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thu-thump. thu-thump. thu-thump.
He is nine and visiting his grandmother when he first hears it.
Bemused, his hand freezes over the blue crayon where he is coloring on his grandmother's dining table, and he cocks his head to listen.
“What is that?” he asks, and the old woman, gray-haired and regal in her charcoal dress, looks up from her cup of tea.
“What is what, dearest?”
thu-thump. thu-thump. thu-thump.
“Someone's drumming,” Oliver answers, and Grandma gingerly sets the cup onto its saucer.
“Is there?”
The look that flies across her face is something Oliver – at nine – can't read, but the fondness it finally settles on stays with him even years later. She pushes her chair back and holds her hand out for him to take.
“Let's go find them then!”
She lets him take the lead, and it is at her bedroom door that he stops, looking up at her uncertainly. The old lady smiles down at him, opens the door and ushers Oliver inside. The room smells just like her; camphor and lavender and Grandma.
There's a dark, heavy desk sitting in one corner, and she walks over, opens a wooden door, and squats down in front of it, her pleated gray skirt fanning in a circle around her, demurely covering her legs. Unlike his mother, she isn't afraid to sit on the floor, and she doesn't admonish him for it, either. Oliver really likes that about her.
“Come help an old woman, Oliver,” she beckons him. “I'm not as strong as I used to be.”
Together, they heave a box out of the compartment, and then just sit there for a few moments, Oliver watching the box in awe, Grandma watching Oliver in gentle amusement.
It's a chest, small but heavy, and it looks ancient, all stained, darkened wood and black steel. It's still sturdy, though.
thu-thump. thu-thump. thu-thump.
The drumming is louder now. It sounds like a heartbeat, steady and comforting, like the times Mom lets him sleep in his parents' bed, his head pillowed on her chest.
“What is it?” he asks, and his grandmother smiles. “Have I ever told you the tale of the Flying Dutchman?”
Oliver shakes his head no, so she starts speaking, the chest thrumming low and steady between them.
She tells him of a ghost ship tasked with ferrying the souls of those who died at sea into the next world, and of Davy Jones, the captain who betrayed his oath and forsook his duty. She tells him the tale of two lovers, of pirates and sea monsters and great battles, and he sits, enraptured, his eyes glued to her lips. She tells him how the new captain of the ship of souls left his beating heart with his newly-wed wife and how it has been kept safe by their family ever since.
thu-thump. thu-thump. thu-thump.
“But can't anyone hear it?” Oliver asks.
Grandma smooths his hair back and smiles.
“Once upon a time, everyone could,” she explains. “When people still believed that there was more out there than what the sciences and reason can explain.” Her eyes grow distant for a moment, and sad. “Not even your mother is able hear it.” She shakes herself and focuses back on him, face and voice stern all of a sudden. “And Oliver. You can never speak of this. Not to anyone outside this family. Not to anyone who doesn't hear.”
They stare at each other then, and some of her sadness echoes in him. A moment later, though, excitement prevails, and he begs eagerly, “Can we open it?”
“No.” The old lady laughs lightly. “The key has always remained with the Captain.”
For a long moment, she considers him before adding, “The legend also says that, for every ten years at sea, the Captain of the Flying Dutchman is allowed one day ashore. Maybe, one day, you'll be more lucky than me, and you'll see him.”
When his grandmother comes to visit them for Christmas two years later, she brings the chest with her, and the two of them secret it away underneath his bed.
A year after that she dies, but his promise to her, to keep the chest and its contents safe and secret, is the one promise he has never broken.
Oliver does see the Dutchman. Near delirious from starvation and thirst, drifting in and out of consciousness next to his father's decaying body, he doesn't feel particularly lucky at the time. He remembers the sound of the waves breaking on sea-starched wood, remembers the dirty gray color of once white sails billowing in the sky above him. He remembers dark hair and kind eyes and a voice arguing with someone outside his black-spotted field of vision, “He doesn't belong here. Not yet.”
He was without food, without water, for more than three days; he knows he shouldn't ever have made it to Lian Yu.
By the time Oliver is twenty seven and returning home from a deserted island in the North China Sea, battle-worn and scarred, the Dutchman has become a specter of hope in his mind that he sends his prayers to for all those he lost to that island and its waters.
oOo
thu-thump. thu-thump. thu-thump.
