Xanadu

A Peanut Gallery Special Edition

Once there was a philosopher, wise and proud and young. He spent his days engrossed in books, reading tales of those who crossed the sea in search of Xanadu. They spoke of gilded towers, marble fountains and streets of gold. Of feasts so boundless they filled the palace of Kublai Khan. The air was said to smell of roses, the water to taste of wine. And the very winds themselves ring with clarion beauty of an orchestra.

“I must see this place,” the philosopher pronounced, and so he set himself to the task. From his shelves he poured over tomes on shipbuilding, woodworking, and astronomy. He read accounts of those that came before and dreamed of sailing in their wake. And when at last the philosopher felt confident, when he had read all that he could read, he worked to build himself a boat.

Months he spent in ceaseless toil. “The journey is dangerous,’ he whispered while he worked. “If I am to reach Xanadu, then my vessel must be perfect.”

Eventually the fateful day arrived, and the philosopher dragged his creation to the beach. It was a magnificent ship, a true work of art. Each plank aligned with those that came before; the mast, so tall and strong, with a sail that could harness the winds; he need not bend to the currents, for at the vessel’s keel was a stern and uncompromising rudder. The Philosopher knew his destination, and he knew that this vessel would carry him to it. How could it not?

But as the philosopher put his masterpiece into the water for its maiden voyage, a monkey wandered from the jungle, dragging a bit of driftwood. The monkey dropped its driftwood in the shallows beside the philosopher’s vessel.

The Philosopher could not help but stare. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I will sail to Xanadu,” the monkey said.

“With that? Where is your rudder? Your mast? Your ship? Driftwood cannot carry you to Xanadu.” 

The monkey nodded, for the philosopher was right, yet he pushed himself from the shore all the same. The Philosopher watched the monkey for a time, before, eventually, he too unfurled his sails and set his course for the horizon.

The Philosopher’s trip was easy. The wind was gentle, the waters smooth, and his vessel cut a clean line through the waves. ‘This is delightful!’ he thought to himself. ‘Why I shall reach Xanadu in no time at all!’

But the sun was hot, and there was very little to do but listen to the screech of gulls. The philosopher let his fingers trail over the side of his boat as the gentle lap of the ocean against its hull slowly lulled him to sleep.

Hours later the philosopher woke to a sharp sting in his hand. He yelped, or tried to, and found that he could not speak. He had been poisoned by a jellyfish. For three days and three nights the philosopher lay paralyzed, and on the third night his boat was beset by a sudden squall. The wind roared, and the philosopher, unable to move, could do nothing.

When dawn came and the winds died, the paralysis left the philosopher and he rose to find his sail in ribbons. He cursed his fate and chastised himself, “If only I had stayed just awake, if only I were stronger, then none of this would’ve happened. It was my weakness which cost me my sail.” And with the cause decided, the philosopher drew out his oar and resolved to maintain vigilance.

But without the sail the journey was not so easy. Whereas before the wind sped his vessel along, now he sweated for every knot. Our philosopher did not curse his fate, for work had never been his problem; he had, after all, spent many years building his boat. The sail had simply been a tool of expedience.

Each day the sun beat down, and each night the philosopher looked to the stars to find his way. As he toiled, rowing with back to the relentless sun, a peculiar sensation took hold: a current, subtle at first, drew his vessel with escalating insistence.  At first the philosopher thought, ‘Oh good! This current will substitute for my lost sail!’

Eventually, however, fear replaced joy as the tide proved inexorable, drawing him to some unknown destiny. Our philosopher abandoned his oar and seized hold of his rudder. He hauled and strained and pushed, and for a time it worked.

“I will not let this current control me! Only I decide where my boat will go. I am the master of my fate! I am the captain of my soul!” He chanted these words to himself, even as he bent to the current to speed his journey.

Each dip brought him deeper, which made each shift of the rudder all the more difficult. The philosopher put his back to the gunwale and pushed with both feet. Sweat poured from his brow. Gently, slowly, the vessel began to turn, and for one exultant moment the philosopher believed he had won. then...snap. And the tiller obeyed his whims.

The philosopher shook with horror. “The wind can blow, the sea can tug, but I will survive what is to come,” he whispered.

But as the philosopher’s despair plunged to its nadir, he noticed a shape bobbing closer to his vessel. It was the monkey, clinging desperately to its driftwood, waterlogged and worse for wear. Slowly the current brought the two together. Two voyagers, one a sailor of a fine ship, the other an animal on a floating log.

They drifted in silence for a time as the current carried them where it willed. Eventually the philosopher asked, “Do you regret sailing for Xanadu?”

The monkey cracked a weary eye. “Do you?”

“I don’t know…I suppose that depends on where this current leads.”

The monkey nodded for the philosopher had said all that needed to be said.

As the pair drifted, the sea began to churn with violence. Ahead, the water darkened, and the air filled with a deep, resonant thrum. The philosopher’s heart sank as he beheld a maelstrom so vast it swallowed the horizon, its maw held wide as if to consume the sky itself. Panic gripped his heart. Such a sight was beyond anything the philosopher had read in his tomes or dreamt in his wildest nightmares. The tide’s pull was inescapable, drawing them towards an eternal abyss.

The philosopher looked to the monkey, expecting fear. But instead the animal’s eyes shone with wild abandon.

Down they spiraled into the heart of the maelstrom, faster and faster. The current smashed the philosopher’s boat and ripped the monkey from its log. The maelstrom was a tumultuous roar, yet paradoxically the philosopher found peace. The storm above may rage, but below the waves there was only quiet.

Then through the watery veil, our philosopher glimpsed a gilded flash. There, at the bottom of the maelstrom, lay Xanadu, bathed in the ethereal light of the ocean. Golden towers sparkled like stars, marble fountains cascaded with quicksilver, and the streets shimmered with the promise of untold wonders. Paradise exceeded even the philosopher’s lofty expectations. It called to him, a sonorous siren which filled his heart with yearning. He reached…but as he extended his fingers the tide ripped him from the vision and dragged him down into the depths.

The water carried him through caverns and halls, through stone gardens lost to eternity; faster and faster, his lungs burning for a gasp of air. ‘I’m going to die,’ he realized. ‘I have reached Xanadu and yet I’m going to die…’ Darkness choked the edge of his sight, creeping towards its center. He pushed against the black, fought for every instant of consciousness, yet slowly, irrevocably, death came for him.

Then the current shifted and the philosopher rocketed upwards. He jetted to the surface with enough force to send him cartwheeling across the sky. Gravity exerted its will and he fell, only to careen into a sand dune. He gasped and air—wonderful, glorious air filled his lungs.

“Where am I?” the philosopher asked, slowly coming to the realization that the maelstrom had deposited him on the beach from whence he’d come. A moment later the monkey slammed into the dune beside him.

The monkey hacked up a lungful of sea water, then slumped with exhaustion. The pair panted in silence, staring at the eternally blue sky.

Eventually the monkey rose, dusted the sand out of its fur, and marched towards the shoreline. It was low tide, and in the water’s wake lay the shattered ruins of a thousand ships, each more glorious and magnificent than the last. There were triremes; caravels; galleons and rowboats. There were destroyers, corvettes, battleships, and yachts—an endless, sunken flotilla. The philosopher thought he even saw the ruins of his own vessel, such that it was.

“Where are you going?” the philosopher called to the monkey’s back.  

“To find a better piece of driftwood.”