Three Fortunes

It became a regular thing for Michael and I to go off on our own at some point when we came to shore. Days continued to pass, soon becoming weeks, weeks became months, and before long those months brought a new year and another warm summer not unlike the one a year before, in which Michael had first arrived on our ship.

I was slowly beginning to gain Michael's trust, and to hear bits and pieces of the back story everyone on the ship was curious about. He was from a wealthy family, that much was known by everyone now. I had learned that he hadn't liked the life of the upper class and had run away. There was more to it than that though, I could tell. From the way he talked about the life he led before he came here, I got the idea that he'd felt if he stayed there he'd be destined to live a life that was already planned out for him, and he didn't like that.

Yes, Michael and I were getting to be good friends, and I really was grateful for that, but there was still a part of me that longed for something more; a part of me that wanted him to look at me and see something more than a good friend. I was beginning to lose hope and think my dreams of this may never amount to anything, when something changed. We were back in Potomac, sitting in afternoon sun at the same spot he'd brought me to a year before. We sat side by side in the grass. I noticed with a certain pleasure the way he rested his hand over mine.

I'll never know what it was that changed that day, as we talked away yet another sunny afternoon, but it became so suddenly clear that things between us would never be the same.

I laughed at something he said, and he smiled as he tried not to laugh at his own joke, hoping to avoiding seeming arrogant. He watched me with eyes that were different from the ones he'd looked at me with so many times before. The laughter slowly faded away, leaving me to stare at the rolling ocean waves in silence. I could feel his eyes still on me, while I continued to look away, bringing back the shy little girl I'd been many years ago. After a great deal of hesitation, I turned to face him.

And to my great surprise, he kissed me. Only this time, it was different. It wasn't like the many times he'd bid me goodnight with a light kiss, most often on the cheek. No, this kiss was long and meaningful, and passed in a moment that seemed to last forever, and at the same time was over much too quickly. For that wonderful moment, everything in my small world was absolutely perfect.

But that perfection ended when he drew back, his face suddenly falling into a worried expression, and the usual distant look in his eyes returning.

"What's wrong?" I asked uneasily.

"I'm sorry," He said, standing up. "I have to go."

Just like that, he was gone. And I was left, staring after him as he walked away. It's a funny thing how quickly my joy came and went, and how quickly worries came to fill the hole it left behind.

* * *

When I began the walk back to the ship my theories as to why he'd left were centered around the assumption that the cause had nothing to do with me. How could it? But, as I walked on I was given more time to think, and more time to worry. Could it have been my fault? What could I have done to scare him off? The questions continued to come, while there answers were beyond my reckoning. Meanwhile, I couldn't help but remember the moments before he disappeared with the greatest of pleasure.

By the time I reached the ship I'd begun to wonder if the whole afternoon hadn't been the work of my imagination, but that idea was dismissed when I returned to find Michael had not been seen since he'd left with me early that afternoon.

I went to my small room below deck and stayed there for the rest of the evening, lying in my bed and thinking over the whole experience for hours to come.

The next morning I awoke early, and after being in my room for the entirety of the evening and night, decided to get some fresh air. Once up on deck I immediately spotted Michael, who stood with a knife in his hand absentmindedly peeling the bark from a stick, and pretending to be particularly busy when he saw me.

It took a great deal of courage, and several minutes of convincing myself, but I eventually went to talk to him. He barely glanced up from his work as I approached.

"You ran away." I said simply.

"I had to." He replied, making no indication that he was going to explain.

"I understand if…" I said, failing to prevent my tone from portraying me as slightly offended. "If you don't―"

"No, Audrey," he cut me off. "It's not like that." He looked up at me this time, sliding his knife into his pocket and letting the hand that held the stick fall to his side. I waited for a further explanation, but got nothing. "You wouldn't understand. I'm sorry." He said finally, leaving to speak with another crew member and ending the conversation there.

