I have the Moon

Out the car window, the moon followed. He hoped she'd be going where they were. When he got into the back seat he didn't ask where he was going. It was a ship, and he knew only his berth on the stern. The night and her roads were the captain's art. This night, as any other, he was the passenger. The moon whispered in a chime that he was loved. Without her, he'd have felt much loss. The cradle of the waves of asphalt and the turn of the V8 screw lulled him into the safest sleep.

God offered the only explanation, and the explanation in itself was a question. When given three wishes by a جني jinnī, the third wish is always for more wishes. Sulayman had just one wish for god, and the very architecture of the ache made him aware that the prayer itself would be unanswered. God may have had a bizarre answer, though, master that he is. "The French génie, in turn, came from the Latin genius, which meant a sort of tutelary or guardian spirit thought to be assigned to each person at birth."

The smoke blew back from the fo'castle of the USS Malibu and gave him familiar sting in his eyes. The night air was cold and he would, some day, give the order to close the scuttles. In his heart, a golden astrolabe told him he was four tens North. The Moon lit his eyes and he could see her shadows, her peaks and her gentle features. Her light was a blue gold, an aurum azul, like a sea in heaven. The stories that men had tramped upon her were as fabled and revered as the men and beings caught in the webs of the most ancient mythologies. He found a significant booger and removed it to the rear of the cabin.

When he watched the deckmen, the captain, the cook, the hunters, the dockers, longshoremen, the stevedores and the prostitutes he saw two dimensional characters from stories told to no one. Often they'd set him up a plate of the most substantial earthly satisfaction and he would set to work on claiming it for his small body. Always thirsty, he'd piss himself in sleep and wake without the sea to baptise the ammonia. The hosts were generally patient with this inconvienience, and when he grew into his thirst he would wake up dry and prepared to understand the day and its riddles. Each morning, Sulayman expected the truth to be revealed, to be briefed on the goings on, the roles, the intel, and the script. Instead the officers smoked cigarettes and coffee, listened to the meteo and shot little volleys at each other's shortcomings through wet red lips.

They gave him his orders, uniform, and the same MOTD as every day. When he was sent to shore to learn the language, the maths, the sport and the ways, he left without any fanfare. Coordinates changed, but generally the negotiations and salutations went along the same. New names, new faces, new rooms to map in his mind and a desk to sit at awaiting for his charts. Until the charts came they gave him all the paperwork they had. Crosswords, circlewords, whatever would keep the graphite milling on the paper and the young fiery will engaged. When he heard the boarding call, he was always prepared. He minded the clock so wholly that it became internalized. Outside he slipped past the bazaar and back to the port. There he found his good mate Badra, named after his moon.

Many years later, they crew was down to three. Sulayman, Badra, and Aum. The ship was in poor repair, and rations and discipline had fallen. Sulayman knew in his Mariner heart that the Captain and his mate would find a way easy and free without his own curses and questions. He packed a bag with what a man would need on land. Not much, really, just enough to cover up the cold and the skin. On an afternoon when he heard a black call from the port, meant to be shot over him, he took his time to make the steps that would lead him to destiny. Destiny has a funny way, like god tunes the will and the heart of a man to his destiny and when in harmonic, a great percussion of chord give the soul of the traveller a context, a full heart, and bright eyes that remember to look up at his moon.