The previous entry of the 22nd looks up at me, a mockery of Chinese ink.

There seems some doom over this ship.

Already a hand short, entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night, another man lost.

Arghezi has disappeared in the midst of the storm in which we have sailed all these days.

I went to look for him at his post. There was only the black presence of the rain.

I screamed his name and the roar of the waves was all that answered.

I sent the men to look for him and they returned, covered in rain and fear.

“Mayhap a wave swept him overboard,” said Acketz.

Mayhap, yet the storm has not made the ship list, nor have the thousand neglected objects tumbled from the deck into the sea.

If Petrofsky was a silent ghost, Arghezi shouts throughout the Demeter, a voice of creaking wood, of sails about to rip, of things that fall and roll from side to side.

The men, as one might expect, are all in a panic of fear. It was grave enough that silence devoured one of their number, but they are more afraid of the storm, of the waters that rise from the depths and search them out.

The crew have sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone: four men awake at each turn. Seven of us remain, but the impossibility of their demand does not matter. Not when the wind knocks on our doors, eager to enter.

The First Mate is angry. The calm that the storm gave him was exhausted when he read the petition.

“It’ll wear us out, you fools ….”

He hurled the paper back at Olgaren, who only backed away. His responsibility ended with the delivery of the document. What we did was up to us.

If there were more blood, it would be on our hands.

What if fear should convince them to take command of the Demeter? Two voids, two nothings making their spectral way through the ship might inspire a mutiny.

I fear there will be trouble, as either Vlahutza or the men will do some violence.