Feast on the Dead; Forgive the Living

In the third and final installment of 'Paintings in Words' by Jayden Beaufoy, she explores a tale mutiny and death at sea. The story, which fictionalizes the painting "Raft of The Medusa" tells a tale of the remaining survivors of a shipwreck who are trapped on a makeshift raft, who begin to fight for leadership over the raft and ultimately face emotional turmoil when they realize that they will have to cannibalize their former crewmates to stay alive.

Feast on the Dead; Forgive the Living

By Jayden Beaufoy (Editor and Chief of 'The Inkwell Ledger')

The putrid smell of rotting corpses burned the eyes and noses of the living. 

The stench of decaying flesh had forced the remaining survivors toward the right side of the raft. The raft was small, and some of the survivors had been forced to stay in the ocean and clutch the sides of the wooden structure, which ultimately resulted in their deaths.

The raft was piled with so many people that some of the remaining survivors were forced to sit on the decaying corpses. Their faces were green with disgust as they attempted to make themselves comfortable on top of their former comrades.

The sun was covered by dark storm clouds, and only small rays peaked through the grey sky. It had been days since the remaining crew members had been offered any semblance of shade. Their skin was red with sunburns and some had boils due to the severity of their burns. 

There was a downside to the clouds. It signified that a storm was likely approaching, this was further confirmed by the dark blue waves, growing rougher by the hour. Salt Water washed onto the raft, soddening the crew members' clothes. The air stank of dead bodies, sweat, and injury.

The crew members' lips were chapped from a lack of hydration, and their faces paled more and more by the hour. If a ship passed them by (which hadn't happened yet) then the people aboard would likely believe they had come across a living sea legend. The people aboard the raft looked like ghosts, the lack of sun exemplified the eeriness of their appearance.

A piece of wood drifted from the raft and one of the crew members, a man who went by the name of  Alexandre Tremblay reached over with as much strength as he could muster and attached the piece of wood back onto the raft with a piece of rope.

The raft had been hurriedly constructed with the remains of the ship that hadn't sunk to the bottom of the sea.

Alexandre had taken the role of 'captain' since the ship's former captain was nowhere to be found. Alexandre had managed to calm the panicked crewmen down for long enough, some had managed to fall asleep, or perhaps they were dead. Alexandre didn't want to find out.

The Frenchman lifted himself from the raft. He raised his hands in the air to gather their attention and shouted "Comrades" Some of the crewmen managed to glance directly at him, or lifted their heads just enough to signify that they were listening.

Alexandre was hesitant to say his next words.

Over the past few hours, Alexandre had come up with an idea. It was a slightly grotesque idea, but he figured it was the only possible way to survive this horrendous mess until someone came along to rescue them.

Alexandre attempted to clear his throat, but it was so dry that came out as a mere wheeze instead. 

"I would like to announce that I have come up with a solution to our starvation" Alexandre tried to make his voice stern and superior-like, but his voice shook from low blood sugar and a lack of confidence. Some of the crewmembers glanced at one another in intrigue while others didn't respond at all.

"If you look around you can see that there are dead people amongst us" Alexandre shouted, hoping that the people located at the back of the raft could hear him. The crew members rolled their eyes at Alexandre. He had stated the obvious.

"I believe that we should..." he paused, choosing his next words carefully "Consume the dead amongst this raft." He cupped his hands around his mouth and raised his voice. 

Small gasps emitted from different parts of the raft, and stunted hushed whispers emerged amongst the gasps. Some of the voices were more angry and for a split second Alexandre began to wonder if a rebellion would erupt, and he would get thrown off the raft.

Until finally...

"Tremblay is right!" Shouted a man. This man, who was a foreigner, a Spaniard who went by the name of Francisco, though Alexandre didn't know his last name. Francisco was a couple years older than Tremblay, who was in his late teens. Francisco seemed to be in his early to mid-twenties. His skin was darker than Alexandre's and his hair was the color of coal, a stark contrast to Alexandre's bright blonde hair.

Francisco wore a white shirt that was slightly unbuttoned and stuck to his body from the mixture of water and sweat that likely covered his body. Francisco had a French accent which left Alexandre slightly taken aback. 

"It's not pleasant. But we'll day if we just sit here and hope for a miracle. It's time to think logically. The dead would want us too" Francisco shouted. Alexandre nodded with every word.

Someone on the raft, Fransico and Alexandre couldn't quite locate them, blurted "There's not enough to go around!" Murmurs of agreement sounded throughout the raft. 

Francisco and Alexandre glanced at each other in panic. But suddenly, a thought ran across Alexandre's mind. Goosebumps emerged onto his skin and a small shudder escaped him. "We might have to eat some of the living" He blurted. Slowly, the murmurs turned into arguing before Francisco whistled loudly, slowing the voices to a stop.

