The sea was a cruel mistress, but not crueler than the people of Nantucket.
I knew this well.
My name is Elias Ahab. The son of a madman.
Ever since my father, Captain Ahab, set sail after that damn white whale, my life has been nothing but suffering. He left behind nothing but his name, a curse I carry every day. My mother, once a strong woman, now sat on her rocking chair, gazing out the window, waiting. Always waiting. She never spoke much. Just muttered to herself, rocking back and forth, whispering prayers, curses, and my father's name. I worked at the docks, loading barrels and crates for pennies. It wasn't enough, but it had to be. My mother wouldn't eat unless I forced food into her hands. I didn't have time for school, nor did I have friends. Who would befriend the son of a lunatic?
One day, after a long shift, I walked down the cobbled streets toward home, my hands calloused and my stomach empty. The salty wind bit my skin. Two men sitting outside a tavern stopped talking as I passed.
"That's the Ahab boy," one of them muttered.
"The one whose father went mad over a fish?" the other laughed. "Poor bastard. Must've inherited his madness."
I clenched my fists but kept walking. I had no strength to fight, no energy to argue. Let them talk. It wouldn't change anything.
When I reached home, the creaking of the rocking chair greeted me.
"Mother," I said, stepping inside the dimly lit room. "I got bread. You should eat."
She didn't respond. Just kept rocking.
I sighed, placing the bread on the small table beside her. The house smelled of damp wood and old fabric. I missed the days when she used to hum sea shanties while cooking. Those days were gone, swallowed by the ocean, just like my father.
As I sat down, resting my aching legs, she finally spoke. Her voice was hoarse, distant.
"He's coming back, Elias."
I looked at her, tired. "No, Mother. He's not."
She turned her head slowly, her eyes sunken and wild. "He is. I can hear his footsteps on the dock."
I wanted to argue, but what was the point?
A knock suddenly echoed from the door. I frowned. We never had visitors.
I stood up, cautious. When I opened the door, an old sailor stood there, face weathered like the ocean itself. He smelled of salt and rum.
"Elias Ahab?" he rasped.
I hesitated before nodding.
"I sailed with your father," he said. "I have something to tell you."
That statement alone made me shocked and without further hesitations, I invited the man into my house. The old sailor shifted on his feet, rubbing his calloused hands together. His eyes, deep and weary, met mine.
"I won't waste your time, boy," he said. "Your father is dead."
The words hit like a harpoon to the chest.
For a moment, I felt nothing. Just the cold wind rushing past the doorway. But then, behind me, the rocking chair stopped. Silence.
Then—
"No... No, no, NO!"
I turned just in time to see my mother launch herself from the chair. Her frail body moved with unnatural speed, her nails clawing at the air as she lunged at the sailor.
"You're lying!" she shrieked. "You're a filthy, rotten liar! He's coming back—he promised! HE PROMISED!"
The old man stepped back, startled, but I caught her before she could reach him. She thrashed in my grip, screaming like a wounded animal.
"Mother! Stop—please!" I held her tightly, my arms burning from the effort.
"LIARS! ALL OF YOU! I HEAR HIS FOOTSTEPS! I HEAR THEM EVERY NIGHT!"
Her voice cracked into sobs, her strength fading. She collapsed against me, shaking. Her hands, once clawing, now gripped my shirt like a lost child.
I carried her back to the chair, whispering, "It's okay... Just rest, Mother. Just rest..."
She mumbled to herself, rocking violently, before her breathing slowed. Sleep took her. A cruel mercy.
I turned back to the sailor. He stood stiffly, eyes downcast, as if he'd seen this kind of madness before.
"She wasn't always like this," I muttered.
"Aye," he said. "But madness runs in blood, boy. Best keep watch of yourself."
I gestured for him to sit at the rickety table, then poured him some water from a clay jug. He drank it in one gulp and wiped his mouth.
"You said you sailed with him," I said, sitting across from him. "Tell me what happened."
The man leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Ahab wasn't just mad about the whale, boy. He was mad in every way a man can be. The sea didn't make him crazy—it only let the madness show."
I swallowed hard. "How did he die?"
"Same way he lived. Chasing Moby Dick." The sailor sighed. "The last thing we saw of him was that damn harpoon in his hands, tied to the whale like a damn fool. The beast dragged him under, and that was that."
I stared at the wooden grain of the table, tracing the lines with my fingers.
"Did he ever... Did he ever say anything about us? About me?"
The man let out a bitter chuckle. "Not once. You were nothing to him, boy. His only thoughts were of the sea and that cursed whale."
Something burned deep in my chest.
The sailor went on, but I barely heard him. Every word he spoke was another nail in the coffin of a father I had already buried in my heart.
He didn't miss us.
He didn't think of us.
He didn't care.
By the time the sailor left, my fists were clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. My whole life, I had carried the weight of my father's name, his shadow. And for what?
A man who never once looked back.
I looked at my mother, still asleep, still rocking.
The fire inside me grew.
I hated him. I hated whalers. I hated the sea itself.
And yet, I was still here.
Still in Nantucket.
Still bound to the life he left behind...
BUT NOT FOREVER.
NOT FOREVER.