There's still a heartbeat to be heard in his room. Until his return, Oliver hadn't realized how much he had missed the strong, steady rhythm. It's a quiet, familiar, comforting sound, always there at the edge of his awareness, and Oliver indulged himself, lying on his bed and just soaking it in. It brought a sense of home like little else had these past few weeks.
When the door to his room swung open without warning, he turned his head, exasperated and already knowing who he would find.
“Knocking, Thea! It's a thing.”
His sister waved his complaint away in her usual unconcerned manner.
“Are you planning to stay in bed all day?” she asked, even as she made her way over to him. He was already showered and dressed, so really, she had no reason to criticize him.
“In my defense,” he countered, “it is Sunday. Why, you have a better idea?”
Thea sat down on his bed, and Oliver shimmied over on the covers, making room for her as she lay down beside him.
“We could catch you up on the latest pop culture. A marathon session of 'The Walking Dead,' maybe, or 'Game of Thrones.'”
Neither sounded all too appealing, but he found himself agreeing nevertheless. It wasn't about the pop culture anyway, Oliver knew. Thea just wanted to spend time with him.
“We could do that,” he concurred.
But neither of the two were in a hurry to move from their spots, and when, after a few moments, Thea gripped his wrist with a surprisingly strong hand, he managed to keep from yanking his arm out of her grasp as he would have done with anyone else. They, he, used to be a lot more tactile than Oliver felt comfortable with these days, but she was still his sister, and sometimes, she seemed to need a tangible proof that her brother wouldn't disappear into thin air.
thu-thump. thu-thump. thu-thump.
Her sudden chuckle caught Oliver somewhat by surprise, and he looked over at her sharply.
“I can still hear it,” Thea whispered, more to herself than anything.
Oliver frowned. “Hear what?”
Obviously startled, Thea jerked her head around. When their eyes met for a brief second, she almost looked guilty, before directing her gaze back up at the ceiling. She chuckled again, but this time it sounded distinctly embarrassed.
“You'll think I'm crazy.”
thu-thump. thu-thump. thu-thump.
He did slip his wrist out of her grasp then only to be able to hold her hand properly, and squeezed in a small gesture of reassurance.
“I may think many things. I won't think that you're crazy, Thea. Ever.”
As he watched her, Thea dug her fingers into his hand and held her breath a few moments before letting it go in a rush. “When you were – gone,” she started, and Oliver felt the knot of guilt in stomach tighten, even though he knew, rationally, he didn't have reason to feel guilty, not over this.
“When you were gone, I'd sometimes sneak into your room to sleep in your bed, or just... to get away. And then, I'd hear your heartbeat.”
Thea turned to catch his gaze then. “And I knew, I knew you couldn't be dead.” She knocked their entwined hands on the bed, up and down, emphasizing her words and holding his gaze with eyes that looked suspiciously shiny. “I knew it. And here you are.”
He let the silence spread while they watched each other, still holding hands. Then, Oliver shifted his gaze to the open door and sat up. There were so many things he couldn't tell her, tell anyone, so many things he didn't want her to know. But this was one thing he could give her.
Thea was reluctant to let him go as he stood to cross the room, so he smiled at her and gave her arm a playful yank that had her squawking indignantly in surprise. He closed the door and leaned back on it, watching her pushing up from the mattress and frowning at him while giving himself a few moments to consider his words.
“You did hear a heartbeat,” he finally told her. “You do hear a heartbeat. But it has never been mine.”
“What are you...?”
Thea cut herself off as he moved back towards her, kneeling down in front of his bed. Carefully, he pulled out the chest that had been hidden there for over a decade. If Raisa had ever stumbled across it while cleaning his room, she had never made any mention of it.
thu-thump. thu-thump. thu-thump.
The heartbeat was louder now. Thea's stare was a hot mark on his head, and he smirked up at her. “You never even once looked underneath my bed?”
“'Underneath your bed' was a hazardous wasteland when we were younger,” she shot back, her wit not at all hampered by either her confusion or her curiosity. “So, no, thank you!”
One of her hands reached out, stopping just short of touching the old chest.
“It's louder now,” she observed, eyes glued to dark wood and black metal. “What's in it?”
Oliver sat back on his haunches, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back against his bedside table, the chest a thrumming presence between them. As he caught his sister's gaze, he remembered their grandmother's tale and asked, “Have you ever heard of the Flying Dutchman?”
The End