Suddenly another man stood up. This man was much older than Francisco and Alexandre combined. He was a puffier man, his hair was chin length and suddenly Francisco wondered if this man worked in the kitchens or beneath the ship. 

"We kill the weakest!" The man had a French accent, that sounded rural. Francisco and Alexandre's breaths hitched. This man seemed experienced. He seemed like the kind of man who was well-seasoned with the sea, which would explain his aloofness toward the matter. Francisco and Alexandre on the other hand were new to the prospect of being sailors, and both wished that they had just stayed ashore and chosen another job.

"The dead will run out eventually. It's best we kill the weakest. They won't live anyways" The man said sternly. The people aboard the raft didn't say a word. They seemed to be contemplating the suggestion.

Francisco and Alexandre glanced at one another nervously. Their youthfulness on full display. 

Then suddenly, people began to shout their agreement with the man's suggestion. It seemed it had been decided. They eat the dead and kill the weakest.

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The unnamed man slit the throat of a skinny young man. Crimson-colored blood seeped from the wound and down the rest of his neck. Staining the white shirt that clung to his body. The man's face was frozen in fear and the unnamed man let go of the man's hair, which he clutched tightly in his left hand. The skinny young man collapsed to the floor. Blood still dripping from his fatal wound.

Francisco and Alexandre stood next to one another, still as statues they glanced on in horror. They still hadn't bothered to ask the man his name. It had been days since he suggested that they kill the weakest and the two young men had decided that they'd prefer to not know the man's name than seek out conversation with him.

Other sailors aboard the raft seemed to connect with the man, and they assisted him in some of the killings. They also seemed to be the most savage. You see, the unnamed man and his posse seemed to enjoy eating upon their former comrades. They enjoyed ripping their flesh from the muscle beneath and sucking on their bones. They didn't seem to care that the blood of the people they once shared bunks with was dripping from their lips. 

Alexandre and Francisco weren't holier than thou. They too had eaten some of the dead and drank some of the wine from the few cases that had survived the wreck. But Alexandre and Francisco knew that they weren't overanalyzing the behavior of the unnamed man and his posse of savagery. Others aboard the raft seemed to fear him too. They cowered at the manic glaze in his eye and the knife in his hand. 

The knife had been thrown into a pile with some other "valuables" that had been saved from the ship, and the unnamed man seemed to have taken it amongst himself to claim ownership of the knife, even when some of the braver sailors had told him that it was meant to be shared. 

The skinny man's body had collapsed in front of Alexandre and Francisco and the unnamed man and his posse dragged the body away without sparing a glance to the young sailors.

"He's gone mad" whispered a sailor whose name Alexandre couldn't recall. Francisco glanced at the sailor, a regretful look on his face.

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Blood had dripped from Alexandre's lips and had since dried to his face. The other sailors aboard the raft took on a similar appearance. Remnants of human bone lay scattered on the raft and pieces of human muscle had gotten stuck in Alexandre and Francisco's teeth. 

The constant pressure to stay alive by eating their former friends was eating at Alexandre and Francisco had quickly taken notice. The unnamed man didn't seem to care, as he had grown increasingly violent in recent days. 

The minute anyone showed any sign of being sickly, such as letting out a cough or a shudder the unnamed man would consider killing them. The last time, an older gentleman began coughing, the man would've killed him if it wasn't for his group of savages, who held him back and said it was getting out of hand. Turned out the man had simply been aggressively clearing his throat.

Speaking of the unnamed man's group of savages, it seemed that they too were growing weary of him.

It was becoming increasingly clear that everyone on board the raft was sick of the man, and some even seemed to be silently plotting his downfall.

"I can't do it anymore," Alexandre said to Francisco. 

Alexandre had grown pale over the past days, more pale than he was before. His hair was now matted, and the saltwater had dried his skin out, in some places his skin had torn due to the dryness. 

"We will be rescued soon Alexandre. Don't let the sea get to your head" Francisco repeated the words of advice that had been given to him by another sailor on the raft. Alexandre shook his head, his eyes appeared hollow, like there was nothing churning in that brain of his.

Francisco sucked in a breath, inhaling the salty air. "Just don't go mad. That's the worst thing that can happen" Francisco advised sternly. Alexandre didn't bother to respond.

He didn't even look at the Spaniard. 

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Francisco had grown concerned. The sea had not yet infiltrated his mind yet Alexandre seemed to already be affected by its isolating presence. The man had not moved once since his and Francisco's last conversation.

This meant Francisco and Alexandre had spoken in a couple of days? A day? An hour? 

Francisco was losing track of the days. That was his madness.

Alexandre was a different story. He stared out at the ocean, like he was waiting for something to appear on the horizon. He was tense, his hands clenched tightly so his knuckles were pale from the pressure. Alexandre's jaw was clenched to tight that Francisco wondered if his teeth would fall out the second he opened his mouth.

