As soon as the door shut behind him he felt the cold rearing up from beyond the front porch. Briefly sheltered, he turned round to check the door, an age old routine pressing his palm against the hard wood frame, in the streetlight he saw the fresh red line indented to his hand sitting atop a thousand others turned white by age, he walked on satisfied his home was safe as he turned to face the sky.

"Do I feel?" He thought. The question troubled him, for he was unsure what he was supposed to feel tonight. An evening walk in the rain was always set on in a bid to clear his mind, but it always brought about more questions than when he left;

Dance! The Pilot Whale sings
Breaching the surface like the male lead
He dives deep, never swallowing his pride
The ocean his playground, for tonight he is free'

What was that? He didn't remember, a lingering moment, an ancient tale he mused as he reached the crossroads between Springfield and the old Wreck. The signpost showed its age as the black writing bled onto its white background, each letter shedding its own dark tears as if resigned to its fate at the end of the earth.

Above the man the rain began to fall, the drops could be seen dancing amid the streetlight haze, just as the mosquitoes did on a warm summer’s night, a night where all you need is a sweetheart and an endless dusk, a night that couldn't seem as far away as it did now. Somewhere far away the thunder rumbled, that low, almost apologetic stammer of sound not wanting to break the silence of a quiet November evening. But the man heard it alright. He also heard the rain. It hit the old iron rim of the sign without breaking stride, each drop breaking apart and dieing a spectacular death with every pitter and patter, reminding him of a drive at night, or old movie show.

'A troublesome beast the townsfolk agreed
And paid for his arrest
But when he opened his mouth he charmed the town
And his morals were reprieved'

Blast! There again. He looked around, half expecting to see his agitator sitting on the sign with a flute and petticoat. The man turned south toward the wreck, negotiating the ever-growing puddles with the attention of a master tradesman. The rain still came, as he turned into the lane he was greeted to the chorus of water as the precipitation met the trees that lined his path, sounding a thousand times worse than it felt. His newly cropped hair felt good in the wet, the man was confident that one sweep of his hand would leave him looking fairly respectable should he run into a fellow walker, although at this time of night it was unlikely, and he rather preferred isolation on such a night, he needed to think, needed to feel. 'Feel what!?' he still wasn't sure.

‘A test came when the hunter called
And told him to depart
The Pilot Whale he made a pact
And sang with all his heart'

"Why torment me!!! Who sings to me!!?" The man turned left and right, looking up and down the lane. Its path laid into dark in the yards ahead, not a soul could be seen but the lonely blackbird perched up high, sheltering her wings from the incessant rain. Still it fell, pitter patter, the ground shone yellow from the reflective glee of the streetlight above. It mocked the man, offering light here, where he new what lay before him, yet refusing to lead the way, to march on and light the path ahead which grew darker with every step he made.

The angelic voice the man agreed
Was worthy of his life
And back to port the two set sale
To sell it to his wife'

The man closed his eyes, darkness, but clarity. For a moment he was years ago, the soft bedcovers felt warm against his skin as he turned to face her. Eyes open. The light had faded behind him as he continued his journey. Every now and then the moonlight would trickle through to the path, hitting a patch of water and give the man brief respite as it lit up a shoe, or maybe just another puddle for him to avoid, although by now his feet were sodden.

'A romantic treat the hunter thought
A song to warm the heart
Repair the hurt of time at sea
And return her to his arms'

The path was now gone, every few paces was met with the slushy sound of foot hitting shallow water. The man looked back, the last light was just a flicker in the distance, almost being blown out by the wind and washed away by rain, was it too late to turn back?

'The Pilot Whale sang, a song to win the world
And the hunter stood firm waiting for his prize
But his wife entranced she looked beyond
And the Whale met her eyes'

But the light had gone and the path was just as dark one way or the other. The man sensed he was close enough to the wreck anyway, and besides, the rain was finally easing up. He unzipped his jacket just a touch, the cool breeze found its own path to his chest and he let out a breath, the walk had made him hot, but not that hot. As he put his hands back to the metal brackets, he realised that the path had widened, and his feet now met grass, the softness felt incredible after the harsh cobbled pavement of the lane, like walking home barefoot on soft carpet after a hard day at work. He stopped, that was years ago.

'In just a day the wife was gone
A note said she was sick
But that night he lay awake in bed
And was sure he heard her sing'

Do I feel? The man asked, turning to the whale, its grey skin wet from breaking the surface. It didn't answer, as always it remained silent, looking at the man with its huge black eyes, as if testing him to look deeper. The man turned to look at the sky, the break in the trees opened up a sea of black above his head, even the stars seemed out of touch, too far to clutch and probe for answers.

And so the pair remained, sat on the old fallen oak at the wreck looking up at the stars. For a moment the great Whale opened his mouth, as if to speak, but it fell short, it remained as ever the silent companion who met the man at the wreck, kept this loyal company. And as the rain returned it was the man who began to sing.

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