an animal, but he mirrors it with a smile of his own.
“Hello again, my friend,” he says softly, reaching into his supply bag for the treat he has brought, “Are you content with your usual?”
The seal offers what feels like an affirmative huff, and the end of its nose butts the kayak with impatience. Dream chuckles, retrieving the pots of fresh shrimp and crab from within his bag before dumping the shrimp into the water. Before he can even open the crab, all the shrimp is gone without even a trace of shell or whisker, and the equivalent of sea puppy eyes blink at him appealingly.
He relents with a sigh, and the crab follows into the water. “Very well. I suppose I wasn’t that hungry.”
The crab is devoured with the same enthusiasm, and then the seal begins to swim lazy circles around Dream’s craft. He watches with a fascination that has not in the slightest been dulled by his increasingly regular visits, admiring the way it moves through the water with such ease and grace. Though his research on them has yielded little in the way of helpful information, Dream thinks he may have a reliable sort of companion in this seal, and whether it has been forged in feeding or in friendly company is of no concern to him lest the truth of it break his heart.
“You are really quite apart from the others, aren’t you?” Dream muses. He starts to ease the kayak forward again, and the seal follows alongside intuitively. They traverse the water together just as members of a pod would, the creature keeping pace without strain as Dream pushes his kayak along.
He expects no answer, and so does not wait for one.
“Maybe that is why we get along so well,” he thinks aloud, and though he knows deep down that his words are wasted with the seal unable to respond, he continues to ignore such thoughts resolutely, “I do not have much in common with other people. Some might think of that as sad. But if it means I can enjoy spending time with you, perhaps it is not so sad after all, hmm? I certainly do not think such time is misspent, in any case.”
The seal glances back at him, and… perhaps Dream misreads it, perhaps he dares to hope to see it in an animal once again incapable of such feeling, but it seems to exude a kind of sympathy for him. Such a pitying gaze from a fellow human being would put Dream on the back foot, and would have him either cringing away from their attention or giving into his risen hackles and daring them to continue to look upon him in such a fashion.
On this occasion however, he sighs heavily and shakes his head.
“I understand our relationship is transactional, you know. Just like any other. I am only ever sought after if something is wanted of me, even by my own family,” he admits, defeated but accepting of the fact, “At the very least, I know I shall have to do something truly heinous to drive you away. And that I can always win you back with the promise of fresh fish.”
There is a lapse into silence then, broken eventually by a rumble of thunder far closer than Dream might have expected. Before long the rolling clouds above churn darker and angrier, and Dream knows he needs to turn around and head back to shore. If he leaves it much longer, the storm will wash him out to sea, and loathe as he is to admit it, he is not as strong a swimmer as such a hobby as kayaking would usually require.
No one ever said he is particularly clever, in this regard. But then no one says much of anything to Dream anymore, as he previously expressed. And what is the point of testing oneself without a little risk?
The seal bumps his boat again, more insisting than before. The encouragement seems inspired by the severe and rapid turning of the weather, unlike the almost playful teasing for food the last time. Whether it is out of concern for Dream or for itself, the message is clear; it is time to return to shore.
“Yes, I am heading back,” he says, not quite managing to hide the trepidation in his voice behind shaking amusement as the waves start to pick up around them both, “You should go. I would not want you caught in this either - we would both be safer on land.”
And yet the creature does not break off. It keeps swimming alongside Dream as he turns back towards Sheerness, where he will return his kayak and sailing gear to the elderly landlady who rents him some space for it at a pub he likes, and hopefully tempt her to make him a coffee while the storm passes. He almost wishes he could bring his seal companion along, as he suspects they would make far more pleasant company than the local stubborn drunks who always glared at Dream and muttered about his city boy aura.
A rough wave catches Dream lost in his thoughts, and in the time it takes him to right himself and stop from tumbling out completely, he has lost his oar. It is pulled away from him by the uncaring sea, still too far away from the shoreline to consider ditching the kayak and swimming for safety.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, “That is… not ideal.”
The seal presses its snout to the end of his kayak and pushes, trying to turn it enough to at least point Dream back towards the shore. But the water is too rough even for an animal accustomed to it, and the force behind the action instead rocks the boat just that little bit too hard. Dream fights in vain to right it a second time, but as another harsh wave collides with his side, he is thrown into the icy cold embrace of the Channel, only to be tossed forwards again by the back of the swell and hit his head hard on the side of his kayak.
Fading into the darkness, he feels for a moment the sting of sharp teeth pierce the narrow flesh of his shoulder, but the pain is nothing compared to the cruel weight of saltwater in his lungs and the grasping tendrils of the ocean dragging him down and down and down…
***
Dream imagines he is at the bottom of the sea. He should have drowned by now; he knows that the strangely reassuring heaviness in his chest is from the saltwater in his lungs, and yet his eyes are open, and he can turn and look around himself from the silt as easily as he would on the surface. Seaweed and other oceanic flora tickle his legs and reach for his fingers, akin to the teasing touch of a playful lover, and even though he is deep under the turbulent waves he can see as clear as a surreal sort of sunlight.
