Vessel: On Identity and Certainty

The Moirae Conversations - Question

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“This question, only you can answer,” Lakhesis reminds Klotho.

“I know, Lakhesis,” Klotho admits, her footsteps pausing as she lingers on the rocky shoreline. “I’m not ready. They’re not ready.”Another threshold of twilight paints the last streaks of sunset across the horizon. The sun glows in yellow, pink, and purple. The sea transitions into the sky until it is consumed by the black of night. The stone embankment slips beneath their feet. Worn by the outcome of all these years, they descend. 

Lakhesis cradles the urn, tucked like an infant in her arm. The ship, a distant silhouette, cuts across the green-tinted tide.

Lakhesis guides a strand of blonde hair from Klotho’s eyes. The shreds of sunlight catch her golden ring shining in the failing light. Klotho clings to her pink backpack. Her shoulders droop, carrying the weight of the world.

“It’s just daunting,” she begins to weep.

“One piece at a time, my dear.” Lakhesis drapes her free arm around her. “Our voyage always starts with this simple question.” As they wait on the fragments of the eroded cliffs, the sun slips below the tide.

Lakhesis uncovers a small boat beside the coast as she recites words that Klotho has heard before. “Innocuous at first, slowly it begins to weather. It weighs on us.” She wipes a tear from Klotho’s cheek. “It challenges our foundations until we begin to replace those parts that fail. Piece by piece. One at a time.”

Click. Click. Click. 

Klotho clutches the long knitting needles. They click together as she rolls them back and forth in her palm. 

The boats movements are erratic in the growing wind, though the ship remains steady on the horizon. Klotho’s blonde hair catches the last sliver of light, as she grips the knitting needles tighter than usual.

“You feel it, too,” Klotho asks, her voice barely above the wind, “don’t you?”

“Every time,” Lakhesis replies as she steadies the oars and gestures for Klotho to board. The paddles drive into the choppy water with a thrusting splash.

“I know you’ve told me before. Tell me again,” Klotho requests.

“We exchange facts and cautious conclusions with bias and comforting prejudice,” Lakhesis states. “We replace hard-earned truths with lies and fragments of arguments.”

The boat jerks against the waves as they near the anchored ship. The ship moans in protest as they pull alongside. The chipped paint on the hull traces lines of decay along the edges of its once-proud ornamentation.

As the anchored ship rocks in the ebbing waves, they tie the boat to the side. The ships’ miscellany of boards creak. The patchwork of sails fill. 

They flutter. They whip. Then, they go slack. 

The boat tilts slightly as they board. Lakhesis steps onto the deck behind Klotho, her hand brushing the urn’s smooth surface. The weight of inevitability heavier to her than ever.

“Like this ship, we replace ourselves. Bit by bit. Until our vessel is not the same one. Made completely new. Riddled with arrogance. Ravaged by ignorance. A combination destined for wreckage.”

“I’m sorry.” A quiver claims Klotho’s frame. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“My dear Klotho, offering apologies unleashes our doubts.” Lakhesis looks her in the eyes. “Where as indulging regrets only leads to further erosion of the self.”

“I know that now,” Klotho sniffles.

Creeeeeeeak.

Lakhesis holds the door to the captain’s cabin. “The only way is to sail back, slowly and patiently, replacing each board, again, one piece at a time.”

Inside, Pandora is seated, stroking the black cat on the sofa. As they close the door, she stops. By Klotho’s face, she knows the answer.

“You should change,” Lakhesis suggests.

Klotho sheds her backpack, puts on a fresh set of clothes, fixes her hair, and washes her face, wiping the evidence from her person. Lakhesis raises the anchor and sets the course. On the rear wall, overlooking the bay, the stained-glass rose window ticks.

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

The shards of stained glass on the clock face glimmer in the new moonlight. The hands move mere fractions.

“Are you ready?” Lakhesis asks.

Klotho looks at Pandora. “I’m just…” She pauses. “I’m just so, so sorry.” They hug. They cry.

Lakhesis slides blue gloves onto her hands. Pandora takes the knitting needles, inserting them like two keys into the urn’s base. A seam of light glows along the urn’s middle. 

As Pandora pushes the needles, the sides of the urn glide along them until they lie smooth and flat against the urn’s base.

Cool smoke pours from the widening slit. Inside are the remains. A ball of tangled black threads, tightening, clinging, and grappling chaotically along the needles.

The smell is of electrical fire and rot.

A threat that must be treated with casual disregard or it silences all hope. A ravenous void.

Shadows swirl around the humming urn as it grows so hot it is cold to the touch. This is a danger that escapes understanding. The darkness all around but concentrated here for a single purpose.

Klotho takes a deep breath and removes the silvery weaving from her backpack. A rainbow shimmers across the surface. Almost complete, she drapes it between the two needles.

The strands of the dark coils weave between the fabric, dissolving the threads. Prisms burst from inside. A rainbow cobweb of shadows. Thick threads of tar consume the light.

Recollection of the last two decades vanish, as the weaving is devoured. Lakhesis is one of the few that holds onto the memory, insulated by her blue gloves. She gently closes the vessel.

A mere whisper of the expanding void.

Snap.

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