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crane?"
"The essence of the bird is within you. You carry the same
fundamental nature of every living creature. Within you are
the saint and the murderer, the crane and the swine, the
butterfly and the serpent. All these possibilities lie within your
being." He paused, as if to let silence underscore his words.
"You must choose which you will be and walk that path one
step at a time."
Andrew sat up, crossed his legs and arched his back. His
eyes narrowed in fierce concentration as he spread his arms
like wings and imagined himself floating on currents of air
high above the lake. Silence engulfed him. His only sensation
was the cool morning breeze on his skin. There, on the
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The Lonely War
by Alan Chin
ground by the lake, for Andrew Waters, the universe seemed
to fold in on itself. It came to him in a flash of knowing all
the master's lessons. He truly was a perfect, unlimited life
force, bound only by his own thoughts. A shock of joy
shivered through him as he felt the weightlessness of flight,
lifting, lifting; and for an instant, he was a glorious crane.
* * * *
Andrew was shaken out of his dream.
"Look alive, sailor, you've got the watch."
It was his last midnight-to-four watch before reaching the
island, and his last chance for reconciliation with Mitchell. He
untied his restraining ropes and immediately became
airborne. He hit the steel deck with a thud and tumbled into
the line of lockers. Dressing was a wild affair, like pulling on
clothes while riding a bucking horse, but he crawled into his
uniform, life vest and watch cap in only a few jarring minutes.
He sloshed through the corridors to the galley, where he
made an urn of coffee. When it was brewed, he poured a
mug, placed a saucer over the top and stumbled through the
ship to Mitchell's cabin.
Andrew scratched on the curtain door, but there was no
answer. He drew the curtain aside and stepped inside. The
room was as orderly as always. Books were jammed on the
shelf. A wooden hanger held a uniform to a wall hook, neat,
pressed and ready to cover the lieutenant's body. It swayed
out from the wall with each roll of the ship, then swung back
flush, like a clock's pendulum measuring time.
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The Lonely War
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Ropes held Mitchell to his mattress. Andrew took a
moment to admire the sleeping form, then shook the officer's
shoulder.
Mitchell was slow to wake because he had taken
Phenobarbital in order to sleep. He finally opened his eyes
and stared up. He lifted his left arm and glanced at his
wristwatch.
"I brought some coffee, sir. Do you need help getting
those ropes off?"
"I can do it," Mitchell said in a drug-blurred voice.
He unstrapped himself. He wore only his skivvies, and two
angry red welts slashed across his skin where the ropes had
held him, one across his chest, the other across his legs. He
rolled out of bed and took the coffee. He gazed into Andrew's
bruised face, as if searching for something to say, but there
was only the awkward hush that towered between them like a
stone wall.
Mitchell sipped his coffee. "Thanks, Andy. I'll be with you
in a minute," he croaked. He opened his mouth to say more,
but before he could, Andrew ducked through the curtain door.
He heard a muffled "Shit!" from the other side.
Five minutes later, He followed the lieutenant onto the red-
lit bridge. As they came up the ladder, Mitchell checked the
barometer.
"Barometer's holding steady at twenty-nine-point-thirty-
two," Fisher said. "The wind is at force seven." He stood with
his elbow hooked through the side of the captain's chair.
"Storm's one hundred-and-twenty-five miles due west. We're
riding her ass pretty tight."
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The Lonely War
by Alan Chin
Andrew relieved the watch at the port side of the
wheelhouse. A northeasterly wind whined through the guy
wires and heeled the Pilgrim over each time she rolled to
starboard. Horizontal lines of rain blew across the bow and
drummed against the pilothouse windows. He peered into the
blackness, but it was impossible to see anything but the white
spray flying over the bow.
Mitchell relieved Fisher, made a log entry and checked the
latest movement of the storm on the charts. After insuring
everything was as it should be, he staggered to the window
and stood two feet from Andrew, staring out to sea.
Andrew's mind groped for some words of reconciliation,
but he couldn't think of how to restore the rapport they'd
once shared. The one relationship they still had was the rigid
Naval Code. It was a fine thread binding them.
They stood for thirty silent minutes. Mitchell checked the
barometer, made a log entry, returned to Andrew's side, all
perfectly quiescent.
Ogden's eyebrows rose as he clasped the engine room
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