It is at the window, looking out. The window is open.
There is the question of its forelimbs, which are on the sill.
It puts its head out.
Water lashes its face.
He comes beside it and looks. “There is ship out there. Isn’t that a ship?” he says.
There is something with lights moving among the waves. It looks like an old one.
It does not reply. Then it says, “There is nothing wrong about that.”
It cranes its head out, all the way.
It likes the air outside, or so it seems.
In any case it does not talk about it.
“I have not seen a ship come this way,” he says. “I hope it makes it to shore.”
It is in fact true that the light is dim. This is the time of the evening when it goes fast.
“Is that in fact a ship?” it asks.
Water is running down its body into the house.
He says, “Look. All this water. Let’s close the window.”
It waits a moment and pulls itself in.
For a moment it is huge, but then it is small, and all of it inside the house.
It shakes itself although it is entirely dry.
It is dark.
Not outside, that is, at least not yet, but the other one speaking. It is entirely black.
That had escaped his notice.
Well, that would be inaccurate. It has never been entirely black before.
In fact it was something else.
He closes the window, and looks out. The ship is barely visible.
A dipping light out there. A little warmth.
“It is a ship, I think,” he says, and turns to go back to his room.
“No,” it says, “Not a ship.” It is still looking out through the glass like it is not there.
He goes back to the window.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Isn’t it a ship?”
It contemplates this.
How does one know if it is contemplating?
It is strange not to have an immediate answer.
In any case it thinks or perhaps it watches and then it says, “No, not a ship. The idea of one. That is the idea of a ship, the things that make a ship a ship. An old friend.”
Water lashes its face.
But then again it is all dry inside.
He is very tired, impossibly so. He cannot bring to go into his room now. He sits in the chair and leans back and does not say anything.
Perhaps he should sleep here, head back, with his eyes closed.
“Should you go out to meet it?” he says.
“Always with these questions,” it says, “I don’t know. It’s been so long.”
There is also the issue of the rain but it does not mention the rain.
“Should I go out?” it says.
That might be a question, even.
He hasn’t taken his shoes off. That’s how tired he is.
“It’s not for me to say,” he says.
“I will take you outside. We will go together,” it says. “We have not gone out together.”
That is a bold claim. But it might be correct.
“It’s rough outside,” he says.
“Don’t worry,” it says.
And it picks him up and stands and puts him on its shoulders.
He is very small and very light.
It holds his legs.
It does this with hands, of course.
The door opens, perhaps because it opens it, and they are out in the wildness and the water.
He feels very safe.
Water lashes his face.
“This is something,” he says. “It’s really something.”
“Yes,” it says, holding him tight, bearing him, “Isn’t it really?”