Legend XXXII – The Flying Dutchman

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It is said that somewhere among the mists of the Atlantic sails a ship that is never allowed to dock. Its hull is encrusted with salt, its sails torn like the lungs of a dying man, and in its keel sleeps the curse of eternity. The sailors call it the Flying Dutchman, but none who have seen it have lived long enough to know for sure whether it truly exists—or whether the sea itself dreams it. Many centuries ago, so the legend begins, Captain Van der Decken sailed south with an iron gaze and a burning heart. A storm arose before the Cape of Good Hope, wild and black as a beast from the deep. His men begged him to change course, but the captain laughed. “Even if I must sail until Judgment Day,” he cried, “I will round this Cape!”—and in this vow lay his doom. The wind snapped the ropes, the sea swallowed the prayer, and from heaven rose a voice that sounded like broken waves: "Then you shall sail until the world ends." Since that night, the ship has never been seen again, like a dying heart in the mists. But sometimes, when the storm makes the sea sing and the horizon turns leaden, a shadow appears between the waves—a ship with luminous sails that no wind touches. Then you hear the howling of voices that no longer carry bodies, and on the railing stands a man with a pale face and eyes in which time dwells. Some say the Dutchman seeks redemption. He appears to warn souls who sail the path of pride. Others whisper he seeks the woman who once promised him eternal fidelity before death took her. Still others claim the sea itself made him the keeper of its secrets, a spirit who watches between the tides. But whoever sees him carries the fog in their heart from then on. It begins with the taste of salt on your lips, then with the whisper of ropes in your sleep. The nights grow damp, dreams smell of seaweed, and in the distance you hear bells no church knows. Finally, you stand alone on the beach and swear you saw a sail in the storm—a sail that glowed like cold fire. Once, so the story goes on the coast of Bergen, a lighthouse keeper saw a light dancing above the water on a starless night. He climbed up, reached for the telescope—and saw the impossible: a ship, half wood, half mist, glided against the wind, and on deck stood men with faces of glass. They sang no song, and yet the air vibrated with a choir that sounded like the surging of the sea itself. When dawn broke, the ship was gone, and in the tower they found the keeper with wide-open eyes, each containing a drop of seawater.