The seabed is littered with all manner of things. Dream thinks he can make out the shell of a downed Spitfire, one wing immersed entirely in the silt but enough of the chassis exposed to be recognisable as a lost warplane. There are also the bones of far older wooden vessels, doomed to rest eternally in the depths of the sea which they were built to traverse. To his left, there is an outcropping of rock, and within it is a small but somehow welcoming cave. At its mouth Dream sees a shadow, swimming back and forth in a pattern that mirrors pacing on foot. He wills himself closer, pushing through the water despite every inch of him aching in protest to just lay down in his watery grave and wait for the darkness to take him again.
Stay with me, my friend, a voice pleads. They are unfamiliar to Dream but leave a feeling in him that is as warm as a summer breeze, dispelling some of the aching cold in his drowning. In it, Dream can hear the hush of the sea upon a pebbled shore, and the relief of the calm after a storm.
I am here, Dream responds, but where are you?
Do not go into the dark, the voice continues as if in response, and Dream startles, wheeling away from the cave he was nearing for a moment. The shape in its entryway is closer, and although it does not seem far off, it struggles against an unseen current that Dream himself seems to be free of. In turn, Dream now forces himself forward with more determination, and it is then that he feels a twinge of fear in his heart. Whoever or whatever this shadow is, he senses that it is someone dear to him, and he is afraid of what might happen if he cannot reach them in time.
Can you see me?
As Dream asks the question, the shape starts to shift and change. When before he might have thought he had seen a seal, now there is arguably the shape of another man. Broader than Dream, with a cloud of hair haloing the man’s handsome face, he fights against whatever it is that is holding him back with impressive strength to take Dream’s pale hands into his sun-kissed but scarred palms.
I can see you, his friend promises to him, and in the reassuring brown warmth of his eyes Dream feels like he has been given sanctuary by the sun and lifted from the sea’s unforgiving grip.
***
Dream chokes weakly on a chestful of air that burns into his lungs, scrabbling at the stones under his body as he flails for both breath and purchase on dry land - or the closest thing to it, on pebbles slicked by rain and sea. The storm is over, and he can see blue skies above him, though they are quickly blocked by a familiar face. There is an older woman frowning down at him with no small amount of concern nor disapproval; he recognises her as Unity Kinkaid, the kind but no-nonsense owner of the Ship on Shore, where he keeps his kayak and sometimes stays for lunch before he heads back to London.
“You’re not very bright, are you?” she scolds as she helps Dream to sit up, thumping forcefully on his back to help more of the last of the saltwater from his lungs, “Did you not think to check the weather before you set out this morning? Isn’t that what smartphones are for?”
Dream splutters indignantly. “I like it when there are--”
Whatever further protest he may have offered is immediately cut off by another bout of wheezing and coughing, and Unity rubs his back as he spits up what feels like half of the water of the Channel. He has always appreciated her firm take on kindness, especially now when it feels as though he might never know what pure air tastes like again.
“Let’s get you back up to the pub, shall we?” she suggests, and she offers her hand, but Dream waves it off and wobbles to his feet on his own. He sways for a moment but fights gravity’s attempt to pull him back down, and allows Unity’s guiding palm on his arm to gently steer him towards her establishment and the promise of something warm to bring him back around again.
“How did you know?” Dream asks, “Did someone find me?”
Unity huffs, apparently finding mirth in some private joke that Dream himself is not privy to. “Yes. A friend of mine. You’re very lucky. He’s a very strong swimmer, and he saw you go down and pulled you back to the beach before coming to find me.”
“And did you scold him for going out in the storm as well?” Dream asks. Whatever sarcastic weight he might have hoped for his voice to carry does not come through, and instead he sounds like an indignant teenager pouting at being told off.
Unity shakes her head, still with a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “No, I know he has a lot of experience in storms, and in this part of the world in particular. He has some sense in him - not much more than you, mind you.”
Dream sighs. “At the very least, it sounds like I owe this man a drink.”
***
The man in question is sitting and waiting for them to return in the Ship on Shore. There is no one else sat in the pub save for Unity’s granddaughter - her name is Rose, she is visiting from America, and she has a wonderful array of colours in her hair that Dream much admires - and she has given Dream’s saviour a fresh pint as the bedraggled kayaker limps through the door with Unity close behind.
Warm brown eyes meet his, and Dream sways where he stands.
Like being given sanctuary by the sun, he remembers, and lifted from the sea’s unforgiving grip.
Unity nudges him closer, apparently none the wiser to the borderline delirious epiphany that Dream is currently having. “Go on then. You could at least thank him.”