Francisco had made many attempts to lighten to mood, but it seemed that Alexandre was too far gone. Francisco prayed to whomever was above that the unnamed man not notice Alexandre's state, the unnamed man would likely view the Frenchman as weak because of his mental absence and Francisco knew that Alexandre would be the next feast.

The unnamed man had busied himself on the other side of the raft. He had been digging through the numerous piles of recovered items, seemingly searching for another weapon. His knife had become dull from all of the killing.

Francisco's eyes narrowed as he watched the man toss items to the side with a growl. The unnamed man seemed to have unleashed a deep-seated anger in Francisco. The Spaniard was sick of the killing and walking on eggshells. 

Francisco leaned toward Alexandre's ear and whispered "Alexandre" hoping to awaken him from whatever open eyed slumber he was in. Alexandre didn't move an inch, even when the raft swayed back and forth.

Francisco sighed and glanced around, taking in the scene around him he realized that they might not actually get saved. They might just have to survive on the dead and drink from the bottles of wine they managed to salvage. Francisco tried not to imagine what would happen once they ran out of sickly people to kill, the raft would turn to chaos. He just prayed they'd be rescued before that. But day by day the likelihood dwindled.

The unnamed man glanced up and Francisco made the mistake of turning his head at the exact time the savage man did. Francisco and the unnamed mans eyes met at the same time. The mans eyes were grey and there was no emotion behind them. Francisco gasped. The unnamed man moved from his seat and began to approach Francisco, the Spaniard swore that the mans footsteps echoed into the chill air.

Goosebumps emerged on Francisco's skin and he tensed as the unnamed man moved closer to him. His footsteps were heavy, and the raft rocked as the heavy set man moved closer and closer to Francisco. In any other situation Francisco knew that he would have run away, but there was no escape in the middle of the ocean, just the dark blue, isolated sea. Francisco was trapped.

The man stopped just a few feet away from Francisco. His shadow blocked the sun which had emerged from the thick clouds and had been beating down on Francisco's skin. 

"What's his problem" The unnamed man pointed to Alexandre with his right hand, which tightly gripped his freshly sharpened knife. 

Francisco glanced upward at the unnamed man, who towered above him and made him feel deathly insecure. "He's sleeping" Francisco answered, as confidently as he possible, but his voice still cracked.

The unnamed man raised an eyebrow, a knowing grin forming on his face. "Really?" He smiles sinisterly, flashing his blackened teeth at the young man. Francisco gulped "Yes. He sleeps with his eyes open sometimes. He said it runs in the family" Francisco said as confidently as possible, never faltering.

The unnamed mans smile began to dissipate. Francisco didn't back down like he hoped. "Wake him up then" He stepped backward to give Francisco some space. The spainiard's breath hitched. "Okay"

Francisco leaned toward Alexandre and he tapped him on the shoulder. Alexandre didn't respond. Francisco tapped him harder jamming his index finger into his skin, but Alexandre's gaze didn't break away from the horizon. He just sat there, unmoving.

"Well..." The unnamed man threw his hands up, the knife still in his hand. "The people are hungry" The unnamed man suggested, a knowing look in his eyes. Francisco slowly glanced up at the man.

 "He's sleeping" 

"Then why isn't he waking up?"

Francisco's breath hitched as he searched through the labyrinth of his mind for a lie. But he didn't find one. "He's a good person" Francisco pleaded. The unnamed man shrugged. "So were the others we killed. But they were sick and had no chance of survival, they were better off dead" He said, and while his tone was solemn the evil glint in his eyes said otherwise.

Francisco shook his head. "They were ill physically. They had colds. Alexandre is just off in the clouds." The unnamed man didn't seem to care. Alexandre hadn't said a word, hadn't moved an inch in a long while, he was an easy target.

The unnamed man waved one of his savages over, and a thin, almost skeletal man approached. "Him" The unnamed man pointed at Alexandre. Francisco gasped. "No. Let's talk about this" Francisco's pleas were ignored.

Someone began to pull on Francisco's shoulder, dragging him away from the scene. Francisco glanced at the man dragging him. The man was massive, you could see his sheer strength just by looking at him.

Francisco glanced back at the sight in front of him. Suddenly a loud crack emitted from the area. Francisco's eyes squeezed shut and he went limp, allowing the man to drag him away.

The Spaniard didn't know how long his eyes were closed, but when he opened them it was still daytime. His face was covered in droplets of saltwater. He lay on the raft's wooden floors, his back ached and when he glaned to his left he realized he was at the very edge of the raft. If he had rolled a little to the left he would've fallen into the ocean.

Francisco sighed in grief. Alexandre was dead. Wasn't he? 

Suddenly a shape appeared on the horizon, a blur. Francisco couldn't make out what it was until he squinted and then he recognized a sail. He gasped, and suddenly the people around him seemed to take notice of the thing on the horizon. Gasps began to erupt throughout the raft and Francisco squeezed his eyes shut again.

If only the boat had come a little earlier.