* * *

The weeks that followed were long and lonely. Michael avoided me, acting as though he were busy anytime I was near, and pretending he hadn't heard me nearly every time I spoke to him. I eventually gave up on talking to him. I spent most of my day below deck, slowly passing time and awaiting our arrival at the next port. When I was on deck I said little, and avoided his eyes.

But still questions lingered in my mind as I lie in my bed late one night. What was it that had caused him to so suddenly turn cold? He said I would not understand, and yet made no attempt to explain.

It was at times like this that I longed for the company of another woman, and more specifically I longed to see Mary-Jane. I longed to have someone, anyone, to explain my strange situation to. Six years had passed since I'd last spoken to her, and yet I still thought of Mary-Jane frequently. I wondered what she would have to say about all this, and couldn't keep myself from laughing. No doubt she would say my worrying was pointless, and that I should forget the whole thing. She'd always said romance was pointless, and that she never intended to marry. I wondered where she was now, on this cool summer evening.

I remembered the woman's first prediction very suddenly. The words "not the person you think him to be" echoed in my mind. I pushed the idea away. It couldn't be possible. None of those "fortunes", as she had called them, had actually been true. There had to be a logical explanation to Michael's strange behavior, and I intended to find it.

Two days later we reached the port in Chester, arriving early in the morning. As soon as he'd finished his work Michael left the ship, I noticed. I stayed behind a while, waiting to see if he'd return, but when the sun had risen high in the sky and he was still nowhere to be seen, I set out to find him.

It wasn't very difficult, I just wandered through the forest, following a pathway he'd shown me when we'd stopped here before, and found him near the end. No matter where we went, he always knew where the best quiet spots were.

The sun was high over the treetops as he sat in the grass all alone. In his hands he held a sword, and a rather old sword at that, judging by its unique design. He ran his finger along the blade, tracing what look like engraved initials near the bottom. He heard me coming, but only glanced at me for less than a second before he returned his eyes to the sword. I could tell something was not right, he was different than when he'd left this morning. He looked as though he wanted to cry, but was not letting himself in hopes of being brave.

I quietly came closer, eventually sitting beside him in the grass and staring out at the ocean.

"Michael, what's wrong?" I asked.

He didn't act as though he couldn't hear me, he didn't tell me it was no business of mine, or that I would not understand, he simply answered the question.

"I went to the café in town, to ask about Corsica again." He said.

"And what did you hear?" I prompted.

"My father is dead." He said flatly.

Not knowing what else to do, I placed a hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture of my sorrow. I could tell in the long minutes that followed he was trying with all the strength he had to finish the story.

"The last conversation I had with him was an argument." He said. "He had a remarkable amount of faith in me, my father. He believed without doubt that I could do great things, but along with that came expectation. With all that pressure I…I panicked. I got angry, told him I would never be the man he expected me to be, and I left." There were tears in his eyes now. "I was always going to come back, I really was. I knew he wasn't well, but I never imagined he'd…" He didn't need to finish his sentence.

I looked at him, wanting desperately to ask one of the many questions in my mind, the questions I'd set out to ask only an hour before, but knowing now would not be a good time. He looked back at me, recognizing the look in my eyes.

"Go ahead." he sighed.

"What?"

"You've got questions." He explained, as he lay back in the grass, his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes. "May as well go ahead and ask them."

"Oh," I said. "No, it's nothing. I don't want to―"

"I don't mind, just ask your questions."

"The real question is, will you answer?" I said, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

He gave a somewhat forced smile and replied with a simple, "Maybe."

I'd had countless questions in mind when I'd left the ship in search of him, and yet given the opportunity to ask them my mind went absolutely blank. Finally I settled on the simplest one I could find in my jumbled thoughts.

"Who are you?"

"I'm not the person you think I am, that's for sure." He said, he sat up and looked at me. "I never wanted to lie to you." He went on, sounding more sad than apologetic. "I never knew things would end up like this…that I'd…you'd…" He gave up on that sentence. "I suppose I should start from the very beginning." He said.

"Michael," I said, now unsure if I wanted to hear his story.

"Oh Audrey," He sighed. "My name isn't even Michael."