The man smiles with a faint amusement that Dream recognises immediately, complemented by fondness and a tangible understanding of Dream’s reaction to him. His canines are a little sharper than the average person’s; they look better suited for ripping and tearing prey, and Dream’s shoulder aches with the memory of being forcefully pulled by the sting of such teeth in his flesh. He sees skin warmed by exposure to sunshine, littered with silvery scars, and a leather jacket slung over the back of the man’s chair that matches the shade of his hair perfectly. And there is that dimple in his chin that Dream had always dismissed as yet another scar, which proves to be one of many handsome features the man has.
“Hello, old friend,” the seal says, extending his hand, “I’m Hob.”
“You speak?” Dream asks pathetically, staring between the proffered hand to shake in place of a fin and the face of the man who offers it. His heart leaps as Hob reacts with a laugh, the sound somehow carrying the distant echo of a seal’s bark.
“Aye. There was a woman, Eleanor. She taught me a long time ago,” he explains, and though he is still smiling, a shadow of sorrow passes over his face, “More friends since have kept me up with the proper parlance, mind. Like our lovely Unity. But I apologise if I use any words that are a little… outdated. My very first lessons were many moons anon.”
“Unity. Does she… know?”
Hob nods, glancing at the woman in question as she helps her granddaughter rearrange a few things behind the bar whilst pretending not to listen in on their conversation. “She does. She’s always kept an eye out for me, since I returned a necklace she lost when she was young.”
“Then… how old are you?” Dream asks. The question breaks from him before he can think better of it, and he is visibly startled by his own abrupt inquiry. But it is no secret that Unity is well past the usual age for retirement, let alone anywhere close to that which Hob appears to be; he seems to be in his mid-thirties at most, close to Dream’s own years.
“Younger than the castle on the cliff,” Hob says, pointing towards the window in the general direction of Rochester - still smiling, still sad, “but old enough to have seen the grand city at the other end of the river burn.”
“The Great Fire of London?” Dream realises, and it hits him that he is speaking with an already unfathomable creature who is older than anyone he would ever know.
“Aye. I had lost Eleanor by then. An awful time, even with my ocean brethren to swim and hunt beside. I seldom swim up river anymore, but I saw the city burning and wept for it, just as I had wept for her not long afore.”
That was the mid-1600s, if Dream is accurate in his recollection of private schooling, which would mean that the creature currently wearing the shape of a man and sharing a pint with him is at least three hundred or so years old, if not older.
“Why… me?” Dream asks as he takes the only other seat at the table, directly across from Hob. Unity has lit the fire, and the warmth of it steadies him just as much as the steady attention of his companion, “You saved me, but before that, why did you come out with me at all? It could not only be the fresh seafood. Clearly you can walk, and hunt your own. You had no need of me for that.”
Hob huffs a forced sort of laugh, tracing his finger contemplatively around the rim of his pint glass before he responds. When he does speak, he looks up at Dream through his lashes, as if what he is about to admit is somewhat embarrassing, but in what he seems to hope is an endearing way. He tugs on his earlobe once before he begins.
“You would come out to the bay, week after week. You had no interest in the view - I watched you row up and down the coastline and take no interest in England’s sights nor that of France in the distance,” he says, “And before long, I… realised you were doing it all for something else.”
Dream swallows around a lump in his throat, and though every instinct suddenly screams for the impulse that has him flee before he can make himself so vulnerable, he speaks. “And what might that be?”
Hob leans closer and offers his hand, the same one Dream had shook only a few moments before. “Friendship?” he suggests tentatively, but there is a much more vast meaning behind the words, something as deep and all-consuming as the sea, “I think you’re lonely.”
“You dare,” Dream hisses, and he hates how his eyes already sting with the threat of tears. He hears his father’s disapproval in his head, and can see behind his eyelids the smile of such hateful pity that his mother would give him in turn. Their little Dream, always so emotional.
And yet, he has spent his whole life cutting himself off from others. His siblings, his parents, his exes, a rare handful of old friends who had cheated him or abandoned him in one way or another. All but one. The man who is not only a man, his hand still sat on the table, palm up.
Waiting for him.
“You… are right,” he relents, his body sagging in exhaustion and defeat in his chair. The tears break before Dream can do anything to even attempt to hold them off. “I am lonely. And the kindness you have shown me is unlike anything that I have ever known. Even without you saving me as you did today, I cannot repay you for the joy I have come to expect in your company.”
Hob smiles. And there it is again - it seems he is touched by sunshine, from the glow of it in his smile to the golden glint of it in his rich brown eyes. “You owe me nothing. You are my friend. It’s what friends do, isn’t it?”
Dream chuckles wetly. “I suppose it is.”
He reaches over and takes Hob’s hand. There is a thrill between them, a spark of promise akin to first setting out in a boat or for a swim. The moment the sea takes your weight, cradling you in its palm, promising you something unlike anything you would know if you had stayed on dry land.
“There is… one thing you could do for me,” Hob offers after a moment, and what appears to be a simple request still somehow feels like so much more between the two of them, “Take my coat. You look like you’re freezing, even with the fire going. I trust you to